#dark tasm peter parker x reader

[gloomskulls]

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚LIMERENCE [tasm!peter parker]

pairings: tasm!peter parker x reader

part 2

⇢ ˗ˏˋ SUMMARY ୨୧ For Peter Parker, the deepest secret is not being Spider-Man. It's that he likes you, no he loves you, wants you in any imaginable way possible. After years of quietly admiring you from a distance, everything changes after a biology project that partners you two together. Peter sees a glimpse of chance to get nearer to you, but the line of affection and obsession begins to blur

⇢ ˗ˏˋ WARNING ୨୧ obessive peter, creep peter, stalking, masturbation, panty sniffing, dirty thoughts, breaking in, just peter being hopelessly in love. If any of this finds you uncomfortable, please click out do yourself (and me also) a favor. lemme know if I missed any! MINORS DO NOT READ

If you don't want to see my dark stories in the future please block the tag #madi: dark content

A/n: my first ever fic posted on Tumblr, yippee! This is also my first ever smut so it probs be equivalent to horse poo but anyways, this also takes place in tasm 2. don't steal any of the shit I've written or else i'm gonna turn you into Vicky from Terrifier/srs

Peter didn't understand what was so special about you, you were just a crush. Or that's what he convinced himself. Every single place you were in, Peter would carefully trail behind you, like there was a magnet strapped onto you, and Peter was the metal, he would always find himself drawing next to you. Peter Parker was no stranger to keeping secrets. It was, after all, the epitome of his double life. A mask, a costume, a name that wasn't his at all. There was one secret, however, that even the Spider-Man's mask couldn't cover—his growing infatuation towards you.

It started out really simple. You decided to give back the nerdy boy's pencil in sophomore year and defended him from Flash Thompson in his junior year, it was all simple really, something a person with decency and was taught with proper manners would do. But Peter took it as more than that.

Candid photos here and there, purposefully falling of his skateboard so you would help him, cryptic notes in your locker, sometimes a random flower if Peter was lucky to find any.

Limerence, as some might say

The first people who would ever notice Peter's strange behavior where the people who raised him. Uncle Ben would notice this girl in the screen of his nephew's computer, so did Aunt May when she saw many polaroid photos of the same face underneath Peter's bed. Peter shrugged it off, saying the same exact words to the both of them.

'she's just a crush'

Peter Parker was very good at being hidden in the open. Sure, he didn't want to be invisible, but it is what it is. One of the self-working "losers" with horrible punchlines and pretty much the face screaming "nerd". Well, it didn't bother Peter much. He had many other more important things to think about. You

It's been years now. It was already the last year of senior year, graduation was already nearing, still, he hasn't mustered up the courage to do speak to you, afraid that you won't reciprocate the same feelings he has. His been watching you from a distance, stealing glances in class and making mental notes on all the little things you did, like doodling on the corners of your notebooks or, how you tucked your hair behind your ear when you were concentrating. He knew that it was weird, creepy even, but Peter couldn't stop himself.

So, when Mr. Warren announced a paired project for biology, Peter's internal monologue kicked into overdrive.

"Pair work begins today," Mr. Warren said, his smile a gruff overture that still Peter thought unnecessary. "Choose your partners wisely, just choose somebody you will along with. You can really screw up over this project if you don't!"

The room broke out into a low buzz as students shuffled their chairs and moved toward their friends. Peter didn't move. He never did. Choosing a partner was like finding a needle in a haystack type of task for him

Alright, Pete, it is not such a big deal. You are not going to end up with her or anything. Just relax, find someone cool, and—

"Peter!"

Your voice broke through his thoughts, and he looked up to see you in front of his desk, clutching a notebook to your chest

"By any chance do you have a partner? My friends kind of made their own pairs" you asked, your lips curving into an easy smile.

Peter blinked. His brain short-circuited.

"N-nope. I'm totally solo. Flying solo. A lone wolf. A…"

"Awesome! Then let's team up."

Peter turned to you, his mind racing, he blinked, trying to absorb this. You were choosing him? He nodded frantically; his heart was hammering at a top speed that he was convinced you could hear it

You smiled at him, you fucking smiled at him

For the rest of the class Mr. Warren instructed everyone to plan for the project for the rest of the class. You kept bouncing ideas back and forth, and Peter felt a strange, thrilling sensation of in his heart. You were funny, clever, and surprisingly very easy to communicate with. Every time you laughed at one of his jokes, he felt like he was soaring.

When the bell rang, you packed your things and turned to him. "We should work on this at my place. Tomorrow after school?"

Peter nearly dropped his notebook. "Uh, yeah. Totally. I mean, yes. That works. Perfect. So super normal."

You laughed again. "Cool. Here's my address."

And with that, you scribbled it on a scrap of paper and handed it to him before walking away, leaving Peter frozen in his seat.

That night, Peter was sitting in his room staring at the address. To most people, that was just a little detail, probably not even worth a second thought. But to Peter, it was an invitation, or perhaps a key, even just for a second to get into your life. To know every little thing about you

Unfortunately, though, that's not enough.

He felt his hands shaking as he opened the drawer in his desk to reveal a small trove of hidden treasures; poorly taken pictures of you from a distance, bits of paper that you had thrown away during math class, and a small stash of hair strands that he meticulously collected from your hair comb when you weren't looking

This was love, wasn't it? The desperate consuming desire to be around her, to know everything about you.

And tomorrow, he shall get his chance.

You invited him, but Peter just knew it was really more than what you would ever willingly give.

His love was a web, and you were stepping into it, one delicate thread at a time.

Peter stood outside your house with a crumpled piece of paper clutched in his rather sweaty hand. The address on it was correct, but doubt clouded him. What if she had forgotten about this meeting? What if this was simply a joke? No, she would never do that, he tried to convince himself

Peter Parker was standing at your porch. Each thump of his heart sounded like one of the drums in the music club. He raised his hand to knock, hesitating for a moment. Maybe it was a terrible idea to come here after all; he could fake being sick, sending her an apology while rescheduling. Just then, the door swung open before he even had the chance to run.

"Hey, you found my house, I actually thought you would get lost cause I wrote the wrong color of the rooftop on the note" you said while stepping aside to let him enter.

"I was actually hesitant to knock, because it didn't look like the description" He quietly said. You actually got everything right, I was just being a huge pussy so I didn't come immediately, he thought to himself.

"Come in. I have started working on the diagram."

Peter plasted a grin and forced his legs down inside. "Well, look at you. Overachieving already. I guess I'll just sit back and let you do all the hard work."

You rolled your eyes and laughed, your voice making him feel that the world wasn't so bad after all. "Nice try, Parker. Grab a marker. You're on label duty."

"Come on, we can work in the dining area," you said, leading him across the house.

The dining table was already loaded with supplies, with textbooks scattered everywhere, colored pencils, sheets of poster paper, you name it. You positioned herself and gestured to him to join you.

You fell into a rhythm, your hand sketching the parts of the circulatory system while Peter scrawled out the labels in his neatest handwriting. He cracked jokes every few minutes, drawing out your laughter like a lifeline. It would be so easy to lose himself in the moment, pretend that you both were just two friends hanging out and not a guy hopelessly infatuated with someone who didn't even know half the truth about him.

Both of you had a relatively smooth first hour of working, few questions were asked here and there on the project. Peter kept his answers short, being extra cautious with what to share, but it seemed you did not mind. You sketched diagrams, jotting down notes with an ease that made Peter's hands tremble every time he made an attempt to help.

"So Peter," you suddenly announced after the silence, "why is it that you don't talk very much? At school I mean"

The question staggered him, rendering him blank while the colored pencil just hovered above the page.

Peter jerked up his head and looked surprised. "What do you mean? Talking is what I do. I mean, there's even people begging me to stop."

You smirked but didn't let it down. "I mean really, you're funny but I know nothing about you. What's your thing, Peter Parker?"

He didn't answer immediately but fiddled with the marker. "I'm just… some guy. Pretty boring, honestly. Not much to tell."

Your expression softened, "I don't buy that. You're not boring".

Your words made Peter's chest tighter. He wanted to believe you, yet the voice at the back of his mind reminded how wrong youwere. If you only knew the real him, the guy who had spent countless nights staring at your window, memorizing your every move, you wouldn't be smiling and sitting here before him.

"Hey, don't overthink it. You're cool. Let's just finish this masterpiece, okay?" you said, flicking his arm before he could answer.

Peter smiled forcedly

And when they finished the day's work, you walk him to the door once more, your smile as warm as ever.

"Thanks for coming over," you said. "You're actually a pretty decent partner, Parker."

"Decent?!" Peter gasped, clutching his chest in mock offense. "Wow. Don't hold back; tell me how you really feel."

And you laughed, shaking your head. "I'll see you tomorrow."

Peter waved. You waved back at him, as he strolled down the street, but he did not go very far. Instead, he found himself across the street in the same place, hidden under the shadow of the oak tree.

you were in your living room again, curled around a blanket and a pillow as you watched whatever was on your screen, your face glowing softly from the light of the television. Peter leaned against the tree with both hands shoved in his jacket pockets and simply watched.

How long he'd been there, he couldn't tell, but he didn't want to leave. This was the closest he ever felt with you, even if you didn't know he was here.

He knew this was crossing the line, but he couldn't help himself. He found himself sneaking into your house. Now he really felt like a robber trying to intrude a home, expect he wasn't really going to steal anything, or so he thought.

It was late at night, you and your family were already asleep at this point

Peter knew that the right thing to do was to head home. He knew for sure that this crossed a line even he wasn't sure he could come back from. But before he could stop himself, he was moving, slipping across the street and into the shadows of your yard.

His palms were slick with sweat as he scanned the side of the house. The metal trellis leading up to your window wasn't very solid, but it would hold him if he was careful.

He carefully climbed the trellis, not putting too much weight on it. And his heart was pounding as he got to your window, his fingers brushing against the cool glass.

It wasn't locked.

At that moment, his body froze. The rational part of him screamed to stop, to climb back down and pretend this never happened. But then his hand was on the window. And that soft sound of it sliding open seemed to be deafeningly loud in the stillness of the night.

He slipped into his feet and landed silently on the carpeted floor. Your room smelled of lavender and something warm and sweet like vanilla. A little bit of moonlight filtered through the curtains and brightened the room in pale silver.

There she was

You laid curled up in your bed, the blankets pulled up to your shoulders, your face peaceful in sleep. Peter’s breath caught in his throat. You looked so serene, so utterly perfect, that it made his chest ache.

He stood there for what felt like an eternity, just watching you. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting to feel—satisfaction, maybe, or relief. But all he felt was a strange mix of awe and guilt.

This was wrong.

He knew it.

But he couldn’t bring himself to leave.

He looked around your room, it was full of polaroids of either you or your friends.

He started walking around your room quietly, careful to not wake you up in your slumber, because God knows what will happen if you saw him in your room with all its glory, he couldn't even imagine the disgust on your face.

But one thing caught his eye

Your bathroom was open, and in your bathroom was a basket with what he assumed inside were dirty laundry.

He knew it was disgusting, heck, over the top creep award would probably go to him, but he found himself walking towards the bathroom. It was wrong, but he still did it, he needs to get help, he thought to himself.

One second ago he was walking towards your bathroom, next thing you knew he was rummaging through your dirty laundry, occasionally smelling some of your shirts. He cherished the way your scent overwhelmed his nose, he was in Cloud 9.

While he was rummaging, a little piece of clothing caught his eye. With shaky hands he picked up the piece of clothing, it was your pink underwear with little cherries scattered everywhere as design.

He brought it near to his nose. He suddenly sat down in the neat cold tiles of the bathroom floor, he smelt it as if it was his oxygen.

He let out a small moan. He didn't know if it was an invisible force making him do such things, but he found his hands unbuttoning his pants

Peter Parker sat in the rest room; hand clasped tight around the lacy edge of the pink panty. He took out his hardened length of his boxers. The scent of dirty panties wafted his nose.

He imagined you wrapped around his throbbing cock, he thought of the feeling of your tight little pussy riding his cock, he wanted the sweet nectar from your lips, while having a feast on your quivering hole. His cock throbbed in his palms, his hands were much faster now, stroking his hardened cock. He had to bite his tongue to keep himself from moaning

Why was he doing this? You were literally there, outside the bathroom, sleeping. And Peter was here, out in the open, jerking off to the smell of your used panties

He was drenched in sweat as his hairs stuck to his wet forehead. He fantasized about your perky tits; perfect little nipples erect in anticipation. Pumping the shaft rapidly, imagining you on all fours begging for more, the bounce of your tits while riding him moaning his name like a mantra, Peter, fuck Peter, Peter, oh my God!

Peter was breathing heavily, his release was near, he profusely pumped his manhood, his hands and cock covered in his sticky pre-cum.

He wanted to feel you inside him, want you to quiver in pleasure as he fucks you over and over again.

He felt a sudden wave of pleasure hitting him, before he knew it, he released a flooded torrent of jizz into sticky cum as it scattered all over the floor. He slumped against the wall, heaving as he tried to steady his racing heart. He looked outside the door, finding you in the same spot as you were. You were sleeping oh so peacefully

He gazed at you, his heart full of unfulfilled yearning. He desperately wanted to be part of your world, to be someone you chose to let in. Yet no matter how many jokes he made or how close you seemed; he knew deep in his heart that he was not enough.

A soft sound broke the silence.

Peter's eyes snap to the bed, and his stomach lurch at the realization that you were stirring. Your brows knitted, your breathing started shifting, just as if you were going to wake up.

He immediately threw your panties back into the basket as he stood up and fixed his underwear and pants

He felt panic surging him, he immediately sprinted near the window. It made a loud a thud, now he was fucked

He moved quickly and quietly without thinking as he quietly ran towards the window. Just as you were about to opene your eyes, he slipped stealthily past the fluttering of curtains.

He tried scrambling down the trellis and found the ground, shivering and shaking as he did so.

He was hidden in a shadow corner, looking up towards your window. You were sitting up now, rubbing your eyes and looking around your room with a sleepy confusion.

Peter's chest tightened.

What's the matter with him?

He hurried as he turned away, his footsteps quiet against the pavement

The cool night air wrapped around Peter Parker like a cold, suffocating blanket as he walked back toward his house. Each step seemed to slant further and further as if his sneakers were scuffing wet against the cracked pavement in a slow and deliberate rhythm.

It was as if the world had gone still—entirely quiet. No cars were heard, no distant chatter, no hum of the city. Just Peter, the quiet whistle of wind through leaves, and the pounding thuds of his thoughts.

With that, he shoved his hands deep into his jacket pockets, his fingers curling into tight fists. Replaying the scene, he heard the soft sound of your breathing, the warmth of your room, and the way you stirred in your bed as if you had felt him there.

What the heck are you doing, Parker? He hadn't intended to climb into your room. He hadn't intended for it to get this far. Watching from the shadows was one thing, but tonight… tonight he had crossed a line.

He stopped moving and leaned against the lamppost, his breath escaping him in short, sharp gasps. Above him, the light flickered, shining unevenly across his shadow on the ground.

"This isn't me," he whispered to himself, the voice trembling.

But wasn't it?

Hadn't he been staring at you for years, taking notes while you weren't looking, memorizing all of your movements, laughter, and smiles? He had told himself that it was just harmless admiration from a distance, but now it was clear.

What would you think if you knew?

He sighed, Peter threw back his head and gazed up at the sky. Above him the stars, though cold and distant, seemed on to him— judging him in silence.

With the words of Uncle Ben echoing in his mind, With great power comes great responsibility, Peter winced.

Peter's jaw clamped down. Not great power; not yet. But wasn't all this part of it? Taking responsibility for his actions, owning up to his mistakes before they spiraled uncontrollably out of hand?

It hit him like a gut punch.

He wouldn't ever be able to take it back. Nor would he ever be able to wipe away the fact that he'd violated your space, your privacy, in a way you might never forgive. But he could stop it from going any further. He could ensure that you never found out.

@gloomskulls 2024. DON'T COPY, TRANSLATE OR USE ANY OF MY WORKS HERE OR ANY OTHER WEBSITES. Photos don't belong to me

[lanadelreyscokewhor3]

DISEASE- P.B PARKER

Pairing- Peter x Fem! Reader (friends to lovers)

Word Count: 3.8k

Summary: You and your friend group head up to Peters infamious ski lodge weekend getaway, the same as every year. Except this year, theres tension in the air, and a masked man on the loose. Your actions have consequences....

(UNTIL DAWN INSPIRED) (but u dont need to play the game to read:) )

Warnings: SMUT, lowkey darkish peter, dumbification kink, mocking, size kink, fingering, teasing, creampie, swearing, foreplay? (peter gets off on y/n getting scared), mentions of booze and implications of torture

Notes: since the revamped verison of until dawn came out my obsession has came back full force, so i wrote a fic with marvel characters as if they were in until dawn! i wrote this in one sitting lol. its not lore accurate but..love josh washington.. so of course peter must be him....

"could play the doctor, i can cure your disease/ if you were a sinner, i could make you believe/ lay you down like one, two, three/ eyes roll back in ecstasy/ i can smell your sickness, i can cure ya/ cure your disease"- disease, lady gaga

You stared in dismay at the thin piece of paper that fluttered in the wind, barely clinging to the large iron gate by a thin piece of tape.

“Gate Broken. Climb over. -Steve”

Taking a breath, you gathered your wits about you, grumbling the whole way over to the side of the wall where the stone sides had started to crumble, giving you access to climb up and over. This was not the way you wanted to start your weekend getaway at Peters lodge, but it seemed you had no choice.

First your bus was late due to black ice, then your bag had dropped in the deep snow, the fabric dripping cold drips of water down your thin jacket. And now this.

Would anything go right this weekend?

You were nervous. You hadn’t seen the group in over a year, but once Peter had sent a text to the group, everyone had been quick to respond. You were excited to be back but also… anxious.

It had been a while since you had been here and what happened last time…

Your fingers stung as the stone dug into your palms, and you huffed chilled air as you tossed yourself over, feet tingling as you landed with an oomph.  It wasn't far now to the ski lift. You’d be out of this cold, haunting forest soon enough, surrounded by your friends' warmth.

Especially Peter's warmth, a little voice in the back of your head chimed.

The longer you thought of him, the warmer your cheeks became, making your breaths turn to startled pants in the deep snow. You and Peter had been friends since the first year of college, which he then introduced you to the rest of the group.

Bucky, who had been Peter's best friend since childhood, Steve- the big flirt (not nearly as bad as Peter though), Natasha- who was Bucky's girlfriend, Wanda, her friend Matt, and Loki.

All of them had been welcoming to you, making you feel right at home as if you had been friends with them for years. But when things got out of hand last year at the lodge, when Peter's sister went missing… it was distant.

You had pushed that memory as far back as you could, so whenever you tried to conjure it to the surface it was murky. A prank had gone wrong, despite you begging to the group to end it- Peter passed out on the couch.

His sister had been so in love with Bucky and well…

You watched the lift inch towards you, the doors swinging open with a loud clang. You closed your eyes in prayer that this car wouldn't snap with you inside, the old thing barely inching faster than a snail's pace.

Surely if the Parkers were rich, they did maintenance checks regularly? You doubted it.

The glass inside was foggy, and you traced a heart on the window pane as you started to trudge up Blackwood Mountain. The scenery was beautiful, the sun starting to become covered by rolling clouds, the snow coating the trees below- but all you could think of was Peter.

You had always had a crush on him but recently it had turned dangerous. All you could think of was him. Ever since he had sent that text to the group, it was like a switch in your body had snapped. Like you were reminded- “oh shit, yes, yes I do like this man”.

And no amount of time or distance would change that.

Wanda and Natasha had always teased you, insisting Peter liked you back- but he flirts with everyone. You refused to believe it, not wanting to give your hopes up… in case they were playing a prank on you.

You couldn't help but worry about him though, with everything that had happened. You hoped he didn't resent anyone for what had happened that night.

You wished you could've stopped it, could've been there to wake him…

The car jutted to a stop and rocked back and forth, the door remaining shut. Oh fuck. You peered your head through the window in the door and saw Wanda with Matt, waiting at the stop. You banged on the door, snapping their attention over to you with a start.

“Could you open this? I'm uh.. Kinda stuck.”

Wanda laughed as she walked over to you, banging on the door before pressing the old button that took several seconds to work. Finally the doors swung open, leaving a loud creaking sound in their wake that echoed off the mountains.

“What, you didn't want to see us so you stayed in the car?” Matt called, a smirk on his lips as Wanda wrapped her arms around you, grasping you in a comforting embrace.

“Oooh I missed you girl! It's been so long since we've been back.” she smiled softly as Matt hugged you, taking the soaking backpack from your back. “I missed you guys too. Is anyone else here?”

“Everyone now I think. It's almost night-time, so I’m sure they're all waiting at the lodge for us.”

You bit your lip, nodding solemnly.

“Were you guys waiting long? Sorry, you didn't have to or anything, my bus was super late and the gate was broken…”

“What no! It's all good girl, Matt didn't mean anything by it. We’re just all so excited to see you.”

“Especially Peter.” Matt laughed, and you put your head in your hands.

“Maybe he’ll warm you up Y/N, since it's so cold out here.” Wanda winked, making you giggle. “Well, let's hope he can warm my freezing buns up.” you snorted, earning a pat on the back from Matt.

“Atta girl. Maybe we’ll all get lucky tonight.” he said, and you flickered your eyes over to catch Wanda blushing deeply.

Wait.. were they? You didn't push it. You'd find out as the night went on.

Who knew what had happened in that year, maybe things had changed. You didn't have much time to think about it before you arrived at the lodge's entrance, warm light glowing from inside.

“You get the easy treatment. I heard Bucky and Peter had to break in and unmelt the lock.” Matt grimaced, and you couldn't help but laugh as you imagined Bucky falling flat on his ass through the window.

“Jesus. You guys just needed me here, I could have warmed the lock up with my hotness.”

“Damn straight bitch!” Wanda laughed as she unlatched the door, letting the warmth wash over your frozen bones. An eruption of cheers sounded from the blazing fireplace, drinks opened on the ground.

“She made it!” Steve called, rushing over to give you a bear hug, practically picking you up and swinging you around like a rag doll.

“Oh fuck youre freezing. Did you walk all the way up here?! Is that why you're late?”

You rolled your eyes. “No, my bus was late. I’m so sorry guys.”

“We thought you forgot about us.” Peter smirked, boyish charm radiating off of him, a lint in his eyes as he walked over to you, towering over you.

“Hi. I'm so sorry Peter, I swear-"

" I'm kidding you. Cmere.”

You wrapped your arms around his torso, breathing in his scent of musk and amber, his skin like fire compared to yours. “Fuck Steve was right. Shit, come sit by the fire.” he urged, and as if on cue, you shivered.

He helped you peel your cold layers off your body, hanging up your coat to dry. Bucky gave you a taste of his warm whisky, immediately making you splutter and grimace at the strong, overpowering taste.

Jokes were tossed around, and you found yourself in an easy rhythm with the group, as if nothing had ever happened. You looked to Peter in reassurance, already finding his eyes staring you down when you met his. He studied you as you talked to Natasha, drinking you in.

You tried to keep your composure, but the butterflies churned in your chest.

“Did you want to take a warm bath?” Peter asked, everyone turning to look at you as you shivered again.

“No, no it's okay Peter. Thank you though.”

“Are you sure? You're still freezing.�� Loki nudged you with his leg from where he stretched out on the couch. Everyone looked at you with concern, Peter most of all.

“Okay maybe that would be nice. But that wont take away from what we're doing? I don't wanna just leave you guys.” you frowned.

“What?! No! Matt and I were gonna go for a walk around anyways, and I'm pretty sure Bucky, Loki and Steve wanted to dig out some spirit board anyways. Go take a bath and warm up, okay?” Wanda smiled softly at you, urging you to go with Peter.

“I just have to turn on the hot water.” He said, making his way over to the basement door. “I can come with you.” you offered.

“You sure? It's cold and dark.” You shrugged, honestly just wanting more time with Peter. “It's my bath, and I hear I’m pretty good at holding a flashlight.”

He laughed, tossing you his light. “Flashlight duty it is then.”

You followed him through the dark passageway, old stairs creaking under your weight as the little spotlight guided you onwards. The door slammed behind you with a slam, making you jump.

“Sorry, that always slams like that. This place is old as dirt.” You laughed, wrapping your arms around yourself as you shivered, not only from the cold but how eerie it was.

“Man, it's creepy down here.” you noted as you finally reached the crypt, barely being able to see anything but dark shadows in the far distance. “What, you can't handle a little cobwebs?” he teased, shooting you a wink as he made his way over to the pipes.

You followed him, giving him a playful smack across his solid bicep, aiming the light where he navigated. It was quiet all but the drip of water on the concrete concrete floor, and your heavy breaths.

“Peter?”

“Hm?” You started fidgeting nervously.

“Are- are you doing okay? I mean, with everything? Today was a hard day, so I just…”

“I’m okay. I just… can't think about it for too long, ya know? But I wanted us all together to celebrate. To take our minds off of it.” he shrugged, switching on the hot water at last.

“I understand. And, thank you for inviting me Peter. I really appreciate it, and if you need anything at all… we’re all here for you.” you softly smiled, sensing his pain and vulnerability.

“I know. And between you and me, I wish I could have only invited you.” he winked, hand reaching up as if he wanted to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear before he caught himself.

There were the flirty comments again.

“You’re really sweet Y/N. You’ve been what I’ve needed this year, ya know? Just the thought of you is enough to cheer me up. I’m really happy you could make it.”

You felt your cheeks start to heat under his gaze. You knew he had been in therapy for some time now, and you hoped the sessions helped him. You always thought maybe you could fix him, not that he needed to be fixed. He wasn't broken, he was just…

A loud bang sounded from the corner of the room and you jumped, instinctive leaning into Peter. “What was that?” you croaked quietly, flashlight starting to shake.

“I have no fuckin idea.” he murmmed, stepping in front of you, as if he was to shield you. “Should we.. Should we check it out? Maybe it's an old pipe or something?”

“Old pipes don't make that noise.”

You gulped. Suddenly, something lunged for you and you screamed, clinging to Peter's bicep as you two started to bolt towards the stairs, and you nearly tripped up them as the shadow rushed at you.

Stumbling up the stairs you almost made it to the door before you could hear laughing.

“Hah! You just got Bunked! Get it, like punked? But I did it, so it's Bunked.” Bucky howled with laughter as he tugged the dark sheet off his body. Peter chuckled along with him, but your eyes nearly popped from their sockets.

“You- well you fucking dick!” you screamed, stomping down the rickety steps to give him a peace of your mind. Smacking his chest you growled.

“What the fuck were you doing?! You nearly gave me a heart attack!” you snarled, pawing at him with closed fists.

“Hey, hey I’m sorry okay! We always do pranks here. I had to, because of tradition.”

“Did you know about this?”

Peter rolled his eyes, moving closer to you. “Nope, but you're cute when you're scared. Don't act like you weren't clinging onto my bicep like a monkey just then.” Peter smirked coyly, winking.

“You're both dicks.” Peter mock gasped, turning to Bucky with eyes wide in bewilderment. “You hear that Buck? She thinks we’re dicks! Guess my chances of getting some are slim.” he snickered as you trotted up the stairs, giving them an eye roll before escaping back out into the main room.

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You weren't sure how long you stayed in the bath, but the water was cold. You woke with a start, eyes fluttering open as the chill sent little shocks down your body.

You must have fallen asleep in the tub, the night darker than ever.

A little candle flickered on the vanity, and you grabbed it as you wrapped yourself up in a towel, wet footsteps trotting across the hardwood floors. It was dead quiet in the lodge, not an echo of chatter from the main room. You knew people had probably gone exploring, or gone to sleep but this was eerily quiet.

Something felt off. Something was wrong.

“Guys? Hello?” you peered your head out and saw nothing but an empty hallway. With only the candle to lead you on your way, you slowly padded down the hall, poking your head into empty rooms.

“Was I really asleep that long?” you murmured to yourself as you finally found your room where Matt had dropped off your bag near the freshly made bed.

It was uncomfortably large the lodge, and you constantly felt a set of eyes following your frame. You set the candle down, shutting the door behind you as you went to rub your pjs.

If this was another prank they were playing… you would be pissed. Once was enough for the night. God knows you needed another heart attack.

Humming to yourself, you bent down to grab your lace panties from your bag, turning around only to scream.

A large man towered by the doorway, lingering in the darkness, body hidden in heavy overalls, gloves adorning his hands- a mask on his face.

You nearly dropped your towel, backing up and falling onto the bed. Scream dying in your throat as he got to you in two large strides, gloved hand covering your mouth as the other scooped you up, backside pressed against his large frame.

You whimpered into the leather, hot, silent tears streaming down your cheeks. “Please don't hurt me, please. Please..” you cried, muffled in his glove.

“You’re so pretty when you're scared, baby. You promise you won't scream if I remove my hand?”

You nodded frantically, willing to do anything this stranger told you to save yourself. You hiccuped on your sobs as he slowly removed his hand, instead allowing it to come up and stroke your hair gently as you cried in his arms.

“Shh, shh baby. Not a word okay?” the distorted voice asked and you nodded again, too scared to make a peep.

“You’re so, so pretty when you cry baby. You know that? You’re so hot when you’re scared. The way you held my bicep earlier? Just wanted to pick you up and pound your little body, fuck.”

Realisation dawned on you, eyes widening in shock.

“P-peter?” His arm let go and you stumbled onto the bed, scooting away from him as he took off the mask, revealing that glint of mischief in his eyes, that coy smirk on his lips as his tongue darted out to lick the lower one.

“What are you doing?” you asked softly. He tilted his head, studying you. “Pranking everyone else, like they did last year to us. Just thought I’d stop by to check in on you.” he smiled.

You gulped as the mask thudded to the ground. “Where is everyone else?”

“Oh they're all out. I was hoping some trauma bonding would make Wanda and Matt finally make that move, ya know? Maybe I’m doing them a favour.” he chuckled.

“But why.. Why were you dressed like that?” you asked, clutching your towel tighter to your breasts that poked out at the top as he slowly made his way closer to you.

“Just some harmless fun. Did it scare you?”

“Y-yeah.”

He pouted. “You're so pretty when you're scared. I'm sorry for making you cry sweetheart. You were just too good to resist.” he sighed, thumb brushing your tear stained cheek.

“I-its okay.” you stumbled over your words, flustered at his proximity, body growing hot at his touch and the hungry look in his eye as he stared down at you.

You squeezed your thighs together, trying to be subtle, but failing miserably. You felt your arousal leaking out of you down your thighs, and your breath was shaky.

You wanted him so bad. But what kind of sick fuck would you be for feeling this way? When he had scared you to death?

He looked you up and down, eyes lingering longer on your breasts, licking his lips hungrily.

He knew. He knew the effect he had on you.

“Now baby, tell me. Did you like that stunt I pulled just now?”

You were silent, refusing to meet his eyes.

“Did I make you flustered? Did that turn you on? Hm?” his low voice sent another pulse down your spine, and you clamped down on nothing. “Mhm.” you nodded.

His fingers gripped your chin, making you jolt with a start as he forced your eyes to meet his. “Do you like how helpless and weak you felt? Cause I did. I could do whatever I wanted to you baby, and no one would even know. It's just you and me.”

You whimpered, making him smirk. You felt yourself being backed up on the bed, Peter hovering over you as you lay flat under him.

You were his now. And fuck, if you didnt like it.

“P-peter-”

“You know how long I’ve wanted you baby? Fuck.”

“I-I wanted you too.” you confessed softly, looking up at him with doe eyes, already starting to feel your brain go fuzzy with his presence.

“Yeah? Even just then? You liked it, didn't you?”

“I.. I did like it.” you bashfully admitted, and he groaned.

“I knew you were a dirty girl. Aren't you? You want me to fuck you baby?” You nodded, hand slithering up to grasp his bicep, the way you knew he liked. He hissed, head dropping down to take a breath.

As if he was controlling himself, like an animal on a leash that threatened to snap. “So little under me. Such a cute lil thing, so breakable.” he sighed to himself as he pulled your hand away, hand lingering on your towel knot.

You met his eyes that pleaded, asking if he could go further. “M’ not breakable.” you murmured, taking his hand in yours to yank the towel loose, letting it come undone around your naked body.

He drank you in, having to reach down to adjust himself in his overalls. “We’ll see about that when I’m done with you.”

His fingers traced your smooth skin, a finger dragging down your abdomen, tapping your inner thighs, making you wiggle. “So responsive. You like when I touch you here?”

You nodded. “Please.”

“Please what?”

“Please touch me Peter. Please. Need you so bad it hurts, it hur-”

His fingers slid through your slick folds, rubbing your clit gently. “Shh shh that's it baby. You just sit still and I’ll take care of you, mkay? Gonna make you so dumb n helpless.” he cooed at you, your mouth parting in an o shape as his large finger slipped inside you, clenching around the digit.

“Gotta stretch you out. You’re so tight, fuck. Youre so hot, like a fuckin porn star.” Your back bowed off the bed as he worked your clit, the rough pad of his thumb taking over as he pumped two thick digits in you, curling just the way to make you moan.

“Peter, Peter f-fuck, feels so good-” you choked out, his palm splayed on your tummy to keep you from wiggling away.

“Yeah baby you gonna cum? Yeah?” he teased, his fingers slipping out at the last second, making you groan in protest, before he slammed home with his cock.

You gasped, screaming at the fullness, as he watched your face contort from pleasure to pain, back to pleasure again. Your mascara was smudged from your tears and he swore a hint of drool trickled from your lips, and fuck if it didnt turn him on even more.

“Is it too much for you honey? You gonna take it all?”

You couldn't even response, eyes rolling to the back of your head as he fucked you, snapping his hips hard and fast, letting the animal off the leash. He couldn't control himself any longer. He had wanted this for too long, and the idea of the two of you being alone, with no one around for miles made him snap his hips harder.

“Yeah you like when I fuck you? Youre so fucking slutty baby, letting some masked man fuck you. But you like it, don't you? I always knew you were a freak.” he growled, making you mewl, clinging onto him.

“Scream baby. No one can hear you.” he chuckled as he abused your cunt, the sound of skin merging with your juices making a squelching sound that mixed with your moans.

“I c-can’t, too much-” you slurred, making him cluck his tongue.

“Cum baby. Cum for me.”

That was all you needed to hear, orgasm rippling through you hard and rough as he continued to fuck you through it.

“Such a good girl. So wet, fuck. Fuck I’m gonna cum, fuck fuck Y/N, you’re so fuckin hot-” he growled, pace faltering as he reached his orgasim, shooting ropes of his sticky seed inside you.

The world was blurry, the room spinning as he stilled inside you, breathing heavily himself as he cooed down at you. “Baby? You with me?”

“Mhgm.” was all you could mutter out, body shaking and twitching from the overstimulation. “I’m gonna go clean you up okay? You gotta let go for two seconds.”

His soft, protective demeanour came back within seconds, as he slowly peeled your grip from his biceps, crescent moon shapes adorning them.

