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juneberrie · 3 months

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WHEN I SEE YOU AGAIN ➜ peter parker, mcu

requested: yes / no — not goodbye. just "see you later"

author's note: i was listening to remi wolf as one does and down the line came on.. and i got the amazing idea to write this. you're welcome! debating whether i should make a part two. . .

ⓘ content: fem!reader, angsty, mcu!peter, takes place during nwh mwahahaha, not proofread

word count : 1.4k || peter parker masterlist

"you're gonna forget who i am," peter blurts out.

"what?" ned says. mj stares at him, a cut on her forehead dripping blood onto her eyebrow.

"peter, what do you mean?" you ask, voice shaking. so much had happened today; you just wanted to go home, take a shower, and curl up in bed with your boyfriend.

"it's okay," he whispers, taking your hand. "i'm gonna come and find you, and i'll explain everything. i'll make you remember me. it'll be like none of this ever happened. okay?"

you shake your head at him. "what are you talking about?" you say quietly. "what– what do you mean, we're gonna forget you?" your voice cracks.

"i'll explain everything when i find you," he repeats. his eyes are welling up with tears. he turns to ned.

"promise?" your friend asks.

"i promise." peter drops your hand quickly to embrace his friend. when they pull away, tears are rolling down both their faces.

peter turns to mj. "i'll come find you."

she steps forward and hugs him. "you better," she warns. "or– or i'm just gonna figure it out."

peter lets out a shaky laugh. "i know you will." he finally turns to you.

"ange–" he starts, but you throw yourself at him, wrapping your arms around his neck and kissing him. his hands drop to your waist, pulling you flush against his chest.

when you finally pull away, he gives you a soft smile. "i love you. don't forget it."

with sobs threatening to spill out of your mouth, you shake your head. "i don't want to. peter," you beg. "isn't there anything we can do?"

he shakes his head, watery eyes staring into yours. "i'm sorry," he murmurs. "i love you," he repeats.

"i love you too," you whisper, burying your face in his chest. he kisses your head, murmuring reassurances.

"i promise i'll fix this," he says. you look up through blurry eyes, taking in your boyfriend one last time. the boy who had been by your side for the past year and a half, building star wars legos, having study dates, binge watching movies. the boy you loved.

he looks behind you, at mj and ned. his face settles into stony determination. "take care of her. of– of each other," he says.

"we will," ned promises. mj gently places a hand on your back.

peter swallows, his adam's apple bobbing. he lets go of your waist. he jumps up onto a piece of a fallen wall, turning back to look at you one last time.

"bye," you say quietly, salty tears streaming down your face.

he shakes his head. "not bye. see you later."

he swung away, leaving the three most important people in his life crying behind him.

2 WEEKS LATER.

the door jingles as someone pushes it open, letting a cold gust of air in the cafe. mj shivers as the air reaches her bare arms.

"it's so fucking cold out," she complains, pouring coffee into a cup. you snort.

"that's why we're inside, mj," you remark, taking a bite of your donut.

she rolls her eyes at you. "you should do stand up," she says, snapping the lid onto the cup and sliding it across the countertop to a waiting customer. "when's ned getting here?"

you check your phone for any texts. "soon. he say's he's almost here."

right as you say that, the door jingles again, and you turn to see a boy holding the door open for ned. "he's here!" you say to mj. she rolls her eyes again, smiling. she turns to the other boy, who looks strangely familiar.

"hey," ned says, sliding into the seat next to you.

"hi," both you and mj reply. she gives the two of you a small smile before turning to look at the boy, who's glancing between you, ned, and mj.

"can i help you?" mj asks. the boy looks slightly startled, but shakes his head and smiles.

"hi!" he clears his throat. "um. hi. i'm peter parker and i....." his voice falters as he looks at you. he takes a deep breath. "i would like a coffee, please," he says.

mj side eyes you and ned, who bites back a laugh. "okay, no problem, peter parker." she turns to grab an empty cup and moves to the coffee pot.

as she does this, you notice the boy, peter's, eyes quickly flitting between you, her, and ned. his eyes lock with yours and you raise an eyebrow, a small smile playing on your lips.

he clears his throat again, looking away. mj hands him the coffee and tells him his total. he pats down his pockets before pulling out a wallet and handing her a few crumpled bills.

"thank you..." he says slowly.

"no problem," mj replies.

he looks at ned's sweater, the mit logo emblazoned on the front. "you excited for mit?" he asks.

