#spiderman x reader enemies to lovers

[motherlvr]

3+1 times Prowler! Miles Morales x Spider-woman! reader

SPOILERS FOR ATSV

read part 2 here!

3 times Miles tried to confess, + 1 time he did.

Word count: 2.7k

Summary: Instead of the radioactive spider biting Miles, it bit you. You turned into Brooklyn's one and only Spider-woman, while Miles turned into the prowler. Miles also helps you with Spanish.

Warnings: friends to lovers, lots of cursing, most definitely not canon, kind of slow-burn?, jealousy, morally gray reader, he's lowkey toxic, no smut, heated make-out session, im feasting on crumbs (his 2 minutes of screen time), this is not ATSV plot heavy, the whole prowler x spidey thing isn't really until the end (enemies to lovers)

A/N: for the sake of the plot, the reader doesn't fluently speak spanish, but can speak some. this has been rotting in my drafts ever since ATSV came out

1.

Miles glares at you two from across the room, predominantly at the guy you're laughing with. Surely he's not that fucking funny. Miles thinks as jealousy spreads within the pit of his stomach like a forest fire. However, you don't seem to notice his stare burning holes through the guy you're speaking to. The same cannot be said for him, however. Miles makes eye contact with him and sends him one glare that immediately makes the poor guy cower with fear away from you.

"I uh...gotta go." The guy squeaks out to you, his voice cracking with terror as he runs away. You raise an eyebrow as you watch him run away. What the hell was that? You think.

Miles appears next to you within the next moment and says, "Hey, ma." he gives you a slight smirk and wraps his arm around your shoulders. That smirk made you weak in your knees, you almost kissed him right then and there. You should be given an award for your amount of self-restraint.

"Hey Miles, qué pasa?" You greet him with a smile that reaches your eyes. Miles' smirk drops and he furrows his eyebrows at you as he inquires. "Who was that guy?" "He's just a friend, why?" You raise an eyebrow and question back. "Don't worry about it, you like him?" His words catch you off guard. You pause for a moment and turn your head to him with a judgmental stare as you shake his arm off you and say, "Miles. What is this? 20 questions?" You deadpan and continue, "He's not important, alright?" Seemingly satisfied with your response, he drops the subject.

After school, Miles and you head to his house. You've been struggling in Spanish class. Spanish grammar might actually be the death of me, you think. Since Miles excels in Spanish due to primarily being raised by his mother, you asked him to tutor you, which he surprisingly agreed to.

It doesn't hurt that you get to spend more time with Miles, either. Something about him never fails to send butterflies straight to your stomach, maybe it's his intense stare that makes you weak in your knees, his accent that somehow makes him ten times more attractive, or- You cut your thoughts off. You felt guilty for feeling this way about Miles. You know you shouldn't. These feelings you harbor would only cause more harm than good. After all, the people you love always seem to be in danger.

After a couple of hours of pure torture, (Spanish grammar) Miles started to speak, "Escúchame, mami. I-"

Loud, blaring police sirens cut off his sentence. Thanks, Brooklyn. Pretending to get a message from your mother, you glance at your phone's screen and look at Miles with an apologetic expression, "Shit, sorry Miles but I gotta go. My mother wants me home. She said it was urgent. But we're still on for tomorrow right?" Miles raises a skeptical eyebrow but ultimately says, "Yea. It's 'Ight, princesa. See you tomorrow" his accent lacing his words. You get up to kiss his cheek and wave him goodbye. As normal friends do, you tell yourself. Shit. You shake the thoughts away before your overthinking completely undoes your brain.

You wait until you're at least a couple blocks away from his house before you reveal the spider suit underneath your clothing and pull your mask down your face. You thwip your webs and swing away to investigate what crime was scheming tonight in Brooklyn. Leaving Miles alone in his room to regret not telling you.

2.

Honestly, you weren't paying attention to whatever Miles was saying. Instead, you were just focusing on how attractive you found his accent. You'd suffer through two more years of Spanish just to hear his voice. In fact, during most of these tutoring lessons with Miles, you weren't paying attention to the actual lesson. It doesn't help that he keeps staring at you with those eyes of his. But behind that cold exterior, you knew he had a soft spot for you. Even if he didn't outright admit it.

Miles' voice brought your attention back to the actual lesson, "Lo entiendes, princesa?" Miles asked you with a knowing smirk. You nodded your head immediately, trying to play it off. "Uhh, si." You said with a thumbs up, immediately regretting it. That was so nerdy. You shame yourself in your mind. You pretended to take notes, shamefully lowering your head down to your notebook.

While you were pretending to take notes, Miles broke the silence.

"So what's up with you and that guy from earlier?" "I told you, he's just a friend. Nothing is going on between us." Miles puts his hands up in his defense, "Alright, mami. It just didn't look like that with the way you were laughing at whatever he said. He's not Kevin Hart."

Way to completely ruin the mood. You dropped the pencil you were holding and stopped taking notes. Looking directly into his eyes, you said "Miles, I really don't know what your deal is." "You really wanna know what 'my deal is'? 'Ight. It's 'cause-"

Miles' phone beeps, interrupting him. He cursed in his mind, not being able to tell you how he felt yet again. He glances down at his screen. "Ay princesa," Miles spoke up, his words never failing to make your face go warm. His nicknames for you weren't new by any means, but they still made your heart flutter. He continued, "Uncle Aaron needs me, I gotta roll. He said it's an emergency. Don't think I'm trying to cut this short. You're still my girl, alright?" He started to leave when he turned around suddenly. He walked over to you and turned your head to him with his hand, kissing your forehead. "Hasta luego, mami." He left the room, leaving you alone in his room with only your thoughts swirling around your mind. You were sure you were about to have a heart attack. His girl? The kiss? Miles was acting oddly affectionate. And what's with him practically using the same excuse I used? It's not like he's the crime-fighting vigilante here. You rolled your eyes.

You didn't know what Miles and his uncle were so busy doing, but you had a feeling that it wasn't very morally right. That would explain how ambiguous he's been lately. More often than not, he's had to leave in the middle of tutoring to tend to whatever his Uncle needed him for. But you can't entirely blame him, you have secrets you've been hiding from him too.

You packed up your things and left his room. "Chao, Mrs. Morales. Thank you for letting me into your home!" You said to Miles' mother while leaving. "Of course, you're always welcome here." She replied to you with a warm smile. That woman was a true saint.

3.

If you had to spend any more time confined in a room alone with Miles and just your emotions, you were sure you'd fucking lose it. By losing it, I mean grabbing him by the collar of his hoodie and kissing him senseless. But you were afraid. Afraid that he would take your heart right out of your chest to shatter it and then leave you alone to pick up the pieces. So, you came up with a little white lie to get out of tutoring today.

"Is it alright with you if I skip tutoring today? My mother is sick and I have to take care of her." The lie slipped off your tongue like butter.

"Nah that's cool." He shrugs. Huh. He let me off that easy? You were two seconds away from having the dreaded 'What are we?' conversation with him after last night, until someone's arms wrap around you from behind.

"Hey, beautiful." Your friend from the other day was back. And he clearly didn't see Miles right next to you. You cringe and awkwardly take his arms off of you and turn around, "Hey, Josh." "Are you free tonight?" Miles was watching this interaction with jealousy coursing through his veins. Did this douche seriously not see him right next to you? Right before you could even open your mouth to respond, Miles responds for you. "Hell no she isn't. Get the fuck out of here, man." Miles snaps at him. Your friend's head whipped to Miles so fast you were sure he'd get whiplash. "Oh shit." He stuttered, "Sorry, man. I didn't see you...I'll leave now." He ran away as fast as his feet could take him. Poor Josh.

You glared at Miles. "What the actual fuck was that, Miles? He was just asking me a question." "He was asking you out, idiot." Miles said right back to you. "So what if he was? Honestly. What's it to you? You've been acting so possessive. May I remind you that we are not together?" You snapped at him. "Maybe I want-" He started, but this time, he was the one cutting his sentence off. He couldn't find the words to tell you just yet.

The bell rings. You look at Miles, awaiting his response. When a few silent moments pass by, you finally say, "What? What is it you want?" For once in your friendship with Miles, he didn't have a response. You, he thought. "Y'know what Miles? Until you've come to your senses, just leave me be for now." He had no right to start acting like you were bound to him. You walked to your class without him. He cursed himself in his head.

You'd been ignoring him the whole day. Yet ever the petty, he hadn't messaged you at all.

Your phone pings. "You busy with Jake?" You read. It was from Miles. That petty fucker. Your face immediately drops. That's not even his name. You left him on read and turn off your phone. For someone who thinks he's heartless and nonchalant, he sure was acting possessive.

+1

Dusk approaches Brooklyn and you're out patrolling instead of thinking about Miles. That's all you've been doing lately, and you needed a distraction.

Unfortunately, Miles had the same idea. He was out taking missions Kingpin gave him.

As you were searching the streets of Brooklyn for crime, you sensed a presence. Ahead of you was a silhouette in a dimly lit alley, their back facing you. You hid behind the wall. Finally something interesting tonight! As you climb on the walls and get closer, you recognize the figure.

Oh, great. It's the Prowler.

This wasn't your first time meeting the Prowler. No, you've fought with him in the past. He's ruthless and a cold-blooded killer. He's efficient and excruciatingly fast. That's what makes him an imminent risk to be allowed to roam the streets freely.

As Spider-woman, it's your responsibility to keep the streets of Brooklyn crime-free. So, you follow him. As you're trailing behind him, crawling on the walls, you notice the people he's meeting with. It's an arms deal, you realize. As you crawl closer, you notice that they weren't regular arms. They were abnormally high-tech for these seemingly harmless criminals.

I'll just web up the couple of amateurs and then deal with the big guy Prowler, easy. Oh how wrong you were.

"Hey, boys! Nice toy you've got there." You said as you dropped your voice down an octave, disguising your voice. You jump down from your place on the wall and thwip your webs at the unsuspecting arms dealers, binding them to the wall. They were knocked unconscious.

You thwip'd your webs at the weapon and effectively took it away from them. You'd have to drop it by the police station later with a friendly note.

The Prowler lunged at you, his steel claws missing your face by an inch.

"Hey, man! That felt a little personal." You shouted, thankful to still have your face attached to your head. You used your webs to grab onto the Prowler and strike him directly on his mask. You started to run, with the Prowler tailing right behind you.

He had you cornered, but you weren't surrendering that easily. You positioned into a defensive stance, ready to defend yourself.

His mask was cracked a bit, causing his voice modulator to reveal his unfiltered voice. "Nowhere to run, spider."

Your heart dropped as your eyes widened through your mask. Not in fear, but in recognition. You could recognize that voice anywhere. That was the voice that sent shivers down your whole body, yet made you want to strangle him the next.

"...Miles?" The words came out more of a whisper. Your voice sputtered as you dropped your fake voice. You webbed the weapon to the wall, disregarding it. Turns out, he didn't need to reject you to shatter your heart into a million pieces.

His stance immediately faltered. He could recognize your voice out of a thousand others.

Prowler, or rather Miles, stood silent.

“Miles, take off that damn mask. I know it's you.” You took off your mask, and he opened his. His eyes were unreadable. “What the hell have you gotten yourself into Miles?" You sighed. You didn't recognize him anymore. You didn't know who he was. There was no way the Miles you knew had become this.

"Fuck, princesa. I didn't want you to get involved in this shit. You're the fucking spider?" You feel as if he was seeing you for the first time again. "I'm fucking Spider-woman, you dick. And I've been involved with this 'shit' ever since I got bit by a spider. Now explain this, whatever you've turned into!" You spurted out, pointing at his suit. "I got roped into business with Kingpin after my father died. Shit, I never meant for this to happen." He exclaimed.

"What, you think you're protecting me by not telling me? Bullshit." You say, throwing your hands up in the air. "I was protecting you. I was protecting you from Kingpin. Because I fucking love you. I meant it when I said you were my girl." He proclaimed.

When you thought this night couldn't get any wilder, it just did.

Alarms blared in the back of your mind, telling you to leave. Your brain is screaming at you to think about your moral obligation to stop the Prowler, no matter who he is. But your heart is telling you otherwise. You choose the latter.

"Fuck, Miles. Shut the hell up." You threw a web at his abdomen and pulled him towards you, efficiently shutting him up by connecting your lips to his. Sliding your hands onto his braids, you pulled him in closer. He immediately reciprocated and grinned into the kiss, setting his arms on your hips.

Turning into a heated make-out session, he backed you against the wall of the alley. You felt your legs giving out on you. Miles put his knee in between your legs, supporting you. He kissed you with passion. He's pinned for you for the longest time, and he finally has you. He wasn't going to give it up for anything. Unfortunately, you needed oxygen to live, so you pulled back. A string of saliva connected your lips as you parted.

He took away all the oxygen in your body, and apparently your moral compass as well, with only one kiss. Unable to open your eyes until a few moments after, you fluttered your eyes open. "I fucking love you too, Miles" You whispered against his lips. "Oh, really? Couldn't tell." He teased with a smirk, his lips seconds away from yours as he looked down at you. He held your gaze with longing in his eyes.

Muffled screams ruined the moment. Miles and you react immediately, putting your masks back on. You got your webs ready while Miles had his steel daggers out. Lowering your guards, you realize it was the couple of guys you webbed up and forgot. "Sorry, I'll go take care of them." You said as you rubbed the back of your head awkwardly. Miles stifled a laugh as he said, "That's alright, ma. You can make it up to me later." You heard the smugness in his voice as you swung away to the police station. You made sure to fulfill his request later that night.

---------

part 2!

[yanderejustforyou]

Oh The Hurt

Peter Parker x Reader

You never asked for this. You didn’t ask for the love that coursed through your veins like molten lava, fierce and all-consuming. You didn’t ask for Peter Parker, the boy with the soft smile and eyes that seemed to carry the weight of a thousand unsaid words, to be the one to make your heart ache in ways you never thought possible.

But here you were.

You had always known that loving him would be a kind of torment—like dancing on the edge of a razor blade, feeling the cold metal graze your skin every time you took a step. His secrets were buried deep within him, a wall he built high and strong, and you knew that one day, that wall would break. And when it did, it would bring both of you to your knees.

You didn’t need to know all the details. You didn’t need to understand the full scope of his responsibilities as Spider-Man. But you did. You understood that every moment you spent with him was precious because it was fleeting. It was borrowed time, given to you in stolen seconds between the chaos and the danger that followed him wherever he went.

And every time he left, every time he disappeared into the night, part of you died a little more.

You hadn’t meant for it to come to this, for the relationship to unravel in the way it did. But love, for all its beauty, often burns the brightest right before it fades.

It started small. A quiet distance, a hesitance in his touch, the way his eyes would dart away from yours as if he couldn’t bear to look too long. You told yourself it was nothing—just the weight of his dual life, the mask he wore in both his worlds. But deep down, you knew the truth.

Peter was slipping away, and you couldn’t stop it.

The first time you saw him with her, your heart shattered.

You had caught a glimpse of them together, her laughing as Peter touched her arm, his fingers lingering far too long. It was nothing—nothing more than a harmless moment between friends, or so you convinced yourself. But then you saw the way he looked at her, the way his smile seemed to shine a little brighter, and that was when the walls you had built around yourself started to crumble.

You couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t move. Your world tilted on its axis, and for the first time in your life, you realized you were losing him.

The confrontation came after a night spent pretending everything was fine, pretending you hadn’t seen the way his eyes had softened when she spoke to him. You could feel the weight of your emotions pressing down on you, suffocating you. It had to be said. You couldn’t keep living in this silence.

“Peter,” you whispered, your voice breaking as you stood in front of him. “Please… don’t do this.”

He looked at you, and you could see it—the guilt, the sorrow, the part of him that knew this was wrong. But it was already too late. He had already crossed the line. There was no going back.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, as if the words themselves would wound both of you.

“You’re already hurting me,” you shot back, your chest tight with pain. “I see it in your eyes. You’ve already chosen.”

His face twisted, and for a moment, you saw the boy you loved—the one who would do anything to make things right. But even that wasn’t enough. His shoulders slumped as if the weight of his choices had finally crushed him.

“I didn’t mean to…” Peter trailed off, unable to finish the sentence.

“You didn’t mean to,” you repeated, your voice raw with a bitterness you had never known. “But it doesn’t change the fact that you’re choosing her. You’re choosing someone else.”

He reached out to you, his hand trembling as it hovered near your arm, but you took a step back, the sting of his touch a reminder of the distance that had already formed between you. A touch you couldn’t bring yourself to feel, not when the reality of it all was too much to bear.

“I can’t…” he whispered, his voice thick with unshed tears. “I don’t know how to choose.”

You didn’t know how to respond. How could you? You had spent so long pretending that maybe, just maybe, there was hope for you both. But the truth was, Peter had always been torn. Torn between the man he had been and the hero he had to be. Torn between the love he had for you and the guilt that would never leave him. And in the end, it wasn’t you he would choose.

The night stretched on, an endless black void that swallowed you whole. Every step you took, every thought you had, led back to him. To Peter. To the way he had looked at her, the way he had touched her, the way his heart seemed to beat for someone else.

And yet, even as the tears burned your eyes, even as your chest threatened to collapse under the weight of the ache, there was something inside you that couldn’t let him go. You hated him for it. You hated him for choosing her. But more than that, you hated yourself for not being able to hate him. You still loved him. Even as he tore you apart, piece by piece, you still loved him.

And that was the cruelest part.

You hadn’t expected him to show up at your door that night. You hadn’t expected him to come crawling back after everything had already fallen apart. But there he was, standing on your doorstep with the same haunted look in his eyes, the same broken boy who had once made you believe in something greater.

“Please…” he whispered, voice cracking. “Please let me fix this. I can’t stand the thought of losing you. Please, I don’t want to hurt you anymore.”

Your heart twisted, and for a moment, you thought you might break in his arms. You could feel the weight of everything he was saying, the desperate plea in his eyes. But no matter how badly you wanted to believe him, you couldn’t. You couldn’t because you knew that it was already too late. The damage had been done. And in the end, love wasn’t enough to save either of you.

You stepped back, shaking your head, and before you could say the words, the tears had already begun to fall.

“I can’t do this anymore, Peter,” you whispered, your voice trembling with every syllable. “I can’t keep waiting for you to choose me. I can’t keep pretending like everything will be okay when it never will be.”

His hand shot out, reaching for you, but you were already too far gone.

“I love you,” he pleaded, his voice barely a whisper now, like a prayer. “I love you so much. I never wanted to hurt you.”

But you could see it—the truth in his eyes, the lies wrapped in his promises. The love he had for you had never been enough to make him choose you. Not truly. Not when the world needed Spider-Man more than it needed Peter Parker.

And that was where it ended.

You closed the door quietly, your heart cracking in a thousand places, and you let the silence swallow you whole.

There was no happy ending. No redemption. No moment where Peter would choose you over everything else. He would always be torn between the man he was and the hero the world demanded him to be. And no matter how much you loved him, no matter how badly you wished for a different outcome, it would never be enough.

Some loves were doomed from the start, and you both had always known it.

Days passed, though they felt like an eternity. Each moment dragged on, every breath you took heavy with the suffocating weight of your decision. There was no closure. There was no peace. You had tried to erase him from your life, to let the wound heal, but his absence only made the pain more unbearable.

You walked through the days in a haze, numb to everything around you. The world had become a blur of colors and sounds, but none of it mattered. You couldn’t focus. You couldn’t think. All you could do was replay that night over and over in your mind—the look in his eyes when you closed the door on him, the rawness in his voice as he whispered that he loved you, and the way his hand had trembled as it reached for you, only to fall short.

You hated him for what he had done, for making you feel like you weren’t enough. But you hated yourself more for still loving him. Even after everything. Even after the way he had chosen her, even after the way he had torn you apart.

The nights were the hardest.

It wasn’t just the silence. It wasn’t just the emptiness that seemed to seep into every corner of your life. It was the memories. The way he used to laugh, the way he would pull you close and kiss you like the world could end at any moment, like the love you shared was the one thing that would keep it from falling apart. Those moments replayed in your mind with painful clarity.

