#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!

[moondirti]

animalic (1)

series masterlist

pairing: Miguel O'Hara x F!Reader rating: mature word count: 1.9k summary: he won't stop until he gets you warnings: enemies to lovers, injuries, kissing, minor ATSV spoilers, size kink (?), mentions of gore and death, not spell checked nor edited, honestly not my best work but the horny is all that matters notes: stayed up all night for this because i had to get it out of my system before finals. there'll be a few more parts, i promise i'm not this cruel haha

“I thought grace was a prerequisite for your little spider-club.” 

Your quip sounds disjointed – even to your own ears – entwined with wheezes that rattle your splintered rib cage. In all honesty, the circumstances don’t seem to be favouring you; he’s got you confined upon the wreckage of your own fight, hanging off the remnants of a crane that dangerously tips over a quarry. And though this isn’t the worst you’ve faced, Miguel’s presence always seems to make things more complicated than they need to be.

You’d had a stable hold on the beam, ready to pull yourself up and dematerialise to wherever he wasn’t. Until, of course, the asshole kicked your elbows off. Now, your fingers remain as your only attachment to the structure, shaking violently with their diminishing strength. Your torso isn’t faring any better, either – the bleeding both internal and trickling from the gashes in your hoodie. 

(You wonder if he’s toying with you, like a panther with its food. Of the rare times he’s assigned another spiderman to pursue you, they didn’t tend to drag it out for this long. 

But, you suppose, Miguel’s different.) 

He takes a small step forward, lifting his foot over your digits. He could crush them like this, turn the bone to powder and keep pressing until it macerates in the gore. You can’t put it past him, really, not if you utter one more self-sabotaging word. You’ve seen him rip through steel and silk alike, fueled on the resentment that simmers deep within his very essence. Yours is merely the same fate that’s befallen every other obstacle that’s dared to come his way. 

But the tension buzzes between you two, thickening until it’s palpable enough to taste. Miguel is quiet as ever, completely still save for the flickering light of his dimensional travel watch. You envy his position – that resolute stature, brimful of power as his shoulders square, his calf rippling with subdued strength, still stretched over your hand. You blame that, or the mask, slick with sweat and humid as it sticks to your nose. Or the glasses that slowly slip to reveal your squinting eyes. You blame anything apart from what it is; that fear that steadily begins to flood your senses, numbing it all into one, cohesive panic. 

You’ve never been good at life or death scenarios. 

“Or, maybe, the big boss thinks he can break his own rules?” 

The air snaps. With an infuriated roar, he lunges at you, razor-sharp talons swiping at your face. In your frenzied dunk to avoid them, your fingers drop. 

You plunge to the bottomless chasm below.

Okay. Let’s try to get this right, one last time. 

Your name doesn’t matter. It hasn’t, not for a while now. 

For the past year, you’ve been on the run from the Spider Society. You don’t exactly blame them for it, either. Every world you’ve crashed has gone to shit, despite serious lack of trying. Food-barren wastelands, borderless warzones. Truthfully, after the mantle of Earth 7BB-1 convected in on itself, you were inclined to turn yourself in. 

Independant of the fact that Nueva York seems to be the only place you can’t fuck up. Regardless of the relatability you have with the residents of its lobby. You were bitten by a radioactive spider just the same, and for all the good you’ve tried to do, you’ve never been a spider-hero. If it meant that no one else got hurt, you really would have been able to cope with lifetime confinement.

(Greater good and all that.)

Would’ve. Could’ve. If it weren’t for Miguel O’Hara’s interjection, and his goddamn alternative solution, things just might have turned out that way. 

You’re not dead. 

The realisation whips your consciousness into high alert, eyes snapping open to survey your surroundings. You process the light first, its brilliance piercing through the bromine-doused cotton that stuffs your skull. Then, it’s the pain that, up until this point, had been thrumming in the background. It crackles, marrow-deep, tearing down the tendons in your shoulders to the throbbing area around your ribs. They’re in doubtlessly worse shape than they had been at the quarry, the ache searing across to engulf your spine too. 

He had let you fall on your back, that dickhead. 

But– 

You’re not dead. 

It doesn’t take you long to figure out why that is. 

A red forcefield entraps you, droning its monotonous hum, partially obscuring everything beyond your own reflection. You can see the faint impression of a silhouette – no, multiple – stalking you on the other end, a great shadow court. They warp and grow with every passing second, gorging on your offered vulnerability, awaiting some wordless signal from the harbinger of death, to execute justice upon the one who’s been causing them so much trouble. Jess Drew. Hobie Brown. Ben Reilly. 

(They’d been more forgiving, once. Willing to negotiate peace, to treat you more than the screw up you’ve proven to be. 

His voice overrode theirs. Always.)

It’s easier to make out the devil himself – more so than the others. You’ve come to memorise the slope of those shoulders, how his fists clench at his sides as he circles you. You imagine the smug set of his jaw and those eyes, just as luminous as the cage you curl within. The puck at the base is recognisable, akin to the capture weapons he’s thrown at you previously. He’d saved your life, then.

On a technicality. You’ll bury that thought to rage over later. 

“How–”

The question hardly forms before you’re ripped in two, the atoms of all but your spirit splicing into one another in a defect of blue and orange. The glitch exacerbates the fractures that threaten to knock you out, racking through your system as it rearranges your matter into amorphous forms. It’s only when something is thrown into the enclosure do you snap back to. A bracelet clatters to the floor. 

“Didn’t know whether you’d be used to the glitching yet.” A disembodied voice remarks. It’s at a particularly whiny pitch – you assign it to Ben. 

“We… tried to get it on you, kid. But you–” A feminine inflection crops up. Jess sounds the same since the last you spoke. 

You glower at them from the corner of your eye – unsure if they can actually see you – and snap the day pass on. Your spectral abilities were handy at the best of times; to shift from the corporeal, coming into immateriality, makes the most complicated situations evadeable. You credit it for your continued survival, if nothing else. Yet to speak like you could control it, especially while unconscious, was pushing it. You clearly weren’t able to activate it when you needed it the most.

And now you’re here. 

“I’m not going to ask what you want, so let’s keep this short– y-yeah? Either you let me go, or this Earth’ll be the next to unravel.” Despite your intentions, the demand escapes you in a long-winded croak. You hear Hobie snicker, the laugh teetering the edge of approval. Anyone can tell the promise has no foundation.

“That won’t be happ–” 

“Leave us.” 

The room clips into white noise. You fail to focus on anything but that echoing order. 

His voice comes across clearer than all else, too, cadence resonating past any natural boundary, tugging your heart right where it’s tender. There’s that fear again, that singular dread, only ever triggered by his indifference. Perhaps more potent than fury, his patience gives away an all-assured determination. Deadly. 

You bite your cheek, steeling your expression into one of similar apathy. It feels like a child’s attempt at dress up, grubby hands clutched around mother’s lipstick, painting on a clown’s complexion. Crackling apprehension brushes across your most vulnerable parts; layer by layer, you’re skinned as the group files out. Bare nerves are all that’s left for your faceoff with the hulking man.

He throws another puck to the floor. His own forcefield conjoins to yours. 

His cheeks have gotten hollower, you notice, emphasising the cheekbones that are just as keen as everything else about him. He offers no smile, no grand boast of victory. Instead, he breathes – calmly, fixedly, and lets you absorb the overwhelming magnitude of his size once more. He’s aware of what it strikes in you, can see it in the way you falter upon every reintroduction. Miguel is colossal, a reality that has never been more apparent than in this cramped enclosure. 

You know that if you stop to ponder it, it’ll ruin you. 

Rearing on your heels, you bounce from your place on the ground, making a grab for his watch. He anticipates it, having caught the decision blaze in your pupils, and side steps, pivoting to gain the upper hand while your back is still turned. You rebound off the field wall, stumbling back when he yanks you by your hoodie. Your shoulder presses into his chest, and he moves to wrap himself around your form.

Your skin prickles. His body passes right through you. 

His recovery time is nearly nonexistent relative to your last fight – quick learner – but you’re still swift on your feet, bolting to his watch again. It’s a millisecond too slow, for his talons sink into your forearm when you start to pull away. 

Your pained yelp loses momentum as he slams your back against the wall, using a knee to pin your other arm in place, his free hand wrapping around your neck. 

He’s close. Too close. Your stomach flips, pushing up on your oesophagus until you choke with the bile that sears its lining. Your breaths are as deep enough as his clutch will allow, index and thumb cutting off the circulation on both sides of your neck.

Ichor blooms from the puncture points at your wrist, the warmth puddling at your palm, not yet heavy enough to drip down onto the floor. You don’t think he realises how deep his claws are, how near he is to scratching bone. You don’t think you do, either. It doesn’t hurt as much as it should, and while you’re sure you’ll regret not prioritising it sooner, you don’t think– Don’t think–

“I-I’m not goi…going home,” You gasp. 

“It’s not up to you, Wraith.” Miguel growls, chokehold loosening.

It hits you, then. Animalic. He smells addictingly animalic. Like musk, a blend of brine and hot air and hints of a patchouli aftershave that still clings to his jaw. Your eyes flutter, seeking all you can get of the latter. Unwittingly, you move in closer. 

You haven’t been this close to anyone in a long time. 

His expression oscillates between a sneer and a grimace, nose pulling up to reveal the very pointed ends of his two canines. Set side by side with plush lips, you zero in on the thought of experiencing the contrast with your own. 

He’s huge. 

Closer. 

Completely overwhelms you, in size and presence and–

Closer. 

Your ribs ache. Your back groans. You’re quickly losing feeling in your fingers, and movement – soon – if you don’t do something. 

Your breath weaves with his. He doesn’t reciprocate when your lips brush, but he doesn’t pull away, either. 

You kiss him for longer than you should. Longer than you need to. It’s firm, and not unlike what you expected. 

(World-shattering, all the same.) 

Your skin prickles. It takes all of your rationale to pull away – dematerializing out of his grasp, and into the portal you’d activated from his wrist.

chapter 2 →

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[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."

[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.

[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.

[pygmi-cygni]

T Minus 9

T minus ten part 2

(the way i stopped writing for ten minutes just to watch this gif over and over) (no i don't need help)

chapter warnings: language, medical inaccuracies, panic attacks, some angst, miscommunication, sassypants Miguel, we're getting somewhere guys i swear pls bear with me-

read part one here

You stared owlishly at the outstretched claw, the razor sharp edge gleaming in the hospital lighting.

