#this made me cry like a bitch fhdjfhdfhdj

[duskholland]

Places We Won’t Walk | Peter Parker

summary ↠ superhero!y/n au: when you have superpowers thrust upon you, sacrifices have to be made. some more willingly than others. 

wc ↠ 4.5k

warnings ↠ depictions of character injury and death. angsty as fuck. there are a few swear words too but honestly they’re the least of your problems lmao

a/n ↠ recently I’ve found myself reflecting on the amount of loss Peter has experienced. loss of innocence, loss of childhood, loss of loved ones... this guy is a teenager and yet he is constantly forced into being an adult and it !! is not fair !! I wanted to play around with this sense of loss, and this fic gave me the perfect opportunity to do that. it made me cry lmao. *there’s a lil bit of a pov switch near the end, but it’s intentional*

↠ this is my submission for @mischiefandi‘s writing challenge. it’s based off the song, Places We Won’t Walk by Bruno Major. I made it a superhero au to fit my guideline! thanks so much for the challenge, V, I had a lot of fun with this <3

“You ever wish you weren’t a hero?” 

The words fall past your lips before you can stop yourself. There’s a silence. Then a presence appears beside you, and you feel Peter wrap his hand in yours as he joins you by the window.

“What do you mean?” He asks, voice soft, questioning.

You tilt your head at the scene beneath the window. Central Park sprawls out in front of you, the lush green trees and speckled flowers brightening up the centre of New York City. The windows are shut, but you can imagine the sounds drifting up from the park: children laughing, lovers embracing, friends chatting. A sense of bitter jealousy sours your mouth as you force your gaze away from the park, the pain in your heart twisting angrily. 

“We’re up here, working,” you start, picking your words carefully. “The world goes by below us. People- they fall in love, yeah? They hang out with their friends, they live their lives and they’re happy. Meanwhile, we stay up here, working alone, sacrificing everything.” You can’t help the bitterness that sweeps into your voice. You glance tentatively to Peter, who’s gripping your fingers a little harder now, his face pinched in an expression of anguish as his soft brown eyes flicker over the park.

After a moment, he sighs. “No one said life was going to be fair, Y/N.” 

You’re disarmed by the bluntness in your boyfriend’s voice, and find your eyebrows raising reflectively. He finally tears his eyes from the park and brings his gaze to your face, his arms pulling around you as he takes in your expression. You bury your face in his shoulder and try not to cry as you think about the people down in the park, laughing and carefree, all because you’re up here, protecting them and their city. 

It’s not fair. It will never be fair. But there’s nothing you can do about that. Because leaving the job would be siding with the enemy, and you could never do that.

“One day we’ll get out of here,” Peter murmurs, hands in your hair. His sweet peppermint scent swept over you as he holds you tight. “One day, we’ll take some time off, yeah? Go to the beach, have a vacation. Just...not yet.” And his voice sounds so false that water burns your eyes as you blink furiously. 

“You think Tony will ever let us both leave the city?” When he stills, you catch your lower lip beneath your teeth and sigh guiltily. Pulling yourself back from his grip, you nudge your mouth against his cheek in a quick, chaste kiss. “Sorry,” you murmur. “It’s just hard, sometimes.” 

Peter, only eighteen, but looking so much older with worried creases scrunched between his eyebrows, shrugs his shoulders. But he has an image of understanding on his face and a soft, sad smile spread across his lips, and it makes you feel a little less lonely to know you aren’t the only one chained to responsibility. 

“We’ll get through it,” he promises. “They need us.”

And then you’re both looking back at the images of happy people playing in the park, and the silence returns again.

[——]

It’s Christmas Eve and you’re stumbling around on top of a rooftop, exchanging blows with a masked figure. In one hand he clutches a bag full of looted money, and in the other, he holds a knife. To say he’s built stockily, with wide shoulders and a tall, looming figure, he’s incredibly nimble on his feet. You’re breathless as you parry his strikes, your aching body already exhausted from taking on the rest of his goonies.

Peter’s somewhere below you, swinging around the city. You’d been relaxing beneath the Christmas tree in your apartment when his ears had pricked and you’d got a brief text from Stark HQ, and now you’re here, your evening plans of a festive gathering sacrificed for the greater good. Back in your lonely, dark kitchen lays a spread of cold festive treats you’d intended to serve to your friends and family, and you know you’ll stumble back to your empty place in a few hours and collapse on your sofa in tears. 