You could still feel him, his warmth, the softness of his touch, the way his voice would soothe your fears. And it was those memories that hurt the most because they reminded you of what you had lost.

And then, just as you thought you might crumble under the weight of it all, he came to you again.

The knock on your door was soft but unmistakable. Your heart skipped a beat, and a familiar coldness crawled up your spine. You didn’t want to see him. Not like this. Not after everything. And yet, you couldn’t stop yourself from opening the door.

There he was, standing on your doorstep, eyes haunted and bloodshot, like he hadn’t slept in days. His clothes were wrinkled, his hair disheveled, and there was an almost palpable desperation clinging to him.

“I’ve been looking for you,” Peter said, his voice breaking, sounding so fragile that it made your chest ache. He took a step forward, but you instinctively stepped back, the distance between you both a painful reminder of everything that had transpired.

"Why?" You couldn't help the bitterness in your voice. "Why now, Peter? After everything? Why come back when you've already broken me?"

His face contorted with pain, his hand reaching out toward you, but you flinched, the rawness of your emotions surfacing all at once.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “I’m so sorry. I know I hurt you. I know I screwed up. I can’t undo it, but I need you to understand something. I... I can’t live with the thought of losing you. I thought I could handle it. I thought I could do this alone, but I was wrong. I need you, and I’ll never forgive myself for how I hurt you.”

Your heart hammered painfully in your chest, each word tearing through you like a fresh wound. You wanted to scream, to push him away, but the truth was, you couldn’t. Not entirely. Because despite the pain he had caused, despite the deep wound he had left in your soul, you still loved him. And you hated yourself for it.

“I can’t keep doing this, Peter,” you whispered, the tears finally spilling over. “I can’t keep waiting for you to choose me. I can’t keep being your second choice, your backup, your convenience. I deserve more than that.”

His face crumpled as he stepped closer, his hand finally brushing against your arm. It felt like fire. You recoiled instinctively, the warmth of his touch searing through you, burning you in ways that felt too familiar. You wanted it, and yet, you didn’t. You couldn’t. Because every touch, every word, every glance from him was a reminder that this wasn’t love—not anymore. It was an illusion, a broken version of something that had once been real.

“I’m so sorry,” Peter said again, his voice thick with emotion. “I never meant to hurt you like this. I don’t know how to fix what I’ve done, but I can’t keep pretending that this—” He gestured between the two of you, his eyes full of guilt and longing, "—isn’t what I want. It’s always been you. Always."

You swallowed hard, stepping back again, your chest tight, your breath ragged.

“No,” you choked out, shaking your head. “No, Peter. It’s not enough anymore. You can’t just come back when it’s convenient for you. You can’t just waltz in and expect everything to be okay. You’ve already chosen her. And I can’t—I can’t keep being the person you come to when it’s easier. I won’t let you destroy me anymore.”

Peter flinched as if your words physically struck him. You saw the hurt flash in his eyes, but there was also something else. Something darker, more painful than you’d ever seen before: regret. And it was almost unbearable to watch. Because in that moment, you realized that no matter how much you loved him, no matter how deeply he cared for you, you would always be the one to suffer.

This—this broken, painful thing between you two—would never heal. You both had tried to pretend it would, tried to hold on to the pieces, but the cracks had already run too deep. You could both feel it, the inevitable unraveling of a love that was never meant to be.

And so, with one last, lingering look, Peter turned to leave. You didn’t stop him. You couldn’t. The weight of everything you had gone through together, and everything you had lost, was too much. The air felt thick with sorrow, suffocating, and as he walked away from you for the final time, you felt the fire inside you flicker and die.

You tried to move on. You tried to walk away, to let the pieces of your broken heart fall where they may, but no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t escape him. Every part of you still ached for him, still wanted him. But the truth was, there was no way out of this. There was no way to make it right. You had both tried to hold on, to make it work, but love was never enough. Not when the world was constantly pulling him away from you.

And as the days turned into weeks, you realized—some things were just never meant to be.

[pinksugarscrub]

Starstruck

Hobie Brown x fem! musician! reader

Recap: Yuri’s too busy when you come back to scold you. So the rest of your shift goes smoothly. Your mind drifting to the boy every once in a while. A small smile on your lips. The phone rings and your bliss is broken. You hold your breath as insult after insult hits your ear through the receiver. You feel like an idiot. The boy’s pretty face fading into obscurity. You blink back tears as you talk with the real Miguel O'Hara. What a shitty night.

Part(s): Prologue, 1, ???

Word Count: 2,013

~

Gwendolyn Stacy, your best friend since middle school and you have a dinky friendship bracelet to prove it. You told her everything and I mean everything but for some odd reason you felt too ashamed to even mention what’s his face. So instead you turned to the only other person you shared your life with and that was Mary Jane Watson, better known as MJ. 

“Motherf-”

“Language,” you sigh. Stuffing another spoonful of ice cream into your mouth. Your eyes following Mary Jane as she shuffles across the room. Two different shades of purple fabric in her perfectly manicured fingers.

“Sorry,” she grumbles. Rolling her eyes as she bites her tongue. It was pretty irritating how calm you were being after spilling your guts out to her earlier. There are even still tear stains on your cheeks. “But aren’t you mad? I mean come on (y/n), that was pretty messed up.”

“I never said I wasn’t mad,” you mumble. Sticking your spoon back into the tub when you notice Spider-man strutting up to you. His striped tail brushing against your ankle as he waited patiently for you to lift him up. 

The tabby purrs as soon as you place him into your lap. Gently scratching his chin to distract yourself from MJ’s stare. The anger swirling behind her eyes diminishes when she realizes how deeply this has affected you. “So, what do you feel?”

Your face scrunches up as you try to come up with a proper answer. Anything that makes you seem like less of a crybaby. “I don’t know…I just…” you sigh again,“I just feel really stupid.”

“But it wasn’t your fault,” she retorts.

“It was my fault MJ!” Your voice wavering as you lean back into the soft and plush pillows of her bed. Holding Spider-man closer to your chest and burying your nose into his fur. Effectively muffling your words. “I let some dumb guy distract me and Yuri had to pay for my mistake…”

“Is that what you’re worried about?” MJ huffs. Placing her hands on her hips as she eyes you. “Yuri? You know she can handle anything anyone throws at her. She’s practically a soldier.”

“I know, I know,” you whine. “He just- he played me ok!?” Sniffling as you held Spider-man above you. “Right?”

Spider-man blinks. 

“See? Even he agrees!”

MJ rolls her eyes again. You seem to bring it out in her. “Ok fine, you’re an idiot and you deserved what you got.”

You gasp, cradling spider-man to your chest. “Mary Jane Watson!”

She quirks her eyebrows up while shrugging her shoulders. Going back to sifting through her dresser for pearl beads and tiny sequins. “What is it about this guy that has you so twisted? I mean, this isn’t the first time you’ve fumbled a guy.”

“Thank you very much for that,” you deadpanned. “This greatly improves my already low self esteem and twisted? What is this 1984?”

It’s MJ’s turn to be appalled as she tosses a pillow over your head. “Will you shut up about that! I’m only a few years older than you.” She huffs as she smacks another pillow over your head after you pull the previous one away from your face. 

“What was that senior citizen? I can’t hear you over the deafening sound of my self loathing.”

She groans as she smacks you once more. “Stop avoiding me and answer my question already.” 

You sigh as you sink down onto the floor. Dramatically of course. Your daily visits wouldn’t be complete without a dose of insanity. 

It takes you a few moments to collect yourself and finally decide to say what’s been on your mind. Your fingers digging into your palms. “Do you remember the story of how my parents met?”

MJ hums, taking a seat beside you but not without carefully adjusting her skirt. Sitting elegantly as she brushed her hand through your hair which cause Spider-Man to get jealous and saunter over again. “Of course. He saw her from across the room at a venue he was performing at. They instantly felt a connection and he spent weeks trying to find her after only knowing her name.”

You follow along with her explanation. Mouthing word for word considering you had memorized your parent’s love story by heart. 

“So this has something to do with you being a hopeless romantic?”

“Do you want me to tell you or not?” You snap. MJ puts her hands up in mock surrender.

You sigh again as you stare up at the ceiling. “My mom told me it was his smile that caught her. I never really understood why until…” You cough and clear your throat as you close your eyes. Cringing as you felt your cheeks heat up. “He had a nice smile.”

MJ’s eyes soften. “I see…” 

“I just…” You rub your hands over your face. Sprawling out like a starfish or in this case, a puddle. “I kind of let the idea of the same thing happening to me get to my head. It was different.”

Groaning, you decide to change the subject. Not sure how much more humiliation you could take after admitting to your delusions.

It was hard not to want what your parents had. They were happy, content living in their two bedroom apartment singing songs in the morning and dancing in the evening. Aside from music, you wanted someone special in your life and after letting go of Miles in the name of friendship you were starting to lose hope. Oh, you weren’t supposed to mention that.

“Anyway, any last minute advice? School starts in less than a week,” you sing. Smiling weakly as you lightly punched her shoulder. 

It took everything within MJ not to scold you for avoiding your feelings. She knew first hand what it was like to bottle everything up. She couldn’t understand why you felt the need to do so. You didn’t live with an abusive father who didn’t support your dreams. Your family was ecstatic to send you to Visions, help you achieve your goals. But the more family dinners she was invited to the more she saw what was brewing beneath the surface. She just hoped you would see it sooner rather than later. 

For once, she indulged you and moved along. Sliding down so she was also on her back staring at the same dirty ceiling she gazed at late into the night wondering if she was doing the right thing. Every time you remind her she is.

“It’s not illegal if you don't get caught.”

You choke on your spit. Laughing as you looked over at her in disbelief. “You are a horrible influence.” 

MJ laughs along with you before wrapping her arm around your shoulder and holding you close. “You’re only seventeen once,” she whispers, “enjoy it.” 

There’s a moment of silence as you take in her words. Her face was one you had grown to love. Maybe because you felt like you lost your other best friend in the process of trying to be a good one. Either way, you wouldn’t trade her for the world.

“Noted.”

Your phone buzzes on MJ's bed and within minutes you’re emotionally sober again and heading home for dinner. "You coming?"

"What? And miss movie night?" MJ smiles. Grabbing her jacket and her keys.

Movie nights were spectacular. You would savor the last few days of summer vacation because soon enough you would resume your normal routine as a high school student. Forgetting all about the cute boy with dimples. You guarantee it.

-

Midtown lockers consisted of stickers, graffiti, or lack of creativity. Yours was situated right next to Gwen’s. She dropped the -dolyn of her name after meeting Miles who coined the nickname. Speaking of which, Miles had been infatuated with her since freshman year. Well, your freshman year. He was still in middle school when the universe aka Mr. Harrington who was in charge of the academic decathlon, recruited them. You were excluded per lack of…how do you say? “Intelligence”. Public speaking wasn’t your strong suit.

You became their middle man because they were both hopeless and idiots. 

Ignoring the pain that eventually dulled into an ache. You walked with them, talked with them, and even traded seats with them so they could partner on assignments. Your group grew with the addition of Pavitir sophomore year. Gayatri the next. Which totally didn't make you feel more alone. 

The plan was to meet with everyone before the first bell rang but everyone seemed to be struggling with one thing or another. So for now you were left wandering the halls. Maybe you should learn a new hobby, join a new club? Club Rush wouldn’t be for another month though. 

Were you being ungrateful? Dissatisfied with what you had even though you had everything? Well, minus a boyfriend but that’s not necessarily a need. 

In the end you head to your first class early. Choosing a seat in the back you’re sure Miles will love so he can draw up tags. You and Miles share a statistics class this semester. You chalk it up to him being a genius who doesn’t even have to try too hard to pass. Lucky. 

The class slowly fills and at this point you’re just staring blankly at your desk and worry begins to gnaw at you the closer you get to the bell ringing. Miles is unsurprisingly absent but being late on the first day is a stretch, even for him. You know Mr. Davis and Mrs. Morales wouldn’t have it. 

A loud ring sets your stomach in knots but right as it starts the door swings open and oh no—

You’ve got to be kidding me

Your eyes meet and you want the world to swallow you whole. Out of all of the schools in the State of New York. There is no way he could be here. His address, what was his address? It was almost two districts away right? Right!?

Fuck

Your heart jumps when you come back to reality. He’s walking towards you, toward the only empty seat in the classroom aside from the one right by the door. Out of all the times Miles was late you’ve never wanted to scream at him more but at this point you just want him to be seated next to you. By falling from the ceiling or barreling through the window you don’t care! You would even settle for sitting next to Flash Thompson. The Flash Thompson.

You wouldn't survive an entire school year—your senior year—sitting next to a boy who obviously knows how charming he is and almost had you fired to get his kicks! Who does that? For pizza of all things!?

You pray by some miracle an earthquake hits but instead, you’re answered by the squeak of leather that you would recognize anywhere. You want to cry tears of joy at the sight of the red jordans entering the door followed by a sheepish looking Morales. 

“Mr. Morales, late on the first day.” 

Miles chuckles at the exasperated sigh that leaves your teacher’s lips. Rubbing the back of his neck before he shrugs off his bag. Easily setting it down on the desk beside you after turning in a familiar pink slip of paper that brands you as a troublesome student.

“Einstein said time was relative right?” He smiles but you can see the sweat dripping down his forehead. “Maybe I’m not late, maybe you guys are early.”

You would laugh if it weren’t for the fact you can’t tear your eyes away from the boy from before. He seems to feel the same sentiment except he doesn't look like he's on the verge of a panic attack. He quite easily takes a stride in the other direction. Sitting with an already disinterested look on his expression.

As soon as Miles is done being put under the spotlight you tug him down and his stool makes a loud screech that you opt to ignore and thankfully so does everyone else.

You're S-C-R-E-W-E-D. Screwed.

-

taglist:

@tired-robo-mask , @missshelleyduvall

Beta reader:

@hyperfix-wip

[barleyo]

Don’t Be Sorry.

(Miguel O’Hara X Fem! Reader) SMUT

A/N: (Cross-posted on my Ao3) This is a little longer than what I normally write, but for Miguel? I had to go all out. I hope you all enjoy, feel free to point out any errors, or to send in requests through my inbox.

“Jesus fucking Christ, another one? Come on now, you know this shit doesn’t grow on trees,” Miguel said, quickly picking up pieces of glass off of the floor. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to drop it,” (Y/N) said while using her hands to cover her warm face, embarrassed from being berated in front of her coworkers. 

By now, she should be used to it, seeing as her clumsiness preceded her around the lab. Most beakers dropped, scales broken, or test tubes shattered could be traced back to her, resulting in a semi-public reprimanding by Miguel. While her messes were frequent, her working results were impeccable, and so she was kept on at Alchemax.

“Don’t be sorry, be better.” Miguel tossed the broken flask pieces into a disposal container and pulled his gloves off, throwing them on the nearest lab table. “It’s every day with you, isn’t it?”

“I didn’t mean to make a mess–”

“Well, you always seem to, huh?” He grabbed a mop and sighed at the blue puddle on the bright, white floor. “Just look at that. Ah, how you’re still employed, I know not.”

“Please,” she said, eyes widening, “you’re embarrassing me, I said I was sorry.”

“You are sorry, aren’t you? Well, I’m sorry you can’t get your shit together.” His teeth bared and his hands tightened around the mop’s handle.

“Here,” she gripped the handle of the mop, trying to force it out of his hands, hands much bigger and stronger than her own, “let me clean it, please.”

“You know what? No. I'm gonna clean it, because at this point, I don’t even know if I could trust you to do something as simple as that. Now go finish your work before I get you sent home for the day, or do you need me to do that for you too?” 

(Y/N) grimaced and shook her head. Walking back to her workstation, she couldn’t help but catch the amused faces of her coworkers, unsympathetic to her embarrassment. She sat down at her table, taking care to be as productive and precise as possible, not wishing to cause another scene. 

She briefly peered over to Miguel’s station, only to find him doing the same. Their eyes met: his fierce and cold, hers timid and apologetic. He scoffed, looking away from her.

~~~

(Y/N) stood in the empty break room, waiting for the old coffee maker to finish brewing. While she was in the break room, it was not break-time. It was the end of the day, and most of her coworkers would have been at home already, but she couldn’t bring herself to return to her own just yet. She still had work to finish, and whether she had to stay in the lab all night or not, she was planning to finish it all, and then some.

Standing by the counter, she pushed herself up and sat on the counter, dangling her legs over the edge, kicking her feet. Hearing the dripping of the pot cease, she angled her torso around, opened the cabinet and looked for her mug. Blindly feeling around, she pulled one out. It was plain and white, and not her own. She placed it beside her and felt around again, failing to find hers. 

“I wonder if I could just use this one?” she asked herself, holding it in front of her face, inspecting it for dust and cracks. In seeing neither, she decided to borrow it. (Y/N) poured a quarter of the pot’s liquid into the mug and sipped it gently, leaning her head back on the cabinet door. After emptying her cup, she slid down off of the counter and stood up, refilling it with her back to the door.

The break room door slammed open while she was pouring. The sound of the door banging made her flinch and spill coffee over her hand. 

“Ouch!” She quickly turned around while gripping her burned hand. Her face paled at an unimpressed standing Miguel in the doorway, making his way over to her.

“Make another mess?” He eyed the stream of coffee leaking from the countertop to the floor. 

“Yeah, I’m–” she hissed, feeling him snatch her hand and inspect it, “I’m sorry, Mr. O’Hara.”

“(Y/N),” he let go of her hand and walked past her, grabbing the tipped over mug, “this is mine.” He grabbed it and traced the new chip in the ceramic cup.

(Y/N) looked over and sighed, “I’m sorry, I’ll buy you another one, it was just the only one I could find, and I didn’t think it belonged to anyone.” 

“Why are you such a moron?” he asked flatly.

“I’m sorry?” (Y/N) questioned, thinking she didn’t hear him correctly.

“I’m sorry,” he mocked, slamming his cup down on the counter, walking over to her. “Is that all you can say? You’re always fucking sorry, (Y/N) but you’re never better and I’m fucking sick of it.” 

“I’m–”

“Shut up. Don’t you dare say it again, I don’t want your apologies, pendeja.” Miguel stood over her, dwarfing her in stature and volume. “It’s everyday, something new with you, and who deals with it? Me. Who cleans up after you? Me. Well, guess what? Not anymore, I'm done.” He jabbed his finger at her and opened his mouth to start speaking again before hearing her sniff loudly. 

Her chest rose and heaved quickly as she tried to even her breathing. (Y/N) looked up at Miguel towering over her with her glossy eyes and nodded her head, feeling the hit, sticky tears from her eyes starting to fall. Miguel stepped back from her, his face twisted in discomfort.

“I—I know,” she choked out, “I’ve really been trying, but I keep messing up. I just want to be helpful, I've been doing my best, and I know– I know it’s not enough but,” she gasped, frantically catching her breath, “I’m sorry.” (Y/N) slid to the floor, head-to-knees.

Miguel sighed deeply and ran his hand through his hair. He joined her on the floor, pulling her arms off of her legs and lifting her head up. 

“Now you wanna cry? Grow up, princesa, I’m not here to baby you,” he wiped the tears from her cheeks with the rough pads of his thumbs. He leaned closer to her face, hesitating before pushing his lips against hers. 

His lips felt rough against hers, but she leaned into the kiss anyways, savoring the taste of him in her mouth. He acted insistently, but gently, in locking lips with (Y/N), raising his arm to cradle the back of her head, angling it to deepen their kiss.

“You feel better now?” Miguel pulled away, still cupping her face. His eyes had an empty, pained look, like he was looking right past her, but his words were soft as silk, strikingly different from how he normally spoke to her. 

“More,” she sighed while saying this, making her incoherent.

“¿Qué? What did you say?”

(Y/N) grabbed his large forearm as it stretched beside her face and held it, clinging on, and looked up at him. She pushed her face back into his with a heated fever. Miguel closed his eyes and reopened the kiss, assuming the lead and pushing his tongue past (Y/N)’s lips. She widened her mouth, leaving him to access it with free reign as she played second fiddle to him, speeding up when he did, slowing down when he decided to. 

He pushed her forward, forcing her back to the floor while he cradled her head. He slipped his knee in between her wet thighs, grinding it down onto her cunt through her pants. Pulling his tongue out of her mouth, Miguel placed both of his hands beside each side of her head, leaning over her fully, supporting his weight on just his hands and his stray knee rubbing her. 

“Why did you stop?” she asked breathlessly, unsatisfied by the emptiness in her mouth, the feeling of her lonely tongue bothered her. 

He ignored her and jerked his knee roughly, catching her clit perfectly. She gasped and closed her eyes again. (Y/N) felt her legs start to tighten and her hips start to buck against the pressure Miguel used on her. “Stop moving.” He removed his knee and replaced it with his fingers that slipped through the band of her panties under her pants. 

Her slick coated his fingers as he rubbed tight, strong circles over her clit. Her nails dug into his bicep, leaving small, crescent marks over the skin, and her teeth bit her bottom lip, pricking blood.

“W–wait, ‘m gonna cum,” she moaned and clenched her fists, feeling her walls clench in sweet, sweet pleasure. She hiccupped, trying to calm her shaking legs while Miguel pulled his soaked fingers out of her pants. She sat up shakily and crawled on her knees over to the now standing Miguel, reaching at his pants. “Let me–”

He pulled her hand away from his pants, holding her wrist in the air. “No, (Y/N), I can’t do this,” he sighed. “Just… get cleaned up and go home okay? I’ll see you tomorrow.” He dropped her limp wrist and walked out of the break room, not looking back. 

“Miguel?” she called out, barely above a whisper. 