“When we’re all clean I gotta go clean some stuff up with them okay? And then we’ll have the whole place to ourselves and we can rest, pretty girl.”

[spider-stark]

INFINITELY YOU

part one // back at the beginning

SUMMARY - In every universe, Peter Parker seems destined to fall in love with you. And, in every universe, he realizes it too late. When universes collide and two of them are granted a second chance at rectifying their biggest mistake, neither of them are willing to let the opportunity go to waste–even if you end up not being the person they thought you were.

WARNINGS - 18+, story will contain mentions of blood, broken bones, weapons, suggestive language, and more. all versions of peter are between the ages of 19-23 in this story. I will try to update warnings accordingly for each chapter, but please read at your own discretion

WORD COUNT - 5.4k

// masterlist // series masterlist // send me your thoughts // playlist // no way home fan fiction //

The world seemed to slip out from under you, fracturing beneath your feet and leaving you to sink into a deep, dark hole.  

It was quiet—so unbearably quiet—and the tension between you and your estranged friends had become so thick that you feared it would soon take form and seep into your lungs. Maybe that would be for the best, you thought, wondering if suffocating on your collective grief would somehow be easier than whatever came next.  

“Aunt May…” You sputtered, unable to force the words out. Shaking your head, you asked, “Are you sure?”  

God, what a stupid question. You almost wanted to slap yourself for asking something so mindless.

Ned’s lips pressed into a thin line, trying to swallow his own sorrow. “I wish we weren’t,” he said with a small, wistful chuckle, still too shocked to fully acknowledge the gravity of it all. “But… yeah, we’re sure. She’s… She’s gone.”  

Your heart sank, unable to think of the right string of words to form a reply.  

With your mind reeling, you couldn’t stop yourself from thinking that this was some sort of cruel joke–the kind where the punchline would never quite hit. But all it took was one look at the red-rimmed eyes and tear-stained cheeks of Ned and Mj to know that they were telling the truth.  

She was dead—Aunt May was dead.  

And, somehow, it seemed as though that wasn’t even the worst part of the mess your friends had gotten themselves in.  

“I know that it’s a lot to take in all at once,” Ned started back up, perhaps noticing the way the color seemed to drain from your face. “If you need me to go back over it or explain anything then I can-”  

You stopped listening to him, staring blankly at the doormat beneath their feet. They hadn’t even bothered to come inside your apartment, too panicked to waste any time before delving into the details about Doctor Strange and the multiverse and other Spider-Man’s.  

But honestly, you didn’t care about any of that.  

You didn’t care about string theory or whatever multiversal villains had apparently slipped into your world—because you couldn’t stop thinking about what Ned had said about how May died. It hurt to think about it, the shrapnel and debris that had torn her flesh, the glider that had punctured her side and left her bleeding out in Peter’s arms…  

Aunt May had died a horrific and brutal death, and you weren’t sure that there would ever be any way for you to come to terms with that.  

“Peter,” you finally spoke, fire raging in your eyes as you looked at Ned. “Where is Peter?”  

He spared Mj a sidelong glance, as if silently asking for her permission to answer. Frustration began to prick your skin, crawling up your spine as your stare turned harsh, offended that he didn’t just tell you outright. You knew that things between the four of you hadn’t ended well, but this… 

Mj crossed her arms, looking almost as frustrated as you were with Ned’s choice to look to her for permission, and decided to answer in his place.  

“Downstairs,” she told you, her tone purposefully clipped as a way to show that the wounds sustained in the downfall of your friendship had not yet healed–and you didn’t care, because you knew that yours hadn’t either.  

“Is he…” you trailed off, not sure how to say it. If May’s death had been so brutal, then God knows what kind of injuries Peter might’ve sustained in the fight?  

But you didn’t have to speak, because whether the two of you liked it or not, you had been friends—and she always knew what you were thinking. “He’s safe,” she told you, quelling your nerves just a little. A reluctant sigh slipped her lips, shaking her head as she added, “But he’s not okay.”  

You knew what she meant—physically Peter had survived the fight with this Goblin man that they had told you about, but mentally…  

You understood why she was hesitant to tell you about it, too. Of the three of you, there was only one that had ever been able to delve down into the depths of Peter’s trauma and help him claw his way back out of the gnawing pit that threatened to consume him—and it wasn’t either of them.  

And, just as Mj knew you, you knew her. 

She didn’t want you around Peter, not anymore—and so if she was willingly telling you that he wasn’t okay, then it meant that she knew how much he truly needed you right now.  

“You guys should’ve told me sooner,” you grit your teeth, desperately trying to bite back against the resentment rising in your throat. “You should’ve told me as soon as all of this started, instead of waiting until everything went to shit.”  

It wasn’t your intention to sound bitter, but that didn’t stop you from coming across that way. Ned recoiled from your tone like a blow, but you didn’t have it in you to feel guilty right now.  

They had been dealing with all of this multiversal crisis bullshit for nearly a week now—and yet none of them had thought to say a single word to you until now. And while you knew that your presence likely wouldn’t have changed the course of events that had unfolded, it still hurt.  

And it still made you angry.  

“What do you need me to do?” You asked after realizing that neither of them intended to respond to your sharp statement.  

“Well,” Ned started, nervously rubbing his sweaty palms against his khakis, “it’s gonna take us some time to figure out where the villains are hiding, and even longer to work out what to do with them. And, since these other Peter’s have dealt with these guys before, we could really use their help…”  

He trailed off, once again looking to Mj, this time to silently urge her to finish his sentence.  

She rolled her eyes. “We need you to let them stay here.”  

Your brows furrowed, glancing between the two of them as if once again waiting for some sort of punchline to hit. It didn’t.  

“It might take us a bit–a few weeks, maybe—to find all of them and stop them. And now that Happy’s complex was literally blown to pieces, we don’t have anywhere for the two of them to stay while they help out.” Mj tried to explain. She looked defeated when she said, “We didn’t know who else we could go to that would actually understand.”  

Understand.  

If you weren’t still reeling from everything they had just told you, then you probably would have laughed at the word. You would hardly say that you understood what was going on—but you knew what she was getting.  

Mj’s dad would hardly allow two random men to stay in his house with them, and Ned’s Lola probably wasn’t too keen on the idea either. With Happy’s place destroyed, they had nowhere left to turn.  

You weren’t sure how to feel now that you knew they had only come to you because you were their last choice.  

At the risk of aggravating Mj, you said, “I wanna talk to Peter.”  

“I don’t know if now’s a good time,” Mj swiftly shot back. “I told you that’s he’s not okay—”  

“But he’s here,” you stated, nodding your head towards the stairs somewhere behind them that led back down to the lobby. “And you’re insane if you think I’m gonna agree to let two random ass men stay in my house without at least knowing what his plan is.”  

Mj bristled at the harshness of your tone; and so did you.  

You weren’t used to this.  

Mj had been your friend for far longer than she had been whatever she was to you now, and neither of you were used to this—to your once special connection being reduced to nothing more than strained conversations and fractured feelings towards one another.  

“Fine,” Mj surrendered, her hands lifting slightly. “Do whatever you want.”  

It wasn’t until then that you realized that you had been waiting for her permission, even though you didn’t believe you truly needed it. Peter was your friend—and he had been your friend long before he even knew Mj. If you wanted to talk to him, then you had every right to.  

Yet you still hadn’t been able to will yourself to push between the two of them until she had spoken, side-stepping to let you pass. When you started descending the stairs to the lobby, you were shocked that neither she nor Ned followed, offering you a sense of privacy with Peter that you hadn’t expected—as if she still held some shred of trust in you.  

You didn’t want to think about it though, unsure of how you felt about that, too.  

Halfway down the dank stairway of your complex, you felt a shiver dance along your spine. It prickled your skin and set your nerves on edge, but it didn’t catch you off guard. You always felt this way when Peter was around—as if your body could always sense when he was around, even when you hadn’t yet seen him.  

The last step creaked when you placed your weight onto it, and from across the poorly maintained lobby, Peter’s neck snapped in your direction at the sound.  

It felt like ice skittered across your bones at the sight of him, your heart lurching against your ribcage.  

You had gotten used to seeing Peter battered and bruised years ago. Even before he became Spider-Man, he often found himself the victim of bullies and assholes, rarely going more than a few weeks without a busted lip or a new bruise. But this…  

This was different, somehow.  

It wasn’t just the blood-stained suit that set your heart racing, nor was it the lacerated skin or his sweat-matted hair. No, those things were normal—in the same way that being bitten by a radioactive spider was normal.  

It was even normal to see him standing before you, his chin high and shoulders back, presenting a perfect image of strength even after experiencing something as traumatic as losing May.  

Peter’s relationship with trauma had been intimate enough these past few years that you weren’t shocked to see him like this, standing tall rather than balling up and crying on the floor. You figured that was what most others would do if they were in his situation.  

But Peter wasn’t like other people.  

Peter was a hero—and if you had learned anything about heroes in your lifetime, it was that they were incredible liars.  

His eyes couldn't lie, though.

Bloodshot and ringed with exhaustion, his eyes were what had made you feel so sick, your stomach twisting itself into knots.  

They lacked the life and hope of the boy you had loved so dearly, replaced with something like rage—a pure, unbridled and unrelenting type of rage. Looking at him now you couldn’t ignore the burning talon that seemed to rake against your mind, filling your brain with thoughts you didn’t want to think right now—telling you that looking at Peter now, with the light draining from his eyes, was the same as looking in a mirror.  

“Peter,” a metallic tang danced on your tongue as you dug your teeth into your cheek, biting back against the tears threatening to well-up in your eyes.  

Letting your instincts guide you, you rushed across the lobby to where he stood by the front door, reaching for his hand without a second thought.  

His suit had been torn along his palm, and as you felt the warmth radiating from his calloused skin, you tried to take some comfort in the fact that at least he had survived—even if you still weren’t ready to accept that May hadn’t.  

“Don’t,” He yanked his hand back from you, his voice hoarse. “Don’t say you’re sorry.”  

You froze for half a heartbeat, your hand hanging awkwardly in-between the two of you. “I wasn’t going to.”  

You weren’t sure if you were telling the truth, but it didn’t seem to matter either way.  

Either way, you tried to understand his reaction, even as you winced from the sting of rejection. What good would an apology really do for a boy who had already lost everything?  

It wouldn’t bring the light back to his eyes.  

It wouldn’t bring May back to life.  

“Ned told me everything,” you told him, unwilling or unable to say Mj’s name right now. You clenched and unclenched your fists, painfully aware of the absence of his warmth. “You know I’ll do anything I can to help, so just tell me what needs to be done and I’ll do it.”  

Peter scoffed, his jaw tensing. “We both know that what I want doesn’t matter,” he said bluntly. Motioning to your surroundings, he continued, “If what I wanted mattered, then we wouldn’t even be here. We wouldn’t be asking for your help—wouldn’t be dragging another person into this and asking them to risk their life!”  

You did your best not to react, knowing that he hadn’t meant it quite as bad as it sounded. It already hurt knowing that you had been Mj and Ned’s last choice for help, but knowing that Peter didn’t want you to be a choice at all hurt far worse—even if it was to keep you safe.  

“Well, you’re here now,” you told him, keeping your voice steady. “So you might as well tell me what your plan is—or at least tell me how long I’ll need to play bunkmates with strangers.”  

You were lying when you had told Mj and Ned that you needed to talk to Peter before agreeing to let the alternate Spider-Men stay in your apartment—you didn’t care about housing with strangers, aware that there was nothing they could do to you that you haven't endured before.  

Selfishly, you had just wanted a reason to come down and talk to him. To see him. To know that he was alive. You didn’t care about anything else.  

Sometimes you worried that you didn’t even care about your own life, only Peter’s.  

But Peter cared about your life—far more than you would ever want him to.  

“My plan doesn’t matter,” he said, his tone clipped, “cause I don’t want you getting involved. And I definitely don’t want you to let those guys stay here, alright? We don’t know them.”  

You steeled yourself, resisting the urge to argue with him and instead asking a simple question. “Do you have anywhere else for them to go?”  

He didn’t respond, huffing out a breath, already frustrated with the defiance he knew you were about to display.  

“You might not want my help, but if Ned’s right–” you told him, gesturing backwards towards the staircase, “–which he usually is—then you’re gonna need these guys.”  

“But that doesn’t mean we need you,” Peter protested gruffly.  

Your chest tightened, but you kept shoving back against the hurt. Later, you would deal with that later.  

“It doesn’t matter if you need me,” you retorted with a defiant tilt of your chin, unwavering as his rageful gaze seemed to pierce through your skull, “because you’re stuck with me either way.”  

You hadn’t expected the statement to affect him, but it did, his voice softening slightly. “I always have been.”  

“Exactly. So you might as well make this easy on the both of us and not fight me on it,” you declared, trying to conjure up the most convincing smile you could offer. “Let me help, Peter.”  

A sigh slipped his lips, heavy with reluctant resignation as he realized he wasn’t winning this battle. “We’ve already lost so many people… I’ve lost so many people. And there’s already enough blood on my hands,” he said, lifting his hands to display the torn, blood-stained fabric, driving his point home. “It doesn’t matter what I say—so let them stay here or don’t, I don’t care. But just know that whatever happens to you, it’s not on me. Because I told you to stay out of it, alright?”  

He took a step closer, and you didn’t dare move a single muscle as his lips hovered just inches from your own. “Do whatever you want,” his voice was barely a whisper, laced with a venomous edge that nearly made you tremble, “but don’t expect me to come running to save you when it all goes to shit.”  

His words hung in the air like a curse, lingering in the lobby for far longer than he did. As soon as the promise had left his lips, he was already turning on his heel and shoving the door open, abandoning you in the dim space.  

You knew better than to think he meant it.  

But knowing didn’t make it hurt any less.  

You stuck your hands beneath the running faucet, scrubbing the blood from a jagged cut on your palm. It wasn’t all that deep, shallow enough that it probably wouldn't even leave a scar once healed. When you were done rinsing it, you cupped your hands and gathered the water in them, splashing your reddened cheeks.  

Crying would have been a normal part of grieving for May, and when you forced yourself to look back at your reflection in the bathroom mirror, you couldn’t help but wish that you could’ve been a little more normal.  

But tears hadn’t been the cause of your flushed appearance—no, because you had never been very good at expressing the more delicate emotions, like sadness.  

You were good at expressing anger, though.  

You were very good at expressing anger.  

After Peter had stormed out of the lobby and abandoned you to choke on his cruel promise, it had taken you several minutes to work up the nerve to go back upstairs and face Mj and Ned. By some stroke of luck you had managed to keep a tight leash on your often volatile attitude, telling them your decision to let the other Peter’s stay with you.  

And then you lost control as soon as they left, loosening the reins on your anger and taking the uncomfortable feelings out on a nearby potted plant, shouting curses as you tossed it at the wall.  

By the time you thought to clean it up, after finishing another string of irate profanities, your hands had been shaking so bad that you cut yourself on one of the dirt-covered shards. And maybe, once you felt the jagged ceramic dig into your palm, you should’ve hissed or cursed more or stopped cleaning to patch yourself up.  

But you didn’t. You stayed quiet, continuing to pluck the shattered fragments off the floor until you had gotten them all, dumping them into the trash before grabbing the broom and dustpan and cleaning the dirt and scattered leaves, too.  

There were more important things to deal with than cleaning a dirty wound.  

Like making sure none of your friends could see that you weren’t nearly as composed as you tried to seem.  

The familiar rhythmic rapping of Mj’s knuckles against the front door made you forgo the bandage you were going to fix to your palm, tossing the rag you’d used to dry your face into the sink and heading straight to the living room.  

Carefully shoving your injured hand into your pocket, you opened the door and tried not to look surprised when Peter wasn’t standing in-between Mj and Ned. Of course he hadn’t come with them—why would he? He had already made it clear how he felt about all of this.  

It did become significantly harder to mask your shock however when a tall, messy haired boy stepped into view from behind them, clad in a crimson and cobalt webbed suit.  

“Get inside,” you hissed a bit harsher than intended, stepping aside and waving the three of them into your apartment.  

The last thing you needed was your neighbors seeing an unmasked, alternate version of Spider-Man standing in front of your door. It had already been risky enough that Peter had come here in his suit, standing in the lobby and sticking out like a sore thumb.  

Once they were inside, you shut the door and turned to Ned. “I thought you said there were two of them,” you noted, avoiding looking at the lanky Spider-Man who seemed just as desperate to avoid you, busying himself with walking around the room and studying the art on the walls.  

Ned shrugged. “He didn’t wanna come.”  

“Not that he didn’t want to come,” Mj pointedly corrected him, frowning at his bluntness. “He just wanted to keep patrolling. The Goblin, the one who…” she cut herself off, unable to force the words off her tongue. Scrapping the sentence altogether, she started again, “The Goblin’s from his world, so he seemed to think that he had the best chance of hunting him down. But we gave him the address.”  

You didn’t bother giving her an actual response, a subtle nod the only sign you had heard her at all. She didn’t seem to care much, just as unsure of what to say to you as you were to her.  

“So,” Ned clicked his tongue, trying to cut through the growing tension. “This is Peter 3!” He announced, gesturing to the other Peter, who was picking up a frame that had been face down on an end table. “That’s what we’re calling him, at least. Y’know, to tell them apart. The other one is Peter 2.”  

You gave him a tight-lipped smile. “Creative.”  

Done dawdling over Ned and Mj, you forced yourself to look at the un-masked hero from another world. He was placing the frame back onto the table—not face down, as he had found it, but up-right. You frowned at the photograph it displayed, a picture of you, Ned, Mj, and Peter from sometime last year.  

“You’re awfully nosy,” you told him, your voice like ice.  

His muscles tensed, hesitating as he faced your gaze. “Sorry,”  

His voice was slightly deeper than Peter’s, his hair a shade or two darker, his features a bit less soft, but still noticeably young, putting him in his early twenties at most. Truthfully, if it weren’t for the suit he was wearing, you would’ve never guessed that he was supposed to be the Peter Parker of another world.  

You had expected him to be more… Peter-like, in appearance, and yet as far as you could tell the resemblances were very slight, if they even existed at all.  

The mannerisms were there, though. The subtleties of Peter Parker, the things that most people never noticed and yet were ingrained in your mind. He licked his lips, a nervous tic that left you always carrying chapstick in your pocket. His hands hung at his sides and you saw the way his thumb tapped against each of his fingers, starting with his index and ending with his pinky, only to start over again.  

Watching him, taking note of every familiar twitch and tic and habit, made something in your chest tighten.  

And, when you told him your name, it was as if your icy tone had melted altogether. “It’s nice to meet you.”  

For a moment you thought he wouldn’t respond, his throat bobbing as he swallowed roughly, eyes darting around the room. But then, suddenly, he gave you a weak smile. “You too.” A trace of amusement laced his response, too subtle for you to detect.  

“We’ve gotta go,” Ned suddenly spoke, jutting a thumb towards the door. “Peter’s waiting outside so he can make sure we get home safe, but-” he stopped, brows furrowing as considered whether he should finish. “But text us later, okay? Just to let us know that you’re okay.”  

Your heart stuttered at the mention of Peter’s name, at knowing that he actually had come—even if it hadn’t been for you—but you didn’t mention it.  

Instead, you focused on Ned, giving your sweet friend the kindest smile you could muster—which, admittedly, didn’t feel like much. Despite everything that had happened with your friends in the past few months, your fight had never been with Ned. He was just caught in the middle, unfairly forced to pick sides.  

And you couldn’t bring yourself to be mad at him for picking Peter. Not when you knew that you would’ve done the same.  

“I will,” you promised.  

Ned gave you an equally somber smile before opening the door to leave. Even once Ned was in the hall, already descending the staircase, Mj lingered in the entryway—not for long, a heartbeat, maybe—turning back towards you just long enough to mutter, “Keep your guard up.”  

You didn’t have a chance to say anything back to her before she let the door slam shut, following quickly after Ned and leaving you alone with… this guy.  

The other Peter had abandoned his spot by the end table, seemingly done with investigating your apartment and left to do nothing but stand awkwardly a few feet away from you, clearly unsure of what to do or say now that it was just the two of you.  

“So,” you breathed out, popping your lips. “Peter 3, yeah? Good name. You go by that back home, too?”  

He laughed, a suit-clad hand nervously rising to the back of his neck. “Uh–yeah, no, definitely not. Just plain ole’ Peter Parker over there.”  

The nervous energy radiating from the boy almost seemed contagious as you started to pick at your nails. “Do you have a nickname?”  

He blinked, looking as if he hadn’t heard a word you said. “Sorry, what?”  

“A nickname,” you repeated, only for your brows to then furrow. “You have those where you’re from, don’t you? Nicknames? Like, you know, something you go by other than your actual name?”  

“Oh! Yes—sorry, yes we have nicknames in my world,” he exclaimed, his pale skin starting to flush.  

“I just thought that this whole numerical system thing that Ned’s going with to keep track of who’s who seems a little dehumanizing, yeah?”  

“For sure,” he agreed, sucking on his lip as he nodded along with you.  

You gave him a second, waiting and waiting for an answer to your apparently long-forgotten question, before asking, “So… Do you have one?”  

The slight blush that had tinged his skin instantly darkened, suddenly the same shade of crimson as his suit. His grip on the back of his neck tightened, too, his fingertips prodding into his own skin.  

“Sorry-” he apologized for the millionth time, more nervous laughter spilling out alongside it, “I do! I mean, sort of, I think. I don’t know if it’s really a nickname, but back in my world you really just called me by my last name most of the time anyway, so–I don’t know—maybe that would work?”  

The sheer quantity of word vomit spewing from his mouth was impressive and likely hard-to-follow for most, but you consider yourself a bit of an expert in the anxious ramblings of Peter Parker.  

“In your world?” You echoed, instantly catching the subtle mention. “We know each other?”  

Maybe it shouldn’t have been shocking to learn that there were other versions of you throughout the multiverse as well, and yet it was. You figured that it was plausible, of course, considering that two variations of Peter had just been thrown into your world, but for some reason it just didn’t feel right.  

You reasoned that anyone would feel that way, though.  

“Yeah,” the boy, Parker, answered, a bit clipped. “We do.”  

“Interesting.” Your brows lifted, “Are we friends?”  

Parker scrunched his nose, his head tilting slightly.  

“Yeah,” his voice was an octave higher than before, and if you knew him better, then you likely would’ve called him on the obvious tell. But you didn’t know him, and so you didn’t say anything when he decided to double-down on the lie, “Yeah, we’re friends.”  

“Well I guess that means that this is just as weird for you as it is for me, then.” You laughed, trying to add some humor to the situation.  

Parker gave a tightlipped smile. “Definitely weird.”  

The seconds felt like they stretched into minutes after that, silently racking your brain for something to say, hoping that he might say something—but, eventually, you settled on offering an escape from the situation instead.  

“You’re probably exhausted from the whole multiversal travel thing, so if you want, I can just show you the guest room and give you some privacy or something,” you told him, vaguely gesturing towards the hallway.  

Parker seemed to relax a bit at the prospect of being alone, loosing a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Uhm–yeah, that’d be great, actually.”  

He followed you down the short hall, his hand finally falling from his neck and his skin returning to its normal complexion as his nerves began to wane.  

“This is it,” you told him, the hinges crying out as you shoved the door open. “It’s not much, but it’s somewhere to sleep, at least.”  

Wasn’t much felt like an understatement, though the room was typical for a New York apartment.  

A tad bigger than your average shoebox, there was just enough space to fit a full-sized bed, a small armoire, and a single nightstand adorned with an old desk lamp and a little pink teddy bear—a gift from Peter, years ago.  

Parker walked into the room, looking around and brushing his fingertips against the emerald quilt. It was a bit old and somewhat thin, but it was better than nothing you supposed, and Parker certainly didn’t seem like he was going to complain about it.  

“It’s great,” he assured you, and even though he did sound genuine, you couldn’t help but snort. He looked over at where you still stood in the doorway, giving you a timid smile as he said, “Way better than sleeping on the streets.”  

You returned the gesture, lazily lifting a shoulder. “We’ll see if you still feel that way in the morning. That mattress is about a hundred years old, so it’s probably the equivalent of sleeping on really lumpy cement.”  

Parker hummed his amusement, carefully perching on the edge of the bed, his smile seeming to deepen when he caught sight of the little bear on the nightstand.  

“I guess I’ll let you get some sleep,” you told him, reaching for the door handle, “if you need anything—extra blankets, or something—just let me know; my room’s right across the hall.”  

He muttered his thanks, but as you went to pull the door closed, you heard your name fall from his lips. It was strange sounding, strangled and foreign, like he didn’t quite know how to say it. When you turned back to face him, a subtle wince seemed to etch across his face.  

“Can I… Can I ask you something?” Parker stammered out the question, his voice faltering like a candle flame in the wind.  

You nodded once, fingers still wrapped around the knob, savoring the coolness of the brass against the now-clotted wound on your palm.

He took a breath, his gaze momentarily flickering back to the teddy bear on the nightstand. His thoughts felt heavy on his tongue as he tried to force them out of his mouth, “Are you happy?”  

You blinked at him, unsure of what to make of the hope that seemed to cling to each syllable and half-wondering if you’d heard him right.  

“I-” you tried to start, only to realize that you had no clue what to say.  

There was a fleeting moment where you realized that you could tell him the truth. You could tell him that happiness felt like a distant shore far from your reach, forever obscured by the fiery tempest of a brutal and ancient rage—a rage that, sometimes, didn’t even feel like your own.  

But then he looked at you with those big, expectant eyes; eyes that should have been foreign to you, and yet felt so familiar—and you realized that he wouldn’t like that answer.  

Sucking in a breath, you evaded his question as best you could. “Ask me again when all of this is over,” you told him, your lips curving into a soft, playful arc, “and maybe I’ll tell you the truth.”  

This time when you went to close the door, he didn’t stop you.  

series masterlist

a/n - i wish that i could properly express just how amazing (and terrifying) it has been to rewrite this story. first created at quite possibly the lowest point of my life, infinitely you has provided me with a necessary escape at a time when i desperately needed it. now that i'm in a better position, i found it necessary to give it the plot, writing style, and dedication that it deserved. i'm aware some people might not be interested in a rewrite and that's ok, but for those that are i just wanna say: thank you, thank you, thank you for giving infinitely you (and me) another shot. you're incredible.

if anyone would like to be added to the tag list, just let me know! as of right now, chapters will be posted every other monday, though i may switch that to weekly soon!

part two, titled "crullers & constants", to be released april 1st

[deathbyathousandspiders]

HELL–BOUND. ₅

mcu!peter parker | zombie apocalypse au. CHAPTER FIVE.

IN WHICH a run in with cannibals sets you and peter back much further than anticipated.

!! WARNING !! — there’s talk and mention of cannibalism and heavy gore themes in this chapter. discretion is critically advised.

read chapter one | two | three | four.

✨masterlist✨.

4.8k.

A groggy, unforgiving headache greeted your wake as you blinked away what felt like days of sleep. You couldn’t remember half of what happened, what day it was, where you were–but the array of knives along the walls, the sleek cleanliness of the kitchen you were in, the pile of human bones in the corner of the white room–the memories came flooding back. 

You tried to sit up, quick to realize you were bound to the kitchen island by harsh leather restraints. They were tightly bound to your waist, wrists and ankles, keeping you from thrashing too much against the white kitchen counter. Your head rolled around, taking in your surroundings. When it rolled back, your eyes caught Peter, hanging by his own set of leather restraints off the wall. 

The two of you locked eyes in an instant. 

“I’m so sorry–”

“Zip it, Peter!” You fought against the restraints. “Don’t apologize to me until we find a way out of this!” You couldn’t do much when strapped down, and you knew wasting strength by fighting against a countertop would do you no good. You huffed, “What’s your visual from over there?”

Peter took a second to switch gears from his pity party, and you watched it happen. He’d been awake much longer than you, most likely blaming himself for the situation. For how long, you couldn’t tell. You didn’t have time to. 

Just as he went to tell you his first mapped escape–route, the doors opened and shut with a loud thud. 

The same man and woman from earlier walked into the room and into your vision, stepping down the stairs and pacing towards you. The psychotic look in their eyes was so clear to you, so obvious. You felt idiotic for not noticing it in the clearing, and even more stupid to not see the hunger seeping through the midst of their staring. 

“I wonder.. Which piece of you should we harvest first?” The woman’s voice hummed in a sickly song, one that made your stomach turn. Her fingers ghosted down your leg, like she was trying to think through which pieces of you would spoil quickest. Which piece of you would taste the best. 

You let out a shudder. 

Peter tugged at his restraints. “Don’t touch her!!” He growled, shouted. He couldn’t just stand there and watch this happen. He didn’t even want to think of what would happen. 

The man pulled out a butcher’s knife and pointed it at Peter. It was the same blade that sliced your thigh before you’d blacked out, standing less than a foot away from his face “SHUT THE FUCK UP!!” It was a roar almost as intimidating as Bucky’s. Peter knew if he spoke another word, he’d not only risk his life, but put yours more at risk, too. 

The woman laughed, somehow finding humor in this. “Oh, how I do love dinner and a show.” She never took her eyes off you, off your thickly cladded body. How you were still dressed was a blessing and a surprise. You were not complaining. 

You were not remembering to breathe, either. 

“Darling?” The woman continued, glancing briefly at her husband, “What’re you craving tonight?” The cruel, sickening smirk growing on her lips was enough to make you whimper. Your arms tugged against the restraints. 

The man caught your right arm roughly, causing you to flinch, stiffen. You stared at him with anticipation, a pleading look in your eyes. You were begging him to stop, to spare you, but no words left your lips. You couldn’t bring yourself to speak, and you froze at the way he mirrored the woman’s twisted smirking expression. 

“I could really go for some charred bicep.” The words dripped from his tongue like venom, acid and magma that would have burned your flesh off. And perhaps, that might’ve been better. 

Better than seeing the way he raised that blade so high above his head. Better than hearing Peter’s final beseech to stop, his cry out for you. It would’ve been better than watching the blade chop full speed for your right arm. 

And it felt like the blade went clean through–It had to. It was hot and cold and heat and frost and fire and ice. Hot and cold and cold and hot and aches and burns and you couldn’t stop screaming. The pain was unbearable, stinging and cooling all at once, to the point where you couldn’t comprehend it; the pain overwhelmed you to a place of nonexistence. Pain to a degree of no comprehension, despite the fact that you could feel every waking second of it. You couldn’t breathe. 

Your limbs shook and stilled and flashed with chills and sweats and tears and sobs and bile and cold. You were cold, overheating, everything all at once. You were hurting, uncontrollably screaming. Each pained cry echoed through the room, ricocheting off the walls and immediately etching into Peter’s nightmares. Into yours, too. Into a place so dark in the depths of you, it would birthmark itself somewhere permanent. 

Screaming, bellowing, but were you even making a sound? Was the air around you truly as cold as it was hitting you? The room was spinning. The room was wet. It was hot and cold and burns and aches and far beyond anything you could ever describe, unlike anything you’d ever be able to comprehend. Anything you’d ever experienced, and something you never ever wanted to experience again. 

But he pulled the blade clean out, perhaps an inch above your elbow. And you gasped. You gasped like you’d drowned, like the air would taste cleaner. But it was warm hitting your throat, it was like you were drowning. There was no air in the room, it was water, thickly and warm and dissatisfying. It was death. You had to be dying. 

You didn’t have the mental strength to realize that the man was yelling about how dull the blade was; how the woman hadn’t sharpened the knife. You didn’t realize that your arm wasn’t even disconnected from your body, because to you, it felt like it was. 

The groggy, dizzy, unwakeable daze that lined the corners of the room began catching up to you, and you began to lose taste and touch of what was happening. You felt like you were being engulfed into a terrible dream, an out of body experience. And you couldn’t tell whether the world beyond your consciousness would be better than the phenomena you were experiencing right now. 

But Peter watched the whole thing happen. He watched your blood stain the blemished counters, the crimson he didn’t dare associate with you. He couldn’t even get it through his head that this was happening. Peter didn’t give himself time to gag at the sight, to process that you were about to get cooked and eaten. He was outraged that he’d been stupid enough to let this happen. 

Your cries and screams and thrashes and agony carved into Peter’s memory. He’d never forget this, it would haunt him. Forever. He’d never forgive himself for losing this badly. And the worst of it was that Peter wanted it to be over, so that he could get his turn. He wanted his punishment, to endure the same. He felt that he deserved it. 

He was trembling against the restraints, forgetting his own tears in the chaos of your pain. Peter wished he could take it; he wished more than anything, so desperately, that this was his ailment to live with. That he’d be the one with a disembodied arm. 

Peter fought back his sobs as the two kitchen–aids bickered about the knife. And just as they went back to what they were doing. Just as Peter tried to give himself more will to fight, more reason to bloody his wrists in attempt to escape, the lights flickered. The lights flickered and the two bone–heads looked at each other before the lights cut out. Blacked out, and when they came back up, they lit the grave room with hope. Hope in the form of Natasha Romanoff. 

Bloodied and bruised from what one could guess was remnants of a fight with everyone she’d faced to get here, Natasha took her two pistols and shot both of the cannibals clean through the head and painted the walls. The thuds of their bodies cued Natasha to process what the fuck was happening. Her shoulders slumped, she caught her breath, and immediately rushed to your aid. 

Your deafening cries had died down, weakening. It was scarier than when you’d nearly blasted out their eardrums. They were losing you, fast. Nastasha unbuckled the restraints around your right arm first, ripping the hem of her shirt off before wrapping it firmly around the slice on your lower bicep. The way you whimpered and flinched and your half–lidded eyes widened for a second made even Peter feel queasy, but it had to be done. 

Nastasha uttered a quiet apology as she finished freeing you, quick to take out a syringe from her pocket to push into your already–bruised collarbone. 

“What’re you doing?” Peter rasped out, hating to be skeptical of Natasha’s motives. A flash of worry that HYDRA had gotten to her, that she had worse plans for you rushed through him; the shortest glance at the tears and the panic as he watched the way she rushed over to him made him shake it off. Her fingers fumbled to undo his restraints, trembling, obviously as unnerved and terrified for you as he was. 

Natasha’s face was some form of grim, bare. Some shortcoming attempt at her usual stone–cold demeanor. She was a master at masking her emotions, but Peter could see the break in the dam she’d been holding up. “I gave her a sedative.” She freed his wrists, her voice wavering almost unnoticeably. “It’ll slow her heart rate, keep her from feeling the brunt of this.. It’ll hopefully help her chance at survival.” Peter glanced a few times between you and Natasha, swallowing the last of his tears before putting his head on straight. 

“We need to act fast.” Nastasha cut straight to the chase. “We can’t lose her.” Her words were short with urgency. Her breath was quick as they walked over to the counter, and Peter swore she had a glistening of tears brimming her eyes, but she’d never admit that. And Peter would never ask. 

He simply nodded and agreed. He was willing and ready to help however he could. And he started by picking you up off the island counter and hauling you out of the basement. 