"huh?" ned turns to him, then looks down at his sweater. "oh, yeah. which is weird. usually i'm not excited about things. i kind of expect disappointment."

peter takes a sip of his coffee. you see his nose scrunch up slightly. he hates black coffee, you think. you blink. what was that? how would you know that? you shake your head ever so slightly, telling yourself that its a normal reaction to pure black coffee.

tuning back into the conversation, you hear him ask mj, "are you okay?" he's looking at the bandaid on her forehead.

"yeah," she says simply. "don't remember how i got it, but it doesn't hurt anymore."

"thats good," he replies. a silence settles over the coffee shop, the only sound being the wind outside.

"is there anything else you need?" mj asks him.

"um." he glances at you again. "no, actually. thank you."

"no problem. see you around," she says, grabbing a washcloth and starting to wipe down the counter. peter pushes the door open, the bell jingling, and steps into the cold new york air.

immediately, mj turns to you, leaning her elbows on the counter. "he was checking you out," she says bluntly.

"what?" you feel your cheeks get hot. "no way."

ned poked you in the side. "yes way. he was totally into you!"

you shake your head, laughing at the two of them. "yeah, alright."

the three of you laugh. you had to admit, he was pretty cute. but you probably would never see him again, so what was the point in getting caught up with a crush?

walking back to your apartment, you shove one hand in your coat pocket and use the other to fish your key out of your bag. you trudge up the stairs, thankful for the shelter from the freezing, snowy air outside.

as you reach your floor, your hear the landlord say, "rent is due on the first of the month. don't be late." he brushes past you as you make your way towards your apartment.

peter from the coffee shop was standing outside the door in front of yours, struggling to balance a box and slip the key into the lock.

"oh, hey!" you say. he turns to you and nearly drops the box. you grab it before it hits the floor. "need any help?"

his face flushes. "oh– uh, yeah, that'd be great." you smile at him as he fumbles with the key, finally getting it in the lock and twisting the knob. he pushes the door to his apartment open, holding it open for you. you set the box down on the kitchen counter, then turn to him.

"i'm y/n," you offer.

"peter," he replies. he hesitates before holding his hand out for you to shake. you laugh at his nervousness. it was kind of endearing.

"nice to meet you, peter," you smile, taking his hand. "hey, if you need any help moving in—" you point across the hall, to your door. "—i'm right over there."

he smiles. "that'd be great." he glances down at your still joined hands and flushes slightly. he lets go. you stand together in his empty apartment for a few moments.

"well, i'll see you later?" you say, a hopeful smile on your face.

"yeah, yeah," he nods quickly. "sure."

"cool," you smile. "well, bye!" you step out of your newfound friend's apartment, fishing your key out of your pocket.

"see you later," you hear him murmur. smiling to yourself, you unlock your door and slipping inside and shutting your door. you can't wait to tell mj about this.

#liz’s writing ♡#peter parker #peter parker x reader #peter parker x you #peter parker x y/n #peter x reader #mcu!peter parker x reader #mcu!peter x reader #mcu x reader #mcu x you #mcu x y/n #tom!peter parker x reader #marvel x reader #marvel x you #marvel x y/n #divider by cafekitsune

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tarjapearce · 2 months

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How can you describe miguel mentally and emotionally ?

Oh man... This is a tough one. I'll start by saying that, even though we saw a glimpse of his mindset on ATSV, we still have sooo much to learn and know about him. (We just had it for 15 mins. jsksk)

I did this thing a while ago, focusing mostly on his grieving that addressed the rest just superficially.

I won't say I know him better than anyone cause

1. No. Characters evolve and I feel it'd be disrespectful af to just reduce him to a couple of traits or claim that I know him better than I know my nipple jsksk.

2. He's a complex character that is so well written that makes us all go psychoanalysing his behavior 🤭. (And love me a man that puts me to think)

But jokes aside.

He's emotionally unavailable. Simple as that. And though it might sound obvious to some, (And our savior complex kicks in and tell us to fix him 👀 yeah, I'm talking to us jsksk) there's no way we can do that, cause that's up to him ~. (And you can't help someone that doesn't wants to be helped.)

Healing takes time. And guess who overworks himself to the point of having his cortisol running 24/7 through his body? Miguel. He doesn't have time for therapy. His fear of watching it all go to hell once more is a too fresh wound. Some traumas last decades, and naturally people find ways around it without interacting with it directly to avoid reliving such impairment.

(I do appreciate the fact that in the new comic book, we see him trying to make amends with Conchata though. He's trying!!! :D.)