~~~

(Y/N)’s hands shook as she held the test tube. Her palms were sweaty, and her arms were tired as she tried to finish out the day. After her escape with Miguel the other night, she hadn’t the energy to complete all the work she planned on doing. She doubled her load and pushed through with not one mistake or accident, until she reached her final assignment. 

Miguel’s nostrils flared as he swept up yet another pill of sharded glass. She had pushed a rack of test tubes onto the floor just as she had started her work. Tossing the broom into the corner of the lab, Miguel came up behind her, and grabbed her wrists, holding her hands like she was a puppet. 

Leaning down to her ear, he whispered, “Since you can’t seem to do anything right by yourself, I’ll help you, princesa.” 

He gripped her wrists tightly, pulling her hands over to a rag on her lab table. He pushed her hand down and made her pick it up and wipe down a spill on the table. (Y/N) felt the eyes of her coworkers on her and heard their amused chatter. 

“See, not so hard, huh? Now, what if you had spilled something corrosive or worse?” he asked. “You need to get it together and be more careful,” he said, moving her hand back and forth to clean the mess. 

“Sorry,” she mewled.

Pulling her back, he followed the spill to the floor, bending her over to wipe it up. His hips were angled against hers, rubbing himself against her ass every time he moved her small hand. Their merged bodies were covered by the workstation. He leaned into her neck, breathing onto it with a warm exhalation. 

“I thought about yesterday,” he groaned into his ear, “and I think, you should stay later today. Do you understand?”

She nodded fervently, melting into his words. 

“Thought so, now, if you’ll excuse me,” he stood up and turned around. “I think you can finish the rest yourself, (Y/N),” he said in his normal, harsh tone.