Fresh corpses of the other cannibals Natasha had run into lined the halls, but the path was clear as she led Peter out of the fucked up vacinity. Both your backpack and Peter’s had been placed by the exit, and Nat carried both of them without question. Peter kept his grip on you firm, unshaken. He wasn’t going to let anything happen to you, or ever let you out of his sight again. 

No words were spoken between Natasha or Peter as they emerged from the building in the thick of night. She kept a white–knuckled hold on her pistols, nodding when the coast was clear for Peter and her to rush into the shadows. 

Peter knew she was headed straight for the airport. Once they were on that plane, headed for safety, they could talk about everything that had happened. Why Natasha was missing for a week. Where she was, how she found them. 

The jog to the airport was short, perhaps thirty minutes. With Peter’s heartbeat blaring above his neck, in his throat and all around, he hadn’t been keeping track of time. Whatsoever. His thoughts raced, he couldn’t keep a steady breath, but nothing would distract him from getting you to safety. 

That menacing, monstrous roar shook between the trees close by, but Peter and Natasha couldn’t look back to Bucky as you all approached the terminal. 

Both of them could feel the shaking of the ground beneath his trailing steps, feel the weight of his mutated presence as he loomed closely behind them. Peter kept running toward the airport garage, but Natasha slowed down. 

She yelled something in Russian, making Bucky stop in his tracks entirely. And despite the heartbreak in her eyes as she looked at him, the voice in her head that fought against her, Natasha kept yelling the words; Bucky Barnes’ trigger words. 

He fell to his knees at the phrases, palms pressing to his ears as he screamed and thrashed at no one in particular. The words drove him wild, and gave Nat the window she needed to throw the same shock–net Peter used just hours earlier, and shock him in place. 

Quick on her feet, Natasha sprinted across the terminal, cutting the distance between her and Peter before they both made it to the garage. 

She opened the large metal doors, catching as much breath as she could with the time before running to unlock the aircraft. 

Once the door opened, Peter ran inside, immediately looking for someplace to lay you  down. You remained unconscious in his grip, blood oozing from the fabric banded to your lower arm. It was a gnarly sight for Peter, and he had to fight his nausea for your sake. 

Nat rushed in after him, shut the door and set down the bags, locking them inside before heading to the cockpit. It didn’t take her long before the plane was on and she wheeled the vehicle out into the open. 

“Are you two secure?” Natasha kept that same urgency with her words, hypocritical as she kept her seatbelt off. She prepared the plane for take–off. 

Peter found a stretcher attached to the plane wall, safely strapping you onto it before he buckled a seatbelt of his own. “Secure enough!” He hollered back. 

And before Natasha even gave a response, the plane was out into high gear and they dashed down the runway. The jet was in the air within a matter of minutes, and if you weren’t bleeding out beside him, Peter would’ve found some sense of peace. Every ounce of him was focused on you. 

Before they knew it, the plane was smooth sailing in the sky, through the dusking horizon and a slight gust of overcast. 

Natasha called Peter to the cockpit soon after, nothing wavering from the sense of importance and seriousness she’d been speaking in. But when Peter came to her aid, he could spot the glistening of tears painting her cheeks. 

“I need you to drive.” Nat’s voice showed no sign of crying, nor vulnerability. “Just while I give her stitches.”

Taking a sharp inhale, Peter tried to act like he wasn’t completely panicked by the words. Either set of them. “I, uh– I’ll do what I can.” And before Natasha could even stand up, Peter kept speaking. “How do I do that.. Exactly?”

A smile consumed Natasha’s lips before she could protest, realizing just how much she’d missed Peter. They didn’t have time to catch up yet, though. Not til you were in better stability. She took a deep breath, eying the control panel. She gave a very brief explanation and tutorial on what Peter needed to monitor while she stepped out; although, the jet was on autopilot for the most part. 

Before he knew it, Peter was alone with his thoughts. His bouncing knee, his shaky fingers on the steering unit, and his undeniable urge to turn his head back and check on you every second. He did try to look back a few times, but he was either met with a lightheaded rush of sickness or a thickened throat and tears in his eyes. 

Natasha gave him a task, and he tried to focus on that. If there was anywhere in the world where you could be nursed back to health, it would be Wakanda. So he tried to keep his thoughts set there, and what Wakanda would be like. Peter just couldn’t believe he’d led you to such an injury. 

It took thirty minutes before Peter saw the break between land and the North Atlantic. It was his second time leaving the country, his first time since Germany. Spacing out at the open ocean, the dark space surrounding the dashboard, he reminisced on the reason why he’d been in Europe: the epic fight between Cap and Tony. It led him to miss them, all of them. It only reminded him of how much they’d lost. 

Peter watched the way the skyline divided. The two sets of dark that separated stars and sea, the clouds that freckled the sky, and the waves that waded miles below them. He had to remember to breathe, because they had hours ahead of them before they’d arrive at Wakanda. At least the sight of the rippling waters reminded him of something like stillness. 

Forty minutes in the sky, and Natasha walked back into the cockpit, slumping on the seat next to Peter. Her bloodied hands cradled her head, and she took in the deepest breaths he’d ever seen her take. 

And now, in the dark, in the quiet, Peter finally took a chance to take in Natasha. She was still wearing the same clothes she’d left in a week ago, tattered and scorched, but mainly muddied; now, with a thick layer of blood splotches from this evening alone. 

For the first time in his life, Peter saw Natasha in vulnerability, in fear. It was sobering, and made him motivated to help however he could. If one of them had to be strong, Peter didn’t mind taking that responsibility for a bit. It just wasn’t a scale he thought measured when it came to Natasha Romanoff. 

Her fingers raked through her short red hair, now giving Peter a view of the sorrow in her eyes. “I should’ve never left you kids alone..”

The words filled Peter with cold, heavy, dread. “Is she dead–?”

“No!” Her eyes fell wide, panicked at the thought. “No. I just..” Natasha’s lips pressed to a thin line. “I went to look for Barnes, after I freed Y/N.” She blinked away the tears as quickly as they welled. “And had I just.. Walked her to the house, I could’ve…” Her words got lost on the way out. 

Peter didn’t wait for her to find them. “You can’t think like that.” Part of him spoke to himself as he reassured her. “It’s awful, what happened.. But we can’t blame ourselves for it.” He took a second to let his own words process. “At least, not until she blames us first.”

That got Nat to laugh at least. “I’ve missed you, kid.” The laughter was short to last, both of them catching a glance back at where you soundly resided. Silence fell heavy in the space between the two of them before she sighed, releasing some of the guilt she’d let reign over her shoulders. “I’m sorry I was gone so long.”

“We’re together now. Let’s focus on that.” Peter cracked a small smile, forcing some of that strength he assumed Natasha needed. “I brought that change of clothes you wanted, by the way.” He found the strength to change the subject, digging through his backpack before handing Nat the clothes she’d instructed. 

With a mix of denial and complete appreciation, Natasha took the clothes with that same small smile. She thanked him. “You really thought I’d look like shit, huh?” She mused a joke, running a ghost of a finger over the fabric of the top like it was too good to be true.  

A more sullen expression transfigured into Peter’s curled lips. “No, I just figured you’d get put through the wringer.” The sentence was slow, more agonized towards the end. But it was honest. 

And it still earned a little reassuring squeeze of the shoulder as Natasha ushered herself to the back to change. 

The next two hours became Peter and Natasha catching up, eying the console but never needing to change any settings. They took the chance to check on your vitals every so often, hydrate, and freshen up. 

It was an overwhelming amount to process. The fact that they’d gotten out of the American ruins, were on their way to the last functioning societal places left on the planet, and had the source to cure the world was a lot. And Peter still had one burning question in mind. 

“So,” He picked at the food in his opened can, spinning the metal container to fidget. “Will she really need to die for them to make the cure?”

Natasha nearly spit her food out from the laugh suddenly caught in her throat. She disguised it with a faint hum. “She told you that she’d have to, didn’t she?” All she needed to see was Peter’s nod to actually let out a chuckle. “Of course she did.”

Something in Peter’s eyes sparked a bit. “Does that mean she won’t have to?”

Her head shook, “She shouldn’t have to. I never finished my notes in that folder, so she probably assumed the worst.” And that assumption was right. “She might be strapped to a bed for a few days while they do some bloodwork, but she certainly won’t have to die.”

Peter’s entire body seemed to melt back into the pilot’s seat, relief overtaking him before he could even release a solid breath. “Thank God.” He’d been holding those words, that breath, since the second the two of you reconnected. Part of him was always scared that he’d lose you once he’d found you again; now, being on that plane, headed to Wakanda, knowing you weren’t getting sent to your sacrificial death, he started to see the world in color again. 

And you did too. 

A thick gasp ripped you from your forced slumber, immediately choked back on winces as your body came to. You took in a few more rapid breaths, trying to latch onto anything familiar about your surroundings, trying to calm yourself from the adrenaline of a nightmare. The pain in your arm throbbed and your upper thigh burned, reminding you of the last time you’d been conscious. Reminding you instantly of what took you captive. “Peter!” It came out like a groan, rasped and lodged back behind your grimace of pain, but it was loud enough. 

You didn’t have to think twice before a haste tread of footsteps could be heard. In the dark of the room, wherever you were, his silhouette could be made out beside you. Warm fingers gripped your right hand, the familiar callouses of Peter’s hold brought you some mental footing. Comfort. 

He kneeled beside the stretcher you laid upon before kissing your knuckles, his lips tracing each. A bit of light caught his features, reflecting off the hot tears lining his eyes. “We got out, you’re safe.” He whispered the words so weakly, they were breaking at the seams beneath the weight of his guilt. You could barely hear them over the high–pitched whirring surrounding the room you were in. 

Tears welled in your own eyes–from the waking of your nightmare, from the overwhelming pain lining your left arm, from the silent realization that you were in a plane right now. You were safe–it was almost too much. Peter wiped the first tear that fell from your eyes, using the same free hand to move strands of your hair from your face. His grip on your right hand adjusted, only growing more secure. 

“We made it out.” He repeated, taking a shaky breath with his pause. “Can you let me say sorry now?” The cries he tried to swallow back put gaps in his hushed question, and you couldn’t bring your trembling lip to give a response. You were overcome with relief, and tried to process the trauma and realization that the two of you made it out of a situation you didn’t think possible to. 

You could only squeeze his hand in reply, and it seemed like more than enough for him. Peter pressed the back of it to his lips again before leaning closer and kissing your cheek. Unlacing your fingers, you held his face gently, wiping his stray tears with your thumb. Peter took in the moment, savoring your touch on his cheek, leaning into it. He soon dipped down, pressing a fragile kiss to your lips. It only lasted a long second or two, but he kept his forehead rested against yours for what felt like much longer. 

“It’s good to know some things didn’t change.” Nat’s voice stood out against the quiet, making you startle from the intimate moment with Peter. She stepped into view, confirming that she was, in fact, alive. Natasha made it out, too. And you assumed she’d been your saving grace against the cannibals. 

A fresh set of tears coated your eyes, much happier than the first. Even in the dark of the aircraft, you could tell she got watery the same moment you did. 

Peter kept hold of your hand, though he moved back a bit to share you with Natasha. She littled the distance between you, pressing a short kiss to your head with apology. With compassion and condolences. “Rest up, kiddo.” She sighed, “Both of you should sleep.” Natasha stood upright, looking you both in the eye. “We’ve got hours to go.”

And you didn’t argue with her. 

The stretcher was spacious enough for Peter to rest on it beside you, getting his first wink of proper sleep in possibly weeks. You slept plenty, but after an hour or so of rest, you got restless. And hungry. 

With Peter sound asleep, you took your time easing out of his hold around you and stretched your leg. The gash on your thigh was worse than you’d realized, but Nat stitched you up quite well. 

Now it was your turn to eat and catch up with Natasha. The two of you sat in the cockpit, talking through everything that had happened on both ends throughout the past week, and Nat even went on to tell you all about what the world was like during your captivity. You’d also sought advice in her about how to go about your relationship with Peter. 

She reassured you that there was nothing selfish about it. 

After a few hours, Peter woke up as well, joining the two of you in the head of the aircraft. It was a monumental moment when he did, because the three of you got to watch the plane fly over land. You made it. You were flying over the African continent. 

And static sparked over the radio system. 

Natasha sat upright, grabbing the walkie microphone and pressing a button on the dashboard. “This is Summersault, does anyone copy?” She used a nickname that you could only piece together based on assumption. The three of you held your breath as the static continued, only cutting out when Nat would press the button on her mic again. “This is Summersault. Does anybody copy? Over.”

Something thick hung in the air as you all simultaneously leaned forwards in your seats. You didn’t know who you were waiting for, but an unanswered call would not be ideal. Having static be the only answer to Natasha could mean a number of things. It did, however, fuel the worry that there wasn’t anything left. That maybe, the Wakanda you thought you were headed for, was nothing but empty buildings and bones and ash. 

You were still miles out from any possible remnants of operating civilization, so the feedback couldn’t be a fluke. Right?

What felt like a minute passed. Perhaps an hour, but you knew it wasn’t, really. Silence made the wait feel dragged. None of you could take your eyes off the console, hoping maybe that your prayers would be answered. 

A crinkle in the static, and the three of you held your breaths, flinching at the change of noise. “I think the codename I gave you was Peppermint Patty.” You never would’ve expected the recipient to have been someone so familiar, but it was Tony Stark who answered your call. He answered your prayer.

[sincericida]

Rereading for the reason of being toooooo good!

Symbiote: Part One

dark!Peter Parker x Reader (fem) , platonic!Miles Morales x Reader

Summary: You host your best friends, Miles and Peter over to your home for your weekly Wednesday night board games and dinner. Peter’s late, and something is very wrong.

Warnings: 18+ noncon touch, scary Peter, curse words, mentions of fighting and blood. What do you call it when you get willingly kidnapped?

Symbiote Navigation Symbiote Playlist Crossposted on AO3

Part Two Finale

Your kitchen smelled incredible every Wednesday night like clockwork. For the past few years Wednesdays were for decompressing, eating killer food and playing board games until you pass out on the couch. Your best friends, Peter and Miles were due to arrive twenty minutes ago - sending you into a quiet panic.

When your two best friends are crime fighting heroes you tend to worry. So you pace, stopping occasionally to make sure the food is cooking well. “They’ll be here,” you whisper to yourself. Your favorite music played from your tv’s sound-bar, keeping you level headed and from dipping into protective best friend territory. You know, the kind when you text your friends and call them about fifteen times each and leave them numerous voicemails along with far too many texts.

The oven dings just as someone knocks on the door. You let out a long sigh, finally able to breathe after worrying so much. “Just one sec!” You yell as you took the food out of the oven, hearing another knock on your door. “Coming, I promise!”

Sitting the pan down on the towel covering the counter top you turn on your sock covered heels as you wiped your hands on your pants. You walk to the door and open it, smiling widely, “Well, there you are!” “Aye! There’s my girl!” Your best friend Miles smiled warmly as his arms pulled you into a warm embrace. You grunt as he squeezed you tighter, “Too strong, Miles!”

Miles released you, chuckling as you motioned him inside, “come on in! How are you, dear? I was worried sick about you.” Before you shut the door, you look around for Peter outside. “Miles, have you seen Pete? Or heard from him?” You ask, walking back over to the stovetop and mixing up a side dish. “He hasn’t texted all day, I’m a little concerned. It’s just not like him.”

Miles shook his head as he braced his hands on the counter in front of him. “I haven’t seen him or heard from him either, Y/N. He didn’t tell me of any intense Spidey stuff going on lately. The last time he texted me was last night close to his patrol ending,” he explains, pulling out his cellphone to read the message. “He said ‘weird activity around the park - I’ll text if I need you’ and never texted back. I fell asleep and then just forgot to check back with him.”

The room was tense as both of you radiated concern, you pull out your phone beginning to call Peter. It rang once and ended. You shake your head, trying again. No answer. Miles calls him and the same happens to him, one ring and ending. “Is he ending the calls himself?” Miles asks, furrowing his brows as he tried once more to call Peter.

But then three slow knocks rang from the door. Miles lowers his phone as you both stare at each other before looking at the door. You rush over and open it, seeing Peter standing there. Miles let’s out a content sigh seeing his friend, “Thank gods.”

“Oh my gosh, Pete! We were so worried!” You say, throwing your arms around him in a warm embrace. “Gosh, you’re freezing - come inside!” You say, pushing Peter into the house and onto your couch.

“We have been worried sick about you,” you say, moving Peter’s fluffy hair from his face. His eyes seem to glance over to you, you could feel it. “What happened?”

“You kinda fell off of the radar after you texted me last night,” Miles says, flashing his eyes at you - his brows furrowed seeing Peter sitting so upright and quite, staring at the wall. “Peter?”

Silence.

You and Miles throw blankets over Peter as he sits on your couch, still seeming to be staring past you both - completely unmoved. Again, you and Miles look towards each other, having a complete conversation in glances. Miles smacks his lips together before sitting down, rubbing his hands on his jeans as he sits forward towards Peter.

“Pete, you good, man?” Miles asks as Peter seems to snap out of whatever was going on with him - turning towards him as he smirked. He looked tired. “Yeah, M. I’m - I’m good.” He shook his head, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Are you sure? We were really worried about you, like pretty bad worried,” Miles explains, adjusting in the chair he was sitting in across from Peter.

“I said I’m fine,” Peter snapped - his voice raspy. You and Miles look at each other with wide eyes before you look back to Peter. “Sorry, didn’t mean to pry,” Miles says reluctantly, looking down at the ground trying to divert his gaze from Peter.

Peter was like a big brother to Miles - this is not how Peter acts normally. He’s kind and funny - constantly attentive and making sure the two of you are okay. You guys were the three amigos and had been for years now - really like a tiny found-family. You and Peter met Miles at FEAST three years ago, becoming fast friends. After finding out about Miles’ powers Peter took him in under his wing, teaching him his tricks and moves and how to better harness his abilities. Ever since then the three of you have been inseparable - hanging out every Wednesday without fail and seeing each other whenever possible. You were the mom of the group, Miles was the kid brother despite being in his early twenties and Peter was the glue, the comedic timing - always saying the right thing just when you need it.

But this? This - whatever was going on was a stark contrast from the normal camaraderie the three of you shared. The room was thick and tense. Peter’s blank stare sent shivers up your spine as you glance over to Miles, seeing the sadness and confusion in his eyes - looking defeated by his best friend and mentor’s actions.

“Well, uh - dinner is ready.. let’s go eat,” you motion the two over to the table, hoping to ease the awkwardness. “I’m sure you guys will love it. I worked extra hard. Eat up!” You sit at the head of the table between Miles and Peter, watching as Miles seems to basically inhale the entire plate before you could finish your first few bites.

Peter hadn’t touched his food though. He sat, staring off into the kitchen past Miles. His sweet eyes were dark, seedy - something was definitely off. The way he had been acting for really the last 24 hours was completely out of character for Peter. You gently place your hand on his, “Pete? Do you want me to put your plate in the oven until you’re hungry?”

He didn’t speak, he didn’t move - he just stared past Miles, into the kitchen.

You and Miles glance at each other once more, both of you growing more concerned for your friend with every passing moment. Miles looked at Peter’s plate, then to you - giving you a small nod of approval to take the plate.

“Well, I’m just going to go ahead and put this up for you, Pete - and Miles can start dealing Uno cards, okay? Unless you want me to kick your ass in Scrabble.” You go to grab Peter’s plate, but his large left hand wraps around your wrist, causing you to drop the plate back onto the table loudly.

Miles looks up staring at the scene in front of him. He sees the terror in your eyes as Peter gripped your wrist.

You look at your best friend, still unmoved - not even looking at you. Your heart raced, confused by his actions. His grip tightened, gaining a wince from you as you try to pull away from him. He doesn’t budge. His arm doesn’t even move though you were using all of your strength to pull away.

“What the hell?” Miles speaks with his mouth full of food, looking as Peter’s knuckles grow white from holding your wrist so tightly. “Why are you holding her wrist like that?”

Peter smiles villainously, beginning to dig his nails into your flesh. “Aye, man - stop!” Miles yells, tossing his fork onto the table. “Why are you grabbing her like that?! It’s disrespectful. This isn’t you, Pete.”

Peter doesn’t budge, instead he slowly turns his head towards you - his dark eyes peering at you through his long lashes. Your heart drops seeing Peter this way. “Pete, you’re starting to really freak me out,” you whisper trying to pull your wrist from his firm grip again, but his fingernails begin to dig so hard it draws blood.

Miles stands, “Peter, I said sto-.”

Before Miles could finish his sentence a large black slime like material ripped out of Peter’s chest - slamming Miles into the refrigerator a few yards from where you stood. Vanishing just as quickly as it appeared.

“Oh my god,” you finally rip away from Peter, falling onto the floor as he stood up from the chair he had been sitting in. Peter looked down at you, smirking villainously as he started to speak, his tone sarcastic, “So sorry, I’m just not myself right now.”

“What happened to you, Peter? What’s going on with you?” You ask as tears began to form in your eyes - trying to blink them away and keep your vision on him. Everything was happening so fast it was hard to wrap your brain around what was going on. Your eyes quickly dart over to Miles, seeing him knocked out from whatever that was that just came out of Peter’s chest. Your refrigerator was completely demolished. “I think you really hurt him, Peter.” Your voice breaks.

“Oh, would you stop saying that fucking name,” Peter growls, rolling his eyes as he bends down towards you. “Peter isn’t really in charge right now.” He inhales sharply, eyes rolling in the back of his head as your aroma envelopes his senses, he moans, “I see why he’s friends with you. I can feel why he’s friends with you.”

“Wh - What?” You ask, furrowing your eyebrows as you start to scoot away from him. He just smirks, watching you scoot towards where Miles laid - almost as if he were enjoying it, watching you struggle. Miles had begun to slip back into consciousness as you slowly shook him awake. “Are you okay, Miles? Please be okay - please, please.”

“I’m okay,” Miles groans, bracing himself on you in front of the demolished refrigerator. “Y/N, are you okay?” His palm gripped his chest as he took a deep inhale, so could tell he was really hurt. If it wasn’t for his powers Miles would probably be dead.

“You’ll heal, Miles,” you breathe, rubbing your thumb on his cheek, sitting in front of him. “It’s gonna be okay.” He nods, wincing as he sat up fully. You felt helpless - a feeling you hated.

Peter gasps loudly, breathing heavily as the two of you turn towards him. You back yourself against the demolished fridge beside Miles.

“What’s wrong?” Peter said, his voice laced with concern and he breathed heavily, seeing that he was in your apartment. “What’s happened? I - I don’t remember anything. When did I get here? What’s going on?” You both stare at him, confused beyond belief at his change in personality. Peter’s doe eyes were filled with tears as he looked at the damage around him. “Something happened last night and I don’t know how to explain it. I haven’t been myself very much since. I - I - Something is happening to me. Please - It’s inside of me. Something is -.”

Peter screams loudly, grabbing his chest as the black slime seemed to ripple out of him before snapping quickly back inside. He stands straight, his dark eyes hone in on you as you wrap your arm around Miles’ bicep - clinging to him as he straightened up more, slowly healing from his injuries.

“What the fuck..” you whisper to yourself as you watch tears fall down Peter’s cheeks, villainously smiling again as he stalked towards you. You grip Miles’ arm tighter as he scooted you into him, trying to protect you even though he was in so much pain from being thrown.

Peter tsks as he approaches the two of you on the ground. “Oh, I understand now. He thinks of you as a brother,” he points to Miles and then you. “And you?” Peter licks his lips slowly as he knelt down towards you, black goo caressing your face and unknown to you, beginning to wrap around your ankles. He looks at you as if you were a piece of cake - gawking at you.

He winced loudly, grimacing before snapping back - his sweet eyes look at you and Miles through tears. Peter’s shaky hand raised to point at the door. His breath was labored as he whispered, “Run.”

Miles gets up with ease - yelling at you to, “Get the hell up!” as he runs. But you couldn’t move. You look down, seeing a black fleshy substance wrapped around your ankles and now your wrists as you sat on the ground. “I can’t,” you cried out.

He tried to help you, turning to run back towards you - but whatever was inside of Peter pushed Miles out of your apartment, shutting the door and locking it before slinking back inside of Peter. Still in front of you, trapping you - Peter smiles, he scans your body before snapping up to your gaze. “I can still feel his thoughts and his memories for now. I feel how he feels when he looks at you. And my god, does he feel for you.”

Slowly, the thing inside of Peter pulls your wrist towards him - putting it on his chest as more of the black substance wrapped around your hand, running up the length of your arm. “He can feel everything that I do. Part of me is part of his reaction. I think he wants you just as badly as I do.”

Your eyes were wide as you shook your head, “No - Peter and I - we.. we’re friends - best friends.” He shook his head, smiling widely at you as the black substance wraps further up you, around your throat and into your hair, the sensation sent chills up your spine. “He doesn’t like me like that. Just - just let me go.”

You knew how you felt about Peter Parker - your best friend since sophomore year of college. He was the guy you’ve had a secret crush on for years, but respected him and your friendship too much to say anything.

Miles banged on the door - yelling, “I’ve called the cops! They will be here in fifteen minutes! I’m going to try to break in, Y/N!”

“Fifteen minutes is more than enough time,” Peter growls, lifting you off the ground, still wrapped in the thick black bands of goo. “What are you doing? Let me down!”

Carrying you he enters your bedroom, shutting the door behind him. His grip is firm as he lowers you onto the bed. “Peter, please!”

As he steps away from you, Peter snaps back to normal, beginning to sob at he looked at you on the bed “I can’t stop whatever this is. Please - help me. I’m so scared. It took over my suit - I - I’m - ,” Peter lets out a blood-curdling scream as the foreign thing in his body rippled under his skin. He gasps before standing straight up, the darkness of his eyes pierced yours.

“You’re stronger than this, Pete,” you whisper, slinking off of the bed and stepping towards your window. “Please, you aren’t being yourself. You’re scaring me.”

He is quite as his head slowly cocks to the side. “What do you think it will feel like once I fuck you?” Peter’s raspy voice whispered, licking his lips again as the black mass started to show from his body in a tentacle like fashion. You’re terrified, back hitting the wall as you realize it’s you versus a literal superhero - the odds were not in your favor.

A black tentacle zooms across the room, constricting around your neck and bringing you towards Peter as other black lines wrap around your waist.

Now face to face, Peter’s hands wrap into your hair - pulling you close. He smiles, almost looking like himself as you locked eyes with him. “Peter, please - don’t -.”

Two black masses rip apart the sweatshirt you wore, revealing a tight fitting camisole underneath. Peter growled at the sight of your chest pressed up against him. You could feel the erection in his pants growing larger as you gulp, wondering if after all this time that this was how you and Peter would get together. Please, no. Not this way.

Peter’s hand trailed down your chest, going to pull down your pants while the black substance coming from his body held you up - slowly wrapping around your extremities. “You look good like this,” he growled. “I bet you feel as good as you look.”

His hand trails over the elastic holding your pants up, tracing lines to tease you as his finger hooked underneath, beginning to slide them off. A crash comes from your window, both of you turn towards it to see Miles - clad in his Spiderman suit. You could see the rage in his eyes. He screams loudly seeing whatever was inside of Peter had started to do with you, “Fucking let her go, now!” Miles hisses. He was just as protective of you as you are of him.

Miles rushes Peter, shooting webs at him trying to knock him away from you without injuring either of you. “I don’t know who or what you are, but you need to get the hell out of my friend and off of my other before I whoop your ass,” he growls.

“Promise?” Peter sneers as Miles lands a kick to Peter’s smiling face - he was enjoying it. “Do it again.”

Shooting another web that wraps around your wrist, Miles struggles to pull you from Peter’s grip. Whatever it was had wrapped around you, completely restricting you and holding you to Peter.

“Let her go, now!” Miles yells, landing a firm punch to Peter’s jaw, causing him to finally release you as he pounced on Miles. You fall to the ground, scattering to a corner of your room, trying to get a better grip on the situation. Peter was attacking Miles violently, throwing punches and holding him down as he pummeled him.

“Stop!” You scream through sobs, feeling more helpless than before. You had to do something.

Miles and Peter’s strengths were normally the same, but Peter was much stronger with this thing inside of him. He was even more calculated, his spider senses were even more intense than before - and that was a major problem.

Blood had started to splatter on your bedroom’s wall, painting them red with Miles’ blood. You realized what you had to do.

You stood, clearing your throat. “Hey, Pete!” Peter’s head snapped towards you. Miles looked over at you, his face bloodied. He started to shake his head seeing the determined look in your eyes, he knew that look - the look you get when you need to get shit done. His thoughts raced thinking of what in the world you were about to do.

“Take me,” you whisper as tears start to roll down your cheeks, though your face remained stoic. Miles whispers “No, Y/N.” As he tried to stop you, realizing what you had decided to do. “Not this, Y/N. Don’t do this - we can figure this out. The cops will be here any minute now,” he whispers from across the room as a black tentacle held him on the ground by the throat. “Y/N, please. You don’t have any special powers - and Peter is not himself. He will kill you.”

“I told your parents that I will protect you always, Miles. I can’t let them down. I can’t - I can’t. It’s my job to protect you. I’ve got to protect you,” you whisper, shaking your head as you start to sob. “Remember? I’m your big sister now and forever - I love you, Miles. It’s going to be okay.”

Miles cries out as he lays on the carpet of your bedroom, Peter’s grip still tight on his throat. “Y/N, please. Don’t be a hero. Please. We can figure this out. We can-.”

“No, Miles. I have to do this. I hope you can understand,” you look back to Peter. “Don’t hurt him anymore. Just take me, please. Leave him alone.”

Peter started to stand, approaching you slowly as a black version of his Spider-suit started to wrap around his body. “Please, Y/N - I’m not a kid anymore. I can help,” Miles watches Peter begin to stalk you again, the black mass still choking Miles as it held him to the carpet.

You gulp, gripping your hands together in fists trying to stop shaking from fear. “I’m the one you want, right? So, take me,” you whispered staring Peter straight in the eyes and gritting your teeth. “Gladly,” Peter hissed as Miles cries out for you, trying to pull himself up from the ground - fighting as hard as he could to get to you, “Peter - please don’t do this! It’s Y/N!”

Before he could reach you Peter had pounced on you, wrapping the darkness around you and throwing the two of you out of the window. Miles lets out an exhausted scream realizing he wasn’t quick enough to catch up with Peter. As he looks through the streets he sees Peter disappear with you into the night, swinging through the city as blue lights start to bounce off of the brick apartments around yours.

Miles turns and looks at the chaos around him, wishing that all of this was just a bad dream. Whatever was inside of Peter had you, and Miles knew it was up to him now to save both of you.

Hopefully it wouldn’t be too late.

-

Tag List: @rose-writes-shit @xuxialling @itwasallinmyhead1 @mypalbuck @angelcritterz @levylovegood @gwenebear @saltedcoffeescotch @thelittlebirdwriter @mbjackie @kiwi5335 @nikkitc0703 @laurathefahrradsattel

Special tag for my beautiful pal, V @agnesamarantheastwood

A/N: this will be a mini series!! Let me know if you’d like to be tagged my angels. - Cait <333

NAVIGATION Symbiote Navigation

[blooming-violets]

private #5 bent over a table while somethings baking in the oven. is it too much to ask for tasm peter parker bending reader over?

[location based smut prompts]

The To-Do List

[tasm peter x fem!reader]

(reader is described as having a ponytail that is long enough for Peter to wrap around his hand and use as leverage)

His birthday cake was nestled happily inside the heated oven. 

She got up early to make it for his special day. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail to keep out of her face while she had prepped and she was still in her pajamas from this morning. She had planned to have the cake in the oven, get her shower done, and place out his presents on the table all before he woke up. 

Peter, of course, had other ideas. 

He leaned against the kitchen doorway with a lopsided grin as he sleepily took in the sight of her. She paused when she saw him there, silent as ever, and crossed her arms. 

“You are not supposed to be awake for another hour,” she chastised. 

Thirty-five looked good on him. Every year he seemed to get more and more handsome. 

His eye wrinkles grew as his smile widened. A strand of dark hair fell down his forehead and he absentmindedly brushed it away. He was shirtless with nothing but a pair of dark boxers to keep him decent. 

She admired how defined his chest was. A hinting of his six pack was peeking out from just under the surface of his lean body. 

“I smelled cake.” His voice was thick and scratchy with lingering sleep. Peter’s morning voice was one the sexiest sounds she’d ever heard. 

She smiled as she rolled her eyes. It had hardly been in the oven for more than five minutes and it was already enough to get him out of bed. 

“The kitchen is a mess. I was going to clean it all up and have your presents out and I was going to be all dressed up and looking extra cute. You ruined it all with your stupid nose.” 

Peter laughed as he strode across the room to slip his arms around her waist. She looked up to admire him and wiped at a staining of toothpaste still clinging to the side of his lips. She caught it with her thumb and shoved it back into his mouth while he licked it off. 

“You already look extra cute,” he mumbled around her thumb. 

“I’m literally wearing your old, hole filled shirt and bright pink fluffy pants. This is not how I wanted you to see me this morning. It’s your birthday. I wanted it to be special.” She tugged her thumb back with a huff. 

Peter stepped back to appreciate her outfit in the morning light. She had already been in bed by the time he crawled through their window last night.

“I like it,” he stated. “It’s hipster.” 

She let out a laugh in response, “I don’t think you know what hipster means, babe.” 

Peter shrugged, “It means you dress like a bum, right?” 

“Oh my god, why don’t you go back to bed and try this again in an hour when everything is all set up, okay?” 

“No,” he whined. He latched himself onto her back, snaking his arms tightly around her stomach to press her against him. “I’m up. It’s my birthday. Say happy birthday to me and tell me you love me.” 

She grinned, snuggling back against his bare chest, “Happy birthday and I love you.” 

“That sounded insincere but I will take it.” His hand slipped up under her loose shirt to cup a warm hand over her breast, lazily palming it while he nibbled at the edge of her ear. He always liked the feeling of her nipple coming to life and growing harder against his hand. He held onto her chest like one might cling to the safety of a favorite stuffed animal. 

She groaned, “Your presents were supposed to be all set out nicely on the table. Instead you’re just greeted with a kitchen disaster of my cake baking. Are you sure you don’t want to sleep for another hour? I know you’re tired from last night. You were out late.” 

Peter began to slowly waddle them back and forth towards the kitchen table, refusing to release his grip from around her waist or remove his hand from her breast, “I know of a present I can unwrap right here…” 

She gasped under her breath, “Peter. This is no time. I’ve got a list of things to do.”

She felt him laugh quietly against her ear.

“Yeah and I’ve got a list of things to do, too. A whole list. Let’s see what the first thing to do is…” he pretended like he was reading off an imaginary piece of paper as he checked it over. “Ah, yes!” 

He slipped his hands out from her shirt and placed a gentle hand between her shoulder blades to bend her over the kitchen table. With a quick swoop, he tugged down both her pants and underwear, leaving them hanging around her ankles. She let out a shocked cry.