Miguel's gaze was simmering. It would take nothing for him to sever your hand from your wrist, leaving a knob of bone and his glittering sneer. You felt heat building underneath your clothes. You didn't want to be rude and back away, but god if he got any closer-

You took a shaky breath. "Um..I...I need your actual arm, Mr. O'Hara, could you-"

A terrified lurch capsized your stomach as he effortlessly slashed the cage to pieces. This time you couldn't hold back a yelp. Standing now, you appraised him from a few feet away. The wall was the only thing keeping you from sprinting towards the other side of the planet.

Tension thrummed between you. You knew he was mad, and couldn't blame him. Not sure if he was mad at you or if you just happened to be the only person available, you debated whether or not small talk was appropriate. But given the way he responded earlier...

Be seen and not heard.

Slowly, you stepped towards his bed. Acutely aware of the carmine glare smoldering through your cheek, you tried to move efficiently. As you were carefully arranging yourself around the numerous cords, a small movement caught your eye. Confused, you looked up.

A gleam of white, and sharp fangs snapped an inch from your ear.

Shrieking, you stumbled back and threw the syringe across the room.

Oh my fucking god I'm going to die holy fucking shit what the fuck-

"What the fuck?" Your shriek shattered the tense silence.3

You could barely focus on the man in front of you over the hammering of your heart beat. A fuzziness started tickling your head. Don't pass out don't pass out. Collapsing, you shuffled to put your head between your knees.

Breathe. In, out. In, out.

That was closer than you ever wanted to be to a pair of fangs. Peeking from between your fingers, you saw the mountainous Spiderman hunched, shoulders twitching.

Was he laughing? If this motherfu-

The alarmed beeping of his heart monitor shocked you to your feet. Not laughing. Seizing.

Desperately clearing the terrified fog from your mind, you fumbled for the help button and tried to assess Miguel. He was groaning and hissing as warm crimson was covering his torso.

In his haste to bite your cheek off, he'd torn the tourniquet holding the rebar in place. Though the spear hadn't been removed, it was secured in place to prevent further damage. The pain meds must have been so strong that he didn't notice it. Until now.

An animalistic growl tore through the med bay. His claws tore through the mattress, his pained yowling making your ears ring.

Oh shit-

You scrambled towards the door, snatching up the syringe on your way. The alarms were already flashing, and you could hear the quick footsteps of your staff.

"He woke up, I don't know what to do-"

The crowd pushed around you, frantic shouts echoing in the long hallway. Techs, guards and nurses flooded Miguel's room. You could hear his roaring and caught a glimpse of vicious fangs in the bright lights.

In another rush of activity, a sedative was delivered and everybody tensed. Slowly, slowly, his breathing calmed and his eyes rolled back. Maria sobbed with relief. His claws had frozen an inch from her soft cheek. She stumbled back, safely out of reach.

You stood, shell-shocked, as the nurses ushered out of the tiny room. Dr. Ben stared stoically at you, nodding sharply in the direction of his office.

"Now."

Your eyes didn't move from the floor, feeling like a shamed puppy. Dr. Ben had finished his speech and was glaring daggers at your hidden face.

"Do you have anything to say?"

An embarrassed twinge choked your throat. No, you didn't. What was there to say? You'd entered a dangerous patient's room without clearance and hadn't had proper protection. Whatever happened had technically been your own fault.

"Did..." you swallowed down the ache, "did his injury worsen after?"

Dr. Ben let out a long sigh through his nose. Marching over to the main screen, he pulled up Miguel's file.

"Mild tearing across lower left pectoral as a result of aggravated activity," he read stonily.

Shit.

"I'm sorry, I didn't...he lunged at me and I got scared."

Dr Ben removed his glasses, rubbing his tired eyes. An awkward silence ticked between you as he tried to explain the situation.

"We've...." he sighed heavily, grimacing. "We've found some things out. And I was meaning to tell you before the whole thing," he gestured towards the med students fixing the broken chair, "but clearly that didn't happen.

"The poison has been determined as non lethal, but if he's exposed to it for too long, it'll deteriorate his muscular tissue. He's clear so far, and the damage has been minimal, but any longer than...a month, and some issues might arise."

A month? That was so much time. "What do you mean a month? This kind of thing will be resolved-"

Ben cut you off and pulled up a chart.

"See his bloodwork? The kind of spider DNA he's been spliced with responds negatively to basically everything we can prescribe," he explained. you frowned, leaning closer.

"The labs have created a treatment, but it's diluted and he can't handle more than a small dose at a time."

You sat back, releasing a tentative sigh of relief. Treatment was treatment, and if it meant you wouldn't be in biting range for much longer, you were all for it.

"The downside is, it sets his treatment trajectory at around two months."

"Two months?" You shouted, rocketing to your feet. Dr Ben frowned at your outburst. Stay professional, good god. Words escaped you. This monster would be haunting your med bay for two fucking months?

HQ would be missing their leader for two months.

A heavy, oily dread trickled in your chest. Miguel was the blood and soul of the Spider Society. He literally had the entire world on his shoulders. Nobody even knew half the things he had to do to keep it running. If he wasn't at full working capacity for that long, who knew what would happen?

The chair wheezed as you collapsed backwards. This was insane.

"How..." you sighed again. "How...the fuck are we gonna keep this together? We can't just tell everyone that our leader is basically dead to the world-"

"No." Ben cut you off again, an uncharacteristic fury in his eyes. "This will not be addressed to the Society. There is no reason to work everybody up for something that will be over in ten weeks. Miguel can still work, he will just need a medical aide and frequent breaks." He held up a finger at your indignant scowl.

"I'm not finished. I propose that you administer the medicine twice a day and monitor his progress. The only, and I mean singular reason for anybody other than the two of us to know about this would be his death."

All the air in your lungs rushed out in a Fuck. That was...a really big deal. Did you want that job? Hell no, Miguel had literally almost turned you into a chew toy thirty minutes ago. But if you didn't, who would? And then...you shuddered to think.

"Okay...so...how does it work?" Focus on the work, not on him. He's just a patient.

Two doses of 120 mg every twelve hours. One in the morning and one delivered via IV in the middle of the night. A simple routine that only needed charting the immediate our before and after administering. You'd had harder times taking care of the flu. This wasn't hard.

Why am I so stressed?

Maybe it was the shade of red that glowed beneath dark lashes. Maybe it was the vicious snap of his fangs a breath from your cheek. Maybe it was the utter hatred that his gaze ensnared you with.

Focus. Breathe. Only ten weeks. that's seventy days.

Your eyes shot open. Seventy-

Breathe.

"You start tonight at 1800 sharp."

Fuck.

The slam of the office door cracked your remaining resolve. A sob wracked your chest, and you cried into your jacket.

Maria found you later, sat on the floor of your shared apartment. Miguel's file was strewn about, papers haphazardly stacked and shoved into color-coded folders. A tablet and a laptop were open, live updates of his monitors relaying data across the screen. You were passed out, a half-eaten bowl of soup gone cold in your lap.

"Psst," she hissed, gently shaking your shoulder. You scowled gently in your sleep, wrinkling your nose. She tried again, more urgently.

"Ffuck you wan'?" you mumbled, batting her hand away to rub sleep from your eyes. The dim room blearily came into focus. Maria peered down at you, brow creased.

"It's 1730," she hissed again, "Ben wants you down for a briefing!"

1730? Who gives a fuck what time-

"Miguel." You tripped over your bowl of soup, nearly covering the carpet in minestrone. Maria rolled her eyes and threw a keycard at you. You hurriedly thanked her and bolted.

Of all the times to sneak in a nap.

You were glad for the study break, though. Hours of tediously inspecting X-rays and blood samples were beginning to fry your already exhausted mind. At least the situation was starting to make sense.

Dr Ben was understandably irritated when you showed up exactly thirty seconds before 1800. Not late yet, your defiant gaze smirked. Gritting back an insult, he pointed you to the syringe and IV setup on the counter.

"you'll do a wrist drip and administer the meds after he eats. It needs to be taken after he eats at least one meal and drinks a half liter of fluids. No alcohol, caffeine or pain meds. Capiche?"

you nodded, brushing him away to begin setup. It wasn't a difficult system, he was being oddly frenetic.

Maybe because Miguel would slit his throat if he got it wrong.

This was your patient. Get it together.

hot breath gleaming bone s n a p sharp-

Stop.

Shakily trying to calm your racing heart, you brought the prepared meds out to the white room. Ben watched, lips pursed, giving you an impatient nod to continue. Breathe. Breathe.

The restraints had been removed; instead, Miguel had been knocked unconscious with a sedative intended for hippos. He was out cold.

He can't touch you he can't hurt you just be quick-

Breathe.

"I can do this," you whispered, snapping on a pair of nitrile gloves. Miguel's breath was wheezing, you realized, a soft rasp that indicated his injury was worse than you thought.

It must have grazed his ribs and his lungs.

Focus.

ten weeks

Focus.

we'll die if he does

"Focus!"

You blanched, realizing you'd screamed out loud. Praying to anybody up there, you peeked at Miguel. Still asleep.

A sigh of relief.

You were halfway through inserting his IV before you heard it.

A groan.

His eyes were still closed, but his heart monitor had noticeably spiked and the blankets were rustling around his other arm. you still had to give him the meds and his fluids and take his vitals and holy fuck he's waking up

You froze. The eye contact was blistering, despite his bleariness. He studied you. Flashes of something you couldn't identify flickered across his face as you stood like a deer in headlights. The needle hovered centimeters from the back of his hand.

His claws were absent, though he was gripping the sheets for dear life.

You took a deep breath and tried to neutralize your face.

"I'm...I'm gonna prick you just a li-little, okay? Try not to-"

He hissed and yanked his hand away from your gentler ones, all drowsiness gone. Pure hatred had return to his gaze. You tried not to wilt. Why is he so difficult?

"Miguel," you tried again, patiently, "please-"

"No." His voice was wrecked, twisting his harsh response into something that curdled your blood.

you were beginning to tremble. Afraid of dropping the syringe, you set it down and swallowed. don't bite don't bite don't bite please oh shit

"I don't wanna..." your voice broke. Tears clogged your throat and you felt the urge to vomit. Panic had dug its claws into your head and wasn't letting go. Calm down calm down breathe

If you freak out, he's gonna freak out. Stay in control. Stay in control.

The whole time you were grappling with your sanity, Miguel was watching shrewdly. As soon as you released the syringe, his fists unclenched. you gulped in air, trying to stay as discreet as possible.

A patient had never rattled you this much. It shocked you. Your patience was unrivalled, and the ability to stay calm in these situations was commendable.

Why now were you crumbling?