“Yes, sir, I can.” She stood up on her weak legs. 

~~~

“That’s it, take it right in your little hand,” he groaned as she ran her hand over the thick, sticky shaft of his cock. She massaged his tip with the palm of her hand, rubbing the glob of precum leaking out.

Pressing a small kiss to the tip, she slowly starts to swallow his cock, hollowing out her cheeks to suction the length. The salty taste of his skin and his precum mixed with her saliva, and her slobber dripped down his shaft as she bobbed her head up and down over it. She pulled off briefly, licking up the spit bubbles she left on the tip.

Miguel pushed his foot between her legs while she kneeled on the floor. (Y/N) brought her weight down on his foot, grinding down on the toe of his shoe. 

“Look at that, you’re so pathetic, baby,” he stifled a moan, catching it in his throat while he spoke. “There you go, keep humping my foot like the little dog you are.” He gripped her hair, forcing himself further down her throat. “Fuck, you gonna cum on my shoes? Yeah, baby, you gonna shine my shoes with your cum?”

Tears gathered at (Y/N)’s eyes, streaming down her cheeks while Miguel fucked her throat, slowly, but rough. Pulling his dick out, Miguel slapped his fat tip on her tongue, humming as she looked up at him with her wet, glossy eyes. 

“I’m close, Miguel, ‘m–” she sped up, bumping her bare cunt on his shoe, wrapping her arms around his muscular leg. She came, her juices pumping out onto his black shoe, dripping down onto the cold floor. 

Miguel gently kicked her off his leg, shaking her off onto the floor on her back, pulling his pants back up. He sat in between her legs, face hovering above her pulsing hole. He ran his tongue over her cunt, licking a thick stripe starting at her hole and ending at her swollen clit. Her legs tried to close at the feeling, but he gripped her thigh, holding her legs open forcefully.

“Don’t you dare close your legs on me, this pussy belongs to me, and I’ll see it if I damn well want to.”

Spreading her lips, he delivered a sharp smack to her clit. Her throat constricted with a choked moan.

“A-ah!” She gasped. “That hurt, Miguel.”

“Oh, did it?” He brought his hand down again, stinging her pussy. “Good.” He places his head between her thighs again, following up her pain with wet, raw pleasure. His tongue danced through her folds, honing in on her slick, pulsing bud, stopping to suck on it periodically.

He stares up at her from her cunt, slurping and moaning into her heat to watch her face warm up. 

“Oh my god,” she moans, gripping his hair with her tight fist, “don’t stop, please, ‘m almost there.”

He pulled off quickly just to send another smack on her clit, sending her over the edge. Her legs clenched over his shoulders, locking him in between her legs while she rode out her orgasm. Her legs finally released him, and Miguel brought her to his lips. He pushed his tongue into her mouth and tangled his tongue with his, tongue fucking her with her juices coating his mouth. 

“You see how good you taste, pequeña puta? Just like heaven,” he moaned into her mouth, swapping his spit into it.

She arched into his body, craving friction against his bulging erection. “Please? I need it now, I–”  

“What? Use your words, what do you want me to do to you?”

She reached down and palmed his dick through his pants. “I need you to put it in me.”

Miguel smirked, pulling his cock back out of his pants in compliance. “God, I’m going to stretch you out so bad, princesa.” He teased the tip into her entrance, inching his hips in and out, preparing (Y/N) with shallow thrusts. 

She grumbled feeling her pussy stretch to accommodate his cock’s size. The burn from the tearing was nothing compared to the bliss of being full with his dick, however, so she gritted her teeth and rocked in tandem with his thrusting.   

“Ready?” He leaned to her ear, licking the shell.

She nodded.

Miguel picks up his pace, bottoming out into her cunt, prodding against her cervix’s tip. He props himself to his knees, tilting (Y/N) to her slide. Holding her leg to the side, he started slamming into her hole, hearing the loud, wet squelches fill his ears. 

“Listen to that, sounds like a whore’s pussy,” he said and chuckled, pounding into her at a consistent pace.

(Y/N) shook her head, dizzy with ecstasy.

“No, you’re not a whore?”

“No, ‘m not…”

He grinned, sharp teeth showing. “Then why,” he deepened his strokes, bumping into her g-spot with each thrust, “are you moaning like one?”

A loud cry reverberated in her chest, escaping from her open mouth.  

“That’s what I thought. My desperate little princess crying out like a slut,” he groaned as his balls tightened, “like a horny slut.”

“Yes, ‘m a slut,” she whined. Her pussy walls spasmed over Miguel’s dick, clenching and unclenching madly. 

“Fuck..”

His eyes shut as he released his load deep into her pussy. He pulled and watched it pool out of her hole. He slid his fingers around in the mess and collected their juices, popping his fingers into his mouth. 

He fell beside her on the floor and grabbed her shoulder, turning her shaking form to look at him. “Such a messy girl,” he sighed, “floor’s all dirty now.”

“I’m sorry, Miguel,” she felt him litter kisses onto her neck

“Don’t be sorry, mi vida.”.

[supercap2319]

"Parker we shouldn't." Y/N moaned as Parker's lips were on his sweet spot on his neck. That part that made Y/N crazy and left him a whimpering mess. Parker pressed their bodies together as his hot breath was on his neck.

"We shouldn't have the first time, Stark." Parker said. He began to put his hand in Y/N's pants and teased his growing erection. "Before I fuck you senseless. Flash Thompson is having a party tomorrow night and I want you to come."

"I already did come. Or have you forgotten?" Y/N half jokes/whines as Parker teases his sensitive dick head. He let out a breathy chuckle. "You certainly did. All over my fucking face. It was hot."

It was hard to focus on anything as Parker attacked Y/N's neck and jerked him off, but he tried to maintain control. "Are we going as friends or enemies?"

Parker scoffed. "Enemies, dumbass. You actually think I would have people associate me with you?"

Y/N frowned. "You fucking asshole." He kissed him harder tugging hard on his stupid sugar brown hair.

He watched as Parker took off his shirt and pushed him onto the floor as Parker looked down at him and smirked. "You're a fucking cock slut, Stark."

"And you're a slut slut, Parker. Now shut up, and fuck me."

"Aye aye captain."

[preciouslandmermaid]

🕸🕷 weapons don't weep 🕸🕷

pairing: insomniac peter parker/spider-man x huntress!reader --(reader is kraven’s daughter / fem-reader / reader has scars from fightin’, but no other descriptions are used)

rating: mature/explicit (18+)

prompt: "I would die for you." // "I don't want you to die." // "I would kill for you." // "I don't want you to kill." // "Then I have nothing to offer you." // (source)

tags: past enemies, secret identity, reveal of identity, canon-typical violence, established fwb relationship, POV second person, no use of Y/N, blood & injury, hurt/comfort, reader struggles to quantify her worth when she’s not being used as a weapon, explicit sexual content.

*takes place after the events of Insomniac 2.

-> the reader doesn’t know who spider-man is, but spider-man knows who she is, considering she doesn’t hide her face/identity. You can read the prior parts here and here or find the whole series on ao3.

🕷🕷( READ ON AO3 ) 🕷🕷

Peter doesn’t ask questions about your scars. Although, that’s maybe because you don’t let him. Whenever he opens his mouth in a querying manner with his eyes on the marks, you grab his chin and kiss him until he’s panting and wordless. This arrangement works better without questions.

You and Peter haven’t defined ‘it’ yet. So far, ‘it’ includes working his garage to help with his foundation, getting take-out, and fucking him on the couch or the floor (the bed, you wordlessly decided, was too intimate and so you started pulling his clothes off before he could get you there). Plus, it's thrilling to fuck Peter on the floor. It feels rushed, heady, and impulsive. Today, you skip the take-out and work your tongue across his sweaty, salty throat instead.

Your hand curls into his short, soft brown hair, and your nails graze against his scalp. You’ve never known how to let things go once you got your hands on them and Peter is no exception. He whines into the hollow juncture of your throat, his hips snapping into yours, and your nails dig into the solid, sinewy heat of his shoulder. Peter is surprisingly fit for a cute, nerdy researcher. His lean musculature cages you in and brings you to new heights.

“Oh fuck,” you bite out as your neck arches backward. Your hand glides across his damp skin until you reach the nape of his neck. You cling to him as he holds you in his arms, his thighs tucked between yours as he kneels beneath you and shallowly thrusts into you. “’m close,” you warn him, gasping.

“Already?” he teases, “so soon?” You hear the smile in his voice, feel it pressed against your collarbone, and you swallow the growl in your throat.

You say, “Oh, fuck off, Peter.” You clutch his scalp tighter, letting the strands pinch between your fingers, and tug.

“God, yes.” His breath tickles your moist neck.

When you and Peter started sleeping together, you assumed he was the romantic and sensual type. The type of guy to kiss you throughout sex and want to cuddle afterward. The type of guy who called it ‘making love’ instead of sex. Now, your assumptions weren’t too far off. Peter does like kissing you and he likes you close. But, you’ve figured out what kind of mood he’s in based on how he kisses you. And thankfully, he likes a little wildness, too. You doubt you could ever tame yourself—even for him.

He enjoys it when you rake your nails down his back, when you cover his collarbones in love bites or pin his wrists over his head when you’re riding him. It’s fun. His surprising athleticism and flexibility have resulted in a range of experimental positions, although, Peter seems to favor the ones that he can see your face. Again, you don’t talk about it.

The ridges of his cock slide gloriously through your folds, earning a hiccup torn from your throat, and Peter clutches tighter. The slow, shallow rocking creates a new, wonderful depth that presses into your front wall, sending pulsing shock wave after shock wave through your nerves. You whine. Your body trembles.

“I can feel you,” he rasps before his mouth works over your jaw. “Squeezing…” he bites the word out and clenches his eyes shut. There’s nothing you like more than seeing Peter reduced to putty in your hands. His fine cheekbones grow ruddy and his lips glisten with saliva. He’s so painfully earnest. All his emotions ricochet across his face like flames. Sweet, and cute Peter, with his tense arms and beautiful brown eyes, and his kissable mouth waiting for you to devour him.

You kiss him, stroking your tongue over his, and forcing your mouths to breathe the same air. “Peter,” you whimper, gyrating your hips, “gonna make me cum—you’re gonna make me—”

“Yeah?” he mumbles against your mouth, “want you to, want you so bad.”

Your swollen clit rubs against him, creating a slick and tempestuous friction, as his cock steadily thrusts into your drenched cunt. His calloused palm drags over your ribs, skating across raised scars and old bruises, before he cups your breast and squeezes it, kneading the flesh between his fingers, and pulling another moan from your throat.

“Peter, peter, p-peter,” you pant. Something inside of you shudders and cringes at this wanton, weak, and breathless tone that he carves from your chest. You buck into him as he rolls your tight, peaked nipple between his index and thumb. You are as taut as a compound bow drawn back to strike. You clutch his hair tighter, unraveling, and your other hand dug into the hard curve of his shoulder. Peter groans like you ripped the air from his chest. You snap and cry out as your walls pulse around his hard cock, your body quaking in quick, short bursts.

Your back hits the carpet and Peter – sweet, kind, generous – Parker thrusts hard, fucking you through the swelling waves of your orgasm, as the wet, slick sound floods your head and your heartbeat threatens to pound through your chest. You yank his hair and his head is pulled back, exposing the beautiful, vulnerable column of his throat that’s covered in reddish-purple bruises from your teeth and tongue. Through heavily lidded eyes, you watch his mouth drop open and release a guttural cry of your name before his hips snap erratically into yours and you feel him finish.

He’s huffing, gasping, like you wrought his soul and wrung it dry before he collapses forward and onto your chest. You loosen your grip on his hair and let your palm settle on his nape, idly stroking your fingers through the fine, sweaty hair at the base of his skull.

What would Peter say if he knew the real you? If he knew you grew up alongside hunters and trained to kill. If he knew you and your siblings were taught to compete for your father’s attention and praise—no, praise was the wrong word—Kraven gifted knives, not compliments.

It doesn’t matter now, of course. Kraven, and the rest of your family, are gone. Dead. You’re the lone huntress who remains for better or worse. Whether you earned your father’s respect or not is irrelevant.

But would Peter still press his lips feverishly to yours if he knew who you were? Really, truly knew you. If he knew of your nightmares, triumphs, and proud kills, would he still clutch you to your chest or hold your face in his hands while you came?

In a rare moment of post-coitus vulnerability, you say the quiet part out loud, “Sometimes I feel like I’m drowning because of you.”

Peter lifts his head from your breastbone, his flushed expression pinched with curiosity. “What?” His lips quirk into a smile. “Because of the sweat?”

Because of the goodness in you, you want to say. In the months that have passed in his company, even before sleeping together, you are – and continue to be – baffled by Peter’s selflessness. He helps old people carry their groceries, he leaves an extra penny (when he has one) in the dish at the bodega, and one time he helped a woman with her cumbersome, folded stroller on the subway stairs during a slushy, cold winter storm before joining you at the turnstile, and the way he gently held your bleeding hand and carefully wrapped your injured palm in gauze.

You close your eyes for a second, collecting yourself, remembering yourself, and you roll your eyes when you re-open them.

“Yes,” you reply, nudging his shoulder with your hand, “up and at ‘em, Parker.”

“You’re more than welcome to use the shower.” He places a quick, almost self-conscious kiss on your sticky cheek before sliding off of you. “But, I can’t promise there’s hot water,” he adds with a grimace.

You sit up, admiring your handiwork for a selfish moment. His tousled, fucked-with hair, the hickeys on his throat, the pink hue to his cheekbones and ears, and his glossy, pupil-wide eyes that regard you with...something...attraction, probably, if you had to guess.

“That’s alright.” You snatch your underwear from where it landed on the coffee table. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Same time, same place.”

Peter rubs the back of his neck. “You could stay,” he offers while pulling on his black boxer briefs. “It’s getting late.”

You scoff. It’s barely eight. “I promise I’ll get home safe.”

You can’t afford to indulge him – to be vulnerable is a death sentence. This arrangement is all you can give him. You can kiss him in the garage and let him hold the door open for you and suck his dick on the couch, but you can’t stay. To stay would be to admit that you feel safe with him. To stay would be to admit that you trust him. No. No. It’s better to go home, to your one-bedroom with pockmarked walls and your careful traps and scraps of Kraven’s leftover technology.

He doesn’t know the real you, you remind yourself, and that’s a good thing. Peter deserves someone uncomplicated for his little quiet life. You have no illusions about yourself and what you mean to him. This arrangement is built on mutual attraction and the stressors of late-night lab work. It’s a fun distraction. Nothing more. Nothing less. And, if you’re being honest, you like the simplicity of it.

Despite the horrors of being Kraven’s daughter, you liked having a place among the hierarchy and having a role to fulfill. A job. And Peter gave you that. He gave you a purpose outside the hierarchy of bloodshed, trophies, and cruel competition.

You are his partner in the foundation and you’re trying to find a cure for cancer. That’s your role. You just so happen to fuck him on the side, but that arrangement can be dissolved whenever without any hard feelings on your end. Simple. You like simple.

“Text me when you get home?” He holds the front door open for you.

You grab him by the collar of his cotton t-shirt and press your lips to his. He melts into you, his hands finding your waist, squeezing your hips, and pushing your spine against the doorframe. The kiss has your toes scrunching inside your boots and you’re almost tempted to take him up on his offer – stay and earn a hundred more kisses, and a few more orgasms until you’re boneless and drunk on dopamine. You sigh into his mouth and catch his lower lip between your teeth and give him a light, teasing suck before releasing it.

“Unless you’ve changed your mind?” he breathes, sounding ever-so-eager.

You pull away, smirking. “Nope.”

He places one hand over his heart. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

A surprised laugh escapes your throat. “No way. You’ve got the spirit of someone who will live into their eighties and spend retirement feeding ducks and pigeons in the park.”

Peter smiles, though it’s hard to know if he’s smiling because of your joke or your unexpected laughter.

“If I’m lucky,” he says, still smiling.

***

“You know,” Spider-Man begins, his legs swinging over the ledge of the building you were both perched upon, “you said ‘one time’, but if I’ve done my math right, then this is like the hundredth time you’ve helped me.”

You don’t remove the binoculars from your face. “Your point?”

“Just makin’ observations,” his tone is light, but there’s something else there – you can sense it as easily as you sense animals moving through the brush. You drop the binoculars and let them dangle from your throat where they bump against the sore pieces of your chest that Peter marked. The subtle, thrilling twinge of pain sharpens your focus.

“I’m not doing this for free,” you remind him.

His lenses widen. “I’m supposed to pay you?!” he asks incredulously. “Since when?”

You shake your head. “I have my reasons for tagging along when your targets are interesting enough,” you say, “and they aren’t monetary.”

“Then what is it? It can’t just be my company.” You hear the smile in his voice. “Although, I wouldn’t be surprised if it were.”

You bite back your smile, bring the binoculars back to your face, and return your attention to the street. Sometimes, Spider-Man will say something that reminds you so fiercely of Peter that it makes your heart ache. A good person would cut ties with Parker, end the arrangement, and let him find an uncomplicated lover without a serrated, damaged heart. But, alas, you’re not a good person. You decide to text Peter after this and see if he’s interested in pretending to watch a movie with you.

“I’m looking for someone.”

“Who?”

Your reply is short. “That’s none of your business.”

He sighs and mutters almost to himself, “Can’t blame a guy for trying…”

***

Your plans to text Peter fly out the proverbial window when the explosion sends you flying into a concrete wall. There’s no way he won’t question the bruises that’ll undoubtedly litter your back like Dalmatian spots.

You cough, rolling onto your side, and blink past your tears toward the shifting shadowed shapes of Spider-Man and the armored human on the flying bat-shaped glider.

The smoke has a strange, otherworldly green hue. Your instincts kick in. Your knees curl forward as your palms brace yourself and you push upright and remain crouched. You tug the scarf around your neck toward your nose and cover your mouth. You recognize toxic bullshit when you see it.

You notch an arrow and squint through the haze. Spider-Man moves insanely fast. His body contorting and twisting, dodging near-fatal blows at the last second, and jumping back into the fray like a snapped rubber band. But, your opponent matches Spider-Man in speed, using the glider to dodge or flip out of the way of his webs. You hold your breath and a bead of sweat tickles your temple.

“Easy,” Kraven’s voice fills your head. The smoke shifts to verdant, lush leaves surrounded by moist heat, intensified by the recent rainfall, and you are surrounded by your father’s breath and the hum of insects. Your fingers press into your cheek as you draw the bowstring back. The green-armored villain tosses several blades and Spider-Man stumbles back, clutching his ribs, and your breath trembles. You must kill this creature. You must find it’s weak point. The tip of your arrow tracks toward the villain's skull. The design of it is strange. It’s almost...impish.

‘It’s too well protected’, you think, frowning behind your scarf, ‘we need a different opening.’

Kraven admonishes, “Do not rush, Huntress.”

The yellow eyes pierce you through the leaves. You release your arrow and it sings through the air before catching on the goblin’s large, insect-like yellow eyes of his helmet. As the impact rings through the smoke and fire-filled building and the goblin is knocked from his glider, another sound cuts the air, and a rush of wet, warm copper fills your mouth.

You glance down and stare stupidly at the two small blades that are lodged inside your chest. Your yelp is strangled by the blood in your throat. The concrete beneath your knees is strange and off-putting. Weren’t you outside? You cough and bloody phlegm splatters on your shirt and over your chin.

A cry rips from Spider-Man’s throat, “Huntress!”

“What did I tell you?” Kraven sneers. “Too soon. You could have killed him if you had waited.”

“Shut up,” you say thickly, stowing your compound bow on your sore, bruised back. “I’m busy.” Spider-Man still needed your help. You’ve thrown the goblin off, but he isn’t giving up. His wide, bleeding eyeball glares at you through the broken yellow glass even as he defends himself against Spider-Man’s agile attacks.

Kraven says, “Is that any way to speak to your father? You will choke on those words, girl.”

You pull your hunting knife from the sheath on your thigh. “Looking forward to it.”

The pain should cripple you, but you’ve trained under more duress than this. Your inhale is ragged and impeded by the stuffy, claustrophobic heat. It’s agony. Your lungs, with joyously shared breath with Peter a few hours ago, rattle and crinkle with blood. You push forward and into the chaos. The goblin is faster than you expected for a target that’s covered in iridescent green armor that’s reminiscent of a beetle's shell.

The upside to fighting with Spider-Man and against him is that you know his technique. You know how he moves, where his feet will be, and how he follows through. There is a fluidity to it that you’ve never experienced with any other hunt. Your blade clangs loudly against the forearm armor of the goblin, and it’s enough of a distraction for Spider-Man to get a good, solid hit.

However, you sense the fight isn’t over. You understand, through virtue of being Kraven’s daughter, that this creature, this man, will fight to the death.

The black shadows start to crawl at the edges of your vision. You grunt and block a kick that would’ve landed on your sternum. You clench your jaw and your blade, trying to fight off the prickling numbness that trickles into your fingers.

“Careful, Spidey.” The Green Goblin laughs. “Your girlfriend doesn’t look too good.”

“You could make this easy by just giving up,” says Spider-Man, “have a nice and relaxing vacation in jail. But noooo! Bad guys always gotta -” he lands a kick “- make things so-” another kick, followed through with two quick web bursts “-difficult!”

A small lick of pride works up your spine. Spider-Man isn’t merely holding his own. He’s pushing the goblin backward, cornering him, and soon there will be nowhere left for him to run. The goblin laughs. Something flashing catches your attention. It’s the goblin’s glider and it’s – your eyes widen with realization - oh fuck – it's counting down. You shove your blade into the Green Goblin’s armpit, the only weak point you managed to catch and grab Spider-Man’s arm.

“Trap,” you wheeze. The bomb-rigged glider has barely five seconds remaining. Your body jolts and a pained scream shapes your mouth as Spider-Man pulls you into his arms and shoots a web toward the broken, metal support beams above.

There is a rush of smoke and cinders and terrible, terrible heat.

“Stay with me,” Spider-Man says above the roar. You cling to him, your chest and stomach slick with blood and smearing against his red and blue suit. The void swallows your vision. The world is a blur, a rush of sound and sensation, and your head lolls backward.

***

You smell singed, burnt clothing. You taste is metallic, harsh blood. You wiggle your fingers. You are, for the time being, alive.

You open your eyes and catch Spider-Man removing his burned mask. Short, brown hair and earnest coffee-hued eyes, his skin smudged with soot, and trails of shiny blood glistened from both ears.

“Oh good,” you wheeze, “it’s you.” You want to laugh, all the little moments of Spider-Man reminding you of Peter now make sense in retrospect. You resist the urge to giggle. You don't need further pain added to your delirium. 

“If it was anyone else,” you continue, “I don’t think I’d die for them. But, I would die for you.”

It’s such an easy truth to give him. Peter, who gave you purpose beyond bloodshed, is a worthy person to die for. Spider-Man, your once-enemy, a worthy adversary, who risked his life for a city that you weren’t sure deserved him, is a worthy person to die for. You’re glad they’re one and the same.

Peter crawls to you, hands tenderly cupping your jaw, and says, “I don’t want you to die.”

Your fingers trail lightly over his bruised cheekbone. “I’d kill for you, too, if that means anything.”

“I don’t want you to kill,” he chokes the words out.

“Mhm.” The tears prick at the corners of your eyes. Pain or grief? It’s hard to tell. “Then I have nothing to offer you.”

How shameful to admit it. You are a weapon and weapons don’t weep, but here you are – you are weeping. You try to muffle it because it’ll hurt from the blades protruding from your skin that pieced into your body armor, and because it’s been so many years since you’ve cried that you think you might’ve forgotten how.

“Don’t – don’t say that.” His thumbs stroke your face and graze over your lips. “You’re more than Kraven’s offspring and you’re brighter than his legacy ever was. You are more – so, so so much – more than that. Now, hold on, for me? Okay? Help is coming.”

You close your eyes. In that building of greenish smoke and torn-asunder concrete and twisted metal, was it really your father’s ghost that came to help you and taunt you in equal measure? Perhaps it was. It serves as a good reminder. You’re a killer. A hunter. No matter how domesticated you pretend to be, you cannot escape the thrill and excitement you feel before and during a hunt, and that delight, that euphoric release, cannot be replicated and it cannot be tamed. You drop your hand from Peter’s face and weakly hold his wrist, your thumb pressing into his pulse point.