It’s not that you don’t like your job. There’s nothing more gratifying and fulfilling than spending your hours saving lives. But it is a full-time job, and you never signed up for it. It wasn’t your fault that you were involved in a lab disaster when you were thirteen. You never volunteered to be Tony Stark’s newest project. And yet here you are, your body bruised and throbbing on Christmas Eve, exchanging blows with a thug instead of taking part in festive celebrations like the rest of the city. It’s hard not to be bitter.

“Ow!” You exclaim, your lack of concentration allowing the man in front of you to get a swipe at you. Your arm aches as the knife slices across your bicep, and you try not to look at the way your blood drips down onto the stony slabs of the rooftop. You deliver a swift kick to his chest and watch as he goes tumbling down, crumping in a heap on the ground. You tie his hands together and get ready to call for a lift back when there’s another blow delivered to the back of your head and you go spinning. You’re on the ground now, your vision blurring as you stare up at another of the men who must’ve sneaked up behind you as you dealt with the other. “Don’t you guys ever give up?” 

He just snarls at you, lunging towards you with a larger knife than the other. You roll and spring to your feet, but now you’re lethargic and your arm has started to really hurt. Cursing lowly, you mutter into the com piece in your ear, “Pete? I’m gonna need some help up here,” the sense of guilt multiplying in your chest as you realise you’re pulling him away from the streets below, where he’s most likely helping civilians.

But you don’t regret it when the man gets a kick in at your stomach, and you end up on the ground again. Your head rattles against the stone and you can’t even manage to clamber to your feet as the guy approaches you, kneeling at your side so he can dig the point of the knife in at your neck. It’s cold and sharp, and you find yourself staring at the night sky, wondering if this is finally it. You can’t even see the stars through the air pollution, and your eyes glass over with tears as you realise you’re too exhausted to move your body.

You truly think it’s the end. But then there’s a loud crash, and the figure above you goes flying across the rooftop and crumples in a heap on the other side. With the pressure gone from your neck, you gasp a breath, a couple of hot tears falling down your cheeks. 

“Y/N? Y/N, what’s wrong? Oh, shit, baby-” Peter’s hands go to your arm and you yelp as he pulls back the sleeve of your shirt, exposing the large laceration. Your eyes are screwed shut as you feel a cold pressure, and you know from experience that he’s using some special healing spray he’d had put in his suit for occasions such as this. His other hand goes to your face and you can feel his fingertips tremble as he caresses your cheek gently. “Hold on,” he murmurs. “Almost done.” 

The throbbing dies down in your arm as Peter stops working on it. He helps you up to your feet, but you’re a little dizzy and stumble into him, your head aching and your stomach burning. 

“I feel like I was just eaten by a wood chipper,” you manage, your fingers clinging to Peter’s shoulder for dear life. His laugh is low and weak as he helps you towards the edge of the building. You hear him mutter something through his earpiece to HQ about needing a cleanup crew, and then he wraps his arms around you.

“Let’s get out of here?”

“Take me home.” 

He swings across the city with his arms wrapped around you, and you cling to your boyfriend weakly. When you’re back to your apartment, he helps you into some pyjamas and tucks you up in bed with a bunch of painkillers. You know you haven’t sustained any serious damage, but that doesn’t stop you from feeling like you’ve been hit by a truck. 

“You scared me there, for a minute,” Peter murmurs. He’s stood at the end of the bed, the mask gone from his face, but his body still wearing the rest of his suit. His brown hair stands up messily, and your heart throbs weakly as you see the dark bags hanging beneath his eyes. He steps a bit closer, eyes casting down guiltily. “Sorry it took me a while to get up to you.”

You hold out your hand and he takes it, his grip firm but somehow still delicate. “It’s not your fault,” you say. “None of this is your fault.” You trail off for a breath moment, but then a weak laugh slips out. “When do we ever just get a quiet night in?” 

His face twists almost painfully, but then he nods. “I’ll be back in a few hours.” His hand slips from yours and you realise with a pang that he isn’t done yet.

“Oh…” 

His lips find your forehead, and they linger there for a few moments. Unspoken words and mutual understanding flow through the contact and you sigh softly as you know he couldn’t possibly stay. Just because you’re out of action, it doesn’t mean he is, and crime doesn't take a day off just because it’s a holiday.

“See you later,” you say, voice quiet. He looks into your eyes for a few seconds, an expression of regret briefly flickering over his face before he steps back and pulls his face mask on again. 