When Miguel's gaze shifted away, an ounce of pressure lifted from your chest. Be quick be quick be quick-

You swiftly took up the syringe and made a grab for his hand.

too slow-

He snapped his teeth again and tore away, ripping out the IV. A broken gasp made you drop the needle.

Both of you retreated, you to the far corner and him to the confines of the little cot.

"Wh-wh-why..." you were muttering fearfully, rubbing your arms for comfort. Tears were falling steadily now, streaking your cheeks. Snot made you choke. you were burning with shame and fear like a sniveling child chased by a big dog.

A low ringing made you wince. Breathe. You were getting lightheaded. Breathe. Five things you can see.

A few deep breaths later, and the world stopped tilting. Your heart settled enough for you to stand shakily, still pressed into the corner.

You assessed the scene in front of you. The syringe was destroyed, and the dose was unsalvageable. A spare was tucked into your pocket, thankfully. Miguel was heaving, spittle flecking his cheeks. Like a rabid dog.

A rabid, terrified dog.

What was he afraid of? He was three times your size, and you weren't small. Though you spent ample time at the gym, he could snap you like a twig. Even in his state he had the advantage.

The needle.

He was afraid of needles.

Well.

The medicine couldn't be given orally, so he'd need it put in an IV. ...The IV he just ripped out of his arm. Placing a new one was out of the question, due to the obvious needle involved. You breathed in through your nose.

New plan.

Your gaze caught on the slow trickle of blood from his arm where the tubing had been removed. Start small. Taking gauze from your pocket and a small tube of ointment, you held them out in front of you.

"I'm going to patch that, okay? Just some ointment, it doesn't even sting." Your voice was light, careful. Like handling the younger patients. You can do this.

Miguel made no move to stop you as you tiptoed closer. You didn't take your eyes off of him, gesturing for him to give you his arm.

He didn't budge.

It's okay. Start small.

Gently, you ran your fingers up his tan forearm, stopping at his elbow, then going back. the wound was small but deep. Miguel was gritting his teeth and glaring daggers at you. You didn't react, patient as ever. The angle was awkward; his twisted torso angled his arm so you had to reach across the bed.

Your chest was very exposed to his claws, but you had more important issues.

"Lay back," you whispered, "you'll exacerbate the wound again." He scowled harder, hissing in Spanish.

"Miguel. Please. Just...straighten out."

After a long moment the pain began to register on his face. He shifted marginally, and you let out a relieved breath. Progress.

You bandaged his wound efficiently, keeping your movements light and gentle. His grip slowly released on the sheets. You ignored the holes his talons had carved along the mattress.

"I don't like needles either," you said quietly, tucking the soiled gauze into a disposable bag. He didn't answer, but you saw the look of surprise on his face.

"I used to take shots because I got sick all the time," you explained, moving to grab your tools, "I never got used to them."

He didn't answer. That was okay, he wasn't scowling anymore. You took this as a green light, placing the pressure cuff around his enormous bicep.

Your heart was steady, tears dried on your face. Okay. We're okay.

"You have tattoos."

His question made you jump, nearly crushing your pencil. His lips lifted amusedly to reveal a shiny canine.

s n a p hot breath scream-

You stepped back, swallowing bile. He must have noticed your fear, because he dropped the smirk and scowled again, looking at his lap. Stupid stupid calm down, you've pissed him off.

"I got over it," you rushed to say, wanting to relieve his grumpiness. "I...I don't know, I guess I liked the design more than the needle."

He just nodded sharply, still looking away. No dice.

Back to square one.

You finished his vitals, but the elephant in the room reared its ugly head. He needed his meds. Clearly the pain was getting to him. Miguel's forehead was dotted with sweat, and his abs were quaking from the cramps. A sickly pallor dulled his warm complexion. You had to be fast.

"I...I'm sorry. I know that doesn't...help, but you need to just let me-"

"No," he spat again, teeth gleaming. "I'll get on without it."

You couldn't believe his aloof tone. He was so selfish, for someone with your survival in the palm of his hand.

"No, Miguel," you said sternly, "you can't."

His gaze was incredulously infuriated.

"Your muscles are dissolving as we speak. In a month you won't be able to stand up." Your voice was raising. He needed to understand. He needed to know how bad this was.

"Then I'll work sitting down."

"Don't be stupid! you are the reason any of us are here, and because you're too afraid of a stupid fucking needle you're willing to sacrifice-"

"Don't you dare talk about sacrifice before you've-"

His scathing response was capped with a yell. Impulsively, you'd stabbed the syringe into his pliable chest, right above his heart.

The silence was deafening.

Run.

You dashed out of the room, severing his bellow with the click of a lock.

One dose down, 140 to go.

that was a hot mess but maybe it's okay? I'm trying to get past all the technical stuff but my inner med student isn't letting me I'm so sorry!!! I will tone it down in the future please believe me-

thots?

taglist: @neeshsoodrippedout

comment if you want to be added xox

next part

[helloheyhihowdyheya]

Rose Thorn Blues | p. 3

Peter Parker x fem!reader

Part One Part Two Masterlist

Summary: At the fundraiser, you and Parker go undercover as husband and wife. Which puts you two in some very interesting positions.

Word count: ~6.5k

Warnings: Enemies to lovers!! Fake dating!! Forced proximity!!! (< my excitement for those tags lol). Kissing. Banter. A lil' bit of jealousy. Sneaking around. Mention of throwing up. Swearing. Tension.

A/n: Sorry it's been awhile. You know how it is. Thank you for the love on the past parts :) I like how this one turned out. Let me know what you think, and thank you for reading! <3

As soon as Parker led you through the towering front doors of the mansion, you clung just a little tighter to his arm. Your fingers fidgeted with the simple wedding ring sitting on your ring finger, something he had picked up yesterday — presumably from “the guy he knew.” To save your nerves, you hadn’t asked, instead just accepting the likely fake diamond ring that felt too heavy and gaudy for your tastes. It certainly fit right at home here.

People in gowns and tuxedos you guessed cost more than you could ever afford walked throughout the sprawling main room. The clicking of their shoes against the hardwood floor joined their voices and the small live orchestra sitting near the podium at the other side. The sight of all these people only made your fingers play with the ring faster, your nerves alight.

A soft touch along the back of your hand had you stopping your fidgeting, your muscles stilling as you looked to your right. You slowly blinked your eyes at Parker’s, the chandeliers above bringing out the shades of brown they held.

In the boyish grin he gave you, there was calm reassurance flashing across his face. It sat somewhere between the confidence of his persona for the night, Sam, and the smugness of the Parker you were often met with. In an instant, his expression dropped easily into the facade as he grabbed two flutes of champagne for you both from a passing waiter holding a tray.

“For you, dear,” he said, handing one to you before taking a sip of his own. You watched his gaze flick across the crowd of wealthy guests. Maybe they were in the dark about where their donations went, but you guessed that more than a few knew the truth — and benefited from it. 

“Hello,” a soft voice said from behind you, and your body fought the urge to jump at the sound. A smile that didn’t reach all the way up to your eyes spread across your face as you turned. 

Parker’s arm wrapped around your back while you were met with an older couple focused on the two of you. The women introduced themselves, but you found trying to play your part convincingly while focusing on their names and the conversation proved harder than you’d expected. Especially as the heat of “your husband’s” body settled along yours.

But Parker’s voice pulled you back into the moment as he answered a question they must have asked, the rumble of his voice vibrating against you. “Rose’s grandmother recently passed. She loved this city and Beaumont’s work. The two of them were good friends, so we’re here to support him in her memory.”

The one on the left reached her hands out, clutching onto your free one. “I’m so sorry. What you’re doing here would make her very proud.”

You quietly thanked the woman before her wife asked, “And what do you two do for work?”

A long beat of silence passed over all of you, to the point where you could hear Parker swallow hard beside you. In all the planning you’d done the last few days, neither of you had come up with jobs. 

Shit.

“Teacher.”

“Teacher.”

You both said the word at the same time, a slight panicked look passing between you. 

You turned back to the women, letting out a laugh that felt too tight and forced. “My grandmother left our family money. To donate,” you clarified with a straight smile. You muttered out, “Since there’s not too much money in teaching…”

“Oh, how lovely. Do you work together?”

“Not anymore,” Parker answered. “But we’re happy with our jobs.”

“And what do you teach?”

Internally, you clenched your jaw and cursed these women for being so friendly and asking so many questions you didn’t think about beforehand. But that didn’t seem to stop Parker as he responded with ease.

“Chemistry for high schoolers. And Rose here teaches, um…” His words briefly trailed off, his tongue coming out to wipe over his bottom lip as he hesitated. Okay, maybe not as smooth as you’d hoped.

“English,” you finished for him. Leaning into Parker, you let out a laugh. It almost felt natural to place your hand on his chest as you spoke, lied, to these women. “Sam would lose his head if it wasn’t attached to him.”

That sent them both into loud giggles, a smile spreading across your face as they held onto one another.

“Oh, you two sound like an old couple already,” the left woman said between breaths. 

At least you had the bickering side of things down already. 

But as their laughter died down, the one on the right opened her mouth once more, probably to ask another question you had no answer to. The tightness holding your body hostage sagged as another couple came up, hugging the two women like longtime friends. 

Your rapid heart silently thanked Parker as he took the moment to lead you both to a quiet corner and around the crowd of people waltzing to the soft music, but you still gritted out, “You didn’t think to come up with our careers?”

“Guess my pea-sized brain can’t do all of the work here. What’s your excuse?” he whispered back. His words had you shoving your elbow into your side, but all it did was earn your bare arm a light pinch from him. 

Finding a quiet-enough area, your steps slowed, letting your mind calm down for a moment. Somehow, Parker still wore that casual smile as one hand held the glass and the other sat along your side. But you took a step out of his grasp once you saw no one was looking, letting the space between you two give you extra room to breathe. To think.

You took in the sight of the busy mansion. Mentally, you ignored the now cold spot from Parker’s missing heat, instead marking doors and noting who spoke with who. You were able to recognize some of the attendees — most of which were other local politicians. 

How far did all of this go?

Before you could think further, Parker leaned over to speak close to your ear, a distinct scent of  coffee and something familiar wafting from him. You’d expected him to explain your next steps, so you quickly looked at him in surprise when he asked, “Did you want to be a teacher as a kid?” 

Raising an eyebrow, scanning the expression he wore, you replied, “Yeah… I did. You too?”

“Yeah…” He nodded, staring downward as if in thought.

Your attention went back out to the people, chewing on the inside of your cheek as brief moments passed in silence. All too quick, he followed up with, “Though there’s not much espionage or breaking and entering in teaching these days.”