This is always how your story was meant to go. You are destined to die at the hands of a greater predator – just as your father before you. How foolish of you to dream otherwise. How naive.

“I am what they made me,” you admit softly.

“Stop.” Peter shakes your shoulder and your eyes snap open with a pained, sharp wince. “Stop acting like this is goodbye. I need you to fight this, Huntress. I need…” He swallows and his eyes are bright, almost glassy when they meet yours. “I need you.”

A thousand arguments jump to your tongue but you don’t have the energy to articulate them. The tempestuous pull of oblivion laps at your consciousnesses like the swell of the sea. It would be so easy to let go, to release, and to succumb. So, so easy. No more pain. No more doubts about your place in the world. No more pacing around your apartment waiting for the next call to action. No more desperate searching for your father’s half-brother. You don’t even understand why you want to find him.

‘I don’t want to be alone anymore,’ you think in a shock of clarity (it seems near-death has its uses). Your eyelashes flutter. The lull of the void sings her siren’s call to you. It would be so, so easy to let go.

“You aren’t alone,” Peter says urgently. Oh fuck. You said it out loud. How does this keep happening? How does he keep effortlessly pulling the truth from you? Your defenses are good. They’re well-built and maintained and nobody has ever, ever managed to get past them.

Until him.

“Listen to me,” he says your name sweetly and desperately. Usually, that tone is reserved for when you’re lost in the throes of each other's skin, and so, you do as he wishes. You force your eyes to remain open, and you hold his gaze even though it feels like he’s burning you with it, and you grip his wrist tighter – let him be your anchor, your tether, to this wicked, heartless world.

“When I lost Harry, and when I lost Aunt May, I thought I’d never...be capable of finding someone like you...and I was afraid to let someone get close. And I’m terrified...I am so fucking scared that I’m going to lose you. I don’t want to lose you,” he says your name again as if to punctuate his sentence.

“I don’t care about your family, or your history, or any of it. I care about you. So, stay. I’m asking you to stay. Please. Please stay,” he says through his tears and you clumsily reach forward, gripping the front of his suit, and pulling him weakly toward you. You press your forehead against his. His expression fractures with tenderness and it presses into your skin like a hot, sizzling brand.

“Apply pressure to the wound,” you whisper, tasting blood and salt, “and keep me talking.”

He does as you ask and you do as he asks. For the second time in your life when Spider-Man asks you to stay – you do.

[marvelwitchergilmore]

A Moment Of Everything

Summary: Peter Parker x Fe!Reader -> You and Peter have never gotten along, but can two nights in Florence change things for good?

Disclaimer: Swearing, fluff, angst. Mentions of blood and wounds. I was watching The Proposal last night and got inspired. Enemies to Lovers. See this for whichever Spider-Man you wish. HAPPY NEW YEAR!

You knew things had to change eventually. 

Yourself and Peter couldn’t go your whole lives hating one another. 

You just didn’t expect it to change quite so much. 

It had all started one night when you were on a mission with each other. 

Two days in Florence, Italy. You were both sent to monitor a suspect. And, like usual, Peter was off with you. He didn’t seem too happy about having to share a bed at the hotel. And, even though he didn’t particularly like talking to you, he would still do it. Only, that night, he didn’t. 

When he didn’t have to talk to you, he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t even look at you. 

So, the night before you were expected to fly back home, you called him out on it. 

He didn’t listen to you. He simply walked away from you. He followed the guy and you had to go with his plan. Whatever his plan was, you had to guess. 

Only, the suspect got away. 

“We’ll find him again.”

Peter just grunted. 

“Peter.”

Nothing. 

“Peter!”

Again, nothing.

“Jesus Fucking Christ! Peter!” He finally slowed down and looked at you. “What the hell is your fucking problem?! I get you don’t like me, but we’re meant to be together in this!”

“We are together in this.”

You couldn’t help but scoff. “Bull-shit. You have done nothing but ignore me this entire trip. If you have a problem with me, you can just say it. Where are you going now? Or am I not allowed to know that either.”

“Back to the hotel. Not like you’d tell me.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

You tried running to catch up with him. 

“Nothing.”

“No, go ahead. Tell me.”

Soon enough you both made it back to the hotel and inside the room before the conversation continued. 

“Tell me, Peter. I can take it.”

“No, you can’t.”

“You don’t know me-”

“You’re right! I don’t!” Peter turned around and looked at you, forcing you to stop in your tracks. 

“I don’t know you! I don’t know anything about you! Because you don’t share anything.”

“Well, excuse me for wanting to keep my life a little private.”

“A little?!” Peter raised his eyebrows and scoffed. “A little private is not telling your co-workers where you're going when you say you’re going on holiday. A little private is not showing them a thousand pictures of your new puppy. Your life is anything but a little private.”

Clearly, he had more to say so you waited. And you didn’t have to wait long. 

Sighing, Peter rubbed his forehead for a moment before looking back at you. 

“I have known you for almost ten years and you have told me less than three things about yourself. And yet, an hour before we leave to come here, Hank from the Biology lab does…what? Flirts with you for five minutes, tells you his coffee order and you’re practically marrying the guy!”

“Peter, that’s none- Is this what has been bothering you since we left? This?! Just because I decided to talk to a guy and tell him about my day…why does it bother you so much that I don’t talk about myself?”

“Because I am meant to be your teammate. You have known me for almost ten years and never once have I hid anything from you. We are meant to trust one another. It doesn’t matter if you don’t like me or if I didn’t like you, what matters is that you trust me, and that I trust you. This partnership is meant to go both ways.”

You didn’t know what to say. You just kept looking at Peter. It looked like the world had been lifted off his shoulders whilst he also started beating himself up over what he just said. His chest was heaving and for a moment, you thought he was gonna walk towards you but instead, he took a step back. 

“I’m going for a shower.”

When the door closed behind him, it took you a moment to gather yourself. 

You couldn’t deny that he had a point. Maybe you hadn’t told him as much as you could have done, especially for being teammates for almost a full decade. But it wasn’t like he didn’t have his faults in it, too. 

Maybe instead of ignoring you and only talking to you when he needed to, you might have warmed to him more rather than seen him as a stand-offish person who you would trust to save your life, but wouldn’t trust to put it on the edge first. 

After twenty minutes, Peter emerged from the bathroom, freshly washed, clothed and ready for bed. He put away his dirty clothes and put his wash bag back in his bag before climbing under the covers that lay at the bottom of the bed. 

He hadn’t said anything when you both arrived at the hotel late at night. Just took some sheets out of the cupboard and put them on the floor. When you entered the room, you said he was being ridiculous.

He just said the bed was too soft for him and that he wouldn’t sleep. 

After an hour of back and forth over you telling him just to get into the bed, since it was big enough for a family of five, never mind two, he still decided to stay on the floor. 

As you lay in bed, listening to the distant noises of the city, you tossed and turned before settling on your back. But you still couldn’t sleep. 

Then you heard Peter. 

He was tossing and turning, too. 

Eventually, you heard him sigh in annoyance of sleep not taking over him. 

So, wrestling with your own mind, you spoke up. 

“I like Greek Mythology.”

A few seconds passed and then; “What?”

You faltered for a moment before speaking up again. 

“I-I like Greek Mythology. I always have.” you said before explaining, taking your time. “When I was five, my grandmother gave me some of her old books. In the pile was a kids illustrated version of Greek Gods and Goddesses. I was obsessed. And I mean, obsessed.” 

You laughed a little as you explained your obsession with Greek Mythology to him. Meanwhile, from the floor and out of sight from you, he smiled. He couldn’t even think of when he’d heard a smile in your voice. Never mind a laugh. 

It was once of the sweetest sounds he’d ever heard. 

“For three halloween’s in a row, I went as a different Goddess.”

You fell silent for a moment in the memory before you started to speak again. 

“I hate coffee. I try it once every year and it’s always the same. Absolutely disgusting.” you chuckled a little. “I spent every summer away from home at Camp where I ran a book club. I watch Rom-Coms when I’m sad because they make me feel better. My favourite flowers are blue tulips. I don’t watch thrillers because they remind me too much of work. And, I haven’t told anyone this much…ever.”

Only as you finished did you realise how much you had told him. And you felt a pang of anxiety in the pit of your stomach as Peter remained silent. 

“Are you still there?”

Peter swallowed thickly and nodded his head, despite the fact you couldn’t see him. “Y-yeah. I’m here. Just…processing.”

“Okay.”

That conversation had been just over eight months before you got a knock at your apartment window one evening. 

You had taken a couple weeks off work since you hadn’t taken any vacation days…ever. Barton had practically banned you from the building for two weeks. 

The rain had been pouring over the city and, with all your work finished, you had rushed out and got some supplies before sitting in front of your TV, watching one of the many rom-coms your DVD collection provided before pulling a few books from your shelves and reading through them. 

At some point, you had fallen asleep, still fully dressed, under your blankets, listening to the quiet silence of your apartment as the rain hit the windows outside. 

Only, rather than continuing to sleep throughout the night, you heard a continuous tapping. 

So, leaning up with tired eyes, you looked around. The loose braid you had stuck your hair in had fallen out, your bobble being lost between the cushions somewhere.

The apartment was shrouded in darkness, save for the street lights outside still lighting small sections of your apartment.

Along came more tapping until finally you turned towards the sash window that lay by the fire escape. 

You furrowed your eyebrows as you saw him through tired eyes. 

Making your way over, you pushed the window open and Peter made his way inside. 

“Sorry for waking you.”

You just grumbled and closed the window to stop the rain from flying in, though it didn’t stop the small puddle made by Peter who was practically soaked to the bone from the rain. 

“Ah, so this is who I lost you to.” Peter said with a slight smirk as he spotted one of your Mythology books. 

“Barton said I was banished from HQ until my vacation days were finished. What are you doing here at this time of night? What even is the time?”

“I didn’t know where to go, and you’re the only one who I trust to do the job well.”

“What job?”

Finally looking at Peter, you saw it. 

His body, and his clothes, were splattered with blood. You couldn’t tell how much of it was his and how much of it could be somebody else's. 

“You didn’t kill anyone did you?”

“No.” Peter answered. “They’re alright, just at the police station getting booked.”

You sighed as you took in even more of his wounds. “Alright. Meet me in the bathroom in two minutes. Give me your jacket.”

Peter removed it and you took it from him, including his grey hoodie. 

“Bathroom?”

“Down the hall and to the right.”

Peter nodded and walked down whilst you headed into the kitchen and shoved his jackets into the washing machine and pressed start. Then, from the top cupboard, you pulled down your first-aid kit that contained everything from princess plasters, from when you had been looking after your neighbour's kid for two days, to a stitching kit.

Twenty minutes later, you had a basin full of warm, blood stained water, a once-clean face cloth covered in stains of blood and a grown Avenger sat on the edge of your bathtub, wincing every now and again and you cleaned him up. 

“Remind me again why you came to me?”

You turned Peter’s head to face over your right shoulder as you cleaned a graze and cut just above his eyebrow. 

“Because I trust you. And I didn’t feel like getting another lecture from Laura.”

“Ah,” you nodded and Peter laughed a little. 

Then he hissed. 

“Sorry, I'm almost finished with this one.”

“It’s okay.” Peter flicked his gaze to you a couple of times. “T-thank you for doing this.”

“What else would I have done? Kicked you back out of the window?”

“You could have done it. I did wake you up. Clearly I didn't learn my lesson from the first time.”

You chuckled. “Yeah, I guess I did nearly beat you up.”

What Peter meant was just over two months ago. You had both become friends of sorts. But, you had fallen asleep at your lab desk one night and Peter came in to wake you up and you nearly cursed him out so much that you even had him convinced he was an intruder trying to break into your home. 

“But, if you hadn’t come to me, I probably would have cursed you out when I found out, anyway.”

“Found out?”

“You can’t hide anything from me, Peter. I know everything,” you joked. 

“But do you?”

Peter’s question slipped from his tongue before he could stop himself, but you didn’t know what to do. So, your eyes turned from his and you tried your best to remain calm until you saw a large spot of blood coming through his black t-shirt. 

You tried your best to get to the wound that was beneath it without him removing his shirt, but you both knew it was no use. 

So, awkwardly asking him, he stood and you looked to him only to find him looking back. 

Slowly, he removed his shirt, trying his best not to stain the rest of his body from the blood you had just cleaned away and for a moment, you were met with his body in front of you. 

Most of the blood was coming from that one wound but the top of his arms now showed a little bruising, as well as his torso, though it was more healed than you thought it would have been. 

Finding yourself staring for a little too long, you forced your gaze back to his face where he’d removed the shirt from over his head and lowered himself back down onto the edge of the tub, opening up his legs for you to stand between them once more. 

Though, it was in that moment that you realised how close you had been standing to him this entire time. 

“Th-This might sting a little.”

Peter nodded and you watched as he clenched his jaw and tried to suppress the grunt that tried to escape from him as you cleaned out the wound. 

“You might need some stitches.” you mentioned. “I can do them here, though they might not be Laura standard.”

“I think I’ll survive.”

You nodded and tried your best to ignore the fact that Peter was looking at you as you looked for your stitching kit and began working. 

In your peripheral vision, you could see some of his bruises already starting to heal, though some might take more than a couple hours.

Even with his adapted DNA. 

“If you want, you can stay here for the night. I have a spare set of pyjamas if you need them.”

“You sure they’ll be my size?”

You laughed a little. “My, uh, my neighbour gave them to me. She bought a set for her husband but when they came they were too big for him. She told me to keep them in case I ever had someone…stay the night. They might be too big for you, too but they have a drawstring so…”

“Okay.”

You looked at him for a split second and then looked back to his wound with a small nod. 

Soon enough you finished and stepped back to grab the face cloth before dipping it into a fresh basin of warm water to clean off the rest of his wounds that would heal soon enough. 

“Thank you.”

“Anytime.”

As you looked at Peter when he stood, there was a moment of…everything. 

Neither of you were moving, yet his eyes and your own spoke a thousand unspoken words between their gazes. 

Without thinking, Peter lifted his hand to meet your own, allowing you to place the cloth down before he pulled you a little closer. 

Your name left his lips in a small whisper, a plea, a wish of permission.

You felt yourself stand a little taller as his other hand came to your face, brushing the loose hair from your face, behind your ear. 

His eyes continued to flick from your eyes to your lips, as yours did the same with him. 

There was time for you to stop. For you to say no. And if you did, he would have stepped away and, most likely, would have apologised and left. 

But you didn’t want that. 

Each tantalising moment that passed, you wished for time to hurry up. For his lips to finally meet yours. 

And once they did, there was no turning back. 

At first it was soft, until you both became hungry for more. 

Leaning in, your hands came to his neck to pull him closer to you. 

Eventually, the kiss broke apart for a moment, your heads resting together, your eyes partly closed. 

“Was that-”

“Just shut up and kiss me again.”

Peter chuckled a little before feeling your lips connect to his, allowing his hands to pull your body flush against his.

[helloheyhihowdyheya]

Rose Thorn Blues | p. 1

Peter Parker x fem!reader

Masterlist

Summary: The other Daily Bugle intern has been a thorn in your side all summer. But if you wanted the job, you'd have to work with him. And you'd do anything to get it.

Word count: ~7k

Warnings: Enemies to lovers!! Banter. Criminal activity. Swearing. A bit of angst but not really. J. Jonah Jameson lol.

A/n: I think this'll end up being around 3 parts, but we'll see. This has been tumblin' through my mind since last year, so I'm glad to finally let it out lol. Let me know your thoughts! Thanks for reading <3

You used to enjoy the clear sky on a sunny day, the vibrating blue that stretched until it curved around the horizon. Used to love the way the lapping waves of the Atlantic shimmered for miles, its ripples echoing the sky’s image. The blue of the world before the sun came up, or the indigo quiet of a rainy day.

You even used to love how red the rusted bricks outlining your apartment building looked, tracing the tips of your fingers along them as you walked by, scarlet pebbles breaking off into your palm. The cherry glow of a late-night diner’s “Open” sign made the beats of your heart stutter, its lights reflecting off the glass and illuminating puddles littering the sidewalk. Even with the occasional rose you passed on your way to work, the red petals surrounded by thorns and overgrown weeds, you still leaned your nose in to smell its sweet crimson scent. 

But that was before your internship at The Daily Bugle, before you had to write countless stories on Spider-Man all the time, and before you knew Peter, the other intern. Now, every cloudless day or trip to the ocean, hell, even the plump blueberries in the grocery store or a swirling glass of Merlot, an obnoxious red stoplight, or the tiniest cut exposing a drop of blood turned your stomach. You knew people could change you, but you’d never expected to hate the shades of red and blue — until you stared at it every day while standing in Parker’s shadow.

You’d shake your head, shove your fingernails into your palm, blink so hard your vision turned bright just to erase those colors from your mind and him from your thoughts. But you would have no such luck as you weaved your way through New York’s sidewalks under the summer sun, a barely-there breeze passing alongside the traffic. Your hand clutched your phone tight in its grasp.

On it held a photo of Spider-Man you’d just taken earlier that morning. He stopped a robbery, and you captured the moment he’d ripped off a car door to use as cover — a story that J. Jonah Jameson would love to spin into something ridiculous. You had nothing against the superhero, but it was what your boss wanted. The boss that would decide which intern would receive a full-time position at the end of the summer, and you wouldn’t go down without a fight against Parker.

He always had clearer photos and more information on Spider-Man — always seemed to get on the scene before you. You wouldn’t have been that upset if Parker actually was a better reporter than you, but that smug, chronically late asshole certainly wasn’t better than you. Not when you worked twice as hard just to watch him successfully stumble his way through this internship. 

And that stupid shrug he gave you when Jameson chose his story over yours! He’d mutter, “Better luck next time,” as if you weren’t covering for his ass half the time. You weren’t sure why you did it anymore. Maybe you didn’t want to watch him get fired since this wasn’t an easy opportunity to get, but you definitely wouldn’t mind sitting back and enjoying him get chewed out by Jameson.

But that was unimportant now as you made your way into The Daily Bugle’s building, savoring the air conditioning as your breath tumbled from your mouth. This picture and the eyewitness statements you took would create a story Jameson wouldn’t think twice about choosing, especially when Parker always came in late in the mornings.

Walking through your floor’s doors, photo pulled up on your phone, you quickly dropped your bag at your desk before making your way to pitch the idea to Jameson. You’d mentally written the first half of it on your walk here already.

Your steps faltered though as you neared the office, hearing your boss’s voice echoing through the office.

“Good work, Parker. Finish it by noon, and we’ll publish it today.”

He was already here? Silently, you gritted your teeth, peering into the room. And of course, out walked Parker, one hand holding papers and the other shoved in his pocket.

“The one day you’re on time… I can’t believe this,” you quietly muttered, feeling a weight sink into your stomach. His shoulders hung casually while yours raised up and down with your breaths. His half-smile made you stare daggers into him.

He just raised an eyebrow at you. “Good morning to you too, sunshine. Most people happen to love my presence.”

You silently ignored his nickname for you as you said, “Then most people must be lying to you. What story did you give him?” You pointed your head toward the office, chewing on the inside of your cheek.

“So you can go in and try to one-up me?” He scoffed, his eyes annoyingly bright and warm. “No thanks.”

As he made to walk away, you grabbed his arm despite your aversion to being near him. Even the heat of his skin made you too warm, just another reason to stay away from Parker. “I lied to Jameson last week while you were off doing who-knows-what when you should’ve been working. Now what was the goddamn story?”

The sound of other employees talking and making coffee filled the background. If you could just beat him, you’d be part of them one day. So you didn’t let up, waiting for him to answer as he looked between your hand and your eyes. He shook off your touch after a moment.

You watched his jaw tick, his eyes roll to the back of his empty head. “Fine. And because I don’t think I could handle the second-hand embarrassment. I’ll tell you that if your story’s about whatever Spider-Man was up to this morning, you might want to skip telling Jameson.”

The grip on your phone loosened a bit, along with the hope you’d put into this — into trying to prove that you were a good reporter too. But, of course, you were always stuck finding stories on Spider-Man, and too late with them anyway. Anything else wasn’t important news, not at this company.

You tried, and failed, to keep your frustration from your voice as you asked, “And how did you get here before me with that story? You’re literally never here on time and just always have some bullshit idea that’s barely a story.”

Parker just gave a short laugh, smirking at you. “And yet… I still beat you. Kinda stings, huh?”

You gave a grumbled “Piss off” before letting him walk past you this time. You filled up your water bottle, headed to the bathroom, made small talk with some woman you’d immediately forgotten the name of — all distractions so you didn’t have to go back to the desk that sat much too close to Parker, especially while he worked on the story that should’ve been yours.

When you finally returned, you refused to look at a particular person across from you — the two intern desks only separated by a half wall. You just fished out your headphones at the cheap desk with no air conditioning under the city’s hot summer.  

A much-needed break from Spider-Man you gave to yourself, you continued working on a story you started researching last week. You’d gathered some statements and data about new unsafe water conditions in certain parts of the city. The story wouldn’t star on the front page of the website, or even the second. Third, if you were lucky.

The morning passed with minimal shouting coming from Jameson’s office and just a few “friendly” follow-up emails with sources you hadn’t heard back from. In the brief moments of silence between the end of one song and the beginning of another, you listened to traffic flowing through the streets below and the droning sounds of keyboards and the printer.

Only once you finished up the first draft of your article and turned to grab your notebook from a drawer did you notice a sticky note plastered on the edge of your desk. In messy handwriting, it said, “You type like a child bangs their fists on a piano” followed by a doodle of the sun, with sunglasses.

It wasn’t difficult to tell whose horrible scribbling this was. So after writing “Eat shit <3” on the back, you crumpled it up. You tossed it right at Parker’s face as you stood up, going to a meeting with one of the full-time writers here. Instead of knowing he caught it like always, you pretended it hit him right in the eye and gave him a papercut.

You didn’t look back as you approached Alice’s desk, the lead writer of the office. Her black curls bounced as she lifted her head, smiling at you. “Ready?”

“Yes, and thank you again for meeting with me,” you said, nodding with your notebook under your arm. She stood up, motioning you toward an empty office for the informational interview — mostly just asking her about her career in hopes it could help yours.

Sitting across from one another, you took notes as she spoke about herself and answered your many questions. Your writing filled one page after another, your wrist becoming sore but ignored under the weight of knowing this information could be important. When you asked what advice she would give to someone just starting out as a reporter, the silence that followed made you finally lift your head.