“Unwrap presents…check!” He chuckled to himself, giving her bare ass a soft slap. “And what a beautiful present it is. Couldn’t have asked for anything better. Wow, you really know me, baby, I’m super impressed.” 

“Peter,” she whined, pushing herself back up. “Not fair. I haven’t showered. I’ve got to get ready. I’ve-”

He cut her off with a kiss. His lips crashed against her and his tongue forced its way into her mouth to stop her from trying to protest further. She could taste the mint from his toothpaste still clinging to his tongue and she moaned as he pressed his hips into hers. He was growing harder by the second. 

“Shut up,” he mumbled against her lips with a smile. “My birthday. My rules.” 

“Okay,” she said with a dreamy sigh. It wasn’t hard to convince her. Her complaints were more for show than anything else. If Peter wanted her, he had her. “I love you, Pete.” 

“If you love me so much then why don’t you take off that shirt so I can see my second present.”

She did as she was told, stripping it from her body, until she was standing naked before him. The bulge in his boxers twitched which made her smile. She loved the fact that she could make him so hard from sight alone. 

Peter’s hand reached out to brush a calloused thumb across her hardened nipple, “Beautiful.”

He lifted her up onto the table so she was sitting closer to him and he moved between her legs. They wrapped around him so she could feel the heat of him soaking through his boxers and against her pussy. His eyes traveled down to her chest, taking in the sight, and sighing happily. His head dipped down so he could capture the waiting bud between his wet lips. 

She let out a satisfied moan and ran her fingers through the back of his hair while suckled on her. His tongue bathed her breast, teeth nipping at her nipple, and soothing it over with quick kisses and light sucking motions. His mouth was magic. He didn’t even need to touch her pussy for her to already be soaking through his boxers as she ground against him. 

“Feel that?” He groaned, bucking his hips. “Feel how hard I am?” 

She whimpered.

“All for you,” he whispered, finding her lips once more to kiss her deeply. 

All for her. 

It was his birthday. She should probably be getting down on his knees for him and sucking him off or tending to him in some way but she was nothing but putty in his hands. Lost in the feeling of seduction he was casting over her. 

Peter dragged her down off the table, smirking at the wet spot she had left behind, and spun her around. He folded her back in half over the table, scraping his nails down the length of her spine and over the swell of her ass. 

“The next thing on my to-do list,” he breathed, his voice low and deep. “Is you.”

She heard him discarding his boxers and suddenly felt the wet, hot tip of cock slide up her open folds. She was more than ready for him. He never had to do much to have her begging for more. Her hips grinded against the air as if trying to draw him in closer but he only continued to tease her with the tip.

“Someone’s eager,” he commended, giving her ass another slap. 

“Peter, please,” she gasped. 

He kept up his tantalizing torture. Every time his cock bumped over her aching clit, her hips would jerk backwards, and she’d let out a quiet cry.

“Please what?” He asked with an air of innocence. 

She groaned at his teasing, “Please fuck me! I want you to fuck me.”

“Aww,” he cooed. “Does my poor baby need my cock?” 

She whined and nodded. 

“You got up so early, didn’t you?” His nails dragged along her hips, making her squirm, as she humped frantically in an attempt to get at his cock. “You got up early to make my birthday so special. You baked me a cake. It smells amazing, doesn’t it? Smell it, baby.”

Her eyes widened in frustration, “Peter! Fuck me! Please, stop it.”

He ignored her pleas, getting off of them, as his cock twitched between her thighs, “Did you slip that cake into the oven just for me?”

She was nearly sobbing from her own arousal, ready to attack him if he didn’t shut up and fuck her soon. She arched her back to better entice him, wagging her ass and rubbing it against his hips. She pushed herself up with her arms so he could get a peeking view of her tits swaying in wait for him. 

That seemed to do the trick because he had gone silent as he stared.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “Happy birthday to me.” 

“I want it hard, Peter. Use me,” she whispered in an effort to finally push him over the edge. “I’m yours.”

He lined up his cock to her entrance and eased himself inside. She nearly doubled over against the table at the delicious feeling that flooded through her body. 

“Yes, yes, thank you, baby, thank you,” she cried. 

“You really love this cock, don’t you?” He breathed. “Do you love this cock more than me?” 

“No, baby, never. I could never-”

He pulled out and rammed the full, thick length back into her with a loud slap. 

She shrieked, falling forward into a flurry of mumbled moans, “I do, I do, I do. I love it more than you. I love it more than anything.” Tears pricked in her eyes from the overwhelming sensations taking over. 

Peter chuckled to himself, “That’s my girl.”

Her ass slapped against his body with each plunging drive of his cock as he took her. Fast and hard, just like she asked. Every thrust felt like it was reverberating through her, waking up all her senses, making her feel more alive than ever before. It was sheer bliss. Anticipation already began to build. He knew exactly how hard to take her. Peter could be rough but he never went past her limits. He knew her inside and out. He knew just where to push her before retreating back to safety. The sounds of her tumbling moans and each inhale of breath was all he needed to direct his path. 

He was filling her body, stretching her, taking her, building her up to that beautiful place of divinity. Her nails clawed at the table, scratching at the wood, trying to find some kind of purchase to steady herself with. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, Peter!” She cried. 

“That’s it, baby,” he panted. “I got you. Don’t worry, I’ve got you.” 

He wrapped her ponytail around his hand and jerked her head upwards. She arched her back to accommodate the move as he held her against him. She could feel his ragged breaths against her cheek and listened to his erotic panting in her ear. The sound was enough to almost send her flying straight into an orgasm. 

The hand not keeping a tight hold of her ponytail wrapped around her to grab at her chest. He molded her breast between strong hands. 

She loved taking his cock. Loved it so deep. Thrusting. Hard. Stretching her. Forcing her to take him. Peter was thick. Thickest man she had ever been with. He pushed her walls to their max. His beautiful body and the sounds he made when he fucked her where like heaven to her ears. 

That familiar, sensual pressure began to grow inside of her with shallow waves lapping at the edges of her mind. Soon they would turn into giant swells. Taking her over until it was all she could feel. 

His hand slipped from her ponytail to wrap around her neck. He gave a gentle squeeze. Nothing too forceful but enough to send her flying even faster towards that tsunami of pleasure. She was so close. So ready. 

“Harder, Peter,” she sobbed. “Hard. Please. I’m-I’m…close…need it hard. Take me.” 

Peter was never to deny a request like that. He shoved her back over the table and tumbled on top of her, humping frantically with long, heavy strokes into her cunt. He could feel her walls tightening. He could feel her body changing. 

“Come on, baby,” he urged her. “Cum on my cock. Cum for me. Let me feel you.”

The universe exploded into blinding light. 

She didn’t care how loud she was. Didn’t care if the neighbors would hear. In fact, she wanted them to. She wanted them to know exactly how well Peter Parker could fuck his woman. 

Her toes curled and her legs kicked up as the sensory overload rocketed through her with golden waves of pure dopamine. 

Peter took her straight to the edge and held her there, spasming and sobbing, as he continued to fuck her through the orgasm. Even as the waves slowly receded, they still lingered in tiny aftershocks, due to his relentless pounding. He had gotten her where she needed to be and now it was his turn. 

He reangled himself into her, getting a better grip as he held onto her hips, and switched up his rhythm to slow. Peter liked to feel everything. He wanted to drag it out and feel her body wrapped around him. From fast and hard to slow and steady. His change of pace caused a low, drawn out moan to escape from her throat. 

“You like that, baby?” He panted. “You like feeling every inch of me?”

All she could do was whimper in response as her sex spasmed again around him. This was a man who knew how to lengthen an orgasm. She was completely helpless to him. Her body was his play thing. 

“Let me hear how much you love me, baby,” he whispered down in her ear as his cock buried straight to the hilt inside of her. “Let me hear you.”

She struggled to make any noise besides sobbing whimpers and broken cries. 

He moaned in response, “That’s it. Those are those sounds that I love so much. My poor baby, all ravaged on my cock. Can’t even speak.” 

He gave a small shudder and she knew he was close. She did her best to work her hips to meet his thrusts, squeezing him with her walls, sucking him in, clenching down. 

“That’s good, baby, that’s good.” He moaned, his voice slowly losing itself as he got closer to the edge. “Ooh, fuck, keep that up. ‘M gon’na cum inside ya’kay?” 

She loved it when he filled her. She loved feeling him drip down her leg as she carried him around with her. She would bathe in his semen if he wished it. It was his birthday, after all. The birthday boy could come wherever he pleased. 

His long, slow strokes worked her up as another, tiny orgasm rippled through her. That seemed to be all he needed to follow. 

Peter let out a low groan, his thrusts become more unrestrained with each passing second, and she took him. All of him. 

With the sweetest of cries, he emptied himself inside of her. She could feel him swell and pulse until she was impossibly full. That tiny orgasm grew into something much bigger, taking over her body along with him, as she felt him collapse on top of her, both shaking, as he bit at her shoulders with soft, love bites until he finally calmed down. 

He stayed like that, laid against her back and squishing her into the table, until he cock began to soften and he sadly slid back out. She tumbled back into his arms as they both fell to the spooning position against the kitchen floor. Naked, wet, and breathing heavily. 

Peter’s hand found the comfort of her breast once more. 

“Mmm,” he hummed. “Best present I could ask for. Thank you, baby. You’re too good to me.” 

She grunted in response, still finding words to fail her. Instead, she rolled over in his arms, hooking her leg through his, and leaving a trail of kisses across his face to show much she adored him.  

His eyes closed as he smiled happily at the feeling. 

Eventually she would have to get up. Eventually she would have to shower and get dressed and clean the kitchen and set up his presents and frost the cake…but for now…

For now she was happy to just lay here on the floor in his arms.

[moonstruckme]

Maeeeeee, would you maybe write something about reader being self conscious about not having like, “flawless” skin like maybe there’s some bumps from acne or KP on her body and she’s worried that her bf won’t want to touch her bare skin or cuddle because of it? Could be with Steve or tasm!Peter if you feel at all inspired. If not, no worries :-) <3

Ty <3

cw: reader has insecurities around body acne

tasm!Peter Parker x fem!reader ♡ 786 words

Peter slumps onto his bed, hardly noticing the two kernels of popcorn that tumble out of his bowl. He cozies right up to your side. 

“Let me in there.” 

You lift the blanket around your shoulders, allowing him to slip underneath and situate the popcorn between you. Peter’s room is slowly becoming your favorite haunt in the city. He’s got a great view, with a window that looks out at the skyline but is too far up to get much street noise. His bed has been worn down to peak comfort, with a springy mattress and sheets washed to soft perfection. And when he lays against you like this, the light of a movie’s opening credits coming from his laptop to wash his face in an ever-morphing gradient of colors, you really just cannot think of any place you’d rather be. 

Peter kisses your head like he knows what you’re thinking, grabbing a handful of popcorn before gathering you close to his chest. His arm comes around your shoulders. When his fingertips brush over bumpy skin, you shift sideways, drawing in a breath. It’s not terribly dramatic, but it’s enough to cause concern. 

Peter looks down at you, colors morphing from green to blue on one side of his face. “What’s up?” 

“Nothing, sorry—just, I have some acne there.” 

“Oh, shit, sorry.” Peter’s hand falls away. He presses pause on his laptop, and you feel awash with embarrassment. “It hurts? Want me to have a look?” 

“No, it doesn’t really hurt.” The movie has stopped on a dark orange color, likely adding a warm hue to your now warming face. 

“Okay.” Your boyfriend looks confused. “Are you sure?” 

“I’m sure,” you say to reassure him. “It doesn’t hurt, it’s just that it’s…bumpy.” 

He nods for a moment. “Right,” he says slowly. “So it bothers you when I touch it?” 

“I…no.” Suddenly, you realize that you have no idea where you were going with this. You feel stupid for bringing it up at all. “It doesn’t bother me, necessarily.” 

“Okay.” Peter relaxes back into his previous position, his arm around your shoulders. But he doesn’t touch your bumpy skin, as though still exercising caution. “Then what’s wrong?” 

“Nothing’s wrong.” 

“You jumped like I’d electrocuted you when I put my hand on your shoulder.” 

“Well, I didn’t think you’d want to touch it.” 

His head cocks to the side. “Why not?” 

“Because…it’s…” It feels weird to say out loud. There’s something about voicing insecurities that makes them worse than they are in your head. “Peter,” you say in a soft voice. Pleading a little, because your boyfriend is smart. Surely he can put it together without your help. 

The sympathetic line of his mouth reveals that Peter has, in fact, put it together. “I promise you,” he says, “I don’t give one single shit what your skin feels like. Or what it looks like.” 

“It’s okay if you do.” 

“I don’t. Seriously. I just want to hold you, is that okay?” 

“Of course it’s okay.” Your voice has turned quiet, caught between shame and fondness. “I just didn’t want you to be surprised, or to…for you to think you had to put up with it if it grossed you out.” 

“Oh, my god,” Peter groans theatrically. “Shut up.” He kisses your head, then your cheek, then slouches to hit your shoulder. “I love you, but shut up. I never want to hear you say ‘gross’ in relation to yourself ever again, do you get that?” 

“Okay,” you murmur sheepishly. 

“Good.” He drops another kiss on your shoulder for good measure. “Even if it had surprised me, sweetheart, it’s not like it would have been so jarring. It happens, it’s normal. I don’t care.” 

“Okay.” 

“Are you hearing me? You’re perfect. Exquisite. There is no part of you I don’t want to touch. Not that I’m, erm, suggesting anything other than movie-watching tonight, but. You know.” 

Your lips tug. By the way Peter smiles back, with relief, you wonder if that was half the plan. 

“The only thing I care about,” he goes on, voice dropping into a more sincere register, “is that I’m not touching you anywhere you don’t want me to. So, are you sure you don’t mind?” 

“I’m sure,” you say. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have brought it up.” 

“Are you kidding me?” Peter gives you a good squeeze, hand settling comfortably over your shoulder again. “Don’t be sorry. The only thing I love more than feeling you up is listening to you talk. Actually, maybe we should scrap this whole movie and you can just monologue to me.” 

“I’m good.” 

“No? I feel like it’d be really fun.” 

“No, I don’t think so. Press play, Peter.”

[the-kr8tor]

Valentine's day Mishaps

Pairing: tasm! Peter Parker x fem! Reader/ Spider-Man x fem! Reader

Word count: 3k

Summary: Your first ever valentine's date as a couple goes haywire when spidey duties interrupt.

Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader (except for clothing), Reader has nicknames, CW food mentions, CW injury mention, established relationship, lovestruck! Peter, best friends to lovers/ childhood friends to lovers, fluff.

Requested by @yumeaoka-chan - Let's see. A Valentine's Day request for Peter Parker, please. Andrew Garfield's version, of course🤭💕It's your first Valentine's as a couple and Peter has planned this day/night out to a tee. Whatever he has planned can be up to you. However, nothing is going how he wants it to go, interruptions and accidents happening all throughout it. He's all upset and chastising himself, apologizing to you when you really don't mind it. You thought everything was going perfectly, just enjoying being with him. Something along the lines of that🤭💕

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“Pete?” You call out groggily from the bed, eyes scrunched up to look at the darkened silhouette by the door as you lean on the nightstand and click on the lamp.

Peter walks into the light, revealing his signature Parker smile while he carries a full tray of clinking dishes. The room is dark thanks to the blackout curtains that he gifted you a few months ago after briefly complaining about the sun shining right on your eyes at the crack of dawn. Of course he can't let the love of his life suffer.

“Sorry, did I wake you up?” He winces, socked feet padding on the carpet as he makes his way towards you. “This was supposed to be a surprise.”

“I thought you were my sleep paralysis demon.” Peter chuckles as you sit up. You give him your best smile even though sleep still clings to your lashes. “Surprise?”

Peter lays the tray carefully over your lap, revealing breakfast dishes that consist of fresh fruits that's drizzled in condensed milk. A hearty stack of waffles with whipped cream and honey, a cup of coffee, a glass of orange juice and a croissant. A long stemmed rose sits right next to the glass, you feel like soaring. Especially when he gives you a wobbly smile.

He expects you to grab the rose or a spoon, but you reach over the tray to grasp at his face, quickly placing a kiss on his lips. It takes him aback for a few seconds, but he quickly reciprocates, brown eyes closed, humming as you feel him smile against the lips.

The two of you part with a resounding smack, but your eyes never leave the lovestruck look on his face. “Happy Valentine's day, Peter. You already got me beat.”

“It's not a competition,” he shrugs, doing his best not to topple over the tray. “I'm winning though.”

Chuckling, you give him one last smooch on each of his cheeks, tip of his nose, temple and forehead. Which was not the last of it as you come back and chase his lips again to press a sweet kiss.

“You are, I'll get you soon.”

“Don't threaten me with a good time, honey.” Before you pull away, he takes your hand and kisses your knuckles. “Eat, I wanna see the absolute bliss on your face when you take a bite.”

“Where’s yours?” You ask as you pick up a fork.

“I already ate.” He says, nose scrunched up.

“You ate all the duds, huh?”

He nods, guilty.

You hum, grinning at him as you take a bite. Sure enough you showed him absolute bliss.

—

Peter helps you put on your coat as if you need help. But you let him, how could you not when he stares at you with those big puppy eyes of his?

“So, first Valentine's together, what do you want to do?” His warm palms close the buttons on your coat, and tucking in your pretty red scarf inside the collar. “I've got something planned for tonight, so we kinda have to wait for it.” Looking at you through his lashes, Peter seems apologetic even though you're staring at him with so much love.

“I know it's cold, Pete, but how about a nice walk around central park to start off?” You nervously say as your fingers play with his coat sleeve.

“Where we had our first date?” You nod, biting your lip. “And here I thought I'm the romantic one.”

“Just trying to one up you, Parker.” Giggling, you tie his scarf nicely, noticing that it's in the same shade as yours. He watches you with shining eyes, hands already on your waist. “We can stop by the same coffee stand, and get pretzels after. Only if you want to.”

“You could tell me we're going on a trip to the raft and I'll still say yes.”

You pat his chest with both palms, and he resists the urge to kiss you breathlessly in the small apartment hallway. “The raft? I don't think they let civilians have tours there. Why, you got friends there?” You joke.

“They should,” he chuckles out, not even completing his own joke. “There's probably good money in there— they actually shouldn't. That— that would be horrible.” He cracks, cringing at his attempt at a joke. His head falls on your shoulder as you laugh and hold the back of his neck. “Sorry, just…nervous.”

“Why? It's just me.” You mumble against his temple, lips brushing along his warm skin.

“I know! That's why.” Lifting his head up, Peter lets out a groan. “I just want it to be perfect. It's for you and you deserve perfection.”

“Oh,” cradling his face, you pout at his pout, while your index tucks a hair strand away from his face. “This…” You tap your foot on the wooden floorboards. “This is already perfect, Peter. Anywhere with you is perfect for me. Whether we're shitting on a terrible movie or out and about around the city, it's perfect.”

Peter sighs, wondering what he did in his past life to have this kind of life. “So you don't want your gift?”

You blow raspberries, rolling your eyes as your arms loop over his neck. “Of course I want my gift.”

Chuckling, Peter pulls you in by your scarf, careful of his own strength and kisses you right on his doorstep.

—

You made Peter wait on a bench while you buy a couple of hot steaming cups of mediocre coffee. He watches your back as snow slowly drifts down in tiny specks of snowflakes. You chuckle at something the old vendor said, and he smiles at how your smile lights up the whole park.

As he waits, he shifts in his seat. The spandex inside his clothes are uncomfortable as it clings to his skin. He knows he can't really leave his alter ego behind, but not even crime has holidays off. Sometimes he wishes it does though.

“Hey,” you beam at him, handing him a styrofoam cup. “Drink it quickly before it freezes.” Shivering, smoke billows out from your lips as you breathe.

Peter mirrors your smile, taking the cup from you as he pats the space next to him for you. He even wiped away the snow just for you.

“Thanks, gorgeous.”

“You're welcome, handsome.” Nudging his shoulder, you watch him drink over the rim of your cup as you take a hearty sip.

“What?” He notices your eyes on him, making him scooch closer to you. “Something on my handsome face?”

“And here I thought you're perceptive.”

Peter knits his brows together while you move your eyes down to his cup. He follows your line of sight, finding your unmistakable handwriting on the cup. His guffaw echoes out in the park, bouncing around the white powdery snow.

“It's a riddle.” He excitedly says, tone higher than usual. “With a warm cup you take a sip, but here I am cold as a statue on a winter’s day.” Making a face, he turns to you. “Is this your way of saying that you're freezing, babe?”

You take his cheek, leaving a kiss mark on the other after pressing a chaste kiss that has his legs wobbly. Good thing he's sitting down.

“Genius, it's for the next destination.”

“You—” he blinks, shock and awe evident on his face. “It's a treasure hunt?” Placing the cup on the bench, he twists in his seat and grasps at your cheeks, squishing it together. “Have I told you that I love you?”

“Numerous times before but I'd love to hear it again.” You say, muffled as he puckers your lips together, lips that he leaves an affectionate kiss on that lingers for a moment. Smiling and giggling, he places his arm around your shoulder. “So what's your answer?”

“Easy, the museum. It's where we bumped into each other after not seeing each other since graduation.”

You pat his chest for a job well done. “Correct, and here I thought I made it vague enough.”

“Please, I—” his senses go off as a resounding crash can be heard a few miles away.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, I…” he sighs, defeated. “Would it be an asshole move if I leave right now?”

“Call of nature or…” you change your tone into a whisper. “... Spider-Man duties? Either way, not an asshole move.”

“The latter, babe.” Peter's shoulders slumps visibly. “I'll be back I promise.”

You nod, understanding completely. “I'll wait for you at the museum, okay?” Before he reluctantly stands up, you grasp his wrist. “Be careful please.”

With one last kiss on your temple, he rushes out of the park.

—

“Shit, shit, shit!” Peter bolts out of an alleyway and into a busy street, dodging cars and trucks while his shoe laces are still undone. “Fuck.” Almost slipping on a sheet of ice, he finally sees you beneath a lion statue in front of the museum. He expertly balances himself as snow crunches underfoot.

Your scrunched up face lights up when you see him. Waving him over, he runs to you, arms wrapping around you as he crashes against your form. His hands brace your back from smacking on the statue.

He heaves atop the crook of your neck, lashes fluttering close as he breathes you in. “I made it.”

Wrapping him in your arms, you hold him close. “You did. Are you okay? Nothing damaged?”

Peter lifts his head up as he fixes the scarf on your neck. “I'm fine,” he exhales deeply, now smiling through the ache on his ankle. “Barely broke a sweat.”

You sigh in relief. “Thank goodness.” Fixing his coat collar that his red suit peeks underneath from, you grin up at him. “If you're too tired we can go home.”

“And miss the treasure hunt? No way.” Reaching over you, he plucks a hefty gift box from the stone lion's mouth. “Besides, the presents might get stolen.”

Biting your lip, you watch as he shakes the present. “Open it before I burst a nervous vein.”

Peter chuckles, giving you a quick peck on your cheek before carefully unwrapping the gift. “You little shit.” His eyes are wide and a grin plays on his lips.

“I know, I'm good.”

He takes out the book from the box, revealing a first edition of the hobbit book. “Where in the hell did you get this?”

“I know a guy.” You shrug.

“It's Ned, right?”

“Yeah, it's Ned. I had to pry it off his hands after he found it for me.”

Opening his arms for a hug, you immediately place yourself in between, embracing him back as you lay your head on his clavicle. He kisses the top of your head with a resounding smack.

“Thank you, this is amazing.” He squeezes you. “You're amazing.”

“No, you are, Pete.” You peek over his arms, gazing at him with softness in your eyes. “I heard you saved a bunch of people on the subway.”

“I'm the latest gossip now?” Smiling, he pecks the tip of your nose.

“Yeah, the talk of the town.” Poking his side, earning a chuckle from him, you kiss his chin before reluctantly letting go lest you get a ticket for PDA. “Check page 164.”

Peter laughs, akin to a giggle as he opens the book to the page. He finds a pink sticky note with doodles of him and you in full tolkien regalia. Right next to it Is the next clue.

“Where boundless knowledge lies but where love most thrives.” He reads aloud, heart feeling like it's beating out of his chest. “It's our highschool.”

“Mm-hmm,” you hum, hand wrapped around his scarf as you play with the frayed edges. “I thought it would be fun to go where it all started.”

“Where the pining started?” He teases, taking your hand to hold it instead, letting his warmth soothe you.

“Yes, where the pining started.” You giggle as he embraces you again, swaying you to the imaginary music and the sounds of the city. “I love you, Pete, ever since the day I accidentally knocked off your glasses after you protected me from Flash. And way before I knew my eighth grade crush wasn't just a crush.”

Peter feels like he's about to burst into tears right in the middle of a busy New York street.

“I—” before he could say all the sweet words that have been in his chest since you punched Flash on his smug face, numerous sirens go off as police cars and fire trucks dash further into downtown. Once again, his senses go off. “Shit.” He turns to you and you're already nodding at him.

“Go, I'll meet you there.”

“I'm so sorry.” Peppers your face with kisses until you're smiling again. “I really am, I— I love you too, so much and I'll tell you some Shakespearean shit later but I have to do this first, okay?”

Chuckling, you kiss his calloused knuckles before he sprints off. You could only hope that he's going to be okay as you hold the book against your chest.

—

The cold nips at the tip of your nose as you wait outside by the old school. Snow gathers near your feet as the temperature drops down further into the negatives, teeth chattering cold. Shivering, you tuck yourself into the awning by the window, coat bundled up and tightening the scarf around your neck. You'd come inside the school but it's closed and even if it is open, it would probably be trespassing since you graduated years ago.

Trembling, you check your watch. As the hand ticks by, you feel icicles forming in your lashes. You're debating whether you should go home or not since you've been waiting for more than an hour now. But you can't do that to Peter. It'll break his heart if he doesn't see you in the meeting place. Why did it have to snow in New York after three years of not having any?

As you kick snow and watch it roll away, you hear your name getting called from above.

Peter, still in his Spider-Man suit, swings quickly towards you. His red and blue form landing down on the soft snow expertly.

“Oh fuck, I'm so sorry!” He jogs towards you, hugging you as he feels how cold and stiff you are. Rubbing your arms and back, he desperately tries to warm you up. “I'm sorry, god, you're frozen.”

“S–Still P–Pretty though, right?” You give him a small smile as you tremble through your words.

“Yes, still gorgeous.” He says with urgency. “I need to warm you up, okay?”

“R–Right here? That's i–illegal, Pete.” Despite the impending frostbite, you still manage to crack a joke.

Peter holds your face, palms warming you up. Smiling apologetically, he holds you close. “I'm going to get you home, we'll have hot cocoa and watch shitty television.”

“How— what about your gift?”

“Babe, you're a popsicle right now. I'll get it later, I promise.” He says as he lifts you up and readies to swing away.

“I–I have it.” You whisper, smoke billowing out from your dry lips. “Good t–thing this is the last one.” Patting your front coat pocket, you beam at him as he bundles you in his arm.

“I'll open it later,” your brows knit together. “I promise, after you get warm I'll open it immediately.”

You nod and he swings away quickly like he's after the Vulture himself.

—

“I was supposed to leave it on top of the flagpole for you.” You murmur against his stomach as you lay on his lap, all bundled up in blankets and warm clothes as the portable heater whirrs in the background.

“And how would you do that, hm?” He lowers the volume to the TV as his hands rub along your arm.

“I know a guy.”

“Yeah, me, I'm the guy.” He rolls his eyes, feigning annoyance. “Do you want more hot chocolate?”

“No, thank you. I want you to stay.” You shake your head, nuzzling his stomach lovingly.

“Okay.” Chuckling, you can feel that he's holding onto something in his genius head of his. “I’m sorry that our date didn't go as planned.” Laying his head on the top of the couch, he gazes down at you with love. “I promise you I rescheduled the reservation for next week. Then we can continue Valentine's day.” He sighs, clearly guilty. “Even if it's done already, we can— we can continue it, right?”

“Valentine's day part two.” You wiggle your hands behind his back, embracing him in an awkward angle but with affection nonetheless. “You really don't have to worry, Pete, I had fun doing all the riddles. And I knew that something like this could happen so I only made three.”

“How many were you originally planning?”

“Fifteen.” His eyes widened. “Maybe for next year, babe.” Biting your lip, you reach up to hold his cheek, reassuring him more. “Did you like them?”

Peter wiggles the simple silver bracelet on his wrist as he eyes the book on the coffee table. “I loved it all, thank you. The initials engraved on it was a cute touch.”

“Really? I thought it would be too much.”

“You're never too much.” He softly says, thumb brushing along your cheekbone. “Please tell me when I make you unhappy.”

“I will, but I don't think you can ever make me feel unhappy. Not on purpose anyway.”

“That's impossible.”

You shake your head as you gently push his head down towards you. Peter lets you, noses bumping against one another. “I've known you since we were eating glue, trust me, I know, Peter.”

“So you're happy?” You nod, brushing your lips on top of his, a clear invitation for him to kiss you. “I didn't even get you flowers. I was supposed to, and chocolates and open the door for you and order dessert that's too expensive. Shit, we were supposed to go ice skating— and, I'll make it up to you, I promise.”

“You can buy me flowers and chocolates and do all that on Valentine's day part two.”

Peter finally kisses you, silently promising to give you that and more.

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[mortwig]

I'm back on my Sugar&Vice shenaningans and boy had I missed this...

I'm going to have to read another chapter before I can give a proper review so far because I'm still on catch-up remembering where all the different storylines were at.

All I have to say is this series is life, and if you're not reading it what are you even doing.

sugar and vice, pt. 11 [mob!tasm!peter x fem!reader]

summary: what does it mean for your world to be torn apart?

words: 7.7k

chapter warning: graphic descriptions of sex, violence and gore. smutty fantasies (p in v, oral-f and m receiving, dubcon), nude photos, catfishing, revenge p*rn, coercion and manipulation of a minor, references to cancer treatment

series warnings: mob-typical violence, bang bang shoot shoot, whump. hurt/comfort. sexual situations. spousal abuse. family trauma. drug use. coersion. kidnapping. gore. blood. toxic/yandere!peter (maybe, sorta), negative self talk, shameless forced proximity trope. ‘only ten one bed oops’ trope, imprisonment. slowest burn. a dash of questionable and/or morally grey intentions. extremely toxic relationships.

This version of TASM Peter is not canon. The relationships and characters here are not healthy.

Please don't date a mob boss.

18+ You’re responsible for your own media consumption, but if you can't name the Mambo #5 women then gtfo.

a/n - Originally this chapter and the next were intended to be one part, but the word count was far too long. I encourage you to read them together! Read this one first! Also, it might be fun to listen to the official Sugar and Vice playlist on Spotify for the next two chapters.

Back to Part 10.

Part 11

What does it mean to be pulled apart?

Peter knew. He was experiencing it first-hand.

It was glorious.

Heaven was the only thing he could think of, and he wasn’t even sure he believed such a place existed. But if it did, it would be here—in between the thighs of the woman he’d die for. 

She looked so delicate beneath him. So tiny against the black ocean of silk sheets in his bed. Her arms were outstretched, a black-leather cuff binding each wrist. Her legs were also spread wide. The sight was breathtakingly lewd—body trembling, goosefleshed, inner thighs dripping wet. He loved the way her hips squirmed beneath his hands. It made it even more fun to hold her down. 

It was almost vulgar, a shameless, pornographic display. But she was an angel, after all. How could anything be vulgar about an angel? How could anything be shameful in Heaven? How could something so sweet be a sin?

Honey. He remembered how his mind used to wander into dark territory. It was somewhat embarrassing, how often it would happen. He’d be standing in line at the coffee shop watching her work, or watching her whip up a batch of cake batter in his kitchen. Suddenly, the thought would attack his mind: like being struck by lightning. He would wonder if she tasted as sweet as she was, while silently observing her with a crooked half-smile on his face, cock half-hard in his pants.

She tasted better than he ever could’ve imagined. Uniquely sweet and still somehow floral, like honey and lavender. Honeysuckle. No wonder birds and bees couldn’t get enough of the stuff. Hummingbird wings beat beneath his chest as his tongue lapped at her petals, devouring the nectar he’d find. 

He was addicted to it. Whimpering for it. Jesus, he was a goner.

He’d never stop. He wanted to stay in Heaven forever. Just him desperately consuming her with mewling pathetic noises as he ground his crotch helplessly against the bedsheets. He wanted to stay there and weave his tongue through her folds—fuck, he was gonna come just from eating her out, blow his load in his pants like a fuckin’ teenager—until she begged him to stop. Until he’d pulled every last beautiful noise from her.

She was crying from pleasure. Screaming from it. He knew it. He was splitting her in half, as much she tore him apart. He was in pieces. Fragments. His love, and pain, and soul all spilling out for her. 

Only for her.

The water was warm. The steam filled his lungs. Heat settled in his chest and burned like fire. His hands were buried in her sopping wet hair. She was wrapped around his fingers. Wrapped around his cock. Her face was pressed against the shower wall as he gazed hungrily down at the place where he was impaling her. Every thrust of his hips was a dizzying jolt of electricity. 

He was obsessed with the view, watching his cock slip in and out of her folds. Fuck she’s so tight. It hurt. There’s nothing wrong with a little pain, though. Nothing wrong with a little blood.

Her mouth felt so tight. Watching his cock slip in and out of her lips. Her throat closed around his length. He gazed down at those hypnotic, sparkling, watery eyes. Fuck he could see his head going down her throat. She was so good to him. So good. 

Perfect angel. So good on her knees for him. Sucking him so well, the berber carpet of her closet rubbing burns there, but it didn’t seem to bother her. Such a tough girl. 

Such a pretty girl. Wearing that beautiful little lavender dress he bought for her. He knew she’d like it. He knew it’d look perfect on her—goddamn potato sack’d look sexy on her—the second he saw it in the store, he knew. Babydoll. It suits her so well. Like it was made for her. 

Like her mouth was made for him. He gripped her chin tighter. Her pussy was made for him. He began to thrust into her throat, couldn’t help himself. Her whole body was made for him. 

Lace and silk flowing down it. His cum would be flowing soon enough. Dripping all over, coating her face and tits and tongue. Looking up at him with those beautiful eyes as she held her mouth open for him like a good girl, tongue stuck out greedily, savoring every last drop. Nothing wrong with being greedy sometimes. His good girl. 

His cum streaming down her face. 

Her tears streaming down her face. 

His tears streaming down her face.

He snapped his hips faster, fucking her into his creaky, old twin mattress. The lumpy one he slept on every night since he was 5. He’d proactively shoved old t-shirts in the cracks between the bed and the wall to muffle any potential pounding. 

He was pretty sure that May and Ben might have suspected he was foolin’ around and stuff, but ever since the Sex Talk Debacle of 2008, he would prefer a wrap it up, stop means stop, and never to have that conversation again.

“Peter... oh god, feelss s’good...” he heard a breathless whisper that shot straight to his cock. 