You gave a quiet laugh, suddenly wishing you’d gone into teaching. The thought made you take another sip of your champagne. A small sip — you needed to stay focused on tonight and learn as much as possible about Beaumont.

But Parker once again came close, the back and forth of him almost making your head spin more than the alcohol could. He whispered, “I spotted a sort of VIP section I could make my way into. It’d be easier to do with just one person, so you can mingle yourself into some important conversations. Beaumont’s not out here. And his little speech and the auction aren’t until later anyway. How does that sound?”

His eyes traced over your face. A slight crease forming between his eyebrows was the only indication that he wasn’t actually the suave Sam Bennet.

You gave a few hesitating nods, your gaze looking at anything but his eyes. You could do this — you’d spoken with people to get information from them before. And even if you couldn’t, maybe Rose could.

Before leaving, Parker shot back the rest of his champagne and set the glass on the nearest flat surface. You fought back a disbelieving scoff when he winked at you and strode toward a closed door on the other side of the room. 

For a few moments, all you could do was watch after him. The party felt much bigger as you stood there alone. A small part of you wondered whether he also felt like that.

You shook your head, clearing your mind with a deep breath in and out. You straightened your back and lifted your chin. Scanning the crowd, you spotted a member of Ellis Beaumont’s team. The middle-aged man stood along the wall near the orchestra, his attention fixed on his phone. You felt as if you’d found your prey as you set down your drink and made your way toward him, one heavy step in front of the other.

You knew he handled marketing for Stronger Together and Beaumont in general, a target full of information ripe for your picking — information you could ask about without drawing suspicion. But all the false confidence you built up deflated as you approached, watching as another member of Beaumont’s team pulled him aside for a hushed conversation. 

Swallowing down a frustrated groan, you instead pivoted to look as if you were enjoying the band. The dancing strings and piano would normally be lovely to listen to, but now it felt like the soundtrack to a headache threatening to form along your temples. 

The two team members walked to the door Parker went through. You didn’t have long to look around for another person to question before you felt a presence to your left. 

“So, do you prefer the upbeat plucking style of Brahms or the legato tone of Debussy?”

The question came from the young man next to you, and within an instant of seeing his styled hair the color of the night and the sharp line of his jaw, you knew who he was.

“I’m just kidding,” he said, flashing a white smile that crinkled the corner of his dark eyes. “Classical music’s never been my strong suit, and I stopped learning their names years ago. Though…” He paused, admiring you, “I wouldn’t mind learning yours.”

Your mouth opened slightly, your mind forcing out a small laugh that you hoped sounded believable enough. Was this actually happening?

Shaking your head, you stuck out your hand. “That might be the cheesiest line I’ve ever heard. But the name’s Rose,” you told him. 

He took your hand, wrapping his long fingers along your skin with a smile that could take anyone’s breath away. “You’re not wrong about that, but it got you to talk to me,” he said, his eyes never leaving yours. “I’m Will.”

You bit back the urge to say I know. You’d done enough research to recognize William Beaumont, the only child of Ellis. In his mid-20s, Will had already quickly risen through the ranks of politics — though not that it seemed to interest him all that much.

But he had to know something and might just share that knowledge with you. Whether he saw the wedding ring around your finger, he didn’t say. 

Flirting for information was not something you had much experience in (or any experience in), but how hard could it really be?

At the expectant look he gave you, one that said he’d rather have his attention on you than anything else in the world, it suddenly felt very hard.

Shoving down your worries and trying to fall into your role like Parker could, you smiled sweetly at him. “It’s nice to meet you, Will.” You let your hand drop back to your side as you said, “And for the record, I’d have to go with Debussy.”

His hands sat casually in his pockets, his head giving a light nod. “Since I’m not entirely sure who he really is, I’ll have to agree with you.” He let out a soft laugh, his easy tone lightening the tightness in your chest just a fraction. 

A moment passed as you laughed along, the band continuing to play softly. “So, if you were being honest with me, do you ever get tired of these things?”

He sent a sly side eye your way, a smirk crossing his face. “If we’re being honest, then I’d have to say yes. If you’re going to repeat my answer to my father or his associates, then I’d say that I never bore of helping this wonderful city of ours.” The way his voice turned almost mocking at the end made you hide a smile, your face turning slightly away from him.

“What a very professional answer. I can only imagine how many meetings you’ve had to sit in on and say something like that.”

“An excessive amount, yes,” he said, running a hand down his jaw.

“Do these fundraisers all go the same way? Conversing, speech, dinner, auction, then more conversing? I’ve never attended one like this before.”

He gave a short nod. “For the most part. It’s close to the same speech every time, and nearly the same kinds of things auctioned off — most of them coming from donations made primarily by the wealthiest guests here.”

Things you were sure you could only imagine owning. The thought of listening to another speech from Beaumont after all your research only made the small stabbing in your head increase.

Trying to sound casual, unassuming even, you asked, “And what do you exactly do?”

His face shifted toward an unreadable look, making you fight uneasiness rising through your body. You followed up with, “I think it’d be boring if you just sat and listened, so I hope you get to actually play some part in the organization.”

You watched his gaze consider you for a moment, the seconds passing forcing your heart into your throat. Part of you debated faking getting an emergency phone call to get away if this went south.

Tilting his head, a soft smile spread across Will’s face. He held out his hand toward you, palm facing up. “Would you care to dance with me, Rose?”

A twisting feeling reeled through your stomach, your body on edge in an instant. At your hesitation, he said, “Just one dance. And I can answer your question while we’re out on the floor.”

As you raised your hand and laid it in his, you mentally said every expletive you knew at this terrible summer internship, at Parker, and at yourself. But you held an easy smile while the two of you made your way to where others danced along to the orchestra’s playing.

He brought your right hand up in his left, his other hand smoothing across your arm and landing on your back. You tried focusing on your fingers laying atop his shoulder, feeling the soft material of his jacket beneath you. 

“If we’re still being honest with one another, I am not the world’s greatest dancer. I apologize for any toes I step on,” you quietly told him, your words accompanied by a nervous laugh you didn’t have to fake.

His hold on you supported your body as he began to move, your feet trying to follow his. He gave a kind laugh, his hand squeezing yours once. “I won’t hold it against you.”

“Thank you,” you whispered, your gaze cast downward to make sure you moved the right way. Slowly, you began to recognize the repeating pattern of steps, your muscles becoming a little less wound tight.

“That’s it,” Will said with an encouraging tone. “Now, can you bear looking up instead of at our feet?”

A laugh slipped from your lips as your eyes trailed higher until they connected with his. You appreciated his kindness, but being here by yourself, there was no way you’d relax enough. Not until–

From the corner of your vision, you spotted Parker walking from that door he’d slipped through. You watched him begin walking this way and scan the crowd, one hand holding another champagne glass and the other running through his hair. It was only once he found you that he stopped, and it brought a relieving sigh from your chest.

As you danced and turned though, you couldn’t see Parker from this angle anymore, but Will said, “There you go. Not so tense anymore.” 

You offered him a grin, one that you fought to maintain as too many thoughts ran through your head. You needed to focus.

“So, I’m dancing,” you began with a laugh. “Your turn to hold up the bargain.”

He returned the laughter, those crinkles around his eyes returning. “Fair enough.”

People passed by in a blur as he continued to lead you across the floor, the orchestra’s music thrumming along with your heart. You’d long lost sight of Parker with all the spinning.

“Sometimes, I do just sit in meetings — whether I’m also listening depends on how boring the topic is. And other times, I pitch ideas for projects or try to lead them.”

You nodded. “Which seem to be doing well, correct? I haven’t followed Stronger Together all that closely lately, so I haven’t seen its impact up close yet.” 

Please, you silently begged him, to give you something.

His eyebrow twitched upward as he hesitated, the muscle of his jaw feathering. “It’s never as easy or quick as we’d wish, but that doesn’t stop us from working toward the organization’s goals. Especially ones I’m passionate about.”

“Like what?” you asked almost a bit too quickly. You tried giving a look that said you were just excited to hear about him.

“Like ensuring everyone has the right to a proper education. We don’t always have jurisdiction for these projects, but what does jurisdiction matter when people’s lives are at stake?”

A smile — a real, genuine smile — overtook your face. “That’s exactly what I say. How can we let red tape get in the way of helping one another?”

He let out a sigh, one that seemed to course from his whole being. “I sure wish my coworkers thought the way you did,” he said, pulling your body just a little closer to his. 

A small feeling, one spreading from your chest, hoped that he was telling the truth. That if you discovered Ellis Beaumont’s crimes and told the world, maybe there’d be a better future in his son.

As that comforting thought passed through you, your eyes caught a moving figure from the corner of your vision. You couldn’t miss the sight of Parker dancing with a woman several yards away. She looked vaguely familiar, perhaps someone involved with the non-profit. 

Your gaze drifted to where Parker’s hand laid on her, the deep plunge of her gown’s back letting his hand rest across her skin. The two of them danced easily, their hold on one another looking so natural. 

You eventually looked up, your steps nearly stuttering when you saw his eyes were already on you. They traced over your form, just the flash of a hard look crossing his face before his mouth began to move. Hopefully, he was asking a question that would lead you both somewhere. But even as he spoke, he stared over her shoulder at you.

That warmth in your chest spread outward. Up your neck, the heat snaked through your skin until your breaths came a little quicker.

Only once you and Will turned again were you able to break from the moment, to focus back on the man you were dancing with. You squeezed your eyes shut for just a second. 

Determined to get something out of this whole thing, you opened your mouth to ask him another question — but he spoke first.

“So, tell me about your husband, Rose.”

Your gaze immediately found his and the expectant darkness waiting in them. “What?”

“Your husband,” he repeated, angling his head toward your wedding ring. “What’s he like?”

A breathy “Oh” passed between your lips…

So this wasn’t flirting? Your mind couldn’t make sense of what William Beaumont wanted, not as you danced in his arms while “married” to another man.

“He’s, um. He’s nice.”

At Will’s laugh, one of your own following, you said, “Most of the time, he’s sarcastic — and I wish there was a way to attach a zipper to his mouth. I think, though, underneath it, there’s kindness that he doesn’t always show. But you know it’s there when you get to know him.”

As you turned again and made eye contact with Parker still far away, you mindlessly muttered, “Sometimes, I wish he wasn’t so smart. It makes me look bad.” A wry smile crossed your face, and you could’ve sworn the ghost of a grin appeared on Parker’s as well. “And while he’s the most chronically late person I know, he’s there when you need him.”