Alice looked at you with a soft smile while your pen stalled. “I would tell them that it’s not an easy career. And that it’s not for those without passion. You have to want this — and show it. The stories out there you want to tell… you can’t be afraid to search out the truth. ‘Leaving well enough alone’ has never been in my vocabulary.”

Your unfocused stare stayed on her while you processed those words… and the worry that you weren’t cut out for this work. There were stories you wanted to tell, but you couldn’t find the place to tell them. A cynical part of your mind shouted that maybe Parker did deserve the job at the end of this internship more than you.

The thoughts must have been evident on your face because Alice spoke again, her voice calm but stern. “Don’t worry. I see the passion in you. The best advice is to not let Jameson or anyone else stop you. ‘Kay?”

You nodded, unable to stop the smile on your face. So caught up in her words, you wrote down a condensed version of her answer: Follow your heart. Your thumb rubbed over the dried ink of the page, feeling the ridges of each letter. “Thank you, Alice. I’ll keep trying,” you said, and meant it. 

She let out a light laugh, the sound loosening the tight muscles in your shoulders. “You better. I’ve been rooting for you to get the job,” she whispered, giving a wink that had you laughing too.

“Well I can’t let you down then, can I?” Letting your smile fall just a little, the curve of it no longer touching your eyes, you silently hoped that you wouldn’t disappoint her. Thanking Alice again, you made your way back to your desk with too many thoughts running through your head.

Slow moments passed as you returned to your chair, the cheap thing squeaking underneath you with each movement. Still, you closed your eyes for a second, just feeling the cushion beneath you, the armrests under your hands, the backrest keeping you from collapsing. A breath filled your lungs, chest rising inch by inch. You would not wait for anyone’s permission to change the world — even if that just meant ignoring your lying thoughts to change your own little world.

Slowly, you went back through your notes, adding bits here and there that you missed while Alice had spoken. At the bottom, you just underlined her final advice… letting the words bleed into your body as you promised to keep them at the center of your stories.

It kept you focused on your article surrounding unsafe water quality in the city. Thankfully, the hours passed quickly, and you got the article up on the site by the end of the day. All with minimal interruptions from Parker — despite another sticky note that said “Thanks for the granola bar ;)” on it. And sure enough, the granola bar you had on your desk was no longer there, but you silently tossed the note in the garbage without letting him know he got to you.

Though, with no snack, your stomach was definitely grumbling as you packed up. So you made the trek to a cafe with your backpack on, one headphone in, and a middle finger aimed toward Parker when he tried talking to you, a smirk plastered on his face that told you he had nothing important or nice to say.

The summer heat hit you as you exited the building, making you strip off your office-appropriate blazer. Still, you didn’t mind the sunlight after spending all day inside. Your music drifted into your ear, the beat of it matching your steps. You turned the volume down once making it into the bakery with the best after-work treat, the pink sign outside painted with cursive words: “Pat’s Pastries.”

Baked bread and sweet chocolate filled your nose, the smell helping you forget about work for a minute. You ordered your favorite cookie, pointing to the biggest one behind the glass. Silently, you ignored the whole tray of Spider-Man themed cookies they’d begun selling after the superhero saved the store from a robbery.

Instead, you just left the shop with a bite of the cookie already in your mouth. It practically melted on your tongue, tasting better than any granola bar Parker could steal from you. The cookie lasted you all the way home, filling you with a pleasant warmth.

In your apartment, you stood in the entryway for a moment. With slow movements, you removed your shoes, setting down all of your things. You’d only been collapsed on your couch for a few minutes before your phone vibrated. Part of you thought to ignore it and let the weight of your heavy eyelids drag you into a nap, but you knew it could be work. A groan came from your throat as you saw that it was work — a comment left on your article already.

People that commented on these pieces often had few nice things to say, so you braced yourself upon opening the site. Your thumb slid across the screen until you reached the bottom. Left by some guest user, the comment simply read: “What’s new? Beaumont fumbles again…”

Beaumont. Ellis Beaumont, the current city manager. He’d certainly faced as much backlash as any other official since he’d taken over five years ago, but you hadn’t considered him all that much when researching for this article. Did he have to do with poor water conditions in the city?

Before you could stop yourself, your hands went to your laptop. Your fingers typed across the keyboard, searching for relations between him and other issues the city faced recently. What came up most often was Beaumont’s press releases after most of them. His salt and pepper hair sat tightly cut to his head, no specks of dust visible on his expensive-looking suits. In each one, he stated how he and his team would work on fixing the problem — from unaffordable housing to upgrading technology throughout the city.

It wasn’t new to see a leader promise to do something and not follow through, but something kept sticking with you while you researched. At some point, between the sun falling behind the city skyline and ordering takeout to be delivered, you found yourself with dozens of open tabs and tired eyes.

Raking a hand down your face, you let out a long sigh. You finished reading another speech where he promised to fix something, crumbling infrastructure this time — “if only we had the funds!” And cue the part where he asked for donations to his nonprofit organization or proposed a government plan that would cost the citizens in tax money. Yet… hadn’t he raised the money? The last you’d checked, the street he’d mentioned repairing still had its potholes and unusable sidewalks.

A knocking on your door brought you to it, your eyes never leaving your computer screen. You just grabbed your food and paid the deliverer with a mumbled “thanks” before walking back to the laptop.

As quickly as you could, you yanked out your notebook from your bag and wrote down everything about Ellis Beaumont — before your food got cold. Your wrist ached again as you flipped the page, continuing to fill the lines with his career, his promises, and his letdowns.

Each of his projects toward bettering the city came with asking for money — money that didn’t show back up in the work. He’d made no updates as to how much he had raised or how he was going to use it. At the end of your notes, you wrote down in heavy ink: “Where is Ellis Beaumont’s money going??”

And even as you ate, trying to watch the comfort show you’d put on, your mind kept working in the background. Had others not also wondered this? Or if they had, did he have them in his pocket already? Sleep fought you that night, making you toss and turn in bed. But you had a story.

–

Walking into The Daily Bugle, you ‘clocked in’ (let Jameson see you in the office) and dropped off your bag. With just your notes, a pen, and a granola bar so no one would steal it, you made your way back out of the building.

Right before you made it from the office, though, a mop of dark hair appeared at the door. A small part of you wanted to somehow hide, the other part unable to resist the draw of him for whatever reason. But Parker chose for you, his eyes lighting up when they caught on your form. Your following scowl was enough to make him laugh.

“There she is, our lovely sunshine,” he said, leaning against the door frame. You ignored the sarcasm dripping through his words.

Instead, you raised your eyebrows and told him, “If Jameson asks, I’m out researching a story. Got it?” 

“Woah, woah, woah.” Parker pushed off the frame. His smirk was enough to set you off, but then he held out a hand to block you from passing. Behind your unyielding glare, you secretly hoped he tripped over his untied shoelaces or smashed his hand in the office printer. As he came closer to you, he asked, “Where are you off to? I haven’t seen any sightings of Spider-Man.”

“That’s a shame,” you said, uninterested. Grabbing his forearm, accidentally feeling the hard muscle underneath, you moved it out of your way. “Have fun getting him coffee!” You shouted it over your shoulder, leaving him standing there while you ignored the heat on your palm from touching his skin. 

You shook your hand out, waving away the memory as you took the subway over to City Hall. It had to be as good as any place to start researching where the city’s money went after Ellis Beaumont flashed a white smile and pocketed it. He probably wouldn’t talk with you, but anything to get you closer would be worth it.

Emerging from the subway station, your eyes squinted against the brightness. Still morning, the heat hadn’t settled in yet — just leaving you with a sunny walk and a nice breeze.

The building’s intimidating size rose high toward the sky. A statue of justice, a woman holding scales and a sword, stood atop City Hall — staring down at each person as you entered the front doors. The ornate architecture and grand staircase inside didn’t help settle the daunting feeling crawling in your stomach.

Still, you walked up to the man sitting behind the front desk there, trying to look as friendly as possible. Smoothing out your outfit and putting a smile on, you said, “Hi.”

He looked up with a classic customer service grin to greet you. “Hello, how can I help you?” he asked, leaning toward you slightly.

You kept your shoulders back, mustering some sort of confidence in your investigation. How would Alice do this?

With a clear voice, you directly asked, “If I was looking for records of donations for a government-related nonprofit, would they be here? I couldn’t seem to find them online.” You gave him an unassuming look.

“Typically, but what nonprofit were you looking at?” he asked, typing something into his computer. You took out your notebook low enough that he couldn’t see past the desk.

Pretending to rack your brain for the name, you said, “I think it’s called Stronger Together. I love being able to see where my donation goes — it helps make me feel closer to the community, you know?”

Your hand ready to write fell limp when his mouth pressed tight, his eyes leaving the screen to meet yours. “Ah,” he said, “Well Mr. Beaumont is not always able to update that information, as he has many responsibilities to maintain.”

“Of course, I understand. Though, I also noticed that the recent infrastructure project has yet to be enacted. Is there an update on that?” You willed your voice to stay steady, to be unwavering under the impatient gaze of this man.

A muscle seemed to twitch in his jaw. “I don’t believe the organization has given one, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t been working on it. He is a very busy man.”

“Busy enough that I wouldn’t be able to speak with him directly?”

“I’m afraid not,” he said, shaking his head, but he didn’t seem too sorry at all. “We could take your number for him to call you when he’s available, but…”

“He’s very busy,” you finished, giving a smile as you bit back a pained sigh. “That’ll be okay, I’m happy to have helped the cause.”

“Yes, and we’re very thankful for your donation.” The tight grin he gave looked like it hurt his cheeks to make.

“Well, thank you for the information,” you said. Just as you were about to leave, beginning to leave with nothing to show for the story, you turned back. “I know this is quite specific, but would you know what Mr. Beaumont’s next project is?”

Another flicker of impatience flashed across the man’s face, his hands clasping together. “No, I wouldn’t, but I’m sure it will be a great help to the city whatever it is. I think there may be a nonprofit fundraiser this weekend… but those are typically closed events — for investors and friends,” he said, his smile turning less warm by the minute. “You can donate online anytime.”

“Great, thank you,” you muttered before turning around, frantically jotting the little information you received down in your notes while walking away. You swore you could feel the man’s eyes on you until you slipped out the doors. 

The entire ride back to the office, this story ate away at you. Everyone seemed to be keeping information on Beaumont’s money close to their chests, even about what his supposed nonprofit was really doing.

‘Stronger Together.’ You rolled your eyes, beginning to feel like he was the only one getting stronger. And he was having another fundraiser so soon? Probably for something like conservation this time — his team would likely make a whole show of planting a couple trees and get praised for it. 

As soon as you got back to The Daily Bugle, you ignored everything as you dropped into your chair and opened your computer. Your fingers flew over the keyboard to type up the notes, both for decoding your scribbled words and ensuring you kept the information in multiple places. You tried tuning out the background chatter and the gnawing worry that this whole story would lead to a dead end, but you couldn’t ignore everything…

“Whatcha typin’ there?” Parker said as he swiveled his chair around the desks to look at you. Glancing for a moment at him, you saw the shit-eating smile pointed your way.

Your face flashed a fake grin. “Your resignation letter, Parker.” You continued typing, not responding to his quiet scoff. But then he stood up, his steps gentle against the floor. He towered over you as he came around to look at your screen.

Before he could even reach your desk, you switched tabs to a blank page. Without glancing up at him, you silently waited for him to stop watching you. It worked well enough at first, your mind happily turning blank instead of entertaining him. 

But he put his hand on the edge of your desk, his body now much too close to yours. The warm scent of him washing over you had your skin prickling, your fingernails pressing into your palm.

Barely heard above the blood rushing past your ears, his voice came out quieter than you’d expected. “So secretive. You won’t even share with me?”

Ignoring the glint of smugness on his face, you turned to look up at him. “So you can try to one-up me? No thanks,” you repeated, using his words from yesterday. 

“But given my track record for front-page stories, I’m sure you could definitely use my help.” Parker shoved a hand in his pocket, winking at you with those stupid dark eyes. In that moment, you wondered whether you could somehow frame him for helping Spider-Man and get Jameson to tackle him. 

So caught up in that happy fantasy, you didn’t catch Parker’s other hand creeping across the desk until he’d already snatched your notebook. And before you could even stand to grab it back, his leg came up and pushed on one of your desk chair’s armrests, sending it spinning.

While your legs tried stopping the chair, you heard him say, “How are you even able to read this? Okay, I won’t tell Jameson, but you’ve gotta be honest with me: do you know how to write? Or read, for that matter.”

“I was walking while taking notes– whatever, Parker. I don’t need to explain myself to your dumbass,” you whisper yelled at him, stalking over to his side of the desks. But he moved the notebook away, cocking his head to the side.

With a grin that told you just how much fun he was having, he said, “Huh, I didn’t know your pretty little head knew how to multi-task.”

You opened your mouth for a second, processing that he called you pretty, before rolling your eyes. “Must be hard to imagine anything with your smooth brain. Now give me my notebook back.” 

In the background, you heard Jameson screaming to some poor soul on the phone. You hoped it at least covered up your bickering with Parker. But it wouldn’t be able to drown out the sound of you strangling him, which you were now seriously considering as he held up a finger to you. 

In a calmer voice, he asked, “Are you really doing a piece on Ellis Beaumont?”

Scoffing, you reached over and grabbed your notebook from his grasp. He didn’t seem to put up much of a fight, hopefully mentally perceiving the threats running through your mind. As you returned to your desk, you glanced once more at him — and got caught on something in the look he gave you.

“Yes,” you told him before sitting down, leaving Parker and any distractions on that side of the half-wall. The last thing you heard was a sigh before you put your headphones in.

For the rest of the day, you finished writing up your notes and your other assigned work. In between projects, you secretly continued researching everything you could about Beaumont and where those donations went. Site after site returned empty, most of them just filled with propaganda for his non-profit.

With weary eyes and a fuzzy mind, you finally found something as everyone in the office began to finish up. You wiped a hand down your face, a weight lifting from your shoulders when you discovered an address.

Searching through countless websites, some of which you probably shouldn’t have been using your work computer for, you combed through records of donations to Stronger Together. Most listed City Hall or Beaumont’s address in their donation. But one other address continued popping up more than a few times — somewhere in upper Manhattan, far from where the organization would operate from.

If you were listening to Alice’s advice to follow your heart, you would’ve stayed home. Your pounding pulse yelled at you that going to check out this address after sunset was the worst idea you’d ever had.

On your walk home and all through dinner, you pushed back against the trickling fear down your spine — caused by the ice-cold voice in the corners of your mind filled with every worst-case scenario. It only grew louder as you neared the address. 

You hadn’t done much field work before, or any that hadn’t just involved taking blurry pictures of Spider-Man and making New Yorkers talk to you. As you walked along the sidewalk with your shoes tapping against the cracked concrete, following the directions on your phone, you wondered whether you were cut out for this. You kept your head on a swivel and senses alert, but did you have any clue what you were going to do once you reached the building? No, not really.

You had come after dark, so breaking in certainly didn’t seem out of the question. And as much as you disliked thinking about him, knowing that Parker wouldn’t back away from this if he were here kept your legs moving. 

Before long, with a warm breeze at your back, you came up to a large warehouse. It sat in a pretty empty area — one with few people around that you could see. A few street lamps illuminated the space around it, the light stretching down a small alleyway next to the building. Craning your neck, you began walking down it, seeing whether you could peer in anywhere.

Your fingers brushed along the building’s side as you passed by several dark windows. Unable to spot anything through them, you crept toward the back. No workers, or anyone really, seemed to be there. Nothing except for a metal fire escape. It seemed to lead up to a door with more windows lining either side. Fluorescent lighting shone from inside. 

Swallowing hard, you forced your body to walk toward it. Each step you took up went slowly, trying to keep your feet silent as you climbed the stairs. Under the weight of the stars and night sky, even with the sounds of traffic passing by, each breath felt too loud.

Silently wishing to anyone that’d listen, you hoped no one stood on the other side as you slowly looked in. But you only found boxes — not all that surprising, but disappointment mingled with the relief coursing through your muscles. 

Hundreds of boxes sat throughout the warehouse, lining countless shelves. You made a guess that they probably weren’t storing any tools for fixing the infrastructure like Beaumont promised. But you wouldn’t be able to find out what they held without breaking in, something you didn’t think your nerves could take.

Though… someone else could show you what’s inside. 

From the corner of your eye, you saw a brief movement along the floor of the building. Someone moved into view, dressed in a black uniform and holding a clipboard in their hands. They walked to a shelf you could just barely see and opened up one of the boxes. They set the clipboard aside to pull out something… long and metal. At the end appeared to be a claw of some sort–

Internally, you winced, instantly able to recognize it from all your articles. It was one of Doc Ock’s arms. The other side was full of fraying wires, no doubt ripped apart from a fight with Spider-Man. God, why did everything always have to come back to Spider-Man? 

And, in that moment, you must’ve pissed off some god of fate to deserve this irony. As you were about to pull out your phone to capture the evidence, your thought alone summoned the man. A web attached to the worker, the other end coming from the red and blue superhero crouched on a support beam. Within a second, he pulled them up to the ceiling and cocooned them in webbing to dangle there — the scene forcing an involuntary gasp escape your lips.

Spider-Man had jumped down with supernatural grace and looked like he was going to investigate the box further, but whipped his head toward you at your gasp. Your heart crawled into your throat, your hand snapping up to cover your mouth.

Racing down the fire escape, your scrambled thoughts tumbling around your head, you hurried back to the street away from what you’d witnessed. But before you could leave the alleyway, a flash of those dreaded shades of red and blue dropped down in front of you — your feet stumbling backward as you barely kept a startled scream from coming out.

“Hey, hey. Not here to hurt you. I do the opposite actually,” Spider-Man said, his hands up to show you he meant no harm. His voice sounded unnaturally deep, but blood rushed past your ears, clouding your senses. You shook your head slightly, trying to focus on getting out of there.

“But uh…” he continued, cautiously taking a single step closer, “I don’t think you live at this address. Is that right?”

You absentmindedly chewed on the inside of your cheek, debating on how much to tell him. He’d caught you sneaking around, but was that technically even a crime? Most likely. But clearly, you both were after some pretty similar things. So, while nodding your head toward the warehouse, you quietly asked, “What’s in there?”

His head tilted to the side as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Some no-no things. Which is probably why I should handle it, right?”

“Handle it how? By handing it over to the police?” you asked, a small jolt of panic rising in your chest. “What if it connects to something larger?” Your questions assumed that he didn’t exactly know where this warehouse came from and how it connected to Beaumont, but maybe not. Still, you couldn’t risk cutting this whole thing off early and breaking the investigation apart… and the story.

“Does it connect to something larger?” he asked, his gaze never seeming to leave you. You couldn’t tell much behind his mask, but the weight of those white eyes stayed focused on your face. They watched every microexpression crossing your face, despite the urge to hide from them.

Knowing you needed him on your side, or at least to not cover you in webs, you gave him a little more. Nodding, you said “Yeah, I think it does. I’m not sure how it all fits, but…”

“But?”

Pursing your lips, you let a breath pass before answering him. Jameson would kill you if he knew you were having this whole conversation without taking ‘photographic evidence’ and helping out Spider-Man. But that man was a prick anyway.

Letting out a long sigh, you said, “Check out Ellis Beaumont’s non-profit. I don’t think the donations are going where he says they are.”

He just cocked his head, but you moved around him, ready to leave this place and those watchful eyes. Your gaze avoided his as he let you pass toward the street, though he yelled out, “Do you need me to walk you home?” You just waved him off, your pace picking up. Still, he shouted a “Thank you!” for the information as you made the journey back to your apartment.

Unable to calm your body back to normal just yet, you found yourself jumping at every noise around you until your apartment door locked behind you. What you’d seen ran through your head again and again. 

What did Beaumont want with Spider-Man? Or was he working with the villains to get rid of Spider-Man? His money couldn’t just be going toward costume dress-up storage, but breaking into that warehouse alone was out of the question for you. Leave it to the superhero rather than risk your neck.

Your brain racked itself for answers, working to figure out what interest Spider-Man had in showing up at that warehouse anyway. Even into the next morning, these thoughts plagued your mind. It left you in a haze as you entered The Daily Bugle — the noise of the coffee machine and Jameson’s muffled yelling more distracting than usual.

Even more offputting was that sat at your desks was Parker, the second time he’d ever beaten you into the office. Immediately, his eyes found yours, but you didn’t have the energy to give him a sneer or a smart-ass comment. You just started up your computer, planning to type up your notes again. Your hand rubbed down your face as you waited for it to turn on, already anticipating the inevitable interruption.

Sure enough, Parker stuck his head over the half-wall, leaning his forearms along the top of it. His chin rested on them as he said, “You look rough.”

Without raising your eyes to him, you let out a long sigh. “Wow… Thanks,” you said, letting an unimpressed look take over your face. You opened your notebook, turning to the pages where you wrote every piece of information you could remember after the events last night.

Parker raised his hands up in surrender, as if he hadn’t insulted your appearance. “Jus’ saying, you seem a bit stressed. Need any help, sunshine?”

At that, you finally raised your gaze to meet his — his ruffled hair dipping over his forehead while waiting for your response. 

You squinted your eyes at him, your eyebrows furrowing at his words. “...I’m not letting you take this story from me, Parker.”

“Hey, I could merely co-author this story with you,” he offered with that smirk of his. “And I’m sick of writing about Spider-Man’s favorite restaurants to order from. C’mon.” He dragged out the word, practically begging you.

Crossing your arms across your chest, you considered him for a moment and his offer. His mouth tightened, drawing your gaze down to his lips and the sharpness of his jaw. Not the time.

“You really want to help me?” When he nodded, you still didn’t believe him. With a scoff, you asked, “Are you going soft on me?”

A sharp laugh escaped his mouth. “Don’t get used to it. This would cost you a week’s worth of granola bars.”

“Aren’t you the one asking to join?” you questioned with a smile you couldn’t hide. When he didn’t budge despite his ridiculous demand, you just muttered, “I’ll think about it.”