He looked down to see the most gorgeous green eyes in the entire world staring up at him. Blissed out. Euphoric. Corn silk hair spread out on his pillow like a halo around her head. Fair skin, apple-cheeks, kissable freckles, and peony-pink lips. An angel.

Heaven. He was in Heaven. The sight of her made him want to fall down and worship. Made him want to cry. Bury his head against her belly and sob and scream and have her pet him and run her fingers through his hair and rock him and cradle him and promise that she’d never leave him again.

It had been so long. “Gwen...” he panted, a groan bubbling up in his chest. “God, Gwen, I’ve missed you... s-so fuckin’ much—”

“I love you,” she gasped a hushed reply, nearing her climax. Like whispering a secret. So quiet, so the other angels couldn’t hear. “I-I love you, Peter—I love you always...”

He was being torn apart. He wanted to die, the way she tightened around him.

“Fuck, fuck, Peter, don’t stop!”

He opened his eyes. Honey was beneath him again, in his childhood bedroom. There was blood everywhere in the sheets. Streaming down her face. Coating her breasts. Covering her arms. Covering his hands. 

“Peter, please, don’t stop,” she whined, and who was he to deny her. She was a goddess and this was her kingdom. 

Perfect girl. Such a good girl. 

“I’ve been so good for you, been so, so good—”

don’t stop.

Stop, just stop—

—don’t fucking stop—

—Peter, snap out of it, stop!

“Pete, wake up!” 

His eyes popped open just as he felt himself falling over the edge. The sensation was terrifying. Like plummeting in a dream. Disorienting. 

Light pierced his eyes like flaming swords. The hum of neon rang in his ears like a jet engine. He tasted bile on his tongue, but his mouth was drier than a desert. Throat was sore. Great, is this the flu? How long has it been since he was sick? Gross taste in his mouth. Awful metallic scent in his nose.

His muscles locked in place. Brain short-circuiting. 

Blood. He smelled blood.

“Pete, can you hear me? Are you still crazy?” Eddie’s voice punctured his eardrums, and Peter reached up to cover his ears protectively. Lashes fluttered, dark eyes roving around. The picture came into focus.

He was in a room. A dark room. No windows. With ugly carpet and ugly modern furniture that reeked of cigars, cigarettes and old vodka. 

It was a small lounge of some kind. Through the walls he could hear bells and laughter and shrill screams of excitement. 

Broken glass littered the patterned floor, multiple recognizable fragments that were once full bottles of Belluga, Russo-Baltique, Chopin, and good old-fashioned Belvedere. 

He was on his back. Looking up at Eddie Brock, who looked even more worse-for-wear than he normally did. “Talk to me, buddy,” he anxiously muttered, leaning over his boss. 

Also, this was not the person he expected to see after... whatever that was.

His throat was too sore to respond in words. Instead he groaned, rolling over on his side. Hissing in pain that radiated in his chest and ribs and hands. His hands were bloody.

He swallowed hard. Heart pounding. “Honey...” he whispered, worry and confusion taking over.

“She’s safe,” Eddie replied, and it only sort of gave him some relief. 

He twisted around, assessing the room. The furniture had been turned over. It looked like a tornado shredded the space. Attempting to get up was difficult, especially as Peter tried to conceal the rapidly weakening hard-on in his trousers. 

“What about you, how’re you feelin’?” Eddie’s voice chimed in again, voice softer. “What do you see? What do you remember?”

He didn’t want to talk about what he remembered, worried that the bulge in his pants had already given him away. Peter squeezed his eyes closed, the orbs feeling like sandstones lodged into his skull. He groaned, “Uhhh... shit... I... uh...”

He remembered... 

His time in Heaven. The closet. The bedsheets. Honey. Gwen.

No, none of that’s real. None of that happened.

—you’ll never see them again—

Focus, Parker.

—youre a monster and monsters never get to heaven no such thing—

“Pete,” Eddie repeated, this time more firmly. “You with me?” 

Peter looked up at the other man, reading his 5 o’clock shadow. Gazed at the concern in his hazel-gray eyes, the old scar cutting over his left brow, and the dark, puffy bags beneath. He really hadn’t slept in days. What the hell happened?

White hair. Long white hair. Smelled like bergamot, and cedar, and tobacco.

Silver. On her eye lids. Around her neck. Chrome-like. Two tiny patches of shiny silver fabric just barely covering massive, fake tits.

Peter swallowed hard, heart pounding. “I...” 

Silver thong, garter belt and thigh harnesses to match. She looked like a disco ball. Turning, twirling... gliding around a silver pole. Silver eyes, or maybe that’s just the way they looked when she looked at him. Gazing at him seductively. All over him.

Silver tongue. 

He tasted bile coming up his throat. “I... don’t...” Brought the back of his hand up to his mouth to keep it down.

What had he done? What the fuck—?

He looked down at himself in confusion. His black shirt was torn open. Dark pants ripped, shredded in some places. There was a giant black hole in the middle of his memory. 

He was home. In his home, in a meeting, in the parlor— He broke the piano—

“That was almost 3 days ago, man,” Eddie chimed in. Peter stared up at him, gobsmacked. Stunned. Confused. Worry set in Eddie’s eyes, the corners of his mouth downturned. “You’re in Vegas.”

Horror. Filling his eyes, his chest. Shock. Heaving. His throat was tightening up because of it. “Wha...?” Peter murmured in disbelief. “Wh-what...?” 

Like a spooked cat, he clamored to his feet, the whole world tilting as he came to an abrupt stand. 

Blinking rapidly, trying to see into the dark spot in his mind. Black holes consume everything. All light swallowed up. His belt was unbuckled. The fly still fastened tight. His shirt was torn and bloody. Blood all over.

“I...” Peter thought he was going to be sick. He thought he’d scream. “What did I—?” His gaze traveled over the room as he stumbled backward. That’s when he caught a glimpse of it. 

Red hair.

He was trembling. Creeping towards a toppled-over chaise lounge, staring unblinkingly down at the horrible pattern of the carpet. The stains on it. Blood.

Long, white waves of hair, spread out like a halo, stained red with blood. Not his blood. 

Hers. The silver woman who was flirting with him. Bugging him. Teasing him. Shamelessly trying to seduce him. Sat in his lap and poured vodka down his throat and filthy promises in his ear, before dragging him ‘somewhere private.’

“Oh, god,” Peter gagged. Her broken body was spread out in front of them, her blood painting the floor and walls. 

The silver woman’s body was torn apart. Ripped open. Separated. Two halves.

Peter’s legs gave out, dropping to a knee, tears streaming down his cheeks. “God, what did I do?” he breathlessly gasped. There was so much blood. Her skin wasn’t even visible. 

“Hey, hey, hey, don’t lose it!” Eddie babbled, jumping into view. His form obscured the body as he took Peter by the face. His skin was ice cold. “It’s not what it looks like, alright? Don’t— don’t you fuckin’ throw up! Don’t throw up, that’s your DNA!”

As if he cared about going to jail at this point. Peter was already dead inside. Maybe he needed jail. Supermax. Maybe he needed the electric chair. 

“Eddie...” he shivered, voice trembling, “what-what’d... I-I don’t remem—” 

“She was an assassin,” Eddie explained, gripping him by his shoulders. Peter’s glazed over expression swam with confusion. Drowned in it. 

Eddie rolled his eyes, annoyed by the awkwardness of the situation. “C’mon, man,” he grimaced. “You really thought ‘Silver Sable’ was her name?” 

Peter blinked, eyes bugged out. Eddie let out a straight-faced groan, shocked by his boss’ naivety. “Silvija Sablinova was her real name,” he added. “A finalist on the Kremlin’s Got Talent, and guess what her talent was? Cuttin’ throats, man. She’s the leader of the baddest hit squad money can buy. And you were on her list.”

Peter’s skin was stone cold. Shaking his head in disbelief, his brows pinched together in shock. 

Eddie rolled his eyes, “I saw the whole thing go down on the security camera footage. Sorry, buddy, she wasn’t that into you.” 

Peter’s face flushed red, and he looked away. 

“Looks like Kingpin wanted to send you a message.” Eddie looked over at the body, grimness returning to his tone. “Message received, I guess.”

Peter shoved him back angrily, breaking his grip. The dryness in his eyes was only now being counteracted by tears threatening to spill. They burned like acid. “You think that matters to me? I killed her! I did... that.”

“In self-defense,” Eddie argued, then pointed at Peter’s chest. “Not before she got a few good licks in.”

He followed the end of his finger to his chest. Looking down beneath his shirt, he could see bloody gashes oozing beneath the fabric.

Eddie chuckled at the sight in disbelief, “Dude. She stabbed you with a sword—”

“You think this is fuckin’ funny?” Peter snapped, eyes burning hot. “Do you have any idea....?”  The air left his lungs before he could finish the sentence. He felt hollow. Numb.

Eddie wasn’t smiling anymore. He glared right back. “Yeah, Pete,” he said with clipped words. “I do.”

They were deadlocked in heated silence. Finally, Peter stepped backward. Body weary, as it always was after a blitz like that. But this time, it was different. It was worse. 

Squeezed his eyes shut, holding back tears. He gripped his hair, letting out a frustrated cry that sounded more like a growl. The agonized groan of a dying animal.

“I got rid of the camera footage, but we gotta get out of here,” Eddie mentioned, anxiously eying the door. “Get back home before anyone else sees you.”

“I-I don’t...” Peter wiped his mouth, unable to keep that smell at bay. Now he could taste the metal on his tongue. 

“Look, this was not random, okay?” Eddie countered. “How did Kingpin know where you were? None of the rest of us did! We’ve been lookin’ all over the East Coast for you. This isn’t circumstance, this is strategy. He went after you for a reason.”

Peter’s eyes were fixed on the floor, tears blurring his vision. “The woman, I-I didn’t...” he sniffed, his voice trembling. He gnawed on his lip to prevent the wobble. “I didn’t want to... I would never do—” 

He was unable to speak further. Unable to breathe. 

Assassin or no, the images from whatever ‘hallucination’ Peter had been having, juxtaposed with the violent scene he ‘awakened’ to, made him sick with self-loathing. It was like throwing a bucket of ice water on him. A bucket of flaming napalm. 

Guilt churned in his stomach. He was ashamed. Mortified at himself. When he squeezed his eyelids closed, all he could see behind them were Honey’s eyes. The look of betrayal on her face. He didn’t even remember how he got there. He didn’t remember anything.

A blackout. 

“You weren’t you,” Eddie said, his tone endearing. “Not really.”

When Peter looked back up, tears running down the bridge of his nose and cheeks, he realized he was looking at a friend. Maybe his only friend. The only one that saw him for what he truly was, and didn’t run away in terror.

Maybe he should, though. Peter certainly scared the shit out of himself.

This was an awful idea, Honey thought, standing outside of the ajar door to Peter’s office. She was half convinced that it would never work— it was impossible, given the enhanced security. She told him. Begged him.

Her puppet master didn’t care. Assured her, via text, that when she got to the door, it would be open. The cameras wouldn’t see her, they’d see a loop instead. 

She had no idea how John was able to pull that off, but he was capable of anything.

He reminded her of that with a series of photos. This time, they were screenshots of an Instagram chat. The tiny profile pic was undeniably Gabriella. The conversation was intimate. Flirty. Then a little inappropriate. Then straight-up graphic. 

She’d sent pictures—christ, what are you doing, Gabby, you never send pictures!—the kind that would make a young girl want to die of embarrassment. 

Or just die. 

And John fucking Walker had them.

It infuriated her. Honey cried for three hours out of sheer rage. It was so wrong—so fucking wrong, that motherfucker, how did he get into her phone? how was he even allowed to have pictures like that? they’re illegal! 

And the more she read over the screenshots, the more she paid attention to spelling and punctuation. The more she began to suspect that John had always been the only recipient of those photos. A catfish caught.

Over her dead fucking body, she thought. She’d die before she’d let him touch her.

And standing in Peter’s office, snooping quietly through his files, that was likely going to be the outcome.

If the threat of harming her sister wasn’t enough, there was a separate gnawing fear inside of her. It had been three days since she’d seen Peter.

After that night, he took off without a word to her or anyone else. She waited for him. After what she saw him do to his guard, she was scared out of her mind, but she waited anyway. He didn’t come home that night. Or the following day. 

And when she asked questions, nobody would give her a straight answer. And the following day, everyone vanished. She was practically alone in the penthouse, except for the 12 other faceless guards who didn’t dare speak to her. Apparently, it was a death warrant.

Now it was Day 3, and she felt like giant bats were flailing in her belly. Where could he have gone? And why did he not at least call her and tell her where he was, or if he was alright? She still didn’t have her own phone (officially) but there could’ve been some form of communication. 

Was she being naive to think that they had that kind of relationship? She wasn’t allowed to do anything without him knowing about it, but he could disappear for days and not tell her anything? How was that fair?

What if he was with someone? Someone else?

She stowed that sharp pang away, not wanting to dwell on it. She was not jealous. She was safer with him gone. He was a monster. She was not jealous.

She was stupid. This was dumb. She had no idea what John was even looking for, but his desk and the drawers showed nothing to indicate where Peter had gone. She sighed, anxiety filling her chest, worried that she wouldn’t have anything to offer him that would satiate his hunger for cruelty.

She stopped at one of the shelves in the built-in bookcase. There, on top of a book, was an item that she’d never noticed before: a metal rangefinder camera, silver with a bumpy black grip and amber-coated lens. 

She didn’t know anything about cameras, but it felt heavy in her hands. She thought it was probably heavier than cameras should be. It looked old. She tested the weight, carefully turning the device over in her hands, inspecting details. 

On the front of the camera, in the top right corner, there was a little badge with an embossed atom symbol. The front also had letters ‘GSN’ and the word ‘GYashica.’ She’d never heard of that brand before—wait, was that GYashica or just the letter G and the word Yashica? Maybe it wasn’t a G. It wasn’t a G. Probably.

The top of the camera had words that were easier to read: Electro 35. A Yashica Electro 35. Old. Vintage. Kinda beat-up. The inside of the camera had a label on it too, from an embossed office label printer: PROPERTY OF PETER PARKER.

It made her smile. Her eyes glanced up at the book the camera had been sitting on, and that’s when she noticed it wasn’t a book at all. It was a box that looked like a book, like the kind that her mom used to use to hide all of their money.

Curiously, she set the camera down on a lower shelf and reached up to retrieve the box. 

Inside: Photos. Real, physical, color photos printed on old photo paper, not like the kind that some people can print off with a printer at home. She remembered having one of those wind-up film cameras once, but those pictures never looked as good as these.

Candids, all of them. Taken with a skilled eye.

A woman, middle-aged, with a wide smile. In mid-conversation, it would seem, with bright eyes despite how sullen they looked. She was sitting up in a chair, an infusion pump beside her. A yellow, daisy floral bandana was wrapped around her head. Her hair was not visible.

The back of the photo had a date. May 2006. Her brows went up as she flipped the photo back around, taking a closer look at the woman. Not May 2006.

May. 2006.

Her lips parted, not realizing she was going to come face-to-face with the May Reilly. May Parker. Peter’s Aunt May. The woman that became his surrogate mother. The ‘fighter’ that defeated cancer. The only mother he really knew, lost in a rain of gunfire. 

Next photo.

An older man, white hair matted down, his upper half drenched. He was sitting in a tight space on a kitchen floor, in front of a sink cabinet that was wide open. In his hand was a pipe. In the other was a rag he was using to dab at his face. Also visible: May, looking a bit older than in the last photo, doubled over, tears in her eyes. Both of them laughing their asses off.

The back of the photo read ‘You should’ve just called a plumber, Ben. 2011’

A chuckle escaped her lips as she put the scene together. She could imagine May’s voice repeating the phrase, and somehow could imagine the man pictured in the photo stubbornly holding out. A warm smile stretched her lips. 

They were so happy. Once upon a time.

Next photo. She gasped.

The woman’s eyes were so green. The brightest green eyes she’d ever seen. She was beautiful. Cornsilk hair framed the apples of her cheeks. It was a closeup, somewhere outdoors. Somewhere cold. A thick-knit beanie was pulled over her ears, and the tip of her nose was bright red. 

Gwen. That was the only word on the back of the photo. 

Honey turned the photo back around, now with her jaw agape. Her brows were furrowed. Gwen. The girl of Peter’s dreams. Beneath that photo, there was a strip of photos in sequence, like the kind taken in a photo booth.

Gwen and Peter. Smiling. Silly. Kissing. Sweet. 

How could something so sweet make her heart ache? He was happy. Once upon a time. 

She pursed her lips together. 

This was stupid. She was stupid. Why was she being stupid?

She turned the strip over to find another handwritten phrase: Do I have to lose you too????

The pang in her chest remained, but this time it was for Peter. And for herself.

With a heavy sigh, she put the photos back in the box. When her fingertips touched the bottom, it moved. She blinked, confused. The bottom of the box was fake.

Tilting her head to the side, she worked her fingernails under the edge of the bottom insert. She pried it up, revealing more photos hidden underneath.

Her eyes went wide, her breath stuck in her throat. Horror.

Gwen again. But these... were different. She was naked. Different poses. Limbs laid out in scandalous ways. 

Honey blushed, pulling her eyes away. Her face warmed and her heart began to race. 

This was wrong. Everything about this was wrong. She shouldn’t be looking at this. 

She glanced back at the provocative photos. By the look on Gwen’s face, she was a willing subject. Each picture was taken with a singular intention. Each one, a small taste. Hands gripping her breasts. Another with her ass raised in the air. Looking directly at the lens with a finger hooked between her lips, the other hand slipped between her spread legs. Another closeup of her exposed nipples and her sultry smile, semen covering both. Provocative. Passionate. Pornographic. 

This was wrong. 

She imagined Peter taking these photos. Imagined him directing her, manipulating her body in whatever way he wanted. A doll for him to play with. 

Sweat beaded on her neck. Why was it so hot in that room? Why did her face feel so hot?

Hands shaking, she shoved the photos back into the box. Snapped the lid shut, returning it to its position on the bookshelf. 

Her whole body was trembling. She was aching. 

What was wrong with her? Why did she have the disgusting urge to shove her hand in her pants and just—

“Can I help you find something?” Peter said from behind her. She gasped, spinning suddenly, her hand knocking into the camera. The heavy metal object slid off the shelf and plummeted to the floor. She watched the device falling with horror.

Until it was caught. Peter was suddenly there. Like he’d teleported in the blink of an eye. His wide fingers closed around the camera. He’d saved it, just inches off the ground, before it was destroyed.

She was instantly relieved, then immediately doused in an ice bath. Her whole body went stiff, like she’d electrocuted herself. She was stunned, motionless. His dark eyes landed on hers. Peering up at her, inquisitively from his leaned-over position. Slowly, he straightened out, full control over every muscle. He loomed over her, looking down at her horrified gaze.

“I—” she gasped, babbling. Struggling. “I-I...”

“That was close, wasn’t it?” Peter murmured, studying her too intently. 

She looked down at the camera in his hand, and looked back up at him. A subconscious step backward reminded her that her back was flat against the bookcase. She felt trapped again. Cornered. Her eyes were saucers, staring down the barrel of his gaze. 

“Thank god, you caught it!” she laughed nervously. Her heart was pounding. She swallowed hard, grinning wide. “Nice reflexes.”

Peter watched her carefully, scrutiny playing in his eyes. The bat in her stomach had grown to a full-sized pterodactyl. 

Honey cleared her throat. “Sorry, I... I shouldn’t have been playing with the camera. I was just, um, curious, I guess. I-I don’t even know how to use one.” She wrung her hands idly, digging her thumbnail into her palm. “It looks old.” She said it with a lilt at the end. Turning the statement into a question. 

He glanced back down at the camera. “Uh... yeah... It is.” He looked back up at her, the tension falling from his face. “It’s, um... Yeah, I got it at a garage sale a while ago.” He pursed his lips, somewhat shy. “Good little camera.”

She rocked on her toes, the smile beginning to hurt. “Does it still work?”

He met her eyes, molasses flowing once again. “Yeah. It-it does.”

Honey nodded, trying to cover up the awkwardness, like smoothing out wrinkles in a bedsheet. “You shoot people, huh?”

He raised a brow. “Excuse me?”

“Your shirt,” she answered, thinking back to the first night she spent in the penthouse. “The one I borrowed that first night?” His face softened as soon as he recalled what she was talking about. “‘I shoot people.’ I get it now.” She giggled. “It’s funny.” 

He watched her smile, and listened to her laugh, and looked away. Unable to hide the reddening of his ears. The flush in his cheeks.

“Um,” Honey carefully began, observing his reaction carefully. “Maybe... maybe one day you can show me how it works? Teach me a little bit about photography?” His eyes darted up to meet hers, flustered and wide. 

Lips pursed, he stared at her in a daze, taking forever to respond. He nodded. Silently. Then, “Y-Yeah, I, uh... maybe.”

He reached over her head and put the camera back on the shelf, on top of the closed ‘book’ where it had been sitting. She bit her lip, avoiding his gaze, stepping out from underneath him. She fought the urge to run out the door. 

“What are you doing in here?” Peter asked, turning towards her. 

She turned around to face him, taking the sight of him in. He looked tired. His hair was messier than she was used to. Floofy. Like he didn’t use any hair product, which for him, was strange. 

He wasn’t dressed like he normally was—just a black, short-sleeve collared shirt with a couple of buttons loose at the top. Skinny black jeans. She wasn’t used to seeing him without at least four articles of clothing. It was odd. Unnerving.

“I was looking for you,” she answered, her brows knit together. It was technically the truth. “Are you okay? You-you look...awful.”

He raised a brow. “Thanks—?”

“No, no, no,” she shook her head. “I just meant...that...” 

Her eyes darted to the corners of his face anxiously. She spotted a small knick on his forehead. An almost-healed wound that looked old, but one she had never noticed before. Her brow curled at the sight. Her hand came up of its own accord, and before she knew it, her fingers were gently brushing the healing skin near the wound. 

Her gaze was warm. Sincere. Genuine concern.

When her fingers touched his flesh, he froze. Jaw clamped tight. Lashes fluttered closed. 

Against his judgment, against everything he believed about what he deserved, he leaned into her touch. Heat built up behind his eyelids, his eyes beginning to sting from the mounting wave. A shiver traveled down his spine. 

Just one gentle touch, and the entire world went away. He felt her hand go still. Or maybe time had stopped. He was afraid to open his eyes back up. Afraid that he was stuck in another dream. Her heart was pounding. So was his. 

When he finally peeled his eyes open, she was staring at him with a look of confusion. Worried, but not in a bad way. Stunned, but not scared. She narrowed her gaze, studying his eyes, and it made him want to hide. Like she could see through him. See into his soul. 

She swallowed dryly, pulling her hand back slowly. His heart clenched, and ached, and wailed, and longed for the warmth of her skin as soon as it was gone.

She fixed her gaze on him, chewing her bottom lip. “We were worried about you,” she said. “I was worried about you.” Seeing through him. Those eyes. 

—youre a monster and monsters never get to heaven—

Peter gulped down whatever tears were threatening to fall, stopping them. Hardened his gaze. Inhaled sharply. Winced at the feeling of broken shards of glass near his heart. “I’m, uh... sorry about that,” he nodded, avoiding her gaze. “I... I just needed some space.”

She recoiled slightly. “From me?”

His eyes grew wide with alarm, “No. No, no... no, not from you. That’s not what I— No, never, I just—” 

The words dropped off. He closed his mouth, flexed his jaw. “Um...” That sting came back to his eyes, betraying him. “Sorry.” His gaze dropped to the floor as he said it. 

The stench of blood lingered. Couldn’t get it out of his airways.

She shifted her weight between her toes, scratching the back of her neck. “It’s... um... it’s okay. I’m just... glad you’re home.” 

Home. 

He lifted his gaze, meeting her eyes once again. She wasn’t lying when she said it.

Home. He took a slow breath. Anywhere she was, that was his home.

“I know we don’t owe each other anything,” Honey said, coy. “And I know you really like rules, so... could we add one? If... if one of us isn’t home, could you at least—I don’t know— tell me you’re okay? At night, if-if you feel like you need to be away again.” The timidness of her voice broke his heart. “So I don’t worry?”

He looked at her like he’d just discovered a planet. How long had it been since anyone worried if he didn’t come home? How long has it been since he was home?

Eyes glistening, he couldn’t find the words. He just nodded. His mind was spinning with guilt, grief, loneliness and longing. Over a decade’s worth. Shyly, his eyes darted around. He hadn’t thought about the fact that she’d been in the room when he killed the Rat—Dexter Bennett, that two-faced asshole, always knew he was dirty—and therefore, witnessed the brutality of his rage. 

She saw him at his worst. Sometimes, Peter felt like his worst was all he had to offer. The fact that she was worried instead of horrified was unbelievable.

“Do you want to get dinner sometime?” she blurted. 

His head snapped over, eyes widened. “Wh... what?”

Her voice was thick with anxiety. “I-I’ve been thinking about it, and... and I mean, we have dinner together all the time, but-but it’s different, because we’re at the house—and there’s nothing wrong with that! It’s just—um, it’s not really anything special. Not that I want something special—like, I’m not asking for a Michelin star or anything—also, why are the people who make tires in charge of judging what we eat? That’s so weird. But anyway, I was thinking, since—y’know, everything has been happening so fast, and... we... sometimes, I feel like we-we barely know each other, y’know?. Or, y’know, in a... deeper way, a-a more.. A closer way. And, y’know... that’s why I thought that we should... should—”

“You wanna have dinner? With me?” he sounded stunned beyond belief.

“Yes!” Honey responded with a relieved sigh. Then, she back-tracked. “I mean... not like... a date, or anything—” 

He grimaced subtly, trying to hide it. 

“Unless... Unless you want it to be?”

His breath caught in his throat. Looked up at her, like he was caught in a dream. Held that gaze for as long as he could, then looked away. Bit his lower lip. Pocketed his hands in his jeans. “That depends,” he said, shifting his molasses eyes to her, sparkling with charm. “You got any plans this Saturday night?”

There he was. Her friend. Honey failed to hide her teeth, feeling a blush travel up her neck. “Um... not particularly.” She smiled, tension lifting. At the sight of her friend, the bats in her stomach became butterflies again and threatened to lift her off the ground. “Why?” 

At the sight of her smile, he returned a thousand-watt grin. She couldn’t contain the giggle that escaped her lips. They were teenagers again. Like schoolchildren, nervously swallowing stupid smiles, both of them trying to regain their composure.

“Because,” he said, his voice like honey, “I wanna take you to dinner.” She blushed, and he fixed her with a warm gaze, only cooling a bit. “And I wanna prove myself, that I-I... that I’m more,” he swallowed hard, the sincerity returning to his words. “More than just—”

The words fell away from his lips, his heart plunging into sorrow. She saw the drop, her smile fading at the sight. Goddamn doe eyes. She felt suddenly guilty. Alarmed. “You don’t have to—”

“No, no, no, I gotta say this, just let me say this,” he puffed, refocusing his intent. “I haven’t always been good to you. I know that. And I want you to know that I can be better. I wanna prove to you that I know how to treat a woman right, and... That I can treat you the way you deserve to be treated.” He swallowed hard, voice evening out, “You make me feel things that I didn’t even know I was still capable of feeling.”

Her eyes grew wide at this admission. He meant it. 

Dozens of feelings he thought were extinct. Joy. Mercy. Nerves. Excitement. Affection. Love.

“Hope.” He muttered, speaking the word like it was the name of a long-lost friend. “And for that, I know dinner is meaningless. But... it’s a start.”  He gazed at her endearingly, and it made her heart swell. 

“Yes,” she said, her smile equally bittersweet. “I’d love that.”

This wasn’t a date. Not the date. Peter assured her as much. 

Their date was Saturday, and it was Friday. And this wasn’t it.

She felt ridiculous. Stumbling around in an ivory-and-gold-sequined Versace mini dress she honestly mistook for a long-sleeved shirt. 

Hours before, Felicia raided her closet, tossing items at her with a fired-up ‘surprise, bitch, you and me are goin’ out!’ 

Felicia picked the shirt, laughing when Honey asked for the pants. She chose a carefully-curated item from the shoe collection—lace-up your boots, soldier— and chucked them at her. Disappointingly, they were not combat boots. Instead, it was a pair of black, pointed-toe Jimmy Choo stiletto pumps with crystal ankle straps. 

Honey brought up her concerns—how am I supposed to walk in those and not show my ass in this tiny shirt?— which Felicia also laughed off.

Because it wasn’t a shirt. It was an actual dress. And now, Honey felt like she was gripping the hem like the edge of a cliff, with wobbly legs like a baby giraffe on stilts.

“This... this isn’t the date,” Peter swore, sensing her discomfort as they pulled up. He opted for another Saint Laurent pairing—a burgundy velvet blazer, black silky shirt and black gabardine pants, along with Louboutin leather oxfords.

There was a row of freezing club-goers shivering on the sidewalk outside in a line wrapped around the block. Peter helped Honey out of the SUV, and guided her straight past the line. Keeping a respectful few inches of distance, he held his palm near her lower back as they walked through the entrance of the trendy, luxurious nightclub simply known as ‘Web.’ 

Which was a stupid name, she told Peter. 

Turns out it was his club.

And this wasn’t the date. It was business. 

Peter and his associates needed to visit a friend, he explained. This ‘night out’ was really a show of force, Honey realized. He was bringing his top lieutenants, Felicia, Miguel, and Eddie, to the party, as well as at least a dozen other faceless guards, who were told laughably to ‘blend in’ to the crowd.

The inside of the place was overwhelming. Instantly, her senses were overloaded. It was enormous, which made the exclusivity confusing. Sounds and sights and sensation hit her from all sides, a mixture of sirens, lasers, colored spotlights, confetti and fog cannons shooting off. At this stage, they were protected from the sweaty, bustling crowd below, observing the raging party from a balcony. Occasionally, she was blinded by the bright flashing of a 100-foot LED wall, which served as a backdrop for the DJ and could also light-up Times Square if they were close enough. 

Instinctively, she clutched Peter’s arm, worrying her rouge lip with her teeth. The feeling of her warmth set fire to his body. “This won’t take long,” he assured her, apologetically.

“Okay, Dad,” Felicia chirped, skipping up to them and hooking Honey’s free arm in hers. “If it’s okay with you, we’re gonna go out and play, byeeee!” She whisked her away, dragging her towards a staircase. Honey gave Peter a dizzied look as she was lead away.

His muscles pulled taut as his Honey disappeared from view. An ominous lump weighed down his stomach. He would’ve never brought her here at all, if it wasn’t his name on the lease. Felicia insisted that she needed a little freedom. A chance to blow off steam. And an opportunity for Peter to not come off like “a creepy, stalkerish, Nirvana’s-First-Album psychopath who collects her hair to make dolls.”

He grimaced at her comparison. I’m not that bad, am I?

After he tore someone’s head off in front of his whole crew, he figured his reputation could use a little improvement. And Peter wasn’t keen to leave her alone at home again, especially after Vegas.

“You doin’ okay?” Eddie asked quietly. Peter glanced over at him, yanking his downcast eyes from the floor. 

“Um,” he said, clearing his throat. Barely loud enough for the other man to hear. “Yeah, I’m just...uh, I... ” 

—monster... betrayer... parasite—

“That devil on your shoulder again?” Eddie asked with a sympathetic frown. 

Taking a deep breath, Peter nodded his head, rubbing his face tiredly. Eddie quietly observed him, then glanced around to make sure no one else was in ear shot. “Look, uh... I don’t wanna go into the details but... just so you know... nothin’ happened.”

Peter looked over at him, confused. Eddie stared back with an awkward, unsynchronized, conspiratorial wink. The other man knitted his brow incredulously. “What?”

“Y’know,” Eddie said, leaning in closer. “In Vegas.”

Peter’s face flushed red, brows raised. 

“Remember I said I scrubbed the security footage,” Eddie whisper-shouted, more conspicuously than he intended. “I scrubbed it. Saw everything.”

Peter’s eyes bugged out. “Wait, what?”

“Not everything!” Eddie whisper-exclaimed urgently. “I mean, nothing came out. Like, your junk didn’t come out. I didn’t see it.”

Peter felt his soul leave his body. He stared at Eddie him in horror, mouth agape, desperately shaking his head ‘no.’ 

“Like she was all over you,” Eddie whisper-explained, “in your fugue state, but it was nothin’ R rated. Didn’t make it past second base. No penetration, y’know? Except for the sword, when she—”

Peter threw up a hand, grimacing, “Okay, I don’t really want—”

“Your virtue is still intact, is what I’m tryin’ t’say,” Eddie whisper-blurted, like ripping off a bandaid. “Y’know. Your honor hasn’t been... uh... fucked away, I guess.”

Tight-lipped, Peter nodded rapidly, side-eyeing him. “Yeah, no, no, I appreciate that.”

“I’m just lookin’ out f’you, is all. I jus’thought you should know—”

“No, I get that. Got it. Thank you. Thank you—”

“In case you were broken up about it, y’know?"

“Yeah, yeah, thank you. Let’s...” Peter cleared his throat, avoiding eye contact. Swallowing his mortified embarrassment, he added, cordially, “Let’s... uh... let’s not talk about this ever again, yeah?”

“For sure,” Eddie whisper-agreed.

Peter took a deep, steadying breath, glancing around at his group, hearing them grow impatient.

Miguel glared at them from a distance, dissatisfied. “Are we gonna do this, or are you two gonna keep flirting? At least somebody buy the other a drink.”

Perturbed, Peter leveled a stern gaze at Miguel, silencing him. He then turned back to Eddie. “Keep an eye on them, will ya?” he asked, with a head-nod towards the dance floor. Worry in his eyes.

“Sure,” the other man nodded. Eddie left to look for Felicia and Honey, feeling the burn of judgmental gazes from the rest of Peter’s crew on his back. 

Rowdy shouts echoed from a separate lounge area perched above the crowd, the sounds lost and buried by the thrumming base of a Masked Wolf mix. Peter and Miguel glanced over at the sound of the commotion.

Scantily-clad models presented at least a half-dozen, ice-filled chillers of expensive bottles to a table like sacrificial offerings. They approached the altar with lit Roman Candles, the sparks from the fireworks raining down like the Fourth of July. A dozen other women—at least one of whom was an actual supermodel— gave praise with flutes and glasses raised.

With a skeptical glare, Peter narrowed his eyes on the center of everyone’s attention—the god they were all there to worship. His old friend. Professional boxer and future heavyweight champion of the world, Danny ‘Iron Fist’ Rand.

“You’d think he’d be taking it easy, especially right before a big fight.” Peter turned towards the voice of another one of his associates—the manager of the club, Jessica Drew. 

The gorgeous woman strode towards the group flaunting a cardinal red, wide-leg jumpsuit with citrine-jeweled embellishments on the halter neckline. Her fluffy, blown-out coils were pulled up high in a wide, red, ruched-fabric headband. A matching golden jewel glittered at the crown of the wrap.

“Jessica,” Peter greeted her with a warm gaze. 