A moment passed before Will pulled back, staring at you as if he could see all the way through you. The orchestra played the final note of the song, your steps slowly coming to a stop. You could only stand there as he leaned closer, his mouth right along your ear. His breaths made goosebumps rise across your shoulder.

“Thank you.”

Heart pounding in your veins, you whispered, “For what?”

“For dancing with me.”

With that, he pulled back, squeezing your hand once more before letting it return to your side. “Enjoy the night, Rose,” he said, nodding his head and turning. You quickly lost him through the sea of people, not that you really tried to search for him long.

Guests around you began to disperse to their tables, a sign to get your feet to move — wherever your own seat was. Lights dimmed above, creating a stir of conversation between people while you looked around, searching for Parker.

You barely finished the thought when he appeared at your side. His arm wrapped around yours as he whispered, “C’mon.”

You followed, the cold shock of Will disappearing under the warmth of Parker against you. But as you both weaved through people still going to their tables, you saw he wasn’t taking you somewhere to sit down and listen to Beaumont’s speech.

Instead, the two of you went through double doors into a hallway leading to the bathrooms. People walked in and out, and if you hadn’t done the research beforehand, you would’ve seriously questioned where he was taking you.

But you’d remembered there was an exit near here, past the bathrooms. There would also be another door — one that took you up and further into the mansion. 

With minimal guests around to witness, he walked right to it.

The staircase behind was thin and illuminated by only a few warm lights. Unable to walk side by side up the steps, Parker let go of your arm and led the way. You only heard the muffled sounds of the hallway behind you, making you a little hopeful that this wasn’t an often-used section of the house. 

“What did you find?” you asked, your hands pulling up your dress while you climbed the stairs.

After two flights, Parker stopped before a door. He turned the knob, letting it swing open silently into a hallway shooting off into many rooms. As he stepped through, he angled his head toward you and said, “Nothing. Which makes me very worried.”

All you could do was begin chewing on your bottom lip and follow him. The plush carpet luckily hid your footsteps, but every nerve in your body stood on edge. You imagined that they’d be fraying and burnt out by the end of this night.

“I know there’s something here though.” Parker motioned toward a door on your left. “You check that one. I’ll look in this one,” he told you, pointing to the room across from it.

Eyeing him, you grumbled under your breath, “A please would be nice.”

And without looking, you knew he was rolling his eyes. Still, you went to the room — even though some instinctual part of you almost insisted that it was safer to go together. You had no idea what was on the other side of this very nice and expensive hardwood door.

The only thing that got you to turn the handle was the sound of Parker going into his room without hesitation. Though you thought calling it the “sound of his audacity” had a better ring to it.

And following in his footsteps brought you to a… bathroom. Sure, it appeared fancy with its probably imported floor tiles and French-inspired sink or something, but the only suspicious thing in this room was why anyone would choose those ugly decorative towels.

Still, you looked through everything — even the medicine cabinet, which made you feel like some sort of rude house guest. You took a photo or two of the bottles inside, most of which turned out to be painkillers. Strong ones.

Before moving to the next, you listened for any footsteps or voices. With silent steps and slowed breathing, you crept from the bathroom — only to be met with Parker walking freely from his room without any caution. At the incredulous look you gave him, he just gestured for you to hurry up.

You made a point to glare at him as you approached the next door. As it creaked open, your body wincing at the noise, you stepped inside. At first glance, it seemed to be a bedroom, which wasn’t exactly what you were looking for. It had no computer to search through or a convenient map laying out their entire plans.

It appeared to be largely unused, a faint layer of dust coating most of the furniture. But as you walked toward a small desk in the corner, you saw some papers scattered atop it. Some appeared to be emails that held no significance without any context. Others seemed to be invitations to a few of Beaumont’s fundraisers.

The walls or shelves in the room gave no indication as to who these papers belonged to, but you took pictures of them regardless. As you set them back, you looked further down. The desk also had drawers.

One pull on it told you they were locked though, and surprisingly, lock picking wasn’t a skill you listed at the top of your resume. Maybe you could try and get through the back…

The door squeaking open made you jump, your body straightening up and hitting the desk. You stifled a groan as your eyes found Parker at the entrance of the room. Silently, he held up his hands — not in apology but in a way that was supposed to somehow absolve him of any guilt. 

You could already feel a bruise forming along your hip, your hand rubbing the bone. Parker approached you, whispering, “Settle down, Nancy Drew. Have you found anything useful?”

“Unless you can open these locked drawers, how about you keep your mouth shut, Parker,” you quietly gritted out.

His grin grew into something taunting. “Guess I’ll keep this mouth wide open then, sunshine.”

You watched with furrowed eyebrows as he knelt down and took two bobby pins from his inside pocket. Before you could even ask, he interrupted. “I come prepared, so keep your smart comments to yourself.”

Widening your eyes with a huff, you stood there, leaning against the wall. Your arms crossed in front of your chest as you observed him. 

“So… when did you learn to pick locks?”

Under his breath, you barely heard him mutter, “When’d you learn to flirt for information?”

As you were still processing his words, your mouth opening slightly in shock, Parker popped open the drawer. Any retort died in your throat — but stayed very clearly in your mind — as you looked past him at the papers he pulled out.

They seemed to detail some sort of… super suit? Scribbled notes sat on the margins of blueprints for a suit with metal arms, protective armor, even grenades. Almost like they were a mismatch of parts from Spider-Man’s villains. Doc Ock, The Rhino, The Green Goblin.

A shaky breath punched from your lungs, your stomach sinking so low you had to set a hand on the desk to steady yourself. Was Ellis making himself into a supervillain?

The thought barely seeped into your mind when you both heard a floorboard groan from out in the hallway. Your head whipped to the door, neither of you moving an inch. At another creaking sound, Parker silently made his way to peek out from the room.

He must have heard something you didn’t because his entire body tensed, but your hands were already moving. By the time he turned back to you with wide eyes, you stood next to him, your heart beating rapidly in your ears.

“We’ve gotta go,” he whispered, the words barely audible. You fought back the urge to say no shit. You weren’t sure you’d even be able to utter the words with how your body now shook.

Parker crept out into the hallway, looking both ways. He nodded for you to follow with a quick jerk of his head. But as you closed the bedroom door behind you, the squeaky hinges echoed into the air. Your eyes met Parker’s, his jaw tight as alarm flashed across his face.

In an instant, his fingers grabbed onto your wrist. He pulled you across the hall to the nearest room and clicked the door shut behind you. 

Through the whiplash from sudden movement to stillness in complete darkness, you felt a hand cover your mouth. The back of your body leaned against what felt like wooden shelves while your front pressed into Parker. 

You felt the beating of his heart against your own.

Despite him covering your mouth making you want to do the opposite, you willed your breaths to slow down until they were nearly silent. Though you couldn’t see, you guessed the two of you were sandwiched inside a closet of some kind.

You brought your hand up to remove Parker’s from your face. You might’ve pinched him if you weren’t hiding from whoever was also here, though that didn’t stop you from flipping him off in the shadowy closet. You felt him push your hand away with a quiet huff.

Only a moment later, through straining ears and clenched muscles, you heard a door open. Then footsteps.

Your eyes squeezed shut, the heat in the tight space beginning to grow unbearable. That, on top of your mind and body turning into a live wire from your nerves, made it feel harder to breathe.

And you knew you had to be quiet, but your back screamed at you to move from the hard shelves digging into your spine. As you tried to silently shift forward to find any kind of relief, you were stopped by palms quickly landing on your hips. 

You heard a strangled sigh come from Parker as he held you firm, your body unable to move any further under his grip. Your top half leaned into him more in this position, your hands instinctually holding onto him and finding hard muscles beneath. 

In the dark and under the threat of making any noise, you were unable to ask him what he was doing. All you could do was feel him.

But his head came nearer. You swore he whispered, “I…” before trailing off. He was close enough that you could feel the word caress your cheek. Then, as if time froze for a few seconds, neither of you even breathed while the footsteps grew louder and louder until they came so close to the door.

And then they kept going, the footfalls becoming just a bit quieter with each one.

You would’ve sighed had the hands on your hips not still held on so tight. His breathing sounded labored, his body rigid. With worry starting to take over your senses, you barely let his name pass your lips. So quietly, you whispered, “Peter?”

You knew he heard you because every muscle of his tensed. The movement had his arm hitting the shelves, and all of the blood rushed from your head as something fell and hit the floor with a dull thud. 

The footsteps stopped.

Parker grabbed your shoulders, his grip twisting the material of your dress wherever he touched. Maybe he knew that your mind was spinning, that your stomach threatened to empty itself, or that most of your extremities had gone numb despite the heat. He held you there, keeping you grounded as the steps became louder once more.

“Do you trust me?” Parker said, the words wrapping around your body with a gentleness you hadn’t expected.

Your mind’s first instinct was to tell him no, you absolutely did not trust him. You wanted to ask him whether he even trusted you. But your throat allowed no response to pass, your tongue unable to shape any of the sounds. 

And… if you were to once again follow your heart, follow the pull in your gut, you’d nod. 

So you did. 

With that, he leaned forward to press his lips to yours. A quiet noise of surprise came from you as his fingers now danced up to hold your jaw. Only once you responded, your fuzzy mind catching up enough to kiss him back, did he lunge further forward. 

Quick breaths came from his nose as his mouth overtook yours. His body pressed roughly against you, the feeling doing nothing to slow your dizzying senses. Your fingers gripped the hair at the nape of his neck. And by the time you’d finally responded with the same intensity as him, nearly fell face first into the feeling, light flooded in from behind your eyelids.

Breaking apart from Parker with a start, you blinked until your vision made out the security guard in front of you. Your chest still heaved and your heart still pounded. Even your fingers still itched for him to ground you again — so much so that you grabbed his hand as the worker let out a scoff.

“Christ… Don’t you have anything better to do? Or any place better than this?” he asked, his flashlight flicking between the two of you.

“Sorry, sorry. We’ll go,” Parker muttered, his voice tighter than you remembered. He used one hand to shield his eyes from the light and put the other on your back to guide you from the closet. 

He made a good show of not knowing which way to go, making the guard point toward the door you came from with a tired look on his face. It took everything in you to not hide behind your fingers, embarrassment crawling up your neck and heating your cheeks.

Neither of you said a word while walking back to the main room, just pointedly not catching each other’s eyes. It felt harder to swallow, to think even.

Finally, outside the bathrooms, Parker broke the silence. He turned to you, saying, “Your, uh, dress.”