The long groan he gave as he sat back down told you how he felt about your answer, but it was easier to ignore now that he wasn’t staring at you. Why he was so interested in this story made no sense to you — not that you thought about it long as you finally typed up your notes. 

Instead, you tried to figure out where to go next, where this warehouse might lead you. But a growing fear told you that it wouldn’t lead anywhere, your research online not giving you someone to question or even contact information for Beaumont. This politician seemed to keep things annoyingly tight under wraps. 

As minutes slipped away while you ran into dead end after dead end in your searching, you internally debated whether to accept Parker’s help. Waves crashed in your stomach, the tide receding far away as if in anticipation of a tsunami — one threatening to destroy you. Letting him in meant risking your story, and risking the chance that he could get all the credit for your work.

As much as you hated the idea of sharing this with him, part of you thought you might’ve been in over your head. Especially after the run-in last night. And Parker certainly knew his stuff… sometimes. Not that you’d tell him that.

It was only once your search about Beaumont and that warehouse frustratingly turned up blank once more that you let out a sigh. It seemed it’d be a story with him or no story at all.

“Parker?” you called across the desks. 

The sound of his chair shifting joined his raspy, “Yeah?” You bit back a grin as you realized you’d woken him up from one of his frequent work naps. When he swiveled into view, the red spot on his cheek from where he must’ve laid it on his arms confirmed your suspicions. 

Still, you had to clear your tight throat before telling him, “You can help. But only if my name goes first, got it?” Before he could respond, you followed with, “And I take the lead on things, okay?” Your stare pierced his eyes, silently begging him to not take this from you.

The small laugh he gave loosened your tense shoulders just a bit, made your fists unclench. “Whatever you say goes…” he said, nodding with the most honest look you’d seen from him. “With some exceptions though. Cause you have a lot of bad ideas I’d like to veto.”

You wondered whether asking for Peter Parker’s help was one of those terrible, idiotic ideas. You hoped not.

@reidslovely

[rose24207]

Web of feelings

Summary: When Spider-Girl is dosed with a love potion and falls for her enemy, the Prowler, he must fight to undo the chaos while questioning if this fake love could ever become real.

Genre: fluff, humor, angst if you squint

TW: under the influence of a love potion, fighting

A/N: tell me how you feel about these types of stories! English is not my first language. I hope you enjoy it though! Requests are open and welcome!

Masterlist

Brooklyn was never quiet—not for Spider-Girl, and definitely not for the Prowler. You’d been chasing rumors of a villain called Alchemy, some mad scientist type who’d been dosing unsuspecting people with potions to wreak emotional havoc. It sounded like a bizarre nightmare.

You weren’t exactly thrilled when the trail led you to a dimly lit warehouse on the edge of town, but that wasn’t the worst part.

No, the worst part was the claws that nearly took your head off the moment you landed.

“Seriously?” you hissed, flipping out of range and landing on a rafter. “Do you have a tracker on me or something?”

Below, the Prowler straightened up, claws retracting momentarily. His purple mask glinted under the flickering light. “Not everything’s about you, Spider,” he drawled, though his distorted voice made it sound more menacing than smug.

“You sure about that?” you quipped. “Because the last five times I’ve been out here playing hero, you’ve been right behind me like some creep.”

“Maybe you’re just predictable.”

“Maybe you’re just annoying.”

The banter was cut short when the floor rattled beneath you. You both froze, attention snapping to the back of the warehouse where shelves of vials shimmered in faint light.

You and the Prowler moved at the same time, rushing toward the shelves. You weren’t sure what Alchemy had cooked up, but you didn’t want him getting away with any of it.

“Stay out of my way!” you snapped, shooting a web toward the vials.

“Not happening,” he retorted, slashing through the web with his claws.

“Oh, come on!”

You lunged at him, but he dodged with ease, spinning to swipe at you. The two of you moved in a deadly dance, dodging and countering with practiced precision. It might’ve been impressive if it wasn’t so frustrating.

“Do you ever get tired of being a pain in my—”

Your words were cut off as your foot slipped on something slick. You barely had time to process the shattered vial beneath you before a cloud of pink mist enveloped your face.

“Great,” you muttered, coughing as the world spun around you. “What now?”

When your vision cleared, the first thing you saw was the Prowler standing above you, claws raised.

But instead of feeling your usual surge of annoyance, something else hit you—something stronger, warmer, and completely inexplicable.

“Wow,” you breathed.

The Prowler hesitated. “What?”

“You’re... gorgeous.”

He froze, his claws lowering slightly. “What did you just say?”

“I mean it.” You pushed yourself up, brushing rubble off your suit. “Why didn’t I notice it before? The way you move, the way you fight—ugh, it’s like poetry in motion.”

He took a step back, his claws retracting completely. “Okay, what the hell is wrong with you?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” you said dreamily, tilting your head. “You’re just... amazing.”

“This has to be a joke,” he muttered, pacing away from you.

“It’s not a joke,” you insisted, following him. “Why do we have to fight? We could be partners—no, more than that. We could be everything.”

The Prowler spun around, holding up a hand to stop you. “Nope. Nope. Nope. This is not happening.”

“But it is happening,” you said, stepping closer.

“Stay back,” he warned, pointing at you.

“Or what?” You grinned, your voice dropping into a teasing tone. “You’ll sweep me off my feet?”

Before he could answer, a laugh echoed through the warehouse.

“Oh, this is better than I imagined,” Alchemy said, stepping out from the shadows.

Miles turned toward him with a growl. “You. Fix this. Now.”

“Fix it?” Alchemy asked, feigning offense. “Why would I ruin such a masterpiece? Spider-Girl and the Prowler—Brooklyn’s newest power couple!”

“You’ve got ten seconds to give me an antidote,” the Prowler snarled, claws extending with a metallic click.

Alchemy smirked. “Or what?”

Before Miles could lunge, you stepped between them, pointing a finger at Alchemy.

“Not my man,” you declared, your voice dripping with defiance.

Miles flinched. “What did you just—”

“Not my man,” you repeated, stepping closer to Alchemy. “Nobody messes with him except me, got it?”

Alchemy looked at you, then at Miles, then back at you. “Oh, this is delightful.”

“I’m serious!” you snapped, shooting a web at Alchemy’s arm and yanking him forward. “I’ll fight you myself if I have to.”

“Please stop talking,” Miles groaned, dragging a hand down his face.

Alchemy tossed a vial at the ground, releasing a cloud of purple smoke that filled the air. You coughed, your senses momentarily dulled, but Miles didn’t hesitate.

“Stay here,” he ordered, claws slicing through the haze as he charged after Alchemy.

“But—”

“I said stay!”

You frowned but obeyed, your heart pounding as you watched him fight. Even in the chaos, you couldn’t help but admire him.

“Look at him,” you murmured to yourself, a dreamy smile creeping onto your face. “What a man.”

By the time the smoke cleared, Alchemy was unconscious, pinned to the ground by one of Miles’ clawed gauntlets. He stood over him, breathing heavily, a vial of green liquid clutched in his other hand.

You rushed to his side, your eyes wide with concern. “Are you okay? Did he hurt you?”

Miles flinched at your touch, holding up the vial between you. “This is the antidote.”

“Antidote?”

“For whatever he dosed you with,” he muttered. “You’re not thinking straight.”

“I think I’m thinking clearer than ever,” you said with a soft smile.

Miles stared at you, his chest tightening. For a moment, he hesitated. If he gave you the antidote, you’d go back to normal. You’d hate him again.

But if he didn’t...

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, and before you could protest, he pressed the vial to your lips.

When you woke up, the Prowler was gone. Alchemy was unconscious, groaning softly as he regained consciousness.

You didn’t remember much, but something about the night lingered in your mind—something you couldn’t quite place.

The next day, you were surprised to find Miles Morales waiting for you at your locker.

“What do you want?” you asked, narrowing your eyes.

He shrugged, his usual smirk noticeably absent. “Just checking in. You seemed... off yesterday.”

“How would you know that?”

“No reason,” he said quickly. “Just... take care of yourself, okay?”

Before you could respond, he turned and walked away, leaving you confused.

Miles sat in the back of the classroom, watching you from a distance. You were back to your usual self—sharp-tongued, quick-witted, and completely unaware of what had happened.

But he couldn’t stop thinking about the way you’d stood up for him, the way you’d called him your man.

It wasn’t real. Not yet.

But maybe, someday, it could be.

For now, he’d settle for being a little kinder, a little softer. After all, the line between love and hate had never been blurrier.

Thanks you for reading!

[sanguineterrain]

get a little action in | miguel o'hara

Summary: Spider-Man doesn't like you. And for the record? You're not crazy about him either. But you kind of wish you could see his eyes when he swings you across the city. For curiosity's sake.

Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x gn!reader (some Spanish language is female-gendered, but other than that, no gendered descriptions.)

Word count: 2.2k

Content desc: rivals, superhero!reader (kinda - they're trying their best). miguel's a bit of a jerk ngl but he's a SEXY jerk <3 very enemies to lovers coded. swapped insults, injuries, and a whole lot of charged flirting. (lyla thinks they're adorable.)

A/N: i actually think this fic is the closest i've gotten to miguel's canon personality compared to my previous (delusional) characterizations of him lol. hope you guys like this one! as always, i appreciate corrections to the Spanish if needed, but it's no one's responsibility to do so!

Translations: 

¡Chingada madre! - Motherfucker!

¡Pinche pendeja! - Fucking asshole!

¡No mames! Eres una idiota. - I don't believe this! You're an idiot.

¡Cállate, por Dios! - Shut up, oh my God!

¡Ay, coño! ¿Qué demonios haces? - Oh, fuck! What the hell are you doing?

¿Qué? ¿Qué quieres? - What? What do you want?

¿Estás loca? ¿De dónde sacas esas ideas? - Are you crazy? Where do you get these ideas?

No seas estúpida. - Don't be stupid.

Porque tu haces un desmadre. Eres un dolor en el culo. - Because you make a mess. You're a pain in the ass.

Ve. - Go.

follow @sanguine-marvel for all future miguel fic notifications!

“All units be advised: 10-33 on 10th and Palisade. Suspect is known as “Captain Darkness.” Approach with caution.”

You shove the police scanner into your bag and stash it in the alley by your apartment. You’re close to 10th and Palisade, and the cops have lost Nueva York’s newest supervillain, Captain Darkness, three times already. For all the mocking headlines the press write about him, he sure seems to be the one laughing every time.

You pull your mask over your face as you make your way to the abandoned factory on 10th and Palisade. It looks normal from the outside, but the code means there’s been an explosion. 

Probably best to enter through the back. 

It’s dark, because supervillains like to nail the atmosphere, and that means there’s no budget for lighting. The factory smells damp, moldy. You hope you don’t get sick. Vigilantism doesn’t come with health insurance.

You stay close to the wall, ears tuned for any sounds. Usually, a good villain would have clocked your entrance by now. The fact that Captain Darkness (a stupid-ass name for a stupid-ass villain) hasn’t—

BRIIIING! BRIIIING!

Alarms blare throughout the factory. Your ears ring from the volume. 

Okay. Maybe you’ve underestimated him.

You run; stealth doesn’t matter now, only speed. Captain Darkness is, predictably, at the center of the factory. He has all the typical workings of a mad scientist: electric ball thingy, giant lie detector-looking thingy, et cetera. You go up the stairs of his platform to get closer.

Except there’s something you’ve never seen before. It sort of resembles a portal. Fuck.

Captain Darkness spots you immediately. He has giant crab legs fused to the lower half of his body, which you’d think were sick if he wasn’t such a jagoff. 

“Well, hello,” he says, sneering down at you. “I don’t believe we’ve met. Are you one of the Spiderlings?”

“I’m offended by the suggestion,” you say, darting towards the electric ball first. 

It looks easy enough to shut off, except the Captain blocks your path immediately. He knocks you across the platform. You cough at the impact. The concrete bruises your right temple.

“Alright, that’s it.” You grunt, pushing yourself up. “Now I’m gonna kick your ass for real.”

The Captain laughs. “By all means, hit me with your best shot.”

So you do. You manage to knock him backwards, his clunky crab legs sliding on the platform. You take the opening and shut off one machine, which causes a crackle of electricity in the air. The hair on your arms rises.

But being a mad crab scientist apparently means you have a lot of time on your hands, and Captain Darkness whips out what looks like a ray gun. He blasts you and knocks you off the platform. You hit your ribs hard, and your vision blurs for a second.

The portal begins to whir, warming up. Captain Darkness towers over you, grinning maniacally.

“Your efforts are adorable, but I suggest you find another line of work. No one will stop me from opening a portal. Once I venture to other worlds, I’ll be unstoppable. This world will be mine! Finally, everyone who ever—”

“Oh my God,” you groan, clutching your ribs. “Please don’t start monologuing. Do you know how cliche you sound right now? Blah blah blah, your parents didn’t give you enough attention so you’re insecure and power-hungry. Do I look like Dr. Phil to you?”

His eyes flash and one crab leg grabs a nearby tool cart. 

“You’re no longer amusing me,” he says. "Goodbye." 

The tool cart is flung in your direction, and you roll, covering your head and bracing for the worst. But the crash never comes. You look to see several orange webs wrapped around the cart. The cart flies backwards and hits Captain Darkness right in his face.

Miguel O’Hara lands on the railing of the platform, perched gracefully. He doesn’t waste a second in going after the Captain.

“Oh, where did you even come from?” you shout, pushing yourself to stand. “I have it handled!”

“I’m not dignifying that with a response,” Miguel growls as he easily dodges the Captain’s grasp. 

He swings to the other side, aiming for the portal which has now fired up. 

Perfect. Damn it, it should be you that J. Jonah Jameson will scream about on the news tomorrow morning, not Spider-Dorito. 

You force yourself to get up so you can try to apprehend the Captain. But he has other plans; one of the machines sparks, and suddenly, hundreds of flying crab-shaped robots pour out of the mouth of the portal. Miguel shouts orders to Lyla. 

You’re only interested in one thing: taking down Captain frickin’ Darkness. So you go after him, leaving the factory. Unfortunately, the crab-bots take that as an invitation to leave too, zeroed in on your destruction. Your ribs are killing you, and whatever the Captain blasted you with left a nasty gash on your hip. 

Still, you limp and pant through the pain. You’re not letting this guy get away a fourth time. No way. Captain Darkness has been a thorn in Nueva York’s side for several weeks now and you’ve been tracking him for just as long. You need to get him.

“¡Chingada madre!”

You glance over your shoulder and see a flash of blue and red. Miguel is right behind you, fighting through the cluster of crab-bots. The sight makes your blood boil.

“Fuck off!” you wheeze out. “He’s mine, O’Hara!”

“If you hadn’t stumbled in and screwed everything up, we wouldn’t even be in this situation right now!” he snarls. “¡Pinche pendeja!”

Fucking Spider-Man. It’s because of him that Nueva York doesn’t even know who you are. Every time you get remotely close to taking down a criminal, Miguel swoops in and saves the day. Not without giving you grief, of course. You’re too weak, too disorganized, too slow—you’re too wrong, according to him. He’s told you multiple times to stay away, but hey, he should know by now you’re also too stubborn to listen.

You pull your hand away from your rib. It’s tacky with blood. You’re slowing down, too; you aren’t enhanced like a hero is supposed to be, and after going two rounds with Captain Crabcake, it seems you’re about to meet your untimely fate with killer crustacean robots. 

You really should’ve become a lawyer like your mother wanted.

“¡No mames! Eres una idiota.”

You feel Miguel’s breath on your neck before his arm curls around your waist. You cry indignantly but he doesn’t let go, heaving you into his grip and continuing to run.

“Let go of me!” you demand, wiggling in his grip.

“Shut up.”

“I don’t need you to save me,” you snap.

He looks down at you, red masked eyes burning into you.

“No? ‘Cause every time you screw up, I’m the one fixing your mess. How many times have I told you to go home?”

“I had it under control,” you say. 

Miguel doesn’t even look at you. Your injuries are jostled with every step and you have to fight to not whine in pain. But you don’t try to squirm away again. You’re no match for his strength, and, unfortunately, he’s a lot faster than you. If you want to live, Miguel’s your ride. 

“Lyla, find me a route.”

Lyla pops up on Miguel’s other shoulder. She leers at you, raising her eyebrows.

“Am I interrupting something?” she asks. 

“Lyla. Route, now.” 

“Alright, alright,” she says, sounding far too smug. “Might I suggest going airborne?”

Your fingers dig into Miguel’s giant shoulder as he flings a web string at a nearby fire escape. He shifts you to one arm. Your eyes pop out of your head.

“No, wait, I have a terrible fear of—”

He doesn’t wait, the asshole, and you scream as he pulls both of you up. Now you’re bleeding, clinging to the worst person in the world, and at least two hundred feet off the ground. Somehow, killer crab-bots would’ve been better. 

“¡Cállate, por Dios!” he shouts, jerking his head away from you. “Unless you want me to drop you.”

“I’m gonna kill you, O’Hara,” you say, closing your eyes. “I’m gonna—oh, God.” You swallow hard, feeling dizzy. “I think I’m gonna hurl.”

“Do not throw up on me.”

You peek over his shoulder, trying not to watch the buildings blur by. That’s when you spot the army of robots behind you. And they look mad.

“Shit, shit!” you hiss, jolted out of your nausea. 

You reach down Miguel’s broad back, feeling for the nifty little gadgets you know he keeps on him.

“¡Ay, coño! ¿Qué demonios haces?”

He swats at your wandering hands. You smack him back.

“I’m trying to save us, if you don’t mind!”

“Do not touch anything—” he starts.

A bot whizzes by, firing at you both. Miguel wobbles on the next swing, trying to fight off the bot. 

“Lyla, three o’clock!” you yell.

Tiny rockets fire from Miguel’s suit, taking out several bots. There’s too many, though; you need another plan.

“Lyla, run diagnostics on the bots,” you say, grunting as Miguel swings sharply around a corner.

“Lyla, don’t do anything I don’t tell you to,” Miguel says. “She’s not yours to—”

“Water,” Lyla interrupts, understanding where your brain is. “They malfunction in water.”

“Huh. That’s ironic.”

Ahead, the waterfront is quickly coming into view. You pinch Miguel’s shoulder. He hisses, his suit’s eyes narrowing at you. 

“¿Qué? ¿Qué quieres?”

“The Hudson,” you say. 

“I can’t just dive into the river, we’ll both—”

“Use me as bait,” you say. 

“¿Estás loca? ¿De dónde sacas esas ideas?”

“I pull them out of my butt,” you say, rolling your eyes.

“You couldn’t even destroy the portal,” he says scathingly. “I’m not throwing you into the river, tempting as that is.”

“You don’t have a better idea, smartass. And unless you want them tearing up Manhattan, you’ll do it.”

“No seas estúpida,” he says. 

“Can’t help it. It’s one of my superpowers.”

Miguel lands on a rooftop. He drops you none too carefully, and you land hard on your butt. You grunt, the movement squishing your injury. 

“Lyla,” Miguel says.

“Yup,” she says, popping up on your shoulder and scanning your body. “Bruised ribs, and a gash right on top. If you wrap it, they’ll be fine.”

Miguel takes out a bandage and tears the top off. You’ve seen them before; they’re of his own creation, and used widely by his Spider Society. Never on civilians, which is what you are, according to him.

He crouches and shoves your suit up, then wraps the bandage around your stomach. The wrapping begins to expand and you feel the sting of cold gel. He yanks your suit back down without a word.

“I’m sure my ribs are broken,” you say through a wheezy exhale.

“Nope! Just bruised. You really shouldn’t fall from those kinds of heights,” Lyla says cheerily.

“Yeah, you were definitely programmed by him,” you mutter.

You start to get up. 

“Don’t even think about it,” Miguel says. 

“Screw you.”

“You living here screws me enough.”

“I don’t need your help! Why can’t you stay in your own damn lane, O’Hara?”

“Porque tu haces un desmadre. Eres un dolor en el culo.”

“The feeling is mutual,” you say through gritted teeth. “And you can’t stop me from going after him.”

His suit’s eyes narrow. Quick as anything, he flings two webs over your wrists. You squawk, now glued to the pavement.

“This is illegal!” you screech, twisting your wrists. “Let me go!”

“Stay out of my way,” Miguel says. “I won’t save your ass next time.”

You glare up at him, still breathing hard. It only makes you angrier that Miguel hasn’t broken a sweat.

“I hope those bots tear up the Spider Society!” you say. “I hope—I hope your suit malfunctions and the whole city sees your ass.”

Miguel pauses, and turns around. 

“Uh, Miguel?” Lyla asks. “The murder robots? Kinda urgent.”

“Tell Jess to go downtown and cut them off there.”

“But—” 

“Ve.”

He stands over you. You fling your legs up, trying to get a kick in, but he quickly puts a stop to that, resting a heavy foot on both of your ankles. 

Miguel bends down. You burn with curiosity about how he looks under the mask. It’s twisted of you to wonder, considering what an arrogant jerk he is. You could fill several encyclopedias with Miguel O’Hara’s worst traits. 

Still, you wonder. You wonder what color his eyes are. If his hair is short or long. If he smiles at all. His expression when you get under his skin.

You’d learned his real name by accident. Whether he knows your identity or not, you don’t know. You wonder if he has to stop himself from saying your name.

“You’re lucky I don’t web that dirty mouth of yours,” Miguel says, his face inches from yours. “I’ve been considering it.”

You lift your chin.

“You think about my mouth a lot, O’Hara?”

He jerks back, like you’ve startled him. He stands, turning around.

“Don’t let me see you out here again,” he says.

“Wait!” you cry. “What about the webs?!”

Miguel shoots a web towards the street.

“What about them? You don’t need my help, remember?”

Then he’s gone. 

Fucking Spider-Man.

[thollandsgirl2013]

𝐁𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐏𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐞

Parings → Nathan Drake x Reader

Warnings → angst, fluff at the end I guess

Summary → Nate doesn't like the new addition to the group, that is you. You don't know why he hates you so much.

The jungle was thick with humidity, the air dense and oppressive as you followed behind Nate, Sully, and Chloe. You wiped the sweat from your brow, heart pounding in sync with your footsteps as the group pressed forward, deeper into the unknown. The treasure you were after—a long-lost artifact hidden in these remote ruins—was tantalizingly close. But the closer you got, the more unbearable Nate’s attitude seemed to become.

He hadn’t liked you from the start, though you never understood why. He was all charm with Sully and Chloe, offering smirks and clever quips to lighten the tension. But with you, it was different. Cold. Distant. Sometimes even downright hostile.

“I don’t know why you’re even here,” Nate muttered under his breath as you climbed a steep rock face. His words were sharp, and your heart clenched, but you kept your mouth shut, refusing to let him get under your skin. You were here for the same reason as him—because you were good at what you did.

You ignored him, focusing on the climb. Chloe shot you a glance, eyes full of silent sympathy, but she didn’t say anything. Not this time.

The group trudged forward for hours, trekking through the thick forest and scaling treacherous cliffs. Each step felt heavier, not from the physical exertion but from the weight of Nate’s constant jabs. Every time you tried to make a suggestion, he cut you off. Every time you offered help, he dismissed you.

It wasn’t always this way. When Sully had first introduced you to Nate and the team, you thought you’d get along. After all, you admired him—his wit, his skill, his determination. But somewhere along the line, something changed, and now it seemed like everything you did grated on him.

Eventually, you reached the ruins. The ancient stone structure was weathered and worn, vines creeping up its surface, but it was magnificent. A sense of awe washed over you, but it didn’t last long.

“Careful where you step,” Nate snapped as you moved closer to the entrance. “Wouldn’t want you setting off a trap.”

Your jaw clenched, but you didn’t respond. He made you feel like you were an outsider, like you didn’t belong. It wasn’t fair.

And then it happened. One insult too many.

“I don’t know why Sully keeps bringing you along,” Nate muttered, barely loud enough for the others to hear. “You’re nothing but dead weight. Slowing us down all the time.”

That was it. The final straw.

You stopped in your tracks, every ounce of patience drained. You turned toward Nate, your voice shaky with hurt and anger. “What’s your problem with me, Nate? I’ve done nothing but pull my weight here. If you have a problem, spit it out.”

He turned to face you, eyes hard. “I don’t need someone watching my back who can’t handle the pressure.”

The words stung, cutting deeper than you expected. You could feel Chloe and Sully’s eyes on you, the tension in the air palpable.

“I’m done,” you said, voice quiet but firm. “I’m not staying here to be your punching bag.”

Without waiting for a response, you turned and walked away, your heart pounding in your chest. You heard Sully call after you, but you didn’t stop. The tears prickled at your eyes, and you were determined not to let anyone see.

---

You sat alone by a river, the sound of rushing water doing little to ease the ache in your chest. You weren’t sure how long you’d been sitting there—long enough for the sun to dip low in the sky. Long enough for the frustration to simmer into a quiet sadness.