“I love you,” he reminds you, voice a little squeaky.

You do your best to smile comfortingly as you watch him jerk up your bedroom window and clamber out. You don’t manage to say it back before he’s gone, disappeared off into the chilly night sky with a swing of his wrists.

With a sigh, you turn off the light and bed down beneath your duvet. You don’t even bother trying to sleep: you know you won’t be able to until he comes back and shows you that he’s safe. So instead, you stare vacantly up at the ceiling, every inch of your body hurting with a dull ache, and you listen to the noises of the city as they stream through your open window. A few sad tears soak into your pillowcase as you hear the dull pulse of Christmas songs and distant laughter, and there’s even a faint scent of gingerbread coming out from one of your neighbours’ apartments. And it hurts - it hurts like there’s a thorn piercing  your heart that scratches deeper every time you breathe - but there’s nothing you can do apart from lay there numbly and stare into the darkness, knowing that nothing will ever change, and this will be your life forever.

[——]

Undercover missions are always your favourite. 

It’s something about the way you get to don a disguise and slip into another persona for the night that thrills you. You get a break from your life, and though the missions are never straightforward, that brief release from your superhero duties is always welcome. They’re also some of the few occasions that you get to stroll around, arm in arm with your lovely boyfriend, and he’s able to look exactly like himself; not Spider-man, with that daunting, blue and red suit, but he’s Peter. He’s Peter and he’s eighteen and he looks so dashing all wrapped up in a neat black suit that it draws a smile to your face. 

The function room you’re currently pacing is full of New York’s elite. Dazzling diamonds and rich rosy scents flood your senses, and it seems everywhere you look, you’re surrounded by pretentious wealth. It’s hard not to let your eyes bulge as everywhere you look you see perfectly curled hair, long legs with tall heels, and expensive-looking leather watches. But it’s thrilling, too, and for a few moments, you find yourself lost in it. 

“Did I mention how stunning you look tonight?” Peter whispers into your ear. Your cheeks warm as you use your free hand to dust down your dress.

“Oh, this old thing?” You joke. “It only cost about $2500.” And you hadn’t had to pay a single penny, thank god. It all comes under ‘business expenses’ - one of the few perks you get when you devote yourself to a life of service. 

Peter gulps, his eyes softening when they meet yours. Adoration fills you as you look at your boyfriend, and you tighten your grip on his hand as you lean in to steal a quick, tender kiss. 

“The most beautiful woman in the room,” he says firmly. He joins your other hand with his, and the rest of the room seems to fall away, leaving just you, and him, holding one another tightly. “I’m so lucky.” 

“I’m lucky,” you correct, ignoring the way he opens his mouth to dispute the fact. “No one understands me like you, Peter.” Your breath catches as he rubs his thumb over the back of your hand. “I can’t imagine living in a world without you.” 

“A world without you is one I wouldn’t want to be in,” he affirms. He drags one of your hands to his mouth and presses a soft kiss to the skin there. “I wish we could stay like this forever.” 

But you can’t, and no sooner do the words come out of his mouth are you being interrupted by an elderly socialite. She’s wearing a glittery shawl and her pale blue eyes seem to dig into your soul as you make contact with her.

“Pardon the interruption,” she drawls, Southern accent twinkling lightly, “I just wanted to say how dashing you both look. What an adorable couple,” she compliments. Her gaze drifts down to your empty left hand. “Are you two getting married?” She says anyway, effectively driving a hard dagger into your chest. 

Your eyes flutter shut as the pain that gripes at your chest stings your eyes. You can’t help yourself imagining the scene. You’re only eighteen, but you’ve known Peter since you were both fifteen and have been dating almost that long, so you’d be lying if you said you hadn’t imagined what it’d be like for him to fall to his knees in front of you. You know he’d be nervous - all flushed, and bumbling, and nervously shaking - but you’ve always found that endearing, and you know with certainty that you wouldn’t feel anything other than pure, sweet adoration as he asked you to marry him. It’d be a yes - of course it would be - and then you’d tumble into his arms and live out the rest of your life peacefully.

But it’s just a fantasy. An idea that you cling to every night you’re out fighting on the streets, everything hurting. It’s almost pitiful how much you find yourself yearning for it to happen, your mind fabricating a reality where you aren’t tied down to your job, and can instead live peacefully with the man you love. 