He approached, trying to fix the rumples he created in your gown. But you batted his hand away, unable to deal with his touch on you again right now. Your fingers smoothed it out yourself while you told him, “Flatten your hair back down.”

And before he even finished, you’d begun walking down the hallway to the doors. Anything to create room between you two — because you could still feel the weight of him clutching your jaw and the burn still present on your lips. 

And you didn’t want to think about what you just did for this story, or about kissing Peter fucking Parker.

His shoes clicked against the tile as he caught up. Your eyes saw a glimpse of him reaching out, your body bracing itself for his grip around your arm. But he stopped short, instead pleading, “Wait.”

“What?” you asked, a soft bite to the word. Your head sat on a swivel for anyone who could be watching or listening.

He gritted his teeth for a moment, thinking. “Should we go back? To take pictures of the diagram?”

With a tight smile, you told him, “No need.” 

Your fingers pulled the papers from where you’d tucked them into the front of your dress. You only paused long enough to feel smug at the surprised look on his face before hiding them once again. 

Without seeing whether he’d follow, you strode through the double doors — just always walking barely ahead of him. Luckily, your seats were near the back and away from the spotlights trained on the stage. 

Once settled into the chair, your hands firmly in your own lap, you let out a long breath. From beside you, Parker leaned in close, whispering, “Sunshine… Can I ask you something?”

Your eyes darted in his direction, nausea suddenly flooding your system all over again. You only looked at his shoulder as you slowly nodded, wondering if it was a mistake to do so. 

“Am I…”

He paused, and you could’ve bolted right then and there. Letting out a sigh, he asked, “Am I like the best kiss you’ve ever had?” 

He barely made it to the end of the sentence before his usual shit-eating grin returned to his face.

You relished in the way it twisted in pain when you kicked him under the table, hoping it’d leave a bruise. Partly, you were grateful he broke the tension, but that didn’t mean you weren’t thinking of breaking his foot too.

Turning back to the stage, you finally focused on the man standing atop it. That salt and pepper hair, dark eyes, and “winning smile” looked back in return.

It was hard to pay attention to his speech still going on when all you could think of was Beaumont’s diagram of the super suit. In your head, those eyes turned hateful, that smile cunning. You still felt them even as the speech ended, all of it just propaganda as you expected. 

What information you took from the auction was just how much money was going toward Stronger Together — which was a hefty amount. And all you got from the dinner was that they needed to learn how to better season their food.

After it all, Beaumont was immediately surrounded after the auction. People you assumed were shareholders or investors (i.e., rich people) took the conversation back into the VIP area before you could even think of approaching him. Honestly, you weren’t sure you could handle any more sneaking or lying for the rest of the night anyway.

But you had what you needed, for now.

And while making your way toward the mansion’s towering front doors alongside other couples, you could’ve sworn there were two sets of eyes burning a trail past your every move. One of them you refused to meet.

@reidslovely @keepingitlokiii @thedevax @sincericida @dil3mma @hollandweather

[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.

[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.

[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.”

[rowniebow]

and they were roommates | peter parker x male!reader | 5/7

summary: friends. just friends. only friends. best friends.

pairings: tasm!peter parker x male!reader

cw: mentions of 18+ content, but nothing detailed is described. cursing, uh oh! [internalized] homophobia? alcohol mention

word count: 3k+

an: hi i decided on being an annoying author and not taking chances to expand on important character and plot points in this chapter, and instead went with focusing on character development. stay safe in this weather, and happy holidays

previous ⭒ masterlist ⭒ next

⭒

peter parker had a friend.

after years of keeping coworkers at arms length and avoiding their personal questions.

after years of acting oblivious to pretty girls on the street (who he really didn't feel anything towards anyways).

after years of only talking to may about anything, which she was getting tired of, too ("peter, go to a bar or something! i want grand-babies, too, you know?" to which he would just lie and say he had plenty of friends).

peter parker finally had a friend. he opened up. he let someone in.

and he was glad.

he certainly wasn't at first. after going to sleep the morning you and him had talked, peter slept to the sound of a nightmare. a nightmare of you falling and coming to a similar fate of her.

when he woke, he sat in his room for hours, pretending to be asleep to you. he debated and went over in his head many different ways to play this whole thing off. i mean, that would be best for you, right?

he came to the conclusion that he should move out. he prepared a whole speech for you about how he didn't want to live here anymore, and especially not with you.

so leaving his room at two in the afternoon with tears in his eyes, he kept his brown soaking pools trained on the ground. he was about to ruin a good thing, but it was best for you (is what he struggled to keep telling himself).

peter's door slowly creaked open and he stepped his way out into the living room, head hanging low with disappointment. disappointment of the situation, or himself, or his decision? a little bit of all of it.

"hey, y/n," he began, rubbing his neck with disdain. "can i talk to you about something?"

his voice rang out and bounced against the walls. the sounds of his syllables came bouncing back and hit him in the head with full force.

regret washed over him the second the words came back to him. and finally, the pain of losing something good being too much to bare, he looked up. his chest felt as if it were going to swell bigger and bigger until it burst and the pressure was unimaginable pain.

his eyes scanned the clean, nearly spotless, apartment. the couch sat empty, and so did the island seats.

and the building pressure in his chest fell to his stomach instead

you weren't even here.

frustration suddenly rose in him. how did you have the nerve to leave? how did you have the nerve to leave while he was pretending to be asleep in his room so you probably didn't want to wake him up and it's not like you were aware he had a big thing he wanted to tell you - but you should have been!

peter fell in to the couch, the dizzy feeling of relief filling his head.

honestly? thank god.

⭒⭒

peter was very glad he had a friend, but he very much was not at first.

while you were out doing whatever it was you were doing, peter sat on the couch, rocking back and forth, anxious for the conversation he had planned in his head.

so when the door burst open, and you tumbled in with your hands full of groceries - far too many for you to carry on your own, the bag handles reaching up past your elbows on your arms so that you could get them all by yourself - peter jumped to his feet and the anxiety smacking his head around faded away.

"shit-!" you silently cursed. you quietly shushed the door as it banged against wall.

when you finally looked up and saw peter standing in the living room, watching you, you dropped all the bags, uncaring at the noise you were making.

"hi! good morning. i thought you'd still be asleep."

"did you go shopping?"

"did i-? yeah, i got food and stuff."

"and stuff?"

"yeah!"

"is 'stuff' cookies and chocolate?"

"yes, and i got enough to share for once,"

"oh, good."

peter rushed over to help as you began to haphazardly throw the things you bought into the fridge and cabinets without rule. normally, peter would have commented on it, nitpicking at your lack of care regarding where things went in the kitchen (even though he didn't really care, either, it was just an excuse to talk to you). today, though, he hardly noticed it, and reflected your behaviors as you talked.

"why were you up so early?"

"i couldn't sleep,"

"how come?"

"i've been having sleeping issues the last couple nights, i don't know why."

"you don't know why?"

"i guess it's hot."

"you're hot at night?"

"yeah, but it's okay. it's winter anyway, and i know you like it warm."

"no, no, we can turn it down."

"i can really just open a window-,"

"no, then you'll get a cold. we can turn it down."

"are you sure?"

peter shrugged and sent a tired smile towards you. "the heating bill will be cheaper, anyway."

"okay," you smiled over your shoulder back at him, but quickly looked back to continue emptying the grocery bag you were working through. "thank you."

peter forgot all about his idea of moving out.

peter forgot all about his attempted effort to remove you from his life.

instead, peter hoped you'd stay in his life for a very, very long time.

⭒⭒⭒

peter parker had a friend.

suddenly, he had someone he could come home to and talk about his life with. the entirety of it. not just the normal parts of it with may. and not just the normal parts of it with you.

he could suddenly talk about everything.

and he did. he told you about every little detail of his life, both as spider-man and peter parker.

he went through the motions of his high-profile evil scientist and ex-best friend trope and the death of her, and you listened even though you knew a lot about it from the news when it happened all those years ago.

what you mostly listened to was how peter described himself and his thought process throughout all of his endeavors, tragic and all. you found yourself becoming absolutely obsessed with his brain and the way he thought about the world.

how he still worked hard every day to try and find goodness in the world despite all the bad he dealt with all day.

and as you told peter your own tragic backstory, he thought the same about you. how, even despite all the cruelness you've experienced from people, people who were supposed to be loving towards you like your own mother, you still went in to every interaction assuming the best intentions.

"how am i going to be happy if i convince myself that everyone i talk to is just going to be cruel, or that every experience will leave me upset? i think that leaves a lot of life out of reach. i'll miss out on all the good if i'm trying to miss the bad."

peter went to bed thinking about that. with her on his mind, and now with you loudly occupying his mind (compared to the way you quietly did, before) he considered your words greatly.

he had to three major revolutions while he tossed and turned that night, listening to you nod your head to the music in your headphones while you struggled to sleep yourself in the other room.

one. no, he really shouldn't make decisions for you.

he really should not just decide to distance himself because he's spider-man and he doesn't think it's safe. he's seen first hand how frustrated that can make people.

two. it really would be best for you to not know him like this.

yes, it's really, really nice to have someone to talk to about his nightly endeavors. yes, he's happy it is you and no one else. yes, it's thanks to his stupid carelessness about hiding it on one night that you two became so close over the last three months (inseparable to an unhealthy degree).

but, are you going to get hurt in the end? no. he wouldn't let that happen again.

and three. how much life is going to be out of reach to him if he only worries about avoiding the bad?

more specifically, how much of life with you was he going to miss out on? he already let eight months go by. eight months of pettiness and disdain. all because he did like you from the very start and he was frustrated that he knew he wasn't going to be able to enjoy you and being close with you fully because he was so obsessed with hiding a huge part of himself.

he lost, what could have been, eight months of pure bliss with you because of his efforts to 'miss the bad'. he truly didn't want to lose any more of the joys he was experiencing with you now.

and he most certainly would not let you come to the same fate as her.

⭒⭒⭒⭒

over the five months that you and peter had become friends, many new habits were built.

you didn't hide your waiting up for him anymore. peter made sure never to tell you that he knew you did before, though.

instead, you spent your time waiting for him on the couch in the living room, watching a movie. or in your favorite chair, reading a book.

"hey, how was it tonight?"

"you know, you would think in the city that never sleeps there'd be more crime than this on monday nights, but there hardly ever is."

often, if he came in just quiet enough not to wake you and you were asleep on the couch, the man would plop down near your feet and get comfortable on his own.

you would wake the next morning and see him slumped over on the other end with one of the throw blankets bunched up over himself. you, the early riser of the duo, would take the blanket you were using and cover him up, then run out to buy coffee for the two of you so that he'd have something warm when he woke.

you also picked up skills that a nurse would have to know. or an emt. or a fire fighter. or all the above.