What had you done to make Nate hate you so much? You were good at what you did, and you’d never asked for anything more than to be treated with respect. Yet, every time you tried to show your worth, he was there, tearing you down.

The sound of footsteps broke through your thoughts, and you looked up to see Nate standing a few feet away. He wasn’t smirking. He wasn’t wearing that infuriating cocky expression. In fact, he looked…apologetic?

You didn’t say anything. You weren’t even sure if you could without the lump in your throat rising up again.

Nate cleared his throat, shoving his hands into his pockets as he looked down at you. “I, uh… I screwed up.”

You didn’t respond, but you didn’t turn away either. You were curious to hear what he had to say.

“I shouldn’t have said those things,” he continued, his voice quieter now. “It wasn’t fair to you. I just… I don’t know.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You don’t know?”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Look, I’m not good at this stuff, okay? I didn’t mean half the crap I said to you.”

“Well, it sure felt like you did,” you muttered, looking away.

He took a step closer, sitting down on a nearby rock. “You’re good at what you do. I know that. Hell, you’re better than I am at some of this stuff. I guess that’s part of the problem.”

You frowned, looking back at him. “What are you talking about?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted again, frustration evident in his voice, though this time it seemed directed at himself. “I’ve always been used to working with Sully or Chloe, people I know, people I trust. And you…you came in, and suddenly everything was different. I felt like I wasn’t in control anymore.”

You stared at him, trying to process his words. “So, you’ve been treating me like crap because you’re…what? Intimidated?”

Nate laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Yeah, something like that.”

You blinked, surprised by his honesty. You’d never considered that his behavior might be rooted in his own insecurities. “You could’ve just talked to me, you know. Instead of being an ass.”

He winced at that. “Yeah, I realize that now.”

For a moment, there was only the sound of the river between you. Then, Nate spoke again, his voice softer this time. “I don’t hate you. I’ve never hated you. I just didn’t know how to deal with…this. With you being as good as you are.”

You shook your head, a small, incredulous smile tugging at your lips. “You’re stupid.”

He chuckled, the tension between you easing slightly. “Yeah, I am. But I’m sorry. Really.”

You took a deep breath, feeling some of the hurt start to fade. “I appreciate that. But you’ve got a lot of making up to do.”

Nate grinned, that familiar spark of mischief back in his eyes. “I’ll start by not insulting you every five minutes. Deal?”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Deal.”

The two of you sat in companionable silence for a while, the earlier tension dissipating. It wasn’t quite friendship yet, but it was a start. And as Nate offered you a hand to help you up, you couldn’t help but feel that maybe, just maybe, things would be different from now on.

༻﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡༺

[noellie-writes217]

Proposition (Pt 1)

Pairing: mcu!spiderman x blackcat

Warnings: post nwh, lonely Peter Parker, alterations to canon comics, mature themes, violence, mentions of death, maybe smut? Minors dni

Summary: after infiltrating the avengers records, Felicia finds out Spider-Man’s identity after the memory wipe, and offers to help him in exchange for…

“Fucking hell!” Peter groans as he enters his apartment through the window. He crawls over to his freezer to get something to use as an ice pack. He sets it on the counter and shoots a web to turn on the light and pulls off his mask with a sigh. He flinches once he hears an unfamiliar voice. “You know you really should think about getting a better lock for your door… or at least a deadbolt. It was way too easy to get in here.”

The Intruder was a woman with white hair in all black. She had a mask on (which barely concealed anything— in Peter’s opinion at least).

“Who the hell are you?” As she stood up he shot a web at one hand to keep her where she sat but it ricocheted and got his hand on the fridge. “Struggling with your webs, Parker?” He clenched his jaw.

“Just the only person who really knows who you are… but don’t worry; I won’t tell.” She walked to him and slid one finger along his jawline.

“What do you want?” She spun around to grab the pack of frozen vegetables and wrapped it in a towel, afterwards turning to get a rag and running it under cold water. “How do you know where everything is?” Peter asked. She shrugs, “I’ve been here for a while, a few porn videos worth- not that I’ve been watching porn! That would be totally unladylike.” She starts to ramble, admittedly, Peter thinks it’s cute.

She shakes her head and gets back to what she was originally talking about, “That’s not why I came here— look, I know who you are. Peter Parker: attended Midtown High, orphaned and raised by his aunt May who recently passed— my condolences, by the way, she seemed amazing— you also are extremely intelligent, inventive, kinda nerdy, thinks of classic movies as old, mentored by Tony Stark, asked to join the Avengers at only 15– somehow Tony wasn’t charged with child endangerment— but refused the offer, you’re also the primary reason Tony Stark agreed to help the Avengers ‘unblip’ everyone, but most importantly: you are Spiderman.”

Peter’s mind spins, “how do you know that?” Strange casted the spell only a few months ago, but there’s no way she could have figured out his identity that quickly. “Does that really matter?” She tilts her chin. “Yes!”

Peter runs his had through his hair with a sigh, “Sorry… I just… How do you know who I am?”

She straightened out her hoodie, “I hacks into the Avengers secret files. And I’m not a bad guy…” she sighs.

“Could’ve fooled me.” Peter scoffs and puts the bag of frozen peas on his brow.

The girl hesitates, “Please Peter, I need your help.”

“You gotta funny way of showing it.”

“Desperate times.”

“Why are you so desperate?” Peter pulls a beer from his fridge. No, he’s 21, but the guy he got the fake ID from was perfectly willing to give him one in exchange for an autograph from Spider-Man for his kid.

“Aren’t you 18— never mind,” she starts, “I want you to put my dad in jail.” At that, Peter nearly spits out his beer.

“And why should I do that?” He asks as he sits at his table with the girl quickly following.

“Because he’s a criminal!” She pleads. “His name is Walter Hardy and he’s not a pleasant guy. He’s a burglar.”

Peter looks her up and down skeptically, “I suspect the apple doesn’t fall far?”

The girl groans, “Peter, please! I can’t keep living with him! If he makes me hack into one more security system I might die— or worse— I won’t be able to graduate!”

“How old are you?”

“I’m supposed to graduate high school this year, and I’ve been saving up for college but if he finds out he’ll take it from me! Please!”

Peter remembers that desperation to get to college, all the work it takes to save up— and he knows what it’s like for all the hard work to be worthless. So he’s thinking about it. “What did you say your name was?”

“Felicia.”

“Alright, Felicia Hardy. Why haven’t you called the police?”

She rolls her eyes, “The police have been after him for years— at least since my mom went back to Russia… or England— I’m not sure where she ran to, but that’s besides the point.” She tangents quite a bit, Peter notices.

“Your mom left?”

Felicia nods, “During the blip. I started learning to code and Dad got the bright idea to use my newfound skill to break into the Starks’. Mom said that was the last straw and left. But I guess she forgot about me or something…” It’s silent for a moment. “I was 15.”

This girl and Peter had led two very different lives. Hers was full of lies and red since she was young; and even though Peter was an orphan, before and after his parents death he always had someone there for him to help him out.

“Please just think about it. I’ll do anything.” She begs with her hands together.

Peter just takes another sip of beer. He still thinks beer is absolutely disgusting but he’s not gonna let his face show that.

“I can’t make you a new suit— one that doesn’t get ripped up so easily, o-or give you leads on over criminals— like scorpion! Or Jackel, or Rhino, or—”

“Or some other animal?”

“Peter, please.” She grabs her bag and pulls out a ripped piece of paper with a phone number scribbled on it and some cash and puts them on the table. “Just think about it.” And with that, she gets up to leave.

“I’m not gonna do it for money!” Peter calls out as she opens the door

“It’s not for that, it’s for you to buy a deadbolt.” She winks before shutting the door behind her.

Peter goes to lock the door and uses his web shooter to seal it shut before grabbing his glasses, one of the few things that survived Goblin’s attacks.

“Edith?”

“Hello Peter. How can I help you today?” Edith asks.

“Give any information you have on Walter Hardy.”

[deathofacupid]

stuck with you | peter parker

summary: you love him, but you hate him. maybe you'll be able to love him a little bit more if it's really just the two of you.

"we're lost." you declared. 

"no, we aren't."

"yes, we are!"

"fine, then, mr. navigator, where are we?"

"um... er, we are— we are right here."

you rolled your eyes, along with a string of curses. 

peter sighed, "this is my life now. i have climbed this hill, and will die upon it."

"shut it. we've only been walking for 20 minutes. in the direction you said to go," you threw you hands up in frustration. yes, walking for 20 minutes, but stranded for maybe around 3 hours, you'd guess.

the plan, at first, was to wait for your father, tony, and the rest of the team to find you, but it'd had become quite evident after a while that they weren't coming for you.

"just because i have spider-sense, doesn't mean i have common sense!"

"well, i know that now!" after a moment, you pinched the bridge of your nose. "look, us stupidly arguing isn't gonna get us anywhere, okay?"

peter sighed, half-heartedly shrugging. you went back to fiddling with your ear comm, hoping to get it back online. for a moment, you heard static, and you squealed.

"what? what?"

and then it went back to silence. "goddamnit." you were very, very close to chucking it off a cliff. "aren't you, like, a tech genius or something? can't you do something with this?"

"i already tried. all i got was radio silence. we're completely off the grid, dumb-ass."

"you don't think i know that? god, why did i get stuck with the spider-kid?" you mumbled the second part under your breath.

"hey!"

oops. forgot about the spider-hearing. 

"okay, well— at least— at least my powers don't consist of freaking levitation!"

"it's not levitation!"

"my bad, telekinesis."

"psychokinesis!"

"same thing. who cares?"

you scowled and used your mental concentration to lift him a good 20 feet into the air.

"don't—" he yelped, "put me down!"

"don't put you down?"

"no! put. me. down!"

"can't hear you up there."

"you actual piece of— drop me! wait, no, not—"

you weren't doing anything bad. just what he told you to do. peter landed on the ground with a loud thud. that had to hurt, you thought.

"because all i can do is levitate things," you mocked, "how dumb. at least i don't shoot webs out of my ass-crack."

"i don't—"

but by then, you'd already tuned him out. one of your headaches was coming on, because you normally didn't lift heavy things in the air, or really, not most things. you were still figuring out how to use them.

it wasn't something you regretted though, it was very worth it.

"—and you know, i'm sure that—"

how was he still going?

"—because you haven't even started—"

i might chuck him off a cliff instead.

"—crazy, since—"

you gritted your teeth, massaging your temple, "please stop talking."

"hah! i'm sure you'd love— y/n? are you good?"

"yes," you waved his concern off (along with the butterflies in your stomach), "i'm fine."

"regret that yet?"

"no," you grinned. "never."

peter flopped down, sitting up against a tree. "i'm sure."

you joined him, taking a seat beside peter. in complete exhaustion, you dropped your head on his shoulder, quietly inhaling the smell of him. pinewood, aftershave, and a tinge of sweat. 

he flinched slightly at the action, but looped an arm around you. 

moments like this made being near peter actually nice. for once, you enjoyed his company. but the feeling didn't last long, because the reality of being stranded in a giant forrest/jungle/whatever other word for this place hit hard after a second.

"jeez, are we ever gonna get home?"

"yes. maybe. i mean, probably." he stammered.

"this is definitely worst case scenario. stuck on an alien planet, lost in— in whatever this was. were these even trees? were trees purple with yellow studs sticking out of them? 

you didn't know. you just wanted to go home. granted, peter's presence was making this slightly better, but still. 

"it's okay," you heard him say. "you can sleep. i got you, y/n." peter kissed the top of your head, and you subconciously smiled.

"you know," you murmured, "i'm glad that if i'm stuck with anyone here, i'm stuck with you."

and then you were falling, falling, into a deep, dreamless sleep, with pitch black envloping you entirely.

[supercap2319]

Having sex on Uncle Bucky's birthday wasn't exactly in the cards for today, but Y/N didn't exactly push it away either. What started out as a simple mission to the bakery to get his cake, turned into something else entirely.

Y/N had perfect timing to pick up Uncle Bucky's birthday cake. It was in his grasp, until some asshole in a blue sweater and brown eyes took it from him. "Hey, that's mine!" Y/N said.

"No it's not. It's mine. I was told by my boss to come and pick up this cake." Brown eyes said.

"Look, it's my uncle's birthday today, and I need that cake more than you do." Y/N said.

"Well, I'm sorry, but your uncle's gonna have to eat something else for his birthday." The other male said, shooting Y/N a cocky smile. Oh, the nerve of this guy.

"Listen, asshole. I just walked here in my favorite shoes, and I'm not going home without that cake. Now, give it to me!"

He and the guy started to tug the cake back and forth until it was all over Y/N's face and clothes. The guy looked down at him and started to laugh as he recorded it on his phone.

Y/N was humiliated. His face was hot with embarrassment and anger as he stood up and punched the asshole in the blue sweater, before going home empty handed.

When he returned to Stark Tower, his dad looked at him. "Jesus, son. What the hell happened?"

"Well, this asshole at the bakery jacked uncle Bucky's cake, and I was trying to get it back, and he dropped it all over me." Y/N said.

"What did he look like?" Natasha said.

"He looked like–"

"Mr. Stark? I'm so sorry that I'm late, but there was this complication at the bakery and..."

Y/N turned and his blood boiled. It was him. Asshole sweater guy. "You..."

"Well, actually, most people call me Peter Parker." He smiled.

That's how Y/N found out Peter Parker was his dad's assistant. It was also when he found out that his dad had assigned Peter with getting Uncle Bucky his birthday cake. And that's also how he found out what this asshole tasted like, as they were hooking in a closet somewhere in the tower.

"Fuck, I hate you. You giant, smug asshole." Y/N said in between kisses.

"And you're a spoiled rich boy who needs to be taught a lesson." Peter fired back, lips on Y/N's neck and he strokes his cock hard and rough.

[ohodie]

sad, beautiful, tragic

distance, timing, breakdown, fighting

silence, the train runs off its tracks

kiss me, try to fix it

could you just try to listen?

hang up, give up

and for the life of us, we can get back

peter parker x reader!!

(treacherous part 2)

PLOT - in which peter parker tries to talk to his rival after multiple drunk make out sessions the previous night.

WARNINGS - sexual references, no smut, make out scenes, allusions to sexual activity, weed, smoking, kiss and makeup attitude

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

“just talk to her, don’t be an arse” gwen smiled, swaying with the movement of the subway. the sun peeked through the windows as the train made its way out of a tunnel and closer to their destination.

“what exactly are you supposed to say to someone you made out with like, 3 times while drunk?? especially if you used to hate their guts”

“i don’t know, ‘sorry i hated you before, i just internalised my fetish for goth stoners as hatred- let’s make out some more’ or something-“ gwen joked, before being cut off by a frustrated peter.

“are you kidding me? she’s gonna spot us across the carriage any second now and i won’t have any idea what to say to her!”

y/n sat cross legged in her seat, reading some depressing book from the early 1900’s about some depressing characters, written by a depressed closeted gay man. she tucked a chunk of hair behind her ears before re-adjusting her headphones. “i bet she’s listening to fucking my chemical romance or korn or some shit,” peter chuckled as his eyebrows furrowed, gripping onto the hanging bars of the train carriage.

“nope, look on spotify,” gwen corrected. peter turned away from y/n to look over at gwen, his eyes drifting to the screen of her phone.

“it says she’s listening to… taylor swift?” she said, a confused expression painted on her face. peter jolted his head back in shock, overcome with anxiety. “aunt may loves taylor swift…” he murmured, the rustle of the train carriage pulling him away from gwen.

“let me see what song,” peter insisted as he gestured to see gwen’s phone. she passed it over to him, watching his face move as he read the title.

“sad, beautiful, tragic… i’m pretty sure that’s from red, right?” peter questioned. gwen shrugged her shoulders in response. “i don’t know. i’m more of a midnights and evermore type of girl” she replied. peter scrolled down to the lyrics of the song, his eyes widening and his lips pursing.

“gwen, i’m totally fucked”

y/n had slept on what had happened the previous night. spider-man saved her from getting robbed and gave her some very unhelpful advice. what the fuck would spider-man know anyways? he doesn’t get any bitches. y/n may have also ghosted peter, but who cares? y/n put her heart out on the table, for some reason expecting more from the person who constantly teased her everyday for 2 years. sure, she should’ve saw it coming, but she didn’t. which is why she was going to be as dramatic as possible.

this meant a new playlist. no more limp biskit; nobody cries to ‘break stuff’!! it was time to listen to the entire red album on repeat, along with ‘ultraviolence’ and elliott smith. y/n was fully ready to be a sad little bitch.

on monday morning, she scored a seat on the subways and started listening to her new playlist, putting on one particular taylor swift song on repeat while she read her sad little bitch book. she looked up for a split second to see peter and gwen talking.

‘oh, so he can make time to talk to gwen, but not the girl he snogged three times?’ y/n thought.

y/n turned up her volume and put away her book as she listened to the lyrics of the song. the train pulled up to the station within walking distance to her school and so she stood up. catching the eye of peter as she walked to the doors, she quickly averted her gaze and took a few steps back.

peter flinched at the sudden eye contact, turning his full body towards gwen. “gwen. do something” he anxiously muttered. gwen nodded, smiling innocently, before beginning to casually walk over to y/n.

“y/n! how’d that hangover treat you?” gwen asked, pulling in y/n for a comfortable hug. y/n smiled hesitantly and embraced the act of affection. “so, so badly,” she replied, thinking back to the incident that followed the day after the party.

“the hangover is the least of my troubles” she stated and she glanced over at peter, who was watching both of them. “oh, do you mean…” gwen asked as she gestured over to the lanky boy trailing behind them, walking onto the platform as the train doors opened.

“what? no! i was mugged,” y/n announced, arching her eyebrows. peter didn’t look surprised. y/n took note of this, feeling somewhat offended that he didn’t care.

“y/n! are you okay?? how did that happen?” gwen asked, completely and utterly shocked. peter walked over. “wait, yeah… are you okay y/n?” he asked, breaking out of his anxious state for one moment.

y/n sighed softly, rolling her eyes. “i’m fine, spider-man saved me and then gave me some very unhelpful advice.” she said as she pursed her lips, her eyes darting between gwen and peter. “he’s a total ride though- i hope he’s not like… 46 or something,” she continued. gwen chuckled, covering her mouth with her hand as her cheeks turned pink. “did you get to feel his abs?” she asked as the trio walked across queens to get to school.

“yeah, they were rock hard. i didn’t expect him to be so fit!” y/n exclaimed. peter tried to stifle his blush as they got closer to the school, blocking out their conversation.

as they entered the gates, gwen quickly walked towards her class, leaving the two alone.

“um, we have math-“

“i know, peter” y/n interrupted. her voice was cold and unemotional- a stark difference form her previous cheerful demeanour. this was the guy that she was squabbling with for years now… the guy that she also maybe had a few steamy dreams about as well. her preconceived notions about peter were contradicting with her fantasies and the realities of what happened over the weekend- causing her to spiral into a semi-depressed state of rage.

peter, on the other hand, knew exactly what he thought of y/n. he always thought that she was attractive, but a total arse. now, he found her being an arse super endearing. but that could have something to do with the fact that they made out 3 times and he almost touched her boobs.

the two walked in awkward silence to their math class, a strong tension in the air. they took their seats and sat painfully silently for an hour.

y/n tapped her pen on her notebook, not listening to a word the teacher was saying. ‘fuck it,’ she thought, ripping out a piece of paper.

she scribbled a few words down before passing it over to peter.

‘make up for ghosting me by skipping second period and hiding in the unisex bathrooms’

‘sure :)’

the unisex bathrooms were dimly lit, far away from the rest of campus. surrounded by unused classrooms. the unisex bathrooms were a prime hookup spot… but for y/n, it was her own personal hotbox.

she lit the end of her joint and put her lighter in her jacket pocket as she leaned against the bathroom wall. y/n took a drag as she stared at the wall. she took another short hit, before passing it to peter. he did the same, his legs crossed.

“so why didn’t you text me, dick face?” she started, crossing her arms. smoke escaped her lips as the talked, mesmerising peter.

“dick face?” peter repeated, stifling a grin as he shook his head.

“um… i guess i didn’t know what to say,” he replied, passing back the joint. y/n smiled awkwardly as she rolled her eyes. “classic parker…”

“well, do you know what to say now?” y/n asked, sliding down to the floor, head level with peter. he shrugged his shoulders. “kinda,” he muttered.

“are you gonna say it, mcslutty?”

“i don’t appreciate the name-calling, y/n.” he said irritably, his voice somewhat breathy.

“you ghosted me too, remember?” peter added, raising his eyebrows.

“yeah, but i was mugged!” she said defensively, opening her mouth in shock. “obviously i was too busy!”

peter laughed, covering his face. “fair point.”peter pursed his lips, looking down before taking another hit of the joint.

peter took a deep breath in, tapping the floor anxiously. “i really like you, y/n” peter averted his eyes. “i used the think i didn’t, but i was just lying to myself so i wouldn’t have to confront the fact that there’s actually nice stuff about you,” he’s smirked.

y/n chuckled. “what nice stuff?”

“your face, obviously. your musical skills, your rolling skills. you’re also really funny, and you’re so generous. you’re not nice to everyone, but you still help everyone- if that makes sense? but yeah… shit like that i guess,”

y/n smiled sincerely, slightly tilting her head to the side. “that’s pretty sweet, shithead”

it took them a whole 40 seconds before they started jamming their lips together, peter’s hands gripping y/n’s waist as she sat on top of his lap. her hands cupped his face gently, occasionally pulling a hand away and running it through his hair.

she pulled away for air, before continuing her attack on his lips, her hands trailing down his torso as she fiddled with his shirt. peter pulled away, looking up at her before her eyes drifting to her hands.

“what are you doing there?” he asked teasingly, his voice limited to a hoarse whisper.

she began to frantically kiss his neck, her hands still fiddling with the fabric of his shirt. “felt something hard. wondering if you’re ripped or just really horny.” she muttered breathily, one hand resting under his shirt as she caressed his torso, while the other hand gripped a bundle of his hair.

he looked as her curiously as she felt up his chest, watching her pull away with a look of shock and confusion. “peter? what the fuck?” she exclaimed, her hair messy and cheeks red.

“what? what’s wrong?” peter asked, panicked as his eyes drifted down to his pants, before meeting her eyes again. his face turned red, putting up his hands in surrender.

“hey, you were the one grinding against my-“

“no, you’re fully ripped!” she whispered, her eyes wide as her hand retracted from under his shirt. “jesus christ…” she muttered, lifting his shirt to take a peek.

peter burst out into a fit of dry laughter, tilting his head back and lightly hitting the wall of the bathroom stall.

“oh, yeah. that.” he said casually. y/n grumbled, standing up.

“right. i was not expecting that.” she huffed, her face completely red.

“anyways, i’m not fucking you in a hot-boxed bathroom stall at school. if you decide to stop being a little bitch and message me, maybe i’ll forgive you for ghosting me.” y/n proposed, leaning against the wall as she looked down at peter.

peter nodded, standing up. he opened the door, turning to face her. “yeah, i definitely won’t be ghosting you anytime soon. sorry about that, by the way.” he murmured.

“it’s fine. just as long as you send me a picture of your abs after school.” she demanded, her face completely serious as she looked peter up and down. peter nodded, his eyes wide.

she bit her lip, meeting his eyes once again. “seriously, they’re almost as good at spider-man’s.” she added, exiting the bathroom- leaving peter alone to deal with his thoughts.

[lucywrites02]

The game of cat and spider Masterlist

Main Masterlist | Miguel O'hara Masterlist

Miguel O'hara x black cat! Reader (gender neutral)

Series Summary: You are a criminal, and he's a hero. You don't know each other's names, never seen the person behind the mask. You aren't enemies - you are supposed to be, but that didn't work out quite well. You liked each other a bit too much, but your relationship was strictly…. Professional? What happens if you meet as normal people with no masks and responsibilities in your way? What did the universe plan for you? And most importantly…. Will it last?

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2

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