She glanced over to the Rand party with a withering look, rolling her eyes. “Boys never know when to give it a rest, huh?”

Peter softly smiled, nodding in reply. “No rest for the wicked,” he replied. “Let’s get this done, yeah?”

Continue to Part 12

[back to masterlist]

a/n Part 11 and 12 were originally one section, so think of this as 11.A.

If you want to be tagged, please reblog so I can add you to the list. And thank you for all of your comments, replies, asks, and feedback, to me and to other fanfic writers. Your support keeps fanfic alive.

[gloomskulls]

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚LIMERENCE PT 2 [tasm!peter parker x reader]

pairings: tasm!peter parker x reader

part 1

⇢ ˗ˏˋ SUMMARY ୨୧ after finding the courage and the balls to ask you out, Peter couldn't help but test the waters.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ WARNING ୨୧ reader is drunk and drunk people cannot give consent), terribly written smut (i'm a virgin i'm sorry, I have no idea what goes on actually in the bed), oral (fem receiving), drinking, drunk reader, overstimulation, everyone is 18+ here lemme know if I missed any. MINORS DO NOT READ

If you don't want to see my dark stories in the future please block the tag #madi: dark content

A/n: I'm sorry this took a whole ass while, it's probs 90% story and 10% smut. Like it's probs shit, the smut's the reason why I couldn't finish this sooner because I had no idea where it was going. Also tried to write 2012 slang, idk if it even sounds right. don't steal any of the shit I've written or else I'm going to turn you into Victoria Heyes from terrifier ❤️🫶/srs

Peter shuffled in his sleep. Tossing and turning. Sleep never found him, how could it? He did something so unforgivable. Having an obsession with someone who barely acknowledges your existence is one thing, but sneaking into her house, completely crossing every single line, and then jerking off to the scent of your panties while imagining you on top of him, riding him as you creamed his cock with your cum.

The air felt heavy and there was an almost stifling silence in his small bedroom, while his mind worked in the manner of a broken machine, looping thoughts.

Every single thing about you — your laugh, the spark in your eyes when you spoke of something you loved, the way you uttered his name — his mind kept replaying like a broken record. Each one felt as fresh as if it had just taken place a moment ago, and each one pulled at something deep within his chest.

He had spent years arguing with himself about what he was doing. He told himself that viewing you from a distance was merely innocent fascination, a little crush. But that had been a lie. What he had done the night before, sneaking into your room was not a mistake; it was a deliberate decision.

Peter was filled with doubts, a regular person would call him lovesick, a creep even. Is she really worth it? Peter admits something he'd been avoiding for a while.

He wanted you.

Not as a classmate. Not as a partner for a stupid project. He wanted you in a way that was raw and desperate and consuming. Oh, he wanted you to look at him the way you look at the rest of the world with trust, with affection, with the same ease that made you laugh at his dumb jokes.

The realization hit him hard. The weight of it sank into his chest like a boulder, but there was a rush of something else too-something darker, more intoxicating.

Peter sat up abruptly, there's only one way or another, heart hammering as he snatched up his phone. Tapping out a quick message, he did so with trembling hands.

"Hey, u free 2nite? Was thinkin maybe we could finish the proj & grab dinner after. My treat. :)"

He stared at the screen, his thumb hovered over the send button. The fear crept back in, whispering in the back of his mind. What if she thought he was crazy? What if she rejected me outright? What if everything he'd built up in his head came crashing down?

Many thoughts crowded his mind, neither of them was good

As he stared at the text, his finger quivered. His stomach tightening in knots. The reply was already forming in his mind—would you say yes? Or perhaps he was weird for asking, for suggesting anything other than school?

But what if he didn't ask? What if he kept on pretending that this crush wasn't eating him up from the inside?

I've got to do this; he tried to steady his breath. This would never come again.

Deep breath and then Peter clicked "send."

Time seemed to stretch into eternity. His mind was racing, spinning out into the worst-case scenarios. You could just say no or even laugh it off and tell him it wasn't a good idea. It's a biology project, after all. That's what it was supposed to be—right?

That crumbled page of biology scraps lay on his desk as evidence of the project you both were working on. It was supposed to be a simple collaboration, probably will last for a few weeks if he was lucky, and then he'd just go back to being invisible to you.

But he didn't want to go back to being invisible.

He sat there at the edge of the bed, hunched over in an awkward position, his elbows rested on the stretched knees, and he stared his phone, convinced that at any moment it would leave his grip. He had typed the message, the own words glowing brighter as he waited.

He had redone it like at least a dozen times, but all versions felt way too casual to too formal. His current message was just right; friendly, innocent enough but still an invite.

What if you think it is strange? What if you don't even reply at all?

He shook his head to stabilize his breathing. It's alright, he told himself. His not asking for something crazy. It's only a dinner.

But it wasn't just a dinner. It was the convergence of years of quiet yearning, stolen glances, and missed opportunities. This was the first real step toward something more, if only he could find the courage to take it.

He shunned his phone flat on the bed thinking that might ease the tension in his chest, but it didn't. His heart raced as seconds ticked by on the clock, each second feeling like an eternally long wait.

What if you didn't reply?

What if you did?

His thoughts were interrupted abruptly as his phone buzzed.

He grabbed it with trembling hands.

"Sure! I'm totally in. Where r we meeting? 7?"

He read the message over and over again: You're saying yes. Relief was an actual weight that was just lifted as disbelief flooded him as he blinked at the screen, rereading the message to make sure it hadn't been imagined.

For a moment, he allowed himself to smile, but it quickly disappeared. Now that he got the answer, a different kind of panic struck.

What happens next?

"Yea 7’s cool, I’ll pick u up @ ur place"

He looked up at the clock-6:30. In thirty minutes, he needed to get ready. Thirty minutes within which he needed to figure out how not to screw this one up completely.

Peter fell out of his chair and quickly rifled through his closet for something fresh and unique that didn't look like it had just been thrown on five minutes ago. His room was strung out in a mess of hoodies and T-shirts that didn't do any good as he tried on piece after piece-each feeling wrong.

"Relax," he murmured at himself while gazing at his reflection in the mirror. Hi hair looked like he just crawled out from under the bed, his face was red, and no matter how many adjustments he attempted on the clothes, he still looked like the awkward kid he'd always been.

Peter raced around his pod-sized room in search of a shirt that didn't scream "high school loser." The bed was a battlefield littered with crumpled hoodies, a checkered flannel, even his Midtown Science Academy T-shirt.

"Peter?" Aunt May's curious sounding voice called out from the hallway.

"Yeah?" he shouted back while looking through his closet and listening.

"Why does it sound like a tornado hit your room? Are you okay in there?"

Peter groaned and threw another hoodie onto the pile he was amassing on the bed. "I'm fine!"

The creaky door slammed open a moment later, and Aunt May peeked her head in. Her sharp eyes traveled the disaster area that was his room, from the piles of clothes, and even down to the one sneaker he was wearing.

"Uh-huh. Fine." She crossed her arms, leaning against the doorframe. "What's all this about? A wardrobe crisis?"

He sighed at her and rubbed the back of his neck. "Nothing serious, okay? I just… I'm going out."

May raised an eyebrow as her lips twitched as if trying hard not to smile. "Going out? As in… on a date?"

"What? No!" Peter's voice shot up as he spun around, waving his hands. "It's not a date! It's just dinner. For a project. With a friend."

By now, she wasn't even trying to hide her grin. "A 'friend,' huh? Is this the same 'friend' you've been talking about nonstop since this biology project started?"

"I don't talk about her nonstop!" protested Peter, turning into a shade of tomato. "Oh, you definitely do," Uncle Ben countered from outside the hallway and into the room, sporting the knowing smirk of someone who has heard too much. "Half the time, it's, 'Oh, she's so smart,' and the other half is, 'She's so good at this lab thing.'" He said with a dreamy tone

"Okay, okay, so I get it!" he groaned while burying his face in his hands. "Can we not do this now?"

Ben laughed and slapped Peter on the shoulder. “Relax, kid. We are just teasing, and you've got this.”

May walked into the room and picked up one of the forgotten shirts from the bed. Holding it up, she said, "What is wrong with this? Nice but casual, not slobby."

Peter squinted at it. "It's too—I don't know; plain?"

"Plain is better than looking as if you are trying too hard," she said, tossing it to him.

Uncle Ben nodded sagely. "It's right." "You don't want to go full tuxedo on a first—uh, not a date," he added quickly, holding up his hands when Peter glared at him.

Peter huffed but pulled the shirt over his head anyway. "You two are the worst," he muttered, though his tone lacked any real bite.

May smiled and reached out, smoothing the collar of his shirt. "We are not the worst. We are just proud of you. It's good to see you putting yourself out there."

"I'm not—," Peter began, but Ben cut him off.

"You are," Ben said firmly. "That's a good thing. Just be yourself, Pete. If she's as great as you say she is, she'll see what we see, a smart, kind, slightly awkward but very lovable kid."

Peter's face burned. "Yea, you really know how to give a pep talk."

"Hey, it worked, didn't it?" Ben fired back with a grin.

May handed Peter his second sneaker. "Here. Don't forget this, unless you're planning to really impress her with your one-shoe look."

Peter rolled his eyes but could not quite hide the grin that crept onto his lips. "Thanks, Aunt May."

So Ben called after him as he grabbed his jacket and headed for the door. "And remember, kid—Italian places usually give you breadsticks first. Don't fill up before the main course!"

Peter groaned loudly. "I'm going now! Bye!"

He was there, at your door, heart pounding heavily, as if wanting to burst out from the body. He lingered for a while, staring at the doorbell.

What if this is a mistake?

But before you could think otherwise, the button pressed his finger.

And then echoed the sound of the bell from inside, and Peter felt that the earth would open up and swallow him whole in an instance. He heard footsteps, and then the door opened.

There you were.

"Hey, Peter!" you said, smiling that effortless way that made his breath catch in his throat, stepping aside and gesturing for him to come in. "You're right on time, I just need a minute to grab my bag."

Peter managed a small smile and stepped in, wiping his sweaty palms against his jeans. "Yeah, of course. Take all the time you need."

You disappeared into another room, leaving Peter hanging awkwardly at your door, his eyes darting about. It was a very warm and inviting house, in harmony with the kind of person you were. The faint hum of a television in another room was muffled, someone talking, and he could hear that easily.

Your presence returned with your bag slung around your shoulder and you ignited the nerves again in Peter.

“So,” you said, smiling at him, “where to?”

Peter hesitated just a beat too long, his mind scrambling to come up with an answer. "Uh, I was thinking Italian? That okay with you?"

"Italian sounds great," you said easily as your smile widened.

Peter's heart raced as you stepped out the door, walking beside him toward the small restaurant a few blocks away. The night air was crisp, and for the first few minutes, he was too caught up in his own head to say much. But then you started talking, asking him about his day, about the project, and the sound of your voice eased some of his tension.

You made him feel like he belonged, even without having a word to say.

When the restaurant came in sight, Peter turned to you. Nerves still there but mixed with something else: a quiet and hopeful excitement.

Maybe just maybe, tonight will be the beginning of something real.

The walk to the restaurant was such a nerve-racking experience. Each step Peter Parker took beside you felt like a step closer to something he wasn't ready (or was actually hoping for). His hands buried deep in his jacket pockets, fingers curling and uncurling, while trying to keep steady pacing alongside you.

But you appeared to be at full ease. You talked about the cool evening, how the trees' leaves were beginning to rustle with the cold wind blowing, and even the faint smell of roasting chestnuts from a street vendor a few blocks away. Peter heard everything, nodded, and punctuated things now and then with the occasional "Yeah" or "Totally," but as for his thoughts, they were running wild within him.

This is well. This is the standard. This is alright, He didn't over hypothesize for the hundredth time.

As much as there was relief in now having something solid to focus on, Peter was panicked that it all became real at that moment.

He opened the door for you, his hand trembling slightly as he held it.

"Thanks," you said, giving him a swift smile before stepping inside.

"Uh, yeah. Of course," Peter mumbled as he hung his head and followed you in.

The hostess took you to a corner besides the glass window, a cozy little spot with a flickering candle in the middle of the table. Peter's hands trembled as he took the chair and gestured you to sit on it.

The menu in front of him could be in another language as he stared dumbly at it, words bringing into a blur while the thoughts buzzing in his head were getting harder to put to rest.

Don't be weird. Just be normal. What does "normal" even mean? Stop overthinking! You've got this!

"This place is nice," you commented as you scanned the menu. "How did you discover it?"

"Oh, um, my aunt used to like it here," Peter said, grateful he could answer such a question. "She says the lasagna is the best."

You grinned. "Aunt May has good taste. I will try that."

He nodded, yes, but could not stop the rush of nervous thoughts flooding his mind. He glanced at the menu as if studying it although he already knew what he would order. But his mind was instead filled with every possible thing he could screw up tonight.

Don't talk too much; don't laugh strangely; don't look like an idiot.

Here came the waiter, and you ordered effortlessly, laced with a polite smile as you handed him the menu. Peter stammered out his order and felt his palms sweat as he gave it. When the waiter walked away, Peter could feel your eyes on him, and it took everything he had to meet your gaze.

"So," you said, leaning in with elbows planted on the table, chin cradled in palm, "what's your thing, Peter?"

"My thing?" he said, taken aback. "Like, my thing?"

"Yeah, like… what do you do for fun? What are you really into doing when absolutely no one else is watching and judging?"

Peter blinked, trying to think of something that wouldn't sound lame. "Uh, well, I like photography," he said. "And science, I guess. Experiments, stuff like that."

You perked up. "Photography? That is cool. What kind of pictures do you take?"

"Mostly city stuff," he said, his voice gaining a bit of confidence. "You know, like weird angles, shadows, reflections. It's probably not that interesting to most people."

"I think it sounds interesting," you said. "I would love to see your pictures sometime."

Peter's heart was pounding so hard. "Really? Uh, yeah, sure. I mean, if you want."

That made the conversation flow more easily. You told him about your love-hate relationship with math, how sometimes you spent too long procrastinating by watching cooking shows instead of doing your homework, and how one time you tried to make crème brûlée and almost burned your stove.

“I had to open every window in the house,” you said, laughing. “My mom came home and thought I’d burned dinner. I didn’t tell her it was supposed to be dessert.”

Peter grinned, feeling just a little bit more at ease. “Maybe stick to cookies next time, huh?”

“Noted,” you said with a mock-serious nod.

Then it was time to eat. You both started digging into it while still keeping up your conversation. Peter quickly found himself becoming much more relaxed, finding it absolutely easy to talk to you when he didn't over-analyze every word. You burst into laughter each time his jokes finished, and whenever his eye fell into yours, everything around faded.

There was little doubt that he was doing this because he was desperate enough to strike a topic that wouldn't make him sound like an idiot; this was the reason why he asked, "You, uh, good with the whole project?"

You leaned back, fiddled with the napkin on the table, and said, "Yeah, it's actually been fun. Well, I mean, we work well together, and you're much smarter than I had thought."

Peter blinked. "Wait, you thought I wasn't smart?"

"No, I just-" You smirk, it's clear you're enjoying his reaction. "You always seem kinda… busy with stuff, you know? You're not exactly the loudest guy in the room."

"Well, I, uh…" Peter rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. "I'm, uh, more of a behind-the-scenes guy. You know, less talk, more… action?"

You laughed, the sound light and easy, and Peter felt himself get a little more relaxed. Maybe you weren't judging him.

'This place have wine?' you ask all of a sudden, not looking up from the menu.

Peter blinked. "Uh… I think so?"

You smirked and put your feet up on the table after throwing the menu on it. "Perfect. I could use a glass."

Peter was at a loss on how he should respond. It just didn't seem like the kind of person who would order wine to go with dinner-at least, not in his limited and admittedly romanticized view of you. But when the waiter came by, you ordered an entire bottle without hesitating, barely glancing at Peter for confirmation.

"Um, yeah, sounds good," Peter said weakly, even though the thought of drinking anything stronger than soda made him nervous.

The waiter nodded and disappeared, leaving the two of you alone in an awkward silence.

But the waiter was back again, this time with a bottle and two glasses, which he laid down with a polite smile. And before you knew it, the deep red liquid was already swirling around in your glass because you had poured it in haste from the bottle.

Want some? You asked, already halfway through your first sip.

“Uh, maybe later,” Peter said.

You shrugged and took another long drink before putting the glass down with a satisfied sigh. “Suit yourself.”

The most casual kind of conversation developed between you: you asked Peter about what he was interested in, and he managed to stumble along throwing together great lengthy descriptions about why he loved photography and science, and the words came out too fast for him to think them. It almost seemed like you were listening to him, however, because he went on to nod before even asking follow-up questions, which made him for the first time in a long time feel that he wasn't entirely invisible.

By that time, he was becoming aware, as the hours slipped away, that you were filling up your glass more and more often. The bottle was now half empty when the food came, and you were already sporting rosy cheeks when the alcohol was pouring into your system.

“This is good,” you said, hardly bothering with your plate in order to gesture with your fork at it. "I mean, really good. Good call, Parker.”

The smile that appeared on Peter's face was that of nervousness. "Thanks. I'm glad you like it."

Now you leaned back in your seat, holding your glass up to the light. "You know, I don't really do stuff like this. I've kind of never had dinner with classmates. It's just a little… weird, you know?"

Peter sank a little. "Weird, how?"

"Not bad weird," you said immediately by waving your hand. "Just… different. Like, generally, I would just be at home watching some lousy reality show and trying to forget how much homework I have to do."

Peter chuckled, even though he had no idea what to say next.

After a sip of wine, the boy looked up at Peter who immediately landed his gaze upon the bottle. You seem well into your first glass with a heightening sense of ease that you appeared to be at his home. Maybe it was because of the wine or perhaps how you were looking at him right now-not with judging spectatorship but with a strange kind of understanding that made him feel as if he were not really out of place.

It was only a count of seconds before the food arrived while you already had a second glass in hand. Peter's stomach flipped at that moment. This wasn't the way he was used to seeing you, all loosened up and speaking without that slight guard he usually saw when you were around. You appeared different tonight, and Peter couldn't quite figure it out if it was a good thing or not.

However, the conversation was still going on, only that as soon as you took a few more drinks, conversations shifted to more profound, much more personal things. Laughter spilled from your lips more freely, although Peter saw that smiles were now somewhat uncontrollable. Maybe it was the wine; maybe it was just the ambience. In any case, he could feel something shifting, like you were letting him see this version of yourself you weren't sure he was supposed to see.

"Peter", you said, looking at him with wide eyes after a long sip. "What's your big dream? Like 20 years from now, what do you see yourself doing?"

He shifted around uneasily on his chair. And that question was sudden, a little more intense than he would have reckoned it to be. He was not used to being asked about his future like this.

"Honestly?" said Peter, leaning back a little and looking down at the half-finished plate in front of him. "I don't really know. I think- I think I want to do something with science, or photography. Maybe combine. Don't know really. Just like, I want to fix things, you know? Help make the world a little less broken.''

You were quiet for a moment, and Peter wasn't sure whether it was because he'd said something wrong or whether you were just thinking. But when you finally spoke, your voice was softer, almost quieter than before.

"I think that's really admirable, Peter."

That was it. That one simple sentence hit him harder than he expected. He wasn't used to compliments like that- not from you, not from anyone. The words were a strange dream, and for a second he just looked dumbfoundedly at you trying to really understand what you mean.

Peter had never imagined the night to go this way. Not even in a million years. But here he was, walking alongside you, swaying slightly on the sidewalk with less steadiness in your step than before. Surprisingly, the wine had hit you faster than he figured, and he wasn't so sure if he should be concerned or just chalk it up to the kind of night it had turned into.

"Hey, I'm-" You hiccupped, laughing lightly at your own clumsiness. "I'm fine, Peter. Really."

But Peter wasn't so sure. His instincts were whipping him into overdrive-the same ones that always made him want to leap into action when something was amiss. "Yeah, I don't think you are," he said, trying to keep it light. "Let me just walk you home, okay? Just to make sure you're good."

But you rolled your eyes, with an almost sheepish smile you gave in, "Fine, fine. I get it. You're worried about me."

"Yeah, I am," Peter said, his voice a little quieter than he intended. "But you're my responsibility right now, okay?"

You exhale a small laugh, and Peter can't help but take note of how completely giddy it sounded, a little like you weren't quite sure where you were or what you were doing. You leaned against him, and then Peter was surprised at how easily you let him help you with that.

The way home was otherwise silent except for the occasional trip and the muttered apologies from you. But Peter didn't mind it, sensing closeness, although strange. Everything was just weird tonight. The brushing of your hand against his as you reached for your keys. That laugh of yours that wouldn't leave his ears. The vulnerability you seemed to wear in your eyes at that moment.

So, then you reached your door, and you suddenly stopped and stood there, fumbling with the keys in your hand. Peter moved closer but silently offered to help. You shook your head.

"I've got this," you said, though your words were slurring just enough for Peter to catch the uncertainty behind them.

After much effort on your part, the door finally opened. You leaned in again, and Peter nearly lost his heart as he had to rush forward to steady you.

"Whoa, take it easy," Peter said catching you as you stumbled. "Let me help you."

You smiled up at him, glassy and unfocused. "I'm fine, Peter," you slurred. "Just a little…tipsy."

Peter chuckled and guided you up the walkway to your front door. "Tipsy, huh? Well, let's get you inside and safe, then."

As you both reached the front door, you fumbled with your keys and Peter had to gently take them from your hand and unlock the door himself. You smiled up at him, your eyes sparkling with amusement.

After some time and a couple of tries, she got the door opened.

"Okay, inside," he said, his tone a little more powerful now. You did not resist him as he helped you through the door, but there was a strange sadness in your eyes that twisted Peter's stomach.

You moved slowly to the couch and finally sank down on it; the wine was exhausting. Peter stood near the door for a moment, wondering his next move. He wanted to shoot his shot, his thoughts wandered to somethings more inappropriate. Wasn't this all about getting you safe? Ensuring you did not end up passed out somewhere in a big, messy pile of sheets and regrets.

"Can you just… stay for a bit?" you asked quietly, with barely a whisper.

Peter hesitated. He didn't want to go too far, and he couldn't just leave you here, not looking so…fragile.

"Yes," he spoke softly, entering then into the living room. "I'll stay for a bit"

You nodded at him, gazing at him with tired eyes. "Thank you."

Peter perched on the edge of the couch; his hands awkwardly balanced on his knees. What a strange space there was between you two now, strange in that it was so very close, yet so far away. He wanted to be of some use and ensure you were okay, and yet the way the glance kept coming from you in that direction somehow felt… off. It was like walking on a fine line.

Peter looked at you longingly, you were so beautiful.

Too close and too perfect, he found himself sitting next to you, and Peter felt the pressure of so many things left uncommunicated fill his chest. He needed to do it. He needed to say it.

"Peter?" Your voice was a soft whisper, a little uncertain. Wine had aided this whole relaxing process, yet made almost everything feel slightly out of focus.

Peter swallowed, heart pounding in the chest. He wasn't entirely sure if it was the alcohol that has found narrate in your system, or if it was the raw honesty of the moment, but he knew very well it was now or never, the one chance to say all he had kept bottled up for months.

"Yeah?" he whispered, getting closer so that he was almost against you now.

"It's just that, I… I'm sorry if I've been too much tonight," you said, your words slightly slurring as you allowed your gaze to drift over his face. "I didn't mean to get that drunk."

Peter felt his breath hitch in his throat. "It's fine," he said, his voice softer now. He could feel his palms sweating, his heart racing faster than ever. "I just… I just want to make sure you're okay."

You smiled up at him, but it was a little foggy, and Peter could tell that the wine had dulled your clarity. Still, you were so beautiful, standing there, looking at him with those eyes—eyes that made him feel like he mattered.

Peter took a sharp breath and let a sudden breath of air come out. It was as if a magnet was pulling them together, and he was drawn to it. "So, uh– I was thinking…" He hesitated for a moment, then recovered his composure, trying to calm the trembling in his hands. "I've been thinking about you for a long time. Like, longer than I should have."

His brows knitted further in confusion as Peter quickly realized that the rest of the sentence was failing miserably in getting through your mind, as if the actual words were swimming around in it, suspended in fog. He stepped closer, unable to stop himself.

"If I—" He let out a shaky breath. "You know, I've been loving you for so long now. And tonight, I couldn't hold it anymore and just… broke the dam."

Your expression shifted slightly. Confusion clouded your gaze. You blinked, trying to piece together his words. "Wait, what?"

Peter took a step closer, completely incapable of holding himself back. His heartbeat pounded in his ears, and he felt the heat between you intensify. He reached out, his hand brushing gently against your arm. "I love you," he whispered again, barely able to breathe. "I love you so much, and I've been too scared to say it. I've watched you for so long, and I—" Peter stopped mid-sentence as he looked at you, eyes looking like a lost puppy.

"You're so beautiful, so so beautiful" He leaned in, your face was so close to him, his lips brushed against yours. He held your face as he licked your lips.

You could feel the warmth of his breath on your skin with just the proximity of Peter's face to yours, and the goosebumps it sent down your spine. Those eyes were filled deeply with a longing expression and captured yours as if drowning you in its depths. There was air that quite vibrated between the two of you, and the heat that seemed to take form could even be felt emanating from his body.

"I wanted to do that for so long," Peter whispered. His voice shuddered with desire. Gentle words falling like a caress to send shivers through you: "Wanted to touch you, hold you, kiss."

His lips brushed against yours when he spoke, making your body spark with electricity. You were pretty much melting into him, as if his very desire were consuming your human body. His lips, soft and gentle, just as firm and insistent. You tasted like wine.

"You're so beautiful" he said as his hands went underneath your dress, his hands inching close to your under garments. He touched your clothed core; he used his index finger to rub your clothed cover clit

You squirmed in his touch, "P-peter" You mewled in his mouth

This just seemed to fuel Peter even more, as he set aside your panties as his smooth fingers rubbed your now exposed core. Peter looked at you, he slowly kneeled as he spread your legs.

He looked at your wet core, as if it was a painting that he couldn't understand. Without warning he then sucked your glistening pearl; his tongue probed the inside of your gummy walls as his fingers rubbed your pearl. You cried out, your body arching up to meet him, and Peter felt a surge of excitement. He was in control now, and you were at his mercy.

He knew it was wrong, you were drunk after all, but he couldn't help it, this was his only chance.

He licked and sucked at your clit, his fingers plunging in and out of your dripping wet pussy, you cried out in ecstasy, your hands tugging at Peter's hair. But he didn't care, all he cared about was your dripping we cunt.

Anticipation dwells in the coiling mouth against your body, sending shivers along your spine. Every inch of you is lulled into stimulation by his gentle probing, drawing near to a soon-to-be-hidden insistent demand. You can feel that hot air glazing across your skin, soft scraping with teeth, and relentless pressure from his lips, all of which accompanies his tongue.

Your hands are clenched while he works, fingers digging into the sheets or perhaps his hair, holding him there. Your hips jerk primitively, as though to push him deeper and encourage more pressure, while your breathing makes raspy sounds mixed with soft mewls of pleasure.

One hand is busy at your hips, molding you solidly into place, while the other slips only up over the curve of your waist before settling over your breast.

You feel yourself immersing in the sensation as your focus is honed into one. The only critical thing is the feeling of his mouth on you. The whole room begins to fade away, and you're left with only the slushing wet sounds he makes and your breathless gasps, groans, and cries.

Peter on the other hand felt like he was in cloud nine, his mouth was now fully covered in your arousal, but he didn't care. He continued lapping at your cunt, accompanied with his middle finger thrusting in and out of you.

As the intensity rises, so do your frantic movements: the hips jerk and thrust as though reaching toward some ill-defined height. His mouth is a scythe-like blur of tongue lashing and probing until the pressure builds and you're all quivering trembling muscles, precariously balanced on a knife edge of release.

Your mouth is wide open, frozen in a silent scream on your lips, and your entire body starts quivering at the moment of release.

Then silence engulfs the outside world; its only inhabitants are trapped in a silent world of raw lust. His mouth is a furnace, raging, and threatening to engulf you completely, but you lean into the flames, thirsty for the intense heat that only he can provide. Your skin is slick with sweat, your heart thundering like a runaway train as your body builds toward the inevitable climax.

Your cries intensify as tension rises, a mournful cry into this frantic air, a scream savage, echoing off the walls as your body strains towards that release. Your muscles quivering.

Before you knew it, it almost hit you like rough wave of pleasure.

His cock twitched, his balls tightening with anticipation, as he felt the warmth of her your release in his mouth. That alone could make him cum his pants. He had never been this close to a woman before, and the thought of exploring your body was almost too much to bear. And here he was doing exactly just that.

You were beautiful to Peter, but you looked ungodly when you were in a state of release. The way your chest would heave up and down, how your mascara was running down your eyes, and your lipstick smudged on the side of your face.

"You're so beautiful" he said, barely even above a whisper.

"P-peter— OH MY GOD!"

He suddenly took a long slow stripe of your pussy, as if savoring everything, but then stopped when his tongue reached your clit. He sucked on your little pearl as if it was lollipop.

You moaned loudly as your back arched and your toes curled, "P-peter" You whimpered

The way he was sucking on your clit, along with his fingers that was thrusting deep inside you. It made it nearly unbearable. The last few moments or so almost sent you spiraling into one of those severe orgasms that made you see stars on your ceiling.

Loud moans slipped from your mouth, you wondered if your parents were at home, what if they see their sweet girl falling apart underneath the so-called weird kid of your school.

Your hips bucked against his mouth, trying to ease the bittersweet pleasure he was giving you. "P-peter, oh god, stop, I c-can't take it anymore" you begged in a voice very nearly a whisper. Body trembling, your hands reached instinctively for his hair, holding him.

He continued his performance on your clit. A familiar knot kept building inside you. Suddenly, the moans turned into loud gasps, and your body began to shake uncontrollably. P-peter, I…I think I'm going to come again" you finally whisper. To that, he only sucked harder, licked harder, his fingers falling on a rhythm with his tongue swirling relentlessly on your sensitive spot, bringing you to sweet agony. Your back arched up, you gasp while screaming, "P-PETER!"

Heaving and shaking with each pulsing moan, you lay there with your body's hypersensitivity after such intense pleasure receding. Finally, Peter raised his head. That satisfied smile on his face was testimony to your ability to elicit such feelings from him. And with his eyes, he stared at you, every flicker of lust speaking volumes about what was crossing his mind. Then he kissed near the center of time in your inner thigh, his lips dragging softly, and then moving to lie with you at the side of the couch

Peter's smile slowly faded as he noticed your catch of breath, replaced with a show of real concern. He stroked your hair as he gazed into your eyes. "That was intense," Peter said. "You're shaking." His voice was tender, wrapping around you like a soft blanket. "Time to get you to bed, all right?"

He managed a slowly rise from the couch while extending his hand forward towards you. You grasped onto it and found your balance shaky; nonetheless, Peter assisted you toward leaving the living room, down the hallway, and into your bedroom.

Peter opened your door slowly, revealing the bedroom from that night. Snap out of your thoughts Parker!

The bedside lamp cast a warm glow over the room. Peter placed you carefully at the edge of the bed. He knelt down to remove your shoes and started undressing you slowly and carefully. He threw the covers over you as you laid back in bed, tucking you in like a young child.

"Rest," he whispered as he brushed his lips against your forehead. "Sleep, I'll be here when you wake." He sat beside you, stroking your hair with his hand. Your eyelids began to feel heavier, and weariness, along with all the forms of pleasure, finally overtook you. Peter was the last person you remember as you slipped into slumber, where upon you felt the warmth beside you that offered the source of a much-needed sense of safety.

@gloomskulls 2024, DON'T COPY, TRANSLATE OR USE OF MY WORKS IN ANY OTHER WEBSITE. Photos don't belong to me

[amorchai]

𝐓𝐀𝐒𝐌!𝐏𝐄𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐒 𝐓𝐎 𝐘𝐎𝐔.

written for my old blog but never posted!

pairing(s): tasm!peter parker x reader

words: 873

warnings/tags: proposal + nervous pete.

peter was surprised you hadn’t caught on yet. anytime you held his hand, he was terrified when you would ask if he’s okay, having noticed him shaking and sweating, anytime he would speak to you he would stutter but after asking him if he was alright, you would shrug it off when he replies, ‘course.’

all he would say was that he was overwhelmed from the party, people around the house as a gathering on the same day as your anniversary with peter. while one hand held yours, his other was stuffed in his pocket where his finger ran over the ring box. 

gwen winking at him knowingly as he smiles back scared, no one else in the party knowing that peter was hopefully going to have a fiancée by the end of the night.  

“are you sure you’re okay?” peter drags his eyes away from watching his feet slightly kick the tiled floor in your shared kitchen, jumping in surprise while you lightly tug his hand for him to focus. “what—? oh, yeah. yeah i am, baby. i just— i’m just slightly overwhelmed.”

it wasn’t too busy, just some friends and family over, music not too loud, but you knew his heightened senses meant he could get easily agitated by these things. “do you want to step outside for five? we could go up to the roof?” you ask. 

“hm?” he mumbles again, eyes looking back at the floor before back at you, “oh— um. s-sure, that would be great, thank you,” he replies, watching your expression which continuously grows more worried. he doesn’t understand why he is this nervous.

but as you begin to walk out of the kitchen, pulling him behind you and politely passing people with a small, “we’ll be right back,” peter realises that it was the moment it was going to happen. he knew you both wouldn’t want it to happen in front of everyone, a quiet moment on the roof atop their flat where everyone they love was waiting downstairs sounded perfect. 

you didn’t speak again until you opened the door to the roof, entering the airy space and looking onto the city of new york, dark skies contrasting with the lights within windows of buildings and on the busy streets, “that’s better.”

peter felt like he could breathe again, the wind floating past as he takes a deep breath, walking beside you as you near the rooftop edge, leaning against the wall. your shoulders touch as you lean in close to him, peter watching you as you gaze around the city in front of you. 

your hair breathing against the wind, your eyes slightly squinted as well and peter can’t help but lean in to kiss your cheek gently. 

you smile, turning your head to look at him, “you okay, spidey?” you ask him, hand re-finding his as you lace your fingers together with affection. “never better,” he replies, both of you smiling at each other giddily before instinctively leaning in to kiss you softly. 

both of your bodies turn to each other, peter’s spare hand tangling slightly into your hair as he pours all his love he has for you into the kiss, overwhelmed at the feeling of what’s to come, and you don’t even know yet. 

you lightly gasp once he pulls away, both hands moving to settle against his chest as you catch your breath, peter tucking a few strands of your hair behind your ear as he watches, “i have something i wanted to ask you.” 

nodding, you feel your eyebrows tug together as you wordlessly usher him to ask and peter feels nauseous and light headed as he reaches into his pocket to pull out the ring box.

you look down where his hand was, eyes widening slightly as your hands cover your mouth while gasping. peter steps back before falling onto one knee and opening the box, “i’ve been nervous this entire night to ask but after waiting for years, i don’t think i can wait another minute from asking you to marry me.”

he rambles slightly, yet able to not tumble over his words as he speaks, peter’s eyes gazing into your tear-filled eyes, his not far behind. “so, will you marry me, y/n?” he asks. 

his cheeks hurt from the widest grin plastered on his when you nod before saying, “of course i will,” he goes to reach into the ring box but before he can take it out he feels you collapse into his arms, pulling into a tight hug as you both begin to cry. 

peter’s arms secure you to him, one holding the back of your head while the other gently across your waist while grasping the box. “i love you, i love you so much,” peter repeats into your hair lowly, both of your faces wet from tears as the exciting next step in your relationship begins.

finally, you pull back as you both stand from your kneeling positions and you both laugh together through slight sobs as peter slides the ring onto your finger. you both keep laughing together, in disbelief as he uses his thumbs to caress the tears away from your cheeks before leaning in to kiss you again.