"god, pete, you can't be taunting people with guns." you said as you removed a bullet from his shoulder. his healing abilities that you still didn't really understand (but you didn't want to ask for a fifth time so you kept your ignorance hidden) already pushing the bullet out on their own.

"and you shouldn't be taunting the man with spider powers but you still do it every damn day!"

"as long as you don't run at me-,"

peter moved close to you suddenly, "boo!"

you fell back with a yell as he chuckled at your protests.

peter officially wouldn't let you do the laundry at night anymore. not alone at least.

"do you really need to be in the suit for this?"

"what if someone tries to rob you again?"

"i think you and i can scare him off without the web guy just fine."

"hey, the suit adds an intimidation factor, okay?"

however, your favorite habit was when one of you two came home from anything (work, spider-man-ing, outings with coworkers), the other would peak their head around the corner, say hi, and you two would just talk.

you decided that nothing was better than talking to peter parker. your newly best friend.

⭒⭒⭒⭒⭒

"do you remember jared?"

"leto?"

"who? no, jared from my work."

"is he the guy that donated a lot to the music program?"

"yeah!"

"yeah, okay. what did he teach again?"

"science,"

"right, right,"

"yeah, he asked me out tomorrow night."

"o-on a date?"

"yeah, i think i'm going to go."

peter felt his eyebrows furrow together. "you don't even like science."

"that doesn't mean he isn't nice, right? science lovers can be nice."

"high school science teachers are not nice."

"you love science, you're nice."

peter stuttered at your comment, "he probably only donated to get your attention."

you paused, debating peter's words. "is that so bad?"

"uh, yeah?"

"i think he likes music, and he cares about students."

"no, this-this isn't a good idea, y/n."

"why not? it's just one date, pete."

"where's he taking you?"

"i think just a bar,"

"no! that's so unsafe,"

"how-? peter, why are you being like this, i can take care of myself!"

"you shouldn't go to a bar on a date alone!"

"what the fuck else am i supposed to do, bring a friend?"

peter only looked at you in silence, proving his expectation.

"jesus christ, parker, i am not bringing a friend with me."

"i don't get why you want to go out on a date with jared!' peter spat his name with venom in every letter

"you don't even know jared, don't say his name like you do!"

"it doesn't matter if i know him or not, he likes science and you hate science."

"you literally went to midtown science high-,"

"that- stop bringing me into this!"

"peter, come on, it's just one date. i'm practically just doing it to be nice."

"do you think he's cute?"

"what?"

"you heard me! do you think he is cute?"

"he-he's attractive,"

"jesus christ."

"why does that upset you? you should be happy and supportive of me finding someone i'm interested in!"

"i will be happy and supportive when you find someone who's worth your time."

"oh my god, you're impossible. i'm going out with him."

⭒⭒⭒⭒⭒⭒

when you got home after your date the next night, you didn't want to talk to peter. you knew it was inevitable, especially since you two had given each other the silent treatment in suspense of this very moment.

so when you saw his little head of hair peak around the corner, you felt the tears that you had been fighting the entire walk home punch at your waterline.

"how was jared?" peter spat the name again, a glare on his face and his arms crossed. if you were in a better mood you might have commented on how he was wearing a hoodie of yours and that he had to pay for the next laundry because of that.

instead, you turned your head away from peter, not wanting him to see your pained expression. he heard the little sniff and watched your teeth clamp down on your bottom lip, though.

his expression immediately fell. he'd never once seen you cry before.

"what, what, what? what happened?" peter rushed to your side, threw a hand around your back to lead you to the couch. you continued to cover your face with your hand, bite your lip, and keep your face away from peter best you could.

"does spider-man need to go find him?" peter asked after sitting you down on the couch. the sobs that were pushing against your throat escaped in a laugh instead at peter's question.

"no, of course not," you shook your head at his silliness. despite peter having been very serious about the question, the sight of your pained smile still managed to pull one from deep inside of him.

"what happened, hon?"

"he- it's really not that big of a deal. you were right, you should take the win."

"no, it's not a win if your upset. talk to me, what happened?" peter sat crouched before you. an extremely small but extremely comforting smile played at his lips, and the kindness in his eyes practically pulled the information from out of you.

"he just-he just wanted to hook up. i told him i don't do hook-ups and he got really upset and-and started calling me names, and threw his drink at me. everyone was looking, i'm just- so embarrassed! he has a wife, too! how did i not know about his wife, peter?"

your cheeks and ears burned from embarrassment. you didn't know how you managed get caught up in such a situation. peter finally noticed after your story how badly you reeked of alcohol and how your soaked shirt was the culprit.

"you were right! i'm-i'm sorry i argued with you, you were right."

peter only looked at you with worried eyes. he examined your lack of eye contact and the way you curled into yourself under his gaze. the grimace that covered your features and the tears that poked at your eyes. he didn't want to take the 'i told you so' moment this time.

after a moment, he grabbed your hands, standing up. "come on," his soft words tugged you up, leading you to the bathroom. he turned on the shower and pulled at the ends of your shirt. you obliged and removed your shirt, but the embarrassment never left your face.

he took it from you, balling it up in his hands. he watched your arms rub themselves in an attempt to hide yourself from his sorry eyes.

he's also never seen you with your shirt off before, he's realizing.

"i'm sorry i argued with you, too. i- um, i-i don't know why i got so upset," (he very well does know why) "i'll make some hot chocolate, okay? you'll feel better after a shower."

neither of you wanted to look at the other: you from embarrassment, him from nerves.

he turned away, planning to lay out some clothes on your bed for you while you were showering.

"thank you, peter,"

peter lingered at the doorway, not completely sure how to respond.

"spider-man will be seeing him, i hope you know that."

and peter left the room and closed the door to the sound of your breathy laughs and protests. a small smile graced his lips at the sound of your small joys.

⭒⭒⭒⭒⭒⭒⭒

peter was well aware of why he was so upset.

that man could not stand the idea of you dating someone.

anyone other than him.

that night, peter went to bed with a new found fear.

the fear of messing everything up with his new best friend of five months, and roommate of over a year.

the fear of messing everything up with his stupid fucking feelings.

the fear of losing you, not just as spider-man, but as peter parker, too.

⭒ next ⭒

[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.

[vauxxy]

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

If you want to be added to the tag list, just send me an ask :)

Tag list: @serpentstarr @bucketluvr @nxrdamp @strangeobsessed @atlaincorrect @rorel1a @saturnknows @onfuis @spicysleepysloth @levisbebe @ok-boke @keepitreal001 @fablesrose @sigynxlokiwifelover @a-nias

[pygmi-cygni]

T minus 8

Y'all can figure out the title situation by now, right?

content warning: basically the same as the last two chapters, less techy stuff dw, blood, some more anxiety, tension, angst

is it weird that the head doctor's name is Ben? I realized he might get confused with Ben Reilly (tho i don't plan on mentioning him) if it's funky lmk

also - taglist ppl, if you want to be on my general (all fic) tag list, pls specify, I just have you on this specific fic's taglist.

enjoy!

This was ridiculous. Fucking unacceptable. You were not going to let this manchild disrupt your workflow. You had gone through med school, the collapse of your entire universe, and countless crazy patients.

Miguel O'Hara was not going to be your downfall.

After escaping to your room after the brush with death - aka Miguel's fangs - you'd had a good cry before realizing the situation.

You can deal with it, or you can drown in it.

Though your education was in healthcare, a mandatory part of medical training was mental wellbeing and psychology. You had a few coursebooks lying around...

Despite the words bleeding together and the stained coffee mugs littering your floor, you pored over textbooks until early the next morning. Fuck Miguel and his needles. You were going to do your job with the least number of puncture wounds possible.

You strode into his sickroom with a fresh coat of concealer and a thick stack of papers. No syringe in sight.

He was immediately suspicious of your lifted chin and confident stride. You could feel his apprehension tingling, carmine gaze following you around his temporary abode. Let him judge. At the end of the day, you had the needle and he had a sore elbow. Not your fucking problem.

"This is how this is gonna go," you said flatly, rolling next to his bed with a sheet of paper and a pen.

"Twice a day, I am going to come in here and give you a shot. Then, I'm gonna force feed you and take your vitals. Then, I'm gonna do it again the next day and the next until this day," you circled the small calendar at the bottom of the sheet. "And you aren't gonna give me any shit about it, okay?"

The words tumbled out as precise as you'd practiced in front of the mirror twenty times that morning.

Miguel's eyebrow lifted at your direction but his mouth stayed curled in a sneer. You swallowed, willing him to say something. The strong facade you'd put on was slowly succumbing to sleep deprivation.

Too early to give in.

You were stuck in another staring match, so focused on his blistering glare that you didn't realize he was slowly leaning closer. Until his breath brushed your ear and you could see his teeth glimmering.

"No."

One word, and your spine was quaking with shivers. You blinked rapidly, veering away from him. His impassive stare returned and he leaned back into his pillows.

You sat stunned. Then pissed.

"That's not the correct answer," you said coolly. His eyebrows twitched again. Did he think you would cower and scamper off again? What a surprise he was in for.

"Easy way or hard way, Miguel," you taunted, pulling out one of the two doses. "If you let me do this, in five seconds it will be over and I'll be gone."

He didn't look at you, but subtly shifted away from the offensive syringe.

"Or you could drag it out until you're crying and you'll still get a poke."

Another bloodcurdling stare. Aw, the big baby doesn't like it when I call him a coward. Too bad.

You could hear the gentle uptick in his heartrate as you began to prep the area, wiping gently with an alcohol patch. His breaths were louder, whistling above your head. It didn't take this long to clean an injection site, but you wanted to give him time to realize what was going on.

"Wait," he muttered, snatching your wrist before you could grab the medicine. You let him and hoped he couldn't feel your own rapidly beating heartrate. Using your other wrist this time, you took up the syringe and tried to nudge the protective seal off.

"Not yet," Miguel protested, batting you away. You fixed him with a warning glance.

"Easy or hard, big guy, but it's gonna happen."

He tried to swat you again, but you barked out a "Stop."

Flinching, he retreated. Anger simmered in his eyes, but he bit his tongue. You tried to soften your tone. He's a patient, be nice. He's hurt, it's just the adrenaline.

"Don't swat me when I remove the seal, you might accidentally stick yourself," you explained kindly. Replacing the seal, you set the needle on the tiny table next to him. Miguel regarded you warily, unsure if he could trust your sudden surrender.