When you’re silent, Peter speaks for you, laughing nervously. “Oh, uh, thank you, ma’am,” he flounders, his cheeks a bright red. “We’re just dating.” 

“Oh, what a shame!” She exclaims. Then she steps nearer and grips your arm, and you feel dread replace your awkwardness as you remember your mission objective. Her fingers dig into your skin as her mouth finds your ear, and she hisses a low, threatening, “I know you’re here to ruin this deal, but I’m afraid I’m not going to let that happen, sugar. You’re surrounded.”

And you know Peter’s amplified hearing has picked it up, and you pull back to look at him, a dull look in your eyes. Of course it was too good to be true. God forbid you get to spend even five minutes with your boyfriend without someone stepping in and ruining it. 

He shares your disgruntled expression as he flicks his wrists and his web-shooters appear. “Y’know, lady, I really thought you were nice,” he mutters. Then he blasts her with his webs, and the room becomes a war-zone, and you’re dragged back to your day job with a bitter taste in your mouth. This always happens, and at this point, you should be used to it, but that doesn’t mean it hurts any less to come to terms with the fact that this is your reality: closeness with your boyfriend only when you’re on the battlefield, fighting back to back. No engagement, no wedding, no happily ever afters. Just fights, and pain, and work. And it’s heartbreaking. 

[——]

Peter knows how much of a toll this life takes on you. He’s watched as the fifteen-year-old girl he used to joke around with started to shrink and wither. He’s been there as you’ve grown older and your heart has grown heavier, and he’s been with you as you’ve taken lives, saved people, lost people - the whole works. And he understands how difficult it can be, because he goes through it too, but he knows it’s worse for you.

Neither of you ever chose this life. For you it was a lab explosion, for him it was a spider. You aren’t like Tony Stark who engineered his way to the top, or Captain America, who chose to take on that super serum. You didn’t willingly surrender your freedom for the greater good - it was taken from you, ripped out of your cold, aching hands, and he’s watched as that theft has slowly worn you down.

You’re still the same girl he’d fallen for, three years ago. You can still be found humming along to your favourite songs as you bake in the kitchen, and you still greet him with a kiss every time he climbs through your window. But you’re also sadder, and he can sense the weight that hangs in your heart and the longing that you feel when you look around at the world and see only what you can’t have. Because you’re a good person - and that’s the main reason Peter found himself being gravitated towards you in the first place. And that means that you won’t ever leave this life and this city, even if it’s slowly suffocating you.

He’s tried all he can to help. He lets you cry on his shoulder and rubs your back and promises he’ll get you out of here one day. But they’re empty words and he hates to lie to you, but deep down you both know that it’ll never happen. Even if Tony let you have a week off, Peter knows that neither of you would feel content leaving the city in the hands of others.

You’re both tied to your jobs like a ball on a chain, and try as he might, Peter hasn’t been able to loosen the shackles. Not even a little bit. And one day, it all falls apart, and it’s only then that he realises how blind he’d been to the truth.

You’ve both been sent out of the city for a drugs bust involving a gang of vibranium scrappers. They’re in possession of some seriously dangerous weapons, so you’ve got a team of agents with you to help neutralise the threat. The warehouse they’re staked out in looks cold and uninviting, and as he approaches the metal box, Peter grabs your hand desperately.

“Promise me you’ll be safe,” he says hurriedly. He looks at you and the determined grin branded to your lips and his heart skips a beat. You are the most beautiful person he’s ever seen. When you let out a small giggle, it sounds like a thousand gentle wind chimes floating through his ears.

“I can’t promise that,” you tease, nudging his side. “How about you promise to save me if I get stabbed again?” 

Peter’s heart falls as he remembers the time on the rooftop on Christmas Eve, all those months ago. When he’d swung up and seen you laying limp on the ground, close to death, he’d never felt as panicked in his life. It was as if his life had flashed before his eyes, but there was an empty space just beside him where you were supposed to be - his best friend, his partner in crime, the love of his life. He shudders as you drop his hand. 

“I’ll always save you,” he promises. He’s got his mask in his hands and before he can stop himself, he gives you a quick, deep kiss. He feels your surprise, but then you grin into him and kiss him back strongly, your lips warm and soft and perfect.

“I love you,” you remind him. You give him another short kiss. “Let’s go get these bad guys!” 

It goes well at first. 