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amorchai © ─ all rights reserved. no reposting/translating/copying will be tolerated.

[spider-stark]

A DARK AGE

next part

summary - it's been nine months since you watched your best friend, gwen stacy, plummet to her death; an event that ultimately caused new york's hero to abandon the city entirely. now that he's finally returned you find yourself being forced to confront the ugly truth you've been running from.

series warnings - 18+, minors DNI, will contain depictions of violence, sexual content, dark themes, and more. i will do my best to place warnings at the beginning of each chapter, but please read at your own risk.

word count - 10.3k

// a dark tasm!fan fiction // masterlist // send me your thoughts //

THE BUGLE was buzzing to life in a way it hadn’t in ages. Landlines were ringing off the hook, accentuated by a chorus of email and text notifications crying out from every cell phone in the building. As you stepped out of the elevator you found yourself staring at a sea of amateur reporters, all of them gathering on the far side of the office around a television set. 

You clutched the coffee in your hand tighter to keep it from spilling as a young man accidentally bumped into you, quickly moving to join the herd of his peers. You shot him a nasty look, ignoring the swift apology he muttered out as he continued to rush past you. 

Despite your intrigue at the collective panic of your coworkers, you didn’t bother moving to join them around the TV. Instead, you walked the clear opposite direction, making a beeline for the office of the only man in New York City that you trusted to know exactly what all of this fuss was about. 

“What the fuck is going on?” 

Workplace etiquette had flown out the window for you a long time ago. Reporters didn’t have time for benevolence. 

“They’re acting like rowdy animals out there. Foswell is running around the office like he’s in a goddamn marathon! Nearly gave me a third degree burn trying to get past me.” 

A vehement grunt was the first thing to leave Jameson’s mouth, which constituted a typical greeting for him. Following it was the shrill squeak of his old office chair as he spun around to face you. “Haven’t seen the news, y/l/n?” 

You furrowed your brows. “We are the news.” 

Another noise of discontent, followed by a hand coming up to rub viciously at his eyes. If you had learned anything during your time at the Bugle, it was that Jameson was always upset, which meant that you rarely found his vexed appearance very concerning. Yet, despite that, you couldn’t help but get the feeling that something was off. 

“The Daily Globe.” The name of the Bugle’s biggest competitor slipped past his lips like a slur, Jameson’s lip curling as if it had somehow left a bad taste in his mouth. “Some jackass at the station leaked info to them before they even got the crime scene taped off. Bushkin had everything plastered on their front page this morning before most of us even had time to pour a bowl of Special fucking K!” 

“What crime scene?” 

His hand dropped from his face down to his lap, shooting daggers straight at you. “You’re a reporter, y/l/n! Check the fucking headlines for once in your life!” 

“Sorry,” you sneered at him, “some of us actually have a life outside of work.” 

Of everyone at the Bugle, you were the only one with the authority (and the audacity) to backtalk Jameson and actually live to tell the tale. It was a perk of being his top investigative reporter, one that you never let go to waste. 

If anyone else dared to get snarky with him, he’d likely send a paperweight flying at their head. But, since it was you, he only responded to your comment with a dry chuckle—primarily because he was aware that you were lying through your teeth. 

The Bugle was all that was left of your life, the one remaining piece after you had lost everything nine months ago. Jameson knew how fresh the wound still was, how hard you fought to ignore what you’d gone through, and so he elected not to make an actual comment on your remark; a subtle indication that the crotchety man actually did have a heart. 

“Remember Aleksei Sytsevich?” 

You nodded, patience already growing thin as you waited for him to finally just tell you what happened. At this point you were beginning to think you would have been better off to gather around the TV with the rookies. “Of course I remember him,” you told him, “I’m the one that wrote the story on him hijacking that Oscorp truck last year. He goes by the Rhino now, right?” 

Each of you formed your own twisted expressions at the name Sytsevich had picked for himself. The name was fitting given the military grade battlesuit he’d managed to snag from Oscorp, but it was a tad too on the nose for your taste. It lacked creativity, though neither of you really expected anything better to come from the former Russian mafia leader. 

“Sometime last night he was found in an alley off 102nd.” Jameson declared, following you with his eyes as you moved towards his desk, taking a seat in one of the old chairs that sat in front of it. “Beaten to a goddamn bloody pulp.” 

Your nose scrunched up slightly. 

If it were anyone other than Sytsevich that had been left to bleed out in the dead of the night, you might have felt a bit of sympathy for them. But, instead, you only felt hopeful that Jameson would confirm the question that already fell past your lips, “He’s dead?” 

It was cruel to wish death on anyone. You should have felt guilty for the way your chest swelled with hope as you waited for Jameson to reply, but you didn’t. New York was running short on heroes these days, which meant that more and more criminals had begun to use that to their advantage, making a hobby out of terrorizing the innocent. 

Sytsevich had already escaped the Vault once, the so-called impenetrable prison, which meant that sending him back to jail was all but useless. But death? Not even Sytsevich would be able to crawl back from that. 

“No.” 

Your heart nearly sank, and you could tell that the sentiment was shared by Jameson, who looked equally as disappointed. After all of the innocent lives Sytsevich had claimed, he deserved to be put six feet under. 

“Not yet, at least.” He clarified, “As soon as they noticed a pulse they had him life-flighted to North General. Good news is that they don’t think he’s gonna make it through the weekend.” 

You snorted at Jameson’s execution of the comment, as well as the childlike joy that seemed to twinkle in his eyes as he thought about the possibility of Sytsevich finally being gone for good. Still, you could tell that there was more. That he hadn’t quite told you the full story. 

While the impending death of a former mafia leader was quite a story, there was little chance that it had been enough to piss Jameson off so much that the Daily Globe got word of it first. 

Criminals die every day, especially in a city like this. It was hardly front page material. 

“So you mean to tell me that the world is in hysteria all because Sytsevich is about to kick the bucket?” You questioned him, nudging your head in the direction of his office door, encouraging him to acknowledge his frantic employees as they paced the office floor. 

“It sucks that the Globe got to it first, but we should be celebrating!” As demented as it might seem, it was true. “But instead you’re in here wallowing as if we just missed out on the story of the year.” 

The joy that he had felt just moments ago was now extinguished entirely, replaced with an expression that carried far more weight. 

“You’re right. Sytsevich dying an excruciating death would be a fucking fit from a God I don’t believe in, y/l/n.” His forehead creased, thin lines appearing between his brows as he pressed a button on the laptop in front of him, tapping a few keys before turning the screen around to face you. “But the story isn’t just about his death—it’s about who killed him.” 

A wave of shock slammed into you like a ton of bricks, hard enough that it made you lose your grip on the disposable cup in your hand, the contents of it staining the old carpet that lined Jameson’s office. Neither of you paid any mind to the mess and you became consumed by the headline on the homepage of the Daily Globes website. 

SPIDER-MAN RETURNS - BRUTALLY ATTACKS ESCAPED CRIMINAL 

Your eyes grew wide, air getting caught in your lungs as you worked to keep yourself from vomiting right on Jameson’s desk. 

“No.” The word slipped out from under your breath without approval, a flash of pity washing over Jameson’s face as he took in your reaction. He had expected it, though, aware that of every reporter in New York, you would likely have the most intense response to the news. 

But your shock quickly began to morph into something more closely resembling rage. “There’s no way, right? Spider-Man’s been awol for months, J! They really expect us to think that out of every enemy Sytsevich has made that Spider-Man would be to one to fucking kill him? It’s bullshit! They’re just trying to get eyes on their shitty paper!” 

Jameson’s brows raised, clearly agreeing with the sentiment. He was never one to miss an opportunity to slam the Globe. “Normally I’d agree with you,” he mused, turning the laptop back around, “but the NYPD confirmed that Sytsevich was restrained with webs, y/l/n. It doesn’t look good.” 

Your blood ran cold, turning to ice in your veins. Darkness started to take over your peripheral vision, threatening to consume the entire space around you. Images flashed through your head—asphalt painted with thick blood, bones snapping, his gruesome screams—it was a past that you had fought so hard to put behind you, only for it to now creep back up on you. 

You instinctively clutched the bag at your side, half debating reaching inside for the little orange bottle you hadn’t touched in months. You restrained yourself though, terrified to feel as if you needed to rely on the pills again. Things were getting better. 

“Spider-Man’s not a murderer.” Your voice was so hesitant, so uncertain, and it made it difficult to tell who the statement was meant to convince, Jameson or yourself. 

Jameson’s shoulders lifted into a lazy shrug as he leaned back in the rickety chair, the plastic creaking at the shift of his weight. You were aware of his stance on Spider-Man, but even he had never considered the possibility of the vigilante committing something like this. 

“No, he isn’t.” He agreed with you, evoking a bit of shock. “But he’s about to be. He’s the only one that can be linked to the crime scene. If Sytsevich dies—and it’s only a matter of time—then Spider-Man’s the one going down for it.” 

Your mind was reeling, yet your body remained motionless, your gaze fixed onto the floor. Coffee still leaked from your cup, forming a sizable stain that only grew with every second that passed. You didn’t care. 

It had been months since anyone had last seen Spider-Man, and during that time, New York had already begun to turn on him. Citizens hadn’t yet forgotten their debt to him, the countless times in which he’d nearly laid his life down for the city, but that didn’t mean that many hadn’t grown to resent him. 

They had been abandoned by their hero, left to question if he was even still alive. And if this was how he returned? A killer? 

“It’ll turn into a man-hunt.” 

There was no other outcome for it, you both knew that much. Since his disappearance, an eerie sense of unrest had settled in the streets. Spider-Man’s absence had created a whole slew of problems, things that the NYPD weren’t equipped to handle. Hope had already become such a precarious thing, and if it were confirmed that their lost hero had abandoned his own code of ethics? It would destroy all that's left. It would unleash pure chaos. 

It would be the dawn of a new age. 

A dark age. 

“Maybe.” He was being cautious with his approach, aware that this topic had the ability to turn you into little more than a ticking time bomb. “Still, there’s not any cold hard proof that he was the one to send Sytsevich to his death bed. All they know for certain is that he was at the crime scene.” 

It was strange to hear those words from Jameson, crafted as a defense for the vigilante he swore to hate. If anything, that only increased your already heightened level of fear. 

Of everyone in the world, you would have never imagined that Jonah J. Jameson would be willing to testify that Spider-Man was innocent in anything. 

“I already told Urich to assemble a team, get out on the streets, and start finding some real proof. I’ve got a source at North General giving me hourly updates on Sytsevich, but we still don’t have much time to put together a story.” 

Your eyes snapped up to meet his, your face contorting into a sour expression as you flung out of your chair, ignoring everything about his statement except for one detail. 

“Fuck Urich!” You screamed loud enough that more than a few heads turned from outside Jameson’s office, a few of them now attempting to eavesdrop as the conversation became heated. “This is my story, J.” 

He sucked in a deep breath, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. He’d anticipated this reaction too. 

“No, y/l/n, it’s not!” Jameson’s own voice boomed, easily rivaling yours in volume. You didn’t so much as flinch. “Last time you chased a story with that Spider-fuck you nearly died! You’re staying away, got it?” 

You gritted your teeth, taking another step towards his desk, closing in on him. “You said it yourself J, we’re running out of time, right? You need someone that knows what they’re dealing with. Urich doesn’t have any connections to Spider-Man! I do!” 

Somehow you believed that preaching these facts to Jameson would change his mind, as if he didn’t already know about your past encounters with the hero, like he wasn’t the one that published the stories you had done on him. 

“I’m one of the last people to even see him alive, J!” You reminded him, finally letting your tone drop back to a normal volume as you continued, “Urich might be able to snoop around a crime scene, but I’m the only one with a chance of getting an actual statement from him.” 

Both of you knew that your claim was a bit far-fetched. If this were last year, getting a statement from Spider-Man would have been a piece of cake for you. But now? 

It was different. 

Either way, Jameson didn’t seem willing to budge. “A statement isn’t worth losing my best reporter.” 

If the circumstances were different you likely would’ve teased him for the comment, for making it so obvious that you were one of the only things to matter more to Jonah J. Jameson than a story. 

“Fine.” You snapped, clicking your tongue against the roof of your mouth as you challenged him. “Then I quit.” 

His face blanched. “You what?” 

“I’ll pursue the story on my own. Get a detailed fucking statement from Spider-Man—a few pictures, too.” You crossed your arms over your chest, entirely unwavering as you held his gaze. “Then I’ll sell it to the Globe.” 

Jameson’s face turned beet red, his eyes narrowing at your threat. “Don’t be stupid. You’d need an entire team to go after a story this big.” 

You mocked the lazy shrug he had offered just moments ago. “No, Urich needs a team. All I need is a few hours and some phone calls.”

Ben Urich would need access to several of the Bugle’s best reporters in order to conduct enough research to even know where to begin. Aside from that, you and Jameson both knew that one of the best potential sources for this story layed beyond the gates of Ravencroft—and Jameson would have a hell of a time trying to get authorization for an interview with any of their prisoners. 

But you? 

You could get in with a simple phone call. 

“This isn’t a game, y/l/n.” Jameson cautioned. “The night Spider-Man disappeared—when I got that call from the hospital—I thought you were gonna be dead, y/ln.” 

A pang of guilt shot through your chest and he reminded you of that night. When you arrived in the emergency room they had tried to call your emergency contacts—but you knew they wouldn’t answer, that they were the reason you were even there. Jameson was the only one that answered, the only one to show up. 

You knew how much guilt he still faced for pushing you to chase another Spider-Man story, for encouraging you to get closer to the vigilante, only for it to land you in a hospital bed with several broken bones and a grade three concussion. 

Sometimes you wished that you could tell him it wasn’t his fault. That you were already in too deep, long before you had started chasing another story, even if you didn’t realize it at the time. But you couldn’t. 

“If you take this story then you’re putting yourself at risk. Again. You’ll be destroying everything you’ve worked for.” 

Blood pooling, bones snapping, his screams echoing. 

You bit your cheek until you tasted crimson, shoving the hellish thoughts from your mind. “Are you gonna take Urich off the story or not?” 

Jameson’s shoulders immediately slouched, his disappointment evident as the corners of his mouth turned downwards. But he knew you—too well, which meant he knew that nothing would stop you from following this story. 

So, against his better judgment, he straightened his posture and tried to mask his own emotions, but you could still tell how much it had hurt him to mutter out the word—“Fine.” 

You didn’t plan on waiting around long enough to hear anything else he might have to say, already turning on your heel and aiming for the door, knowing that it was best to leave before he changed his mind altogether. Still, just before the door slammed closed behind you, you heard him speak. 

“Your funeral.” 

His snide comment left a bad taste in your mouth, pungent and unpalatable, but you did your best to ignore it. There wasn’t any time to comprehend the gravity of his statement, to consider just how close you had come to death last time. 

If Jameson was right about anything, it was that time was of the essence. The sooner Spider-Man could be proven innocent the better. 

So instead of dwelling on it and risking uprooting your past trauma, you shoved your way through the crammed newsroom, coming to a halt only when you could plant yourself at the edge of Urich’s desk. He looked up at you through his thickly-rimmed glasses, brows knitting together. 

“This your team?” You asked him, an idle finger pointing to the crew of unfamiliar faces that surrounded the desk. 

Urich gave a stiff nod. 

“Great.” The smile you gave was sickening, filled with misplaced animosity. You scanned over the group, your gaze ultimately settling on the figure directly to his left, a somewhat tall woman with neatly bobbed hair. Out of everyone, she was the only one armed with a pencil and notepad, having taken note of his every word. “What’s your name?” 

The women seemed stunned, her voice shaking the tiniest bit as she responded. “Betty. Betty Brant.” 

“Nice to meet you Ms. Brant.” Your tone was much milder when speaking to Brant, though it quickly turned harsh again as you shifted your attention back to Urich. “I’m taking over the story. Jameson already gave me clearance, so please, if you plan on whining about it, keep it between the two of you, mkay?” 

Urich’s usually squinty eyes suddenly widened behind his lenses, thin lines settling into his forehead. He didn’t even have time to open his mouth in protest before you had already cut him off. 

“Anyone who isn’t Brant can get out of my face. I don’t have a use for you.” A dismissive hand was waved at the small crowd, although none of them bothered to move more than a few feet away, too interested in eavesdropping to venture any further. 

“And, um, what is it that you’d like me to do?” Betty Brant was quite the apprehensive woman, her lack of confidence shining through in quite literally everything she did. She was new to this, that much was obvious, but you still found yourself with some sort of intuitive faith in the girl. 

“I need you to track down some information for me.” 

A pit suddenly grew in your stomach as it dawned on you that this would be the first time you had so much as uttered his name since that night. He had essentially become a ghost to you, capable of haunting every corner of your mind without ever reentering your life. It was easier that way, though. Avoiding him had been the best way to recover from him; even if that meant treating his name like a curse. 

You took a deep breath, garnering every ounce of strength you had left to ensure your voice wouldn’t crack. “I need a way to get into contact with Peter Parker. He used to work here, but the number we have on file isn’t in service anymore.” 

Once. 

In the nine months since it happened, you had only tried to call him once. With the phone pressed to your face you had already prepared yourself to hear the dial tone go on for ages, fully aware that he’d just let it go to voicemail. He didn’t want to talk to you—he didn’t want to talk to anyone. But, instead, you were greeted by a prerecorded message saying the number had been disconnected. 

And that was the closest you ever got to a goodbye from Peter. 

“Parker?” Urich finally got a word out. “What’s he gotta do with this?” 

You didn’t have any intention of offering him a detailed explanation, your back already turned to him as you spoke over your shoulder. “He’s the only one to ever get a clear shot of Spider-Man. If everything goes as planned, I’m gonna need his skillset.” 

It wasn’t a complete lie, but it also wasn’t the full truth. Regardless, it was the best defense you had for needing a way to contact Peter; one that wouldn’t raise any suspicions. If anything, you would have preferred to start your hunt for information with Peter, because then you would’ve been able to avoid Ravencroft altogether. But, unfortunately, Peter was little more than a dead end right now. 

“Jameson has my number–get it from him and text me as soon as you have a lead!” 

It was the last order you barked before disappearing into the elevator, quick to rush off to the first destination on your list. You had to get moving, at least until you could find a way to talk to Peter, which meant you needed to start gathering the names of anyone who might’ve actually wanted Sytsevich dead. 

Unfortunately, that meant hailing a taxi to Westchester County and digging up another ghost from your past. 

You hastily pressed the button for the ground floor, your other hand already delving into your bag, grabbing your phone and dialing the number that had called you many times over the past months; a number you rarely answered. 

“Hi, this is y/n y/l/n calling,” a weight settled deep within your stomach, accompanied by a shiver running down your spine as you forced yourself to speak, “could I speak with Leonard Samson? I would like to take him up on his visitation offer. Please tell him that I want to speak with Harry Osborn as soon as possible.”

The Ravencroft Institute for the Criminally Insane was not for the faint of heart. 

At first glance, most would consider it a fine establishment. The ornate iron gates lining the property seek to paint a picture of elegance, while the impenetrable stone walls offer those on the outside a sense of security—serving as a silent oath that those on the other side can’t get out. 

While technically labeled a prison, Ravencroft always insists that they place treatment above punishment for those incarcerated here. They pushed this motto, staff members regularly appearing on the local news to preach of mercy and remission; despite the fact that no one committed to the facility had ever made it out alive. 

Ravencroft’s prisoners weren’t always as willing to keep up the facility's pristine public image though, well known for spitting in the face of that ‘guise of elegance they’d worked to build. It was because of their sharp tongues that Ravencroft rarely let reporters past the front gates, petrified of what they might learn from those on the inside, worried that someone might get the chance to uncover their true nature; or worse, expose their unlawful ways of curing the prisoners. 

You were the only reporter to ever be invited onto the property, even if it was under special circumstances. 

“Truth be told, I was shocked to hear you called!” Director Samson confessed. His tone always rubbed you the wrong way, always coming off as far too exuberant for a man in charge of a psychiatric facility for criminals. “What’s it been, five months? Six, perhaps, since we last spoke?” 

“Seven.” You noted, sporting a rather sardonic smile. He didn’t seem to notice your ill-intent. 

“Well, either way, it had been far too long!” He chortled to himself, a chorus of keys clanking against his hip as he led you down another winding hallway. 

Fluorescent lights flickered overhead, illuminating the immaculate white linoleum beneath your feet. The smell of bleach was incredibly pungent, burning your nostrils with every breath you took. You did your best not to breathe at all. 

“You’ve been checking your email, yes?” Director Samson was a few long strides ahead of you, moving at a pace you couldn’t manage to keep up with. “When you stopped answering your cell, I decided to have my secretary begin forwarding you all of our notes from his treatment sessions. It’s pivotal that you’ve stayed up-to-date on his progress, especially if you finally plan on becoming an active role in his recovery!” 

You braced yourself for the tainted oxygen that would fill your lungs as you lied, “Of course. Even gave them a quick review on the ride over.” 

In the seven months that you had been dodging Samson’s calls, you had never once opened any of the emails from his secretary. You always saw them come through though, and you always found yourself staring at the subject line for just a moment too long. 

Patient #121394 - Progress Report 

It made you sick sometimes, the way he had been reduced to a number. Other times, you were thankful for it. It helped to create a divide in your head, allowing you to create some sort of separation between who he was and who he is. Harry Osborn was your friend. Patient #121394 stabbed you in the back. 

Regardless, you could never actually make yourself read them. But you also couldn’t bring yourself to delete them, stashing one-hundred and eighty-four daily progress reports from Ravencroft into a separate folder, out of sight but kept on hand, just in case you ever needed them. 

You weren’t sure why you ever would. 

“Good, good!” He chirped loudly, both of you now approaching a large armored door. It didn’t match the rest of the hallway, the rusted surface polluting the otherwise pure white space. 

Your attention was pulled away from it as Director Samson spun on his toe, index finger suddenly wagging in your face, your eyes growing wide as you tried to lean back a few inches. His nails were a touch overgrown, caked with a substance you didn’t recognize. Describing him as eccentric would be kind, although disconcerting fit him better. 

“You must promise me something before you speak with him!” He sputtered out. You did your best not to flinch as his saliva spewed onto your face. “I understand you may have felt a need to…” his head bobbed side to side, squinting as he considered his wording, “distance yourself from Mr Osborn. That is why I did my best to respect your need for space the past several months-” 

Ah yes–you thought to yourself, fighting the urge to laugh in his face–calling bi-weekly and sending daily emails is clearly a sign of respecting someone’s wish to be uninvolved. 

“But!” He shouted out, his rotten nails now close enough that you could smell whatever laid beneath them. “If you cross this threshold,” his hand moved to the large door behind him, offering you a chance to swallow back the bile building in your throat, “you cannot abandon him again, Ms. y/l/n. Progress is a volatile thing, especially for the damaged souls that call Ravencroft home. I need to know that you’re prepared to devote yourself to Mr. Osborn’s treatment.” 

Abandon him—the claim was enough to make your blood boil. You wanted to scream at him, remind him of what had happened that night, remind him that you were the one who had been abandoned. You wanted to turn around, to leave and never step foot in this cursed building ever again. 

If you did that, then maybe you could keep lying to yourself. Harry Osborn could remain your former friend, one of the few crumbs you had left of the life you so desperately wanted back. He could be innocent, and Patient #121394 could be the murderer. 

“Well Director Samson, I can assure you that I have absolutely no intentions to abandon him!” The mask you put on was sickly sweet, more than palatable enough to hide the animosity behind it. 

His bug-eyed stare remained locked onto you, unnerving and wild. “You must promise.” 

“Okay,” A sigh managed to slip out, quickly covered by your response, “I promise.” 

He instantly relaxed at the vow, easily returning to the childish ebullience he’d displayed previously. You wondered how he would react if he had noticed the hand behind your back, if he knew your fingers were crossed as you spoke. 

Abandonment was a much kinder fate than Harry Osborn deserved, so you were certain that if a higher power existed, they would forgive you for breaking your promise to Director Samson. 

Metal jingled about as he removed the keys from his belt loop, somehow knowing exactly which one to grab from the couple dozen crowded the thick ring they hung on. 

“Now, please, do your best to remember the rules!” He began unlocking the various deadbolts on the door. “All patients in the visitation area will be secured to his or her station, for your safety as well as theirs. Under no circumstances should you touch any of the patients. Should you notice a patient is acting out of sorts, please remain calm and notify the warden-” 

You already knew the do’s and don’ts of visiting prisoners, having interviewed several of the inhabitants at Ryker’s Island for the Bugle, and so you found yourself droning him out entirely, watching as he moved from one lock to another, until he finally reached the last one. 

“Most importantly, do not forget that this time is meant to inspire and encourage your loved ones to continue on their new path towards righteousness!” He displayed a toothy grin, cavity filled and displeasing. In return you offered a much less prominent smile. “And please, when you’re done with your chitter-chatter, come by my office. I would love to discuss next steps with you!” 

You gave a curt nod, aware that you would not be doing that. Interacting with Samson was enough to drain even the most extroverted people, which was one of the many reasons you’d stopped returning his calls only two months into Harry’s sentence. 

He viewed you as a valuable tool for curing Harry—mentally, at least. His actual disease was of little interest to Samson, his physical health naught in comparison to his damaged mind. Harry had no next of kin, which meant all of Samson’s hopes had been placed onto you. He believed in order to cure Harry’s mind, he needed the assistance of someone who was dear to him, someone to act as a tether to his sanity. 

Director Samson also believed that the venom Harry injected into his veins was the cause for his self-proclaimed insanity. This told you all you needed to know about the Director; he was clueless. 

You knew the truth. After all, you were the one that had fed his lawyers the story and loaded them up with all the evidence they’d need in order to paint a picture for the jury, illustrating Harry Osborn’s mental descent. It was you that had convinced them to make him swallow his pride and take the insanity plea—your final act of kindness towards Harry. 

The clunky metal door groaned profusely as Director Samson pushed it open, heavy enough that it required him to use both hands and the majority of his body weight. Once it was open, he bowed in a particularly odd manner, motioning you into the room with a dramatic flair that made you nauseous. More than anything in the world, you couldn’t wait to never see him again. 

The small space you walked into had distracted you from Samon’s bizarre attitude, immediately taking note of them in case you ever felt like breaching Samson’s trust and writing a story on Ravencroft. 

First–it didn’t share the same suffocating scent as the hallway, the smell of chemical cleaners having completely vanished. You took advantage of this, letting your chest expand with several deep breaths. Your nostrils no longer burned, however this came with a price, this room much grimier than the rest of the facility. It didn’t shock you. 

Second–there was nothing white in here, a stark contrast from the unsoiled appearance of the never ending hallway you took to get here. This room truly felt like a prison, despite Ravencroft’s insistence that they were far from that. Muted shades of chipped paint coated the walls, the floors nothing more than poured cement. 

And, finally, third–no one, and you truly meant absolutely no one, appeared as if they were on the road to recovery. 

To your left there was a red-headed girl chained to a metal bar fastened to the wall. A bit of drool dribbled down her chin, her eyelids drooping as if she had been drugged. On your right was a boy no older than nineteen, handcuffed to his chair and left with nothing to do except stare at the floor beneath his feet. 

They looked miserable, and you almost felt bad for sticking Harry in a place like this. 

Almost. 

Behind you the door shut with a crash, the symphony of locks clicking back into place. Your heart rate spiked as you realized you were now trapped in here with them, taking a glance at the warden. He was a burly man, yet the only weapon he had on him was a baton, lazily stuffed into his waistband. It only added to your growing apprehension. 

Anxiety, you reminded yourself through gritted teeth, is another thing reporters don’t have time for. 

Each second brought you closer to Sytsevich’s impending death, which meant you didn’t have time to waste on fear. But knowing that didn’t make it any easier, still feeling as if you were frozen in place, wishing that they hadn’t made you leave your bag in the main office. 

If Brant had managed to find a number for Peter then you could just skip this whole mess, go straight to the source and get hard proof that he was innocent… but it was too late to turn around now. 

You were already here. 

In the furthest corner of the room you saw a steel table, placed directly in front of the patient’s only source of natural light—an incredibly small window, armed with thick black bars. Your heart lurched as your gaze settled on the table's only occupant. Even with his back turned, you could still recognize him. 

Lifting just one foot had been the hardest part, terror pricking your bones as the single step caused one of the patients to whip their head around towards you. 

He was an enormous man, standing several inches over six feet with muscles that rivaled the Hulk. Fortunately, you didn’t hold his attention for long, hesitantly watching as he went back to staring at the old-style television set that had been stuffed in the corner. Static painted the screen, and every once in a while the large man would give a swift hit to its side, making the other patients flinch. The warden didn’t stop him. 

Each step after that was rushed, an attempt to get out of his line of sight. He was restrained, as were all of them, but he still filled you with a sense of unease. When you finally reached the table and quickly slipped into one of the metal chairs, eyes still darting about prudently, you heard the patient sitting across from you laugh. 

You had thought the terror seeping into your veins had been intolerable, but it was no match for the misplaced grief that fought to consume you at the sound of his voice. It simultaneously sent chills down your spine and relaxed every muscle in your body, a paradox of a reaction that only the living dead could possibly provide. 

“Aw, what’s wrong?” He drawled, leaving you hanging onto every syllable. “My new friends scare you?” 

A bit. 

“Hardly.” You snapped back a bit faster than intended. Beneath the table you clenched your fists, fingernails prodding into the soft flesh of your palms. 

Stay calm. Hide your weaknesses. 

You were disappointed with yourself, your inability to mask your discomfort, especially here. A penitentiary wasn’t the best place to rollover, and you knew that the moment you fucked up and showed your underbelly you’d be as good as dead. You needed to be better. You needed to be incomprehensible. 

“You look well.” You spoke again before he’d have the chance to beat you to it, determined to be the one holding the reins in this conversation. “I’m shocked.” 

It truly wasn’t meant as a slight though the scoff you received in response made it clear that he’d taken it as one. It was God’s honest truth though; you hadn’t expected him to look as good as he did. 

Last time you saw Harry Osborn was when the venom had already invaded his bloodstream, transforming him into something near unrecognizable. That was the Harry Osborn you had been expecting to see today. A nightmare, a killer, a monster. 

Instead, you found yourself looking directly into the cerulean gaze of a boy you had mourned for nearly a year. There were subtle differences; the natural dark pigment of his hair still hadn’t returned, leaving it a dusty shade of brown, and the disease that fought relentlessly to claim his life had spread, a scaly patch of skin taking over his cheek bone. 

But, for the most part, he looked like himself. He looked like Harry. 

And that simple fact was almost enough to break you. 

“Wow, less than a minute in and you’re already spitting out back-handed compliments.” Harry's mouth twitched into a smirk. “You sure know how to greet an old friend.” 

Was he antagonizing you on purpose? Or was he simply delusional? Either way, you only offered him a tight smile, “We’re not friends.” 

You had no way of knowing if your words actually had any effect on him. Having been raised in the limelight meant that Harry had years of practice in maintaining his composure, always working to maintain the Osborn image. You had never been good at reading Harry, and that’s how he liked it. Like most powerful men, he enjoyed keeping secrets. 

“Aren’t we though?” He countered, a swift tug at the reins, an effort to regain some semblance of control. 

Your jaw clenched. “Not anymore.” 

Harry leaned forward a touch, those menacing eyes glistening as his palms remained flat against the cold steel, secured there by thick cuffs. “You think I don’t know what you did? That I don’t know who fed my lawyers all that bullshit about childhood abuse and disease warping my mind?” 

That bullshit had saved his life. Forced the jury to see him as more than another twisted villain, coerced them into feeling some sort of sympathy for Harry. By no means was Ravencroft comparable the the fucking Four Seasons, but it was far better than the alternative. Without the insanity plea, Harry was on a quick path to Ryker’s Island—a place you wouldn’t wish on your worst enemy. 

“You’re right. I gave them everything they needed to build your case.” There was no use in denying it. The recounts of the trauma his father had inflicted on him were too detailed, too intimate, and Harry knew only three people in this world had access to that information. Himself, you, and Norman; and the latter was already dead. “But not because we’re friends.” 

He cocked a brow at you, once again leaning back into the uncomfortable metal chair. “Then why bother?” 

“Because I’m not like you.” 

And you wholeheartedly believed that. Caring about him had nothing to do with your choice to try and spare his life, your decision to aid Gwen’s murderer. 

“A rich boy like you wouldn’t last a single day in Ryker’s. Those guys would’ve eaten you alive.” You asserted, the only physical sign of the anger coursing through you being your flared pupils. You were in control. “I had an opportunity to save your life, so I took it. Not because of friendship,” the word tasted acidic, burning as it rolled off your tongue, “but because I’m a good person—better than you ever were.” 

It wasn’t until you were done talking that you realized how desperate you had been for the declaration to cut him. You only recognized it afterwards, irritation flooding you as he remained perfectly still, seeming entirely unphased. 

Then after a moment of nothing, he sighed. Not out of annoyance, not out of sadness. Instead, it seemed to be out of pure boredom, which only made your irritation towards him grow. 

“Guess that means you’re not here to help with my treatment, huh?” He said it like a joke, as if he too thought he was incapable of redemption and found this whole thing to be a waste of time. “Samson’s gonna be so disappointed when he finds out.” 

“You’re right, I’m not here to help you.” you confirmed, sucking in a deep breath and biting back at your pride, “But you’re gonna help me.” 

His brows snapped up—a reaction, subtle, but there nonetheless. “And why would I do that? I mean, you already made it clear that we’re not friends. So why should I do anything for you?” 

“I’ll keep coming here. Participating in whatever stupid shit Samson has planned, keep acting like I wanna help you get better.” You sneered, eyes rolling. People like Harry Osborn were incapable of better. “There’s gotta be something for you to gain in all of that, right? Some sort of reward for making progress. If you’re lucky then maybe they’ll give you more playtime with your little buddies or something.” 

Your gaze flicked over his shoulder, once again landing on the enormous man that had noticed you earlier. He was still beating against the side of the television, the thumping of his palm against thick plastic echoing through the room. No one seemed to mind the noise. 

“Besides,” you continued while shifting your focus back to Harry, “you owe me.” 