Talking. He liked the talking last time. Trying to medicate him in this state would be impossible, you had to de-escalate.

"Why...why is this hard for you? I mean, what's the scary bit?" You sat back, keeping your hands empty and in view of him.

He snorted and fidgeted with his hospital bracelet.

"I need to work," he said gruffly, looking at the clock, then wincing. You tilted your head.

"No, I meant about the nee-"

"I need to get back to work," he insisted, "I've been gone too long. The Society won't survive without me."

You leaned forward and peeled back the blankets. He knew better than to stop you, but you could sense his agitation.

"Until that-" you pointed to the sour-smelling bandages crusted with blood, "goes away, you won't be going back."

"That's impossible."

"Cry about it." You dismissed his annoyance as you peered at the dirty gauze. You'd replaced it only a few hours ago, how bad was the infection? It shouldn't have absorbed the ointment and worsened. A crease furrowed your brow. You reached out to feel around the wound. He groaned, twitching under your hands. The pale complexion returned, and sweat had dried around his chest.

How come he didn't ring for help?

"Okay, let's try something else," you said slowly. "I'm gonna replace these and clean you up, got it?" The expected silence rang out, and you took it as a green flag.

It took you a few moments to collect your scissors, gauze and other supplies, all the while Miguel was breathing heavily through his nose. You were calm as morning fog while you worked, barely wrinkling your nose at the foul smell.

What the....The wound was ragged and swollen. Had you been the only person paying attention? The torn was flesh had clearly been neglected, or else it wouldn't be nearly as rancid.

Don't freak out, you reminded yourself, feeling Miguel's scowl directed at your face. He doesn't need to know.

"That's not supposed to be like that," he guessed, reading your obvious distress. you startled and tried to smile, but it wavered.

"No! No, it's..." you trailed off, acutely aware that he saw right through your act.

Deciding to focus on the task at hand, you began carefully snipping away at his bandages. It was soothing, just another routine. he's not dying he's not dying it's just a routine check up, nothing terrible, it's okay

Is the poison contagious after contact?

You froze, realizing Dr Ben had never explained the dangers of exposure. You had your gloves, but they were flimsy, and a paper mask could only do so much. Fuck. You'd already gotten blood and gore on your hands, it wasn't really a good time to fix that.

Here goes nothing.

Miguel did a stellar job of not biting your head off, though his pained grunts and clenched fists didn't help your heart rate. You were efficient and cleaned him up quickly, though his appearance wasn't improving. It was only day two. Not good.

"Okay, scary part," you warned, reaching again for the syringe. He was still riled up from the agony of his new dressings. It wasn't the way you wanted it to go, but he was running out of time.

"I can't bargain with you on this," you said shakily, "because it isn't up to me. i'm just the messenger, and I don't know how else to tell you."

Deep breaths.

"Your tissue is decaying, and if I don't give this to you, you won't be able to work at all. Ever," you added for emphasis when he almost protested. "I know you hate needles, I know you hate being here, I know you hate me, but seriously, please just let me do my job."

your hands were shaking. He looked...impassive, as if he'd turned to stone during your plea. Stick him. Just do it, just poke him right in the arm, he's not moving-

Miguel inclined his chin and released his harsh grip. You were shocked and almost dropped the syringe. That was quick. Maybe it wasn't the needle?

"You gonna stab me or what," he snapped. Scurrying forward, you gently took his hand in yours and probed for a vein.

"Little poke," you whispered, before carefully injecting the vial of clear liquid into his bicep. He let out a strangled groan and grabbed your arm, clutching for dear life. You let him squeeze, though his grip was threatening to cut off your circulation. Breathe breathe breathe he's okay you're okay it's okay breathe

"Not so hard, yeah?" you kept your voice quiet, rubbing his shoulder carefully. Miguel was still in the throes of panic before he suddenly blinked awake. Like a robot, his arms were at his sides and he stared straight ahead.

Confused, you searched his gaze. A haze had gone over his irises, but nothing extreme. All good so far. As quietly as possible, you ran through his vitals and coaxed a cup of water into him.

After a few minutes of waiting by his side, you signed off on his form and backed out of the room.

3 down, too many to go.

And so it went. He never looked at you, never acknowledged your existence each time you peeked into his room. A week went by, for better or worse. His wound was making disappointing progress, but it wasn't getting worse.

However, his approach to the needle wasn't getting better either. He liked the talking, seemed to calm him slightly when you rambled about other patients or your daily routine.

But whenever your hand ducked into your coat pocket, his face would go hard and he'd hunch like a cat, hissing and scratching when you got too close.

"Miguel, please," you begged, eyes pricking with tears. It had been a long day. the longest. four spiders lost, three injured, and one in critical condition. You'd worked your ass off, then slogged to your last patient. you just didn't have the fight in you.

Did he like to torture you?

"I will do anything, please just fucking stay still."

he hesitated.

"Anything?"

"I don't fucking care, please give me your wrist-"

"Let me go back to work." His tone was defiant, but urgent.

You fixed him with a no-nonsense glare. "You know the answer to that."

"I have the multiverse to attend to," he gritted out, "this stupid arrangement is not more important than that."

You couldn't fucking deal with this. "I will rip your fucking teeth out, you animal, I don't care how important you are-"

"I control the fate of-"

"I am acutely aware of that, O'Hara," you shouted finally, throwing the capped needle at him. He swore and ducked.

"I am so fucking aware that everything you do affects my wellbeing. But if you don't sit still and stop acting like a fucking child then you'll die and so will the rest of us." You were crying and your head hurt and the syringe was probably shattered but you just wanted to go home.

"I want to go home," you blubbered, "and I want to go to bed. If you let me do my job, then you can do yours. Please." You whispered, begging.

Miguel's nostrils flared, barely holding back. Maybe if he bit you again, you could take a long nap and this would all be over.

"One condition."

Your head thumped against his mattress. "I don't wanna argue with you-"

"One dose, one favor."

You rolled your face to the side, sighing tiredly. "I'm not having sex with you."

He sputtered, fangs shifting in surprise. "Wh-ay dios-no that's not- I meant a-" Miguel scowled at you for as he understood your delirious laughter was at his gullibility.

"I take the dose, no fuss, you do me a favor," he tried again, "professionally."

Any win was a win in your book. "Fine."

He relented, sticking his arm out and bracing against the handrail. Afraid he would double back on his promise, you stuck him a little more aggressively than you needed to in your rush.

"Okay, big guy, what'll it be?"

"Give me my work laptop."

Bastard. "That's cheating-"

"You said-"

"Fine," you spat, tossing the empty syringe in the bin. "One hour."

"Three."

"One."

"That dose hurt," he protested, and you rolled your eyes.

"Fine. Two."

A moment later, his laptop was under your arm and you were checking off another day on the calendar.

It definitely got easier. A tentative agreement had settled between you: one dose, two hours of work. It did seem to help his mood. Miguel still flinched when you aimed the syringe for his arm. He stayed still when you changed his bandages and kept his fangs to himself.

You were fitting him for the pressure cuff when you noticed. Last week, even the biggest cuff size could barely fit around his massive arm. Today, you could easily wrap it with a few inches to spare.

Frowning, you made sure nothing had come undone in the packaging. Everything was intact. Had he been flexing before?

"Um...do you mind flexing your arm for a second?"

He looked puzzled at the request, but did as asked. You tried again, but even then the cuff was loose.

"Nevermind, that's...that's fine, thanks." You gave a tight smile and jotted something down in your notes.

After his shot, you tried to see if the rest of his body was changing. He was still enormous, but there did seem to be a lackluster quality about him. Miguel's energy was reduced, his anger less potent and he was definitely tamer.

"Miguel, are you feeling okay?" you asked tentatively, gauging his reaction. Usually you knew better than to interrupt his working time, his anger would snap.

But today, he merely grunted and shrugged. Definitely lethargic. Trying to rationalize, you figured it might be his body finally adjusting to the medication.

Making a quiet excuse, you ducked into the adjacent office and discreetly dialed Ben.

"I'm worried it's not working," you whispered, chewing on a hangnail. Dr Ben hummed on the other line.

"His stats are looking a little low. I'll have another doctor check him out. You've done well so far, kiddo, this is a tough case. Take today off, yeah?"

You blinked at the quick change in subject. At least the problem was getting looked at...but Miguel still had his evening dose. I'll just come back for that, you amended. It had been so long since you'd had a day off.

In the few hours between your brief pop-in and Ben's call, you'd gotten groceries, done your hair and even had time to watch a movie.

Feeling refreshed, you threw on your gloves and pulled up Miguel's file.

Nothing had changed, really, except a small yellow notification underneath his recent immunizations. Single (1) dose of R4GE-57 administered at 2100.

What?

The meds Ben prescribed hadn't been titled, and you weren't even in the building at 2100.

Frowning, you pushed into Miguel's room.

"Hey, Mig-"

You stopped. He was sitting on his bed, hands folded limply on his lap. His eyes were open but unfocused. You tiptoed closer.

"Miguel?"

His head twitched, but his eyes had difficulty following your movements.

"You're not s'posed to be here," he slurred gravelly. His tone made you pull up short. You two weren't friends, but you'd definitely passed the growling stage.

"Ookay," you said slowly, "but I need to give you your last dose for today."

"No, that lady did. Maria."

Nothing made sense. Maria hadn't given him his second dose cause it would have been two hours early. And you were holding the second syringe, which was very much full.

"Wh...What do you mean? Maria shouldn't have given you-"

"Are you being slow?" His tone was vicious, lips curled to reveal his incisors. Miguel hadn't snapped like that in a week. You balked, retreating a step. Okay, take a deep breath. He's definitely unstable.

"That other nurse gave me the medicine, you are wasting my time," he snarled. Your heart rate was steadily rising. Breathe.

"Just let me-"

Your hand was halfway to his wrist when he lunged.

no no not again-

A cry ripped from your throat as your head collided with the edge of the table, and a dull ringing overwhelmed your senses. throbbing washed over you in waves, pulsing like a drum in tune with your panicked heart.

Nothing was focusing. Were you crying? Someone was shouting, it was bright and your head hurt and where-?

Somebody was dragging you away, and you uselessly batted at their hands.

He's my patient he didn't mean to no stop wait he needs his meds

Surely it wasn't your wailing, that angry wounded animal howling over the thumping ache in your skull.

He was making progress...

did i just make a simple enemies to lovers into a weird crazy multiplotline clusterfuck? yes. yes I did.

tags:

@neeshsoodrippedout

@ridiculous-hibiscus

let me know if u wanna be added/removed xox