Peter had formulated a plan and the team had followed it precisely. Whilst he worked with you to take out the gang leaders, the backup you’d brought scurried around, securing the precious vibranium and neutralising as many weapons as they could. The warehouse was stuffed with personnel, yet slowly and surely, the gang is broken down.

He can’t help but become a little distracted as he webs up a few men. He can’t stop looking at you. The way your face is pulled into a magnificent expression of determination as you kick and punch and dodge and defend. Your hair goes flying in arcs around your figure and your movements are so fluid and powerful that it’s like you were born to do this. He’s left awestruck as an overwhelming feeling of love floods his system, and in that moment, Peter knows he’d follow you to the end of the earth if he could.

But his soft expression of adoration drains away as he watches the unthinkable happen. You’ve just punched a man in the gut when another approaches you from the side, and in a sickening manoeuvre, he stabs you in the side with a long, poisoned dagger. Immediately you go down, the material of your suit darkening as you yelp. The sound sends a blast of hot, white rage through Peter. 

He loses it. When the man over you pulls out the dagger and allows a hot rush of blood to leave your side, Peter’s vision burns red. He’s shooting webs in every direction and manages to take down all the remaining targets in about two seconds, and then he’s stumbling to the ground, all the colour drained from his face.

Your face is flushed and your forehead is sticky, and as Peter pressed the flat of his hand into your side to stem the blood, you manage a scattered yelp. Your eyes are wide and terrified. 

“Karen, run diagnostics,” he manages.

“Wound is deep. Poison is lethal. Two minutes until it overwhelms her system.” 

Peter chokes back a sob and pulls off his mask. Two minutes. Even if you’d brought paramedics, he knows it would be a lost cause. 

You’re gazing vacantly at the metal warehouse ceiling as he uses his free hand to shakily cup your face. “Hold on, okay,” he stammers. “Y/N, it’s going to be okay.” 

Even in the face of death, you manage to smile weakly. “Take me outside,” you beg, voice shaky. “I want to see the stars.” 

Peter scoops you up in his arms and manages to apply pressure to your side with one hand as the other swings the both of you out of the warehouse. Luckily you’re quite far out of down, and after using a few trees to gain momentum, Peter finds the rise of a hill and settles you both there. His hands shake and his lungs heave as he gently lies you down in the cool grass, and something a little like peace travels across your face. But it soon vanishes as you shudder, and then you’re grabbing at his arm and squeezing so tightly it feels like you’re ripping his arm from his socket. 

One minute.

“Peter,” you manage, your voice quivering. Peter leans over you, kneeling desperately by your face, his eyes skittering over every line of your familiar skin. He takes in everything: the way your hair is soft and supple and smells of fresh strawberries, the way your eyes are sparkling and seem to draw him in, the way your nose curves perfectly and the deep smile lines that he can imagine forming by your mouth. His heart shatters as he brings his hand to your face and cups your cheek delicately. “Peter.” 

“I’m here,” he mumbles. You clench your finger around his arm as your breathing eases. 

“Get out of this,” you plead. “I- I’m begging you. Find… Find a nice girl, okay? And go to college with her. Maybe get married. Have some kids, even. Go on holidays.” You break off as a torrent of hot tears run down your face. “Live your life.”

Peter thinks about all the times he’d soothed your worries away. All the times he’d said you’d get some time off together eventually. When he’d said you could both go to college. When he’d promised one day you’d be able to settle down and live happily together. And he thinks about how they were just all big, ugly lies.

“You are my life,” is all he can manage. He smooths his hand through your wet hair as he cries too, eyes stinging. 

“Do it for me.” 

Your breathing is slower now, more pained. Peter presses a scattering of kisses to the side of your face and nods his head at the night sky.

“The stars are pretty tonight,” he manages. You gaze up and as the twinkling lights of the stars dance in your eyes, he knows you’re almost gone. He kisses your cheek again, his shaking lips lingering by your ear as he whispers, “I love you, brave girl. You can let go now. Go join the stars.” 

And your lips let out a final, shuddering breath as your eyelids close, the light draining from your face. And Peter folds over on himself, an awful, twisted anguished groan filling the air.

Do it for me, your voice seems to echo through his mind. And Peter cries until his mouth is dry and his lungs burn and he’s heaving, and all he can think about are the empty promises he’d whispered to you, and all the places you won’t walk together. And how that life you’d described - of him, with a nice girl, building a life together - is never going to happen, because you were the love of his life, and now you’re gone. And for the first time in his life, Peter knows he’s truly alone. 

[——]

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