He did owe you—him and Peter both—but pulling that card made you sound desperate, like you had truly run out of options and were now using everything left in your arsenal to sway him. 

But that was the point. 

It was a calculated move, entirely deliberate, right down to the doe-eyed glance you shamelessly flashed at him, feigning a moment of vulnerability. You hadn’t rolled over, hadn’t exposed your weak points, but you wanted him to believe you did. 

There were certain benefits that came with knowing Harry—who he used to be. You knew about his insatiable desire to be needed by someone, to feel wanted. There had been a time in which you wouldn’t have dared to exploit the trauma that desire stemmed from, but things were different now. 

Even when armed with his stoic mask, you could tell that you had hit your mark perfectly. He remained silent, considering your words. A rational part of him was likely screaming to tell you no, to send you out of Ravencroft without so much as a second glance. Odds were that he knew this was an attempt to manipulate him, to play at the side of his that ached to be essential to another. 

But Harry Osborn wasn’t known for making rational decisions. He was rarely driven to act by his near-genius level IQ, instead always finding himself a victim to the gnawing pain in his chest; and you were banking on that. 

Then, it happened. 

For a moment—mere seconds, at most—the mask slipped. A single muscle twitched in his jaw, his nose wrinkling the slightest touch. The shift in his demeanor was so subtle, yet so apparent to you. Having once been so close to him, you’d all but trained yourself to detect the moments in which his arrogance would melt into something far more innocent. You used to crave those moments; live for them, even. It felt like an honor to witness the side of Harry in which he fought to keep locked away, a side he tried to ignore. 

Now, though, you felt almost nothing. 

Harry finally let out a gruff sound, his tongue darting along his chapped bottom lip. “You’re here about Peter, aren’t you?” 

You were careful not to outwardly react. “You’ve seen the news?” 

“Of course.” He rolled his eyes in an exaggerated manner. “Not everyday the city hails Spider-Man a murderer.” 

He said the vigilante’s name like a curse, as if it were the dirtiest word he’s ever spoken. It was laced with a bone-chilling sense of contempt, one that only deepened your resentment towards Harry. You didn’t like it—the way he spoke as if he had a right to hate Peter. After everything Harry had done, after everything he’d taken—your nails dug deeper into your palms as you fought to keep your eyes peeled. terrified that if you so much as blinked you’d catch a glimpse of Harry’s sins. That you’d catch a glimpse of her.

“Are you gonna help or not?” You struggled to stay composed, his brows raised in amusement at the snipped statement. 

An unfortunate oversight in your plan had been in failing to acknowledge that Harry knew you just as well as you’d known him. It didn’t matter if you rolled over, because you were already exposed. He knew that Peter was a soft spot for you, that he had always been a soft spot, and all he had to do in order to push you over the edge was jab a little harder at that unhealed wound.

Surprisingly, he chose to leave it alone. 

“You’ll come four times a week. Minimum.” 

You fought the urge to grin at his demands, aware that it meant the rational side of him had lost. 

“Twice a week.” You countered.

“Make it three.” He almost sounded pitiful, coming off more like he was begging than demanding. It caught you off guard to hear him sound so desperate, and for a moment you wondered if he had turned the tables; if he was now manipulating you, playing on your emotions and trying to make you feel bad for the loneliness Ravencroft had inflicted upon him. 

But there was something about the look in his eyes, how transparent they suddenly seemed, that made you feel like this hadn’t been done with nefarious intent. His desperation was genuine, and you weren’t sure how to feel about that. 

“Fine.” You agreed, aware that you didn’t have time to negotiate with him all day. You had a story to write, and in order to create a solid defense for Spider-Man—for Peter, you’d need help. You’d need a culprit, someone that had a motive to kill Sytsevich. “Deal?” 

Harry grinned, that same arrogant and flashy sort of grin you’d seen him give heiresses and models. You always wanted to be on the receiving end of that smile, to be the one he was trying to win over, but now it only made your stomach sink. “How can I be of service?” 

“Do you know anyone who might want Sytsevich dead?” You decided to be blunt with the question, keeping your voice low. 

“Uh, yeah. Try the entire Soviet Union. From what I’ve heard, it sounds like he made a real fucking mess of things when he left Russia.” Harry noted. 

“O-kay,” you drawled, “what about locally? People talk in prison, yeah? If somebody was planning something you would’ve heard about it.” 

His nose scrunched up. “What do you think happens in prison? That we all just get together like it’s a slumber party and swap hit lists?” 

You didn’t bother responding, not verbally, at least. Instead, you opted for shooting him a sharp glare. It didn’t phase him. 

“Look,” he glanced towards the warden, scooting forwards a touch once he noticed the negligent guard had become distracted by his phone, “a guy like Sytsevich doesn’t go down without a good fight, alright? I saw the blueprints for that armor he wears, right before the board locked me out of Oscorp’s systems. I know what it’s capable of. Most people wouldn’t even have a chance to get a hit in, let alone send him to the hospital.” 

“Perfect,” you snapped, his eyes widening slightly, “if you know what his armor is capable of then you should know who would be strong enough to take him on.”

Harry scoffed at the simplicity of your deduction, “Yeah, I’ve got a pretty good idea, actually.” 

You gritted your teeth, aware of where he was heading. “It wasn’t Peter.” 

“How’re you so sure?” He asked you, a thin crease settling between his brows as he glowered at you. “I know you like to fixate on my fuck-ups in favor of avoiding his but you were there that night, y/n!” 

The banging sound of the prisoner’s palm colliding against the side of the thick television kept the guard from hearing Harry’s raised voice. 

“He wouldn’t kill Sytsevich.” You held firm in your beliefs, even as your gaze faltered and fell away from Harry’s, settling on the surface of the table. 

Bang. 

“He almost killed me!” His voice was consumed with bitterness, with pain. 

“And you killed her.” 

Was that truly a good defense? Had Harry’s sins somehow absolved Peter’s? A life for a life—the logic behind the sentiment was skewed and you didn’t want to think about it. You didn’t want to venture into the memories you’d fought so hard to block out. Your stomach suddenly became taut, unwilling to face the question you didn’t want answered. 

“You know what he’s capable of.” He pressed further, still leaned in close, as if trying to close the gap between you both, the shackles securing him to the table preventing him from doing just that. “Sytsevich was restrained with webs, y/n. Don’t be dense-”

Bang. 

“Peter isn’t a murderer, Har!” You hissed through your teeth—too overstimulated to notice the pet name slip from your mouth and too livid to care. 

He went to argue the statement when another bang sounded out against the side of the television, this one finally powerful enough to knock some life back into the formerly deceased device. Your eyes darted in it’s direction, Harry’s neck snapping around to do the same as you both listened to the hum of the static clear, a female voice breaking through. 

“-just moments ago we received word from the NYPD that former Russian mafia member Aleksei “the Rhino” Sytsevich passed away less than an hour ago. Sources from North General hospital confirmed that Sytsevich’s condition began to rapidly worsen, until he eventually gave in to the fatal wounds sustained in last night's mysterious assault.” 

The tautness in your stomach grew stronger, a wave of nausea settling over you as the organ began to tie itself in knots. 

“Chief Davis with the NYPD will be holding a press conference this afternoon, however officials have already confirmed that there is now an active warrant out calling for Spider-Man’s arrest. Individuals with any information on New York’s fallen hero are being asked to call the number displayed on the bottom of the screen, and police advise citizens to avoid their Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man at all costs-”

Harry twisted back around to face you, cautious and uncertain as he met your stare. He almost appeared concerned—not about the news, not about Peter, but about you. The corner of his mouth twitched downward, forced to watch as your face blanched, mind reeling. 

It’s not too late. There’s still a chance. He can still be proven innocent. A warrant doesn’t mean jackshit. 

The metal legs of your chair screeched against the ground as you pushed yourself back from the table, “I need to go.” 

Harry’s wrists pulled against the shackles that held him in place, instinctively reaching towards you, as if he’d nearly forgotten they were even there. “Wait!” 

Against your better judgment, you listened to him, though you weren’t entirely sure why. You needed to go. You need to contact the Bugle, needed to see if Brant had found a number for Peter. As much as you hated to admit it, Ravencroft had wound up being a deadend, and you needed to keep moving—but you just didn’t. You stayed, staring back at a boy you once knew, waiting for him. 

You always waited for them—Harry and Peter both. 

“You’re not-...” he hesitated, blinking and shaking his head as he debated whether or not he should even continue, if it would even make a difference. “You’re not going to see him, are you?” 

“Of course I am!” You ignored the groan that escaped his parted lips. “You’ve been fucking useless, so Peter is all I’ve got left. He didn’t kill Sytsevich, alright? But he was at the scene. He’s gotta have some idea as to who did this.” 

It was obvious that the offhand insult had stung, evident by the way he winced as you launched it at him. You nearly found yourself apologizing for it, but decided against it as you watched him quickly stiffen back up, always refusing to wear his pain so blatantly. Norman had trained him well, drilling into his head that weakness wasn’t a part of the Osborn way. 

“Don’t get involved.” 

Your stare narrowed. What he offered hadn’t been a recommendation, rather a demand. “They’ll hunt him down, Harry! If the police convince the entire city that Spider-Man’s a murderer? The city will turn into a fucking disaster. I’m not gonna let him go through that alone.” 

“You could get yourself killed!” Harry barked back, clearly indifferent to whether or not Peter suffered alone. You found yourself laughing in response, finding humor in his attempt to show concern for your life. 

“It’s Peter.” You stated plainly, devoid of any emotion as you rose to your feet. Harry’s head tilted upwards, following you with his eyes. “He wouldn’t let anything happen to me.” 

“Remind me again who saved you that night.” His jaw clenched, his tone turning callous as he decided to prod at the old wounds. “Cause it sure as hell wasn’t Spider-Man.” 

Your fists balled up tighter, blood beginning to seep from your palms and pooling beneath your nails. You zoned in on the stinging sensation, digging deeper into your flesh, using the pain as a tether to keep you from slipping too deep into your own subconscious. You didn’t have time to think about that night. You didn’t have fucking time. 

So you bottled up the thousands of thoughts running rampant in your head, biting your tongue instead of allowing yourself to spit anymore insults at him. He’s not worth it–you tried to tell yourself, starting towards the warden–it won’t change anything. 

“y/n!” He growled as you moved past him, electing to ignore him entirely. He thrust his arms against the shackles again, rattling the thick metal and grunting as they tightened around his wrists. You were just a little over a foot away when he spoke again, “Don’t fucking tell him you know!” 

You paused, suddenly feeling as if your feet had been cemented to the floor. You cursed yourself as you responded, refusing to look back at him. “What are you talking about?” 

“Have you talked to him since that night?” He asked. 

“No.” You chewed on your bottom lip, ignoring the abrupt pang in your chest. “I haven’t.” 

“Okay. Great. Then he doesn’t know for sure what you saw that night. That you saw him without the mask, that you know he’s Spider-Man.” He was talking uncharacteristically fast, as if he was worried you’d leave before he’d get the words out quick enough. “So don’t tell him.” 

You frowned, shifting to the side, now looking at him through your peripheral. “Why?” 

“Because.” Harry squeezed his eyes shut, fending off the growing headache that this situation had brought on. “As far as he knows, I’m his only loose end. The only one that knows who he really is.” 

Your chest tightened as you realized what was happening. Since walking into Ravencroft, you’d concerned yourself so heavily with keeping your guard up, with guarding your weakest points—only for Harry to be the one to rollover. He was exposing his hand, and you found it unsettling, especially when you realized that there was no selfish intent behind his words. 

Harry had nothing to lose in this situation. 

Except for you—his friend. 

“Maybe you’re right. Maybe he’s not a murderer. But if he did kill Sytsevich? Anyone who knows about Spider-Man’s secret identity is gonna have a huge fucking target on their back.” His eyes remained closed, drawing in a shaky breath before he continued, “So please,” his voice shook, desperation lacing each syllable, “just–don’t tell him, okay?” 

Goosebumps arose on your forearms, unable to hide from the fear that radiated off of him. No matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t find an ulterior motive for the statement. There was no clear sign of manipulation, no indication that he wanted to do anything other than protect you; and that made you feel sick. 

You had long since buried Harry Osborn, having told yourself countless times that two of your friends died that night. For two-hundred-and-seven days you had mourned both of them. 

With every fiber of your being you had believed that the arrogant boy that had weaseled his way into your life was gone, having been replaced with a malevolent monster. 

But now you could feel him.

It no longer felt as if you had just been staring at his corpse, but rather as if someone had actually breathed life back into him, offering you a glimpse of what still remained. 

It caused the tiniest spark of hope to ignite within you, a spark that you would do your damndest to extinguish. 

Harry Osborn was better off dead. 

“Our deal’s off.” You asserted, cold and uncaring. His eyes shot open again, a desolate expression washing over him. He didn’t try to conceal it, didn’t bother to adjust the mask he always wore. “You gave me absolutely nothing, so I’m not obligated to hold up my end.” 

Harry’s lips parted as if he were going to protest, as if he were going to do something—but nothing came out, and you hadn’t expected him to find the words, anyways. Try as you might, the three of you had never been capable of such candor; never willing to shine a light on the darkest corners of your minds, too scared of the risks that came with exposing what laid beneath the surface. 

You couldn’t help but think there was something poetic about it; the melancholy cord that bound you to Harry and Peter. How you were all fated to don matching wounds, but always be too afraid to admit to one another that you were bleeding. 

Sometimes you wanted to show them the stains on your hands, the red that you could never scrub off. You wondered if it would have made a difference, if maybe then the three of you could have bore the weight of it all together, rather than crumbling beneath the pressure. 

But none of that mattered anymore. 

None of you were the same anymore. 

And so you gritted your teeth and held your head high, letting the blood continue to collect under your nails, hiding it from his view. You took a heavy breath, your chest heaving beneath all of the pain you chose to carry. 

“Coming here was a mistake.” 

It was the only thing left to say, the only other admission you’d let slip past your lips. It hung in the air between the two of you, resonating with each of you in an entirely different manner, knowing that you’d never share your own interpretation with the other. 

Harry didn’t respond, choosing to drown in his silence, having grown used to watching people walk away from him. And you forced yourself to leave, choking on the remnants of your own grief; having grown used to abandoning what you once loved. 

a/n - ah, so it's definitely not june BUT i did post it finally! i've put a lot of time and effort into this fic cause i do just genuinely love the idea of it and it brings me a lot of joy lol. with that being said, it takes a ton of effort for me to write it because i'm putting in a lot of little details, so updates on this won't be the quickest, especially while i'm taking summer classes!! but i'll be doing my best! please feel free to leave comments, opinions, etc. and look forward to getting loads of peter content in the next part! also feel free to check out THIS if you want to see an edit of the newspaper headline!

[mugglebornmarvelite]

Rescued from a Paper

Paring: TASM!Peter Parker x Fem!Reader

Summary: When you are frustrated and overwhelmed with your paper, your boyfriend comes over (almost as if his spidey senses were attuned to you). At first, jokingly, Peter offers to do it for you (he’s brilliant, and he’d actually do it for you). But all jokes aside, he rubs your head and gently coaxes you to take a break from your computer. Although you resist, he ultimately wins.

Word Count: Roughly 1.4k 

Warnings: Fluff, mild language, talks of stress due to assignments, suggestive flirting, and awful but cute chemistry puns

Note: I had the worst time writing a 30-page paper for this semester. My brain is a bit fried at the moment and I tried to edit this as best as possible. So, to everyone finishing up projects, presentations, and papers before the holiday break, this is for you (everyone really) :)

Navigation

The blinking cursor on the screen taunts you, its rhythmic pulse mocking your every attempt to continue writing. You curse under your breath, your frustration at its peak. You’ve been sitting at your desk for hours now; the only time you left your room was for coffee. Your eyes are red from staring at research articles to support your hypothesis. Typing sentences of analysis for your cited evidence and deleting them just as quickly as they came. 

But no matter what you do, the words don’t come. 

Your deadline is a week away. 

A week? Manageable. 

But coupled with studying for finals and a part-time job? Agonizing.

You sigh, wanting nothing more but to tell your professor to eat shit. But you couldn't. Well, you could, but that probably wouldn't go over very nicely.

Despite all your best efforts, the mountain of work before you feels overwhelming. You've got about 10,000 more words to write, then you have to circle back and do the abstract. 

You glance outside your window, greeted with darkness. You lean back in your chair, letting your shoulders slump, wishing for some kind of relief.

“This is hopeless.” You mutter, throwing your crumpled notes in the trash. 

You fought the urge to cry or commit a crime. Either one would work at this point. Or both.

"Hey, pretty girl," a familiar voice called out, and your body instantly relaxed. "It’s your handsome, handsome boyfriend. Your mom said I could come up."

You rolled your eyes at the sound of Peter’s voice and walked toward the door with a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips. 

Dressed in comfortable sweats, his brown hair a fluffy mess, his cheeks flushed a bit from the cold, and his glasses slightly crooked on his nose. 

"Hi, Pete," you said, trying to sound nonchalant, though your heart was already racing. "You’re looking extra nerdy tonight."

“Well, thanks.” Peter smiled, his eyes lazily scanning over you. “I thought it was perfect for spending the night with my amazing, smart, undoubtedly beautiful and stressed-out girlfriend.”

You rolled your eyes, leaning against the doorframe. “If you keep talking about how amazing I am, I’ll have to give you an A+,” you teased.

“Now I really have to live up to my perfect boyfriend status.” Peter winked, stepping into your room, his eyes quickly scanning the pile of textbooks and papers strewn across your desk. “Still stuck on that paper, huh?”

"Yeah, it sucks the life out of me," you muttered, running a hand roughly through your hair, “I’ve been stuck on the same paragraph for the last hour.”

You sit back down at your desk again, glaring at your computer as if it has insulted your entire bloodline. But Peter bought it for you and added the stickers himself. It was perfect. Just like your Peter. While your professor was like a spawn from the depths of hell, who added 5 pages to the requirements the week before it was due.

Peter chuckled, the sound of his voice like a soothing balm to your weary mind. "I see. Well, if it’s any consolation, I’m pretty sure you could write a paper on the properties of your stressed brain and still get an A." He walked up to your desk, giving you a cocky little grin. “I mean, I could totally do it for you, y’know. I’m pretty good with words, my fingers, my tongue and my ability to ramble on endlessly about, well, everything?”

You blush and roll your eyes, amused despite yourself. "Really? You think you could just write it for me?"

Peter shrugged, leaning against your desk, the cocky grin still on his face. “Oh, absolutely. I could take this whole thing and turn it into a masterpiece. I’m Peter Parker after all, baby. You could just sit back and relax, while I do all the heavy lifting, which is easy for the guy with certain cool abilites. You could even, y'know, take a break,” he added.

You laughed, but it was more of a tired chuckle than anything truly amused. 

“You’re ridiculous,” you said, trying to focus on your laptop again. “You don’t even know the topic, Pete.”

“True.” He pretended to think about it for a second. “But it could be something about molecules or atoms?” He gave you a sly smile. “I mean, I’m practically a walking periodic table. And if chemists do it on the table periodically, we can too.”

Your cheeks flushed at his implication. “You’re such a dog.”

Peter grinned, a little glint in his eye as he took a step closer. "Well, if you are about to combust, let’s just say I’m the perfect solution. After all, I’m all about bonding chemistry, especially with you," he said, winking.

You snorted, despite your frustration, your cheeks flushing from both the playful flirtation and the weight of the work still looming over you. "Stop it," you said, unable to keep the smile off your face. “You’re so corny.”

Peter leaned closer, his hand brushing your hair back from your face, and his smile softened. “I can’t help it. You bring out the best in me,” he said, before adding, “and the worst, apparently.”

You rolled your eyes, but this time, there was no hiding the grin that tugged at your lips. "You’re gonna distract me with your terrible puns. But I’m behind. If I stop now, I won’t get it done.” 

Peter’s smile faded into something softer as he gently rubbed your head, his hand moving in slow circles on your scalp. 

You fold faster than a lawn chair for this man as your eyes close, a protest dying on your lips.

“I get it, sweet girl. I do. But you’ve been working that pretty little ass off for hours, and you’re only going to make yourself more frustrated if you keep going like this. I’m not saying you can’t finish it because that would be a lie. I am never not in awe of you. But just take a break.” He paused, watching you with those warm, brown eyes. “Let me help you relax for just a little bit. Then, you’ll have the energy to kill this paper.”

“I’m fine,” you muttered, though your resistance was weakening. “I don’t need a break.”

Peter’s hand moved to your shoulder, his warm fingers easing the knots with praticed ease. He knew every spot to hit to make you melt. “A quick break will help you, baby.” You were all but purring.

You hesitated for a moment, but when your eyes locked with Peter’s warm, brown eyes, you were a goner.

“Okay, Pete,” you mumbled, giving in. “Fine. I’ll take a break. But only for a little bit.”

Peter grinned, victorious, and without hesitation, dragging you to your bed. “I knew you’d see things my way, baby,” he said, his voice full of smug satisfaction. “Now, let’s get you properly relaxed. In more ways than one.”

As soon as your head hit the pillow, you sighed in relifef. You looked up at Peter, who was taking off his jacket, revealing the softest sweater. You needed him. 

Peter crawled up beside you, grinning down at you like a prey in his trap. “I promise, I won’t let you do any more work until you’re feeling like yourself again. Then, we can tackle that paper together. Not a moment sooner.”

You laughed. "Yeah, right," you teased, rolling your eyes. “Sure, and then we’ll write a paper about quantum physics and why it’s best enjoyed with cookies.”

“Ah!” Peter gasped, his eyes lighting up. “Quantum physics and cookies? Now that’s a bond I can get behind. Who needs regular chemistry when we’ve got this kind of reaction?”

You snorted, your frustration finally melting away with Peter's playful jokes and gentle teasing. He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, then your nose, and then finally, your lips.

“See?” he whispered against your lips. “Much better.”

Then, without warning, he starts peppering you with soft, quick kisses all over your face, making you laugh despite yourself.

“Peter!” you exclaim, trying to push him away, but his hands hold you gently in place, the kisses relentless and warm.

He pulls back just long enough to look at you, eyes glinting with mischief. “You need to smile more, you know? Seeing my girl happy always makes me happy.”

A warmth spreads through your chest. And just like that you are reminded that you are the luckiest girl ever.

Peter’s grin widens at your smile, and he leans in again, this time planting a soft, sweet kiss on your lips. You melt as his tongue slips into your mouth.

And for the first time all night, you feel light. Peter Parker was your solace.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he murmurs, pulling away just slightly. “And neither is your paper. So how about we just focus on this for a while? Just you and me.”

Peter rubs your back as you relax into him, your world shifting from stress to calm in the span of a few minutes. His voice is soft as he whispers jokingly, “Just relax for me, okay? Let me be your hero.”

“You always are.” You smile and pull him closer, letting the weight of the paper slip away for a little while longer.

Thank you so much for reading. My professor did, in fact, add five pages to the requirements for the paper a week before it was due, so this was totally self-indulgent.

But I hope you enjoyed this :)

If you'd like to be added to my taglist

Much love x

- Maeve

[lovelettersforthedamned]

frat Peter x reader where he takes care of her after she gets spiked at one of his parties? 🥹🥹

Be Here For Her

✮ frat!tasm!peter parker x f!reader

✮ word count: 1.2k

✮ summary: your night has become foggy as your head swirls with confusion. when peter discovers your disheveled state, he swiftly becomes your aid while also preventing other people at his frat party from facing the same fate as you.

✮ warnings: language, mentions of drugs (spiking drinks), mentions of alcohol, hurt/comfort, angst, fluff, this is a heavy topic so read at your own risk pls.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

main m.list ⋆ peter parker m.list

gif by @kenstaroyco

Your head was pounding against the bass of the music while your body felt as though you were moving through a pool of gelatin. 

Peter was out mingling with the people entering the house of Kappa Phi, trying to keep things in order. But with the mass amounts of crowds entering the building, it was easy for both you and him to become distracted. 

You were hanging out with a group of girlfriends of the frat when Peter approached the group again, a sheen layer of sweat on his forehead. He opens his mouth to speak, but honestly, you don’t hear a word he says. It feels like your mind is swirling as you lose focus on the conversation playing out in front of you. And when Peter places an arm around your shoulders, it feels like a ten-ton weight was set on top of you, causing you to slump a bit further into his side. 

He must have felt your sluggish presence, because he grips your side tighter, keeping you in place right as your knees buckle and send you to the floor. The girls around you look at you with confusion and panic. They’ve been with you this whole time and knew you were just finishing your first beer, so you couldn’t have been drunk yet. 

“Woah,” Peter exclaims as he holds you by your arms when your knees slam into the floor beneath you. Your drink falls to the floor, causing a bigger mess. 

Your eyes are hooded over, your gaze unfocused. All you could put together were a bunch of faces looking down at you, and hands grabbing at you to help you up. The entire situation was overwhelming, but the thought of forming a coherent sentence made your head hurt more than it already did. 

Peter’s mind was running a million miles per hour as he slowly pulled you in his arms, carrying you bridal style to take you upstairs to his room. He turns to your friends before departing, “I’ll text you guys later, get home safe.” With a few nods from the girls, he starts his careful ascent to the quiet room. He maneuvers you through the crowd, careful to not bump your head on anything. As he’s about to climb up the stairs, he hears an eruption of laughter behind him. Turning his head over his shoulder, he spots a random guy with his friends pointing and laughing at you barely conscious in his arms. 

“Let me know if she’s a good fuck! I expect a ‘thank you’ later, bud,” he shouts to Peter, followed by another sound of laughter. 

Peter puts the pieces together, and suddenly his vision focuses on the guy who yelled at him. He’s a skinny guy, probably a freshman, with the most obnoxious yellow shirt on. The prick in the crowd didn’t know who he was, and who you were. Anyone who knew Kappa Phi knew about you and Peter. An urge to leave him bruised and bloody on the floor overcomes him, but when a pathetic groan comes from you, he remembers that you’re in a vulnerable state. The only thing you need is Peter. 

He blows him off and continues to make his way upstairs. Once he reaches his door, he skilfully pulls out his keys and unlocks them before twisting the handle and pushing his way inside the dark room. Peter lets out a sigh of relief as he walks towards his bed and lays you gently on the mattress. 

Peter quickly walks back to the door, locking it behind him as he takes off his jacket, throwing it in a random corner. Kneeling next to you, he brushes some hair away from your face, keeping his hand there. He notices that you’re mumbling incoherent sentences and his eyebrows scrunch in confusion trying to piece together what you’re saying. 

“D-Don’t…feel,” your body shakes with a tremor, “good.” 

His heart breaks at your weak mumble of broken words. Your hand slowly reaches up to hold the hand that’s holding your face. The only thing keeping him sane is knowing you’re with him. He’s keeping you safe, and you know that. 

Peter slowly comes off of his knees and starts to lay next to you. One of your hands is always touching him, a wave of reassurance washes over you at his touch. He pulls you onto your side and into his chest, the feeling of his rhythmic breathing lulling you to sleep. 

The moment he feels your breath even out to a steady pace, he pulls his phone out, calling one of his frat brothers who’s still downstairs. The phone rings a few times before the music blares out of the speaker followed by a loud shout, “Parker, what’s up?”

“Hey, Matt,” he starts, “will you do me a favor?” 

There’s no hesitation before Matt responds, “Yeah, of course. What’s going on?”

“Can you find Chris and look out for a scrawny kid with an aggressively yellow shirt on? He needs to be thrown out immediately,” his voice is stern but still quiet with you asleep next to him. 

Peter can hear Matt call out for Chris before placing his phone back to his ear, “We see him. Anything else?”

“Yeah,” he clears his throat, “if you see him with his friends, bring them outside and get their names. And search all of their pockets. Whatever you find, bring it up to me ASAP.” 

“Got it,” Matt answers before hanging up. 

⭒⭒⭒⭒

About half an hour later, a soft knock is heard from Peter's door, causing him to gently unravel himself from your hold. He makes sure you’re still asleep before pulling open the door. He finds both Matt and Chris standing there with a solemn look on their faces and a few bags of white pills in their hands. 

Chris starts, “We’ve got their names, all of them.” The air is heavy as Peter takes one of the bags and inspects the contents in them. 

“Okay,” he takes the rest of the bags, “will you send their names to me?” The two boys in front of him nod their heads. “Can you guys also make sure everyone’s okay down there? I would go with you, but (Y/N) needs me here,” he nods back to your unconscious frame behind him.

Peter can see Matt and Chris’ brains catch on to what happened to you tonight, and their eyes go wide. They nod, speechless before heading back downstairs. 

The bags in his hands feel heavy as he looks at them again before he looks back up at you. A feeling of guilt floods his brain, but he knows that you wouldn’t want him to feel responsible for this. He could hear you telling him that it wasn’t his fault. Putting them safely on his nightstand, he falls back into bed with you ready to help you tomorrow morning with whatever plan you decide to follow through with. 

✮ author's note: once i'm on my frat!peter grind, it doesn't stop i fear. thank you anon for this request!! this was a heavy topic that's so real and it's so scary :( thank you for reading! ok, bye ily!!!

[anatay004]

𝐨𝐧𝐞 - 𝐭𝐰𝐨 - 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞

one - two

[literaila]

your newest fic has woken something in me, verity. can i request nice sweet petter with mean!reader, who isn't actually mean ? but she just teases peter and flirts with him and leaves him tongue tied and peter is like "its cruel of you to make me fall in love with you". thank you, you're the best !

masochism

tasm!peter x reader

a/n: this means absolutely nothing. and everything.

*

“peter,” you say, dryly, frowning as you set your bag on the chair next to you.

the library is usually empty this time of night. nothing but bookworms and tired librarians with their yawns to break the silence. but that’s how you like it.

that’s why you come this late. you don’t want to make small talk with a stranger asking if they can borrow one of your chairs. and you definitely do not want to get charm and pretty eyes all over you. it doesn’t come out.

“fancy seeing you here,” peter says, and he’s moving from his table to come and sit at yours. his papers are a mess and he doesn’t even blink when he almost drops a pen on the floor.

of course, he doesn’t even need an invitation because he’s peter parker.

“are you stalking me?”

“intentionally?” peter asks, and his smile is teasing and far too bright for the dark of this room. “no. it’s not my fault you always show up where i am. but i’m not complaining.”

“well, i am. i came here to study. alone.”

“and you got the pleasure of receiving my company instead. lucky you.”

you grunt but sit down anyway. even if you actually wanted him to leave, peter wouldn’t. he’s far too stubborn and shiny for that.

it was a mistake to take calculus in the first place, but it was a certifiable failure on your part that peter seemed to latch onto you. he was good at math (another red flag) and he liked to coo and you and your smudges and erase marks.

and he seemed to show up when you least expected it; like he wanted to give you a heart attack.

peter leans over the table, his hair falling over his eyes. “what’re you working on?”

“an essay.”

there’s a beat of silence, and peter laughs. “about…” he ducks his head, eyes teasing and smile incandescent. and irritating.

“the probability of committing homicide in libraries at eleven pm,” you tap a pen against his forehead, pushing him back.

“always at your service.”

“why are you here?” you ask him. “don’t you have babies you need to swaddle? old women you need to fond over you?”

“pfft,” peter says, leaning back, looking far too comfortable. “i already did that today. plus it’s a wednesday night, and the visiting hours at the nursing home end at eight.”

you nod understandingly. “well, unless you want to become apart of my research study, shoo.” you wave him away.

he only laughs. “but i haven’t seen you in almost a week. you’re not taking calculus b.”

peter is wearing a mock pout. his eyes are glowing in the three foot distance between you. and the smirk on his face is only a harsh reminder of how much you hate him. his hair is curled at the edges and it’s brushed across the top of his forehead. his teeth are straight and white.

and you can see when he swallows.

“oh you mean bodily torture part two? yeah, no, i figured i’d go with the classic bondage exposé class this semester.”

peter clears his throat, chuckling, and you watch as his cheeks tinge with pink.

“you’ve taken that class, haven’t you, peter?”

“haven’t had the opportunity, no.”

“well, if you never need a quick lesson…” you whisper, voice sultry and on the edge of manic laughter. watching peter squirm in his seat almost makes up for the lack of studying going on right now.

“good to know.”

you purse your lips at him, making an effort not to laugh.

while this conversation has headed into unfound territory, you’ve managed to pull out your notes and turn on your computer, making peter a little more than an object in the distance.

but not peter spins your computer around, illuminating his face, and frowning as he stares at the screen.

“this is a blank document,” he says.

“what wonderful observation skills you have.”

“your name isn’t even at the top.”

you steal the computer back, scowling. “i’m working on it.”

“oh, are you?”

“you’re distracting me,” you hiss at him, eyes glaring and heart burning as he smiles back.

peter is too smiley. he’s too effortlessly calm. too much for you, and too much for this entire library.

“oh, i’m distracting you?” he repeats, shaking his head. “that’s priceless.”

“i’m not sure what you’re implying.”

“i’m saying,” peter whispers, “that you’re the one talking to me about bondage while i’m trying to make pleasant conversation—“

“oh, i’m so sorry,” you interrupt, hand going to your chest in mock sympathy. “it just seemed like something you’d be in to.”

peter snorts. “really?”

“if the rope fits,” you say back, looking away from him and counting to ten.

you need lessons in holding your tongue. lessons in how to respond when someone smiles at you like there’s nothing else they’d rather be smiling at.

“that’s not funny,” peter says, but his lips are curled.

“then why are you laughing?”

“i like riling you up,” he says, “it’s very amusing.”

“you just called yourself a tease. you’re not even trying to hide it now,” you point out.

your computer dims because you haven’t touched it in the last three minutes.

“that would make you the masochist, wouldn’t it? since you’re the one enduring my teasing?”

“is this your idea of foreplay, peter?”

“is it working?”

you hadn’t even realized that you were leaning in with him. just a couple more inches and you’d be nose to nose.

you smile at him, undeterred by his proximity—at least, mostly—pretty and sweet. “why don’t you come over here and find out.”

peter tuts. “don’t say things you don’t mean, bub.”

“who says i don’t mean it?”

you’re mostly teasing him. mostly trying to get him to move as far away from you ask possible before you wrap your hands around his neck and either strangle him or kiss him until he wants to strangle you.

but finally, peter leans back, sighing. “you’re driving me insane, you know that?”

you shrug. “you’re the one stalking me.”

you look away from him, pulling your computer closer to you, and tapping on the keys to wake it up.

“i wouldn’t have to stalk you if you would just accept my offer to go to dinner.”

“i’m not really a dinner person,” you say, licking your lips while you purposefully avoid his gaze.

“coffee, then. or a trip to the schools gift shop. i’ll buy you a sweater.”

“mmm… i’m not really a peter person.”

“now that’s just mean,” he says, but you can hear him smiling. you can feel him watching you, his eyes burning circles into your skin.

it’s a pleasant warmth, though.

“i know,” you drawl, looking up at him. “and you still won’t leave me alone.”

peter sighs, shrugging, and he’s smiling while he looks at you. “maybe i’m the masochist.”

you try not to laugh and fail.

*

part two