2. He's a patient man. I mean, he recruited after all versions of Spiderman that have this trait in common: They're perceived as friendly. And they're mostly young adults and teens. (Both are a handful btw. And most stories and comics Peter Parker is depicted as a 18-23 year old)

But they like pushing his buttons, (cracking a joke every 5 minutes, doing whatever they want even when specific orders were given) however. He doesn't strike me as someone that is mean on purpose, he's just wary but not totally closed off towards people. Wich is kinda contradictory on its own since:

You don't go around trusting people first hand upon just knowing them, right? 👀. But at the same time he showed Miles his own canon event, trying to empathise with him before dropping the bomb. (He was mentally preparing him, something he wasn't able to get but to experience the worst way)

A hypocrite truly. And not in the bad bad way (He calls a nerd the NWH Peter yet he is one) , cynic to an extent (Since he keeps repeating he's been the only one trying to keep it all together, meaning he still doesn't fully trusts the people around him.) A showoff (Did you see the way he turns towards Gwen when he first appears? Or the way he says "I was gonna do that") , arrogant to also an extent. ("It's much more cooler than a watch").

He took the job as a leader cause he knew none else was gonna, and if there was another one willing to assume the role, I'm sure he'd be dissatisfied with it's development cause our man likes to feel safe in when he's in control. (A trait often met in people with generalized anxiety)

And when he's not, his brain immediately goes into threat mode, but even so is able to adapt. (I have a theory he learned this the bad way. We've still got to see the origins of his Rapture intake though 🤔)

Now, we know this man is emotionally unavailable, through and through. His love is work. And married to it.

Now, I might get a bit controversial after this and some might not like it, but I don't think he wants another family after that. (We don't know much about this Miguel's background or family except that he was looking for things, and he found Gabi's universe. And for you to look into another universe in need to be happy says enough to imagine his family or is non existent or is really messed up.)

I know we want him to be happy, (And the producers better give him some healing and closure or else.) Cause he deserves everything. But grieving doesn't work like that. A loss like that is unmeasurable, it changes literally your brain chemistry forever. The least appropriate thing you'd do is have another kid or someone after such event.

(I've seen what that is an it's not nice. Specially for the involved kid)

But we're all ill here so Thank goodness fanfics exist ❤️

He allowed himself to be selfish enough to be happy, had his fun but consequences caught up to him. Consequences that he didn't know and now has him perpetuating his guilt and mind berating.

Hence the workaholic attitude, the coldness. He's done with establishing something with people in general, not just someone special. He's done of getting trampled by life, so he sticks with something he knows he can do very well and pours into it. The Multiverse is his hyperfixation.

Keeps him busy, keeps him on control but curiously and contradictory again, it keeps him needed and useful.

He's a walking contradiction. He doesn't need people to watch over him, not cause he doesn't deserves it. He knows that people worry about him, that's why he just minds his own thing to not be a burden.

Self-Sufficient, over achiever (Alchemax CEO & Spiderman, a genius, bilingual, probably more languages on his list cause he leads a multicultural and multidimensional task force babes ~)

He's not bad, he just doesn't know how to direct his anger or allows himself to feel properly and often rationalises his feelings. (Another coping mechanism where you're tired of feeling stuff and justify difficult or negative with logical thoughts)

But again, curiously knows how to communicate. I know it's fucked to say when he threw a trash bin to Miles before that. But! Hear me out.

Retaking the previous point, he was preparing Miles to give him the talk. After he throws the trash bin, he knows that anger won't solve things (Even though he wanted to give some chancla spanks to Miles for being an anomaly) So he chills, and you can see the transition between being completely furious to a more emotional approach. (Parenting surge there.)

He starts explaining everything from scratch, (literally with drawings and stuff) so Miles wouldn't be lost on what he was on about. Then they moved to the canon events, and shows his major trauma to him as a sign of empathy and an invitation to honest talk.

He admits he doesn't like what he does, and if you look closer his face is so damn distressed when locking Miles in the trap. It pains him, but again, someone has to do it, yet none is scarred enough to bear the burden.

I just want to hug him and send him to therapy. Cause he needs it. (Pretty sure he gave up on that too cause it was too time consuming.)

I'd be satisfied if the writers gave him that ❤️. But yeah. That's one of my many takes on him. Hope it helps c:

#talking with t✨#miguel o'hara #little thoughts 💭

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t-lostinworlds · 9 months

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A Strange(r’s) Comfort | Peter Parker

A/N: had this idea right after i saw nwh which was...years ago now lol. rewatched it again recently so here’s me dusting off a wip that’s been sitting in my drafts. basically, this is just me giving peter some comfort in a way, bc that boy really needs one :((

》 PAIRING: peter parker x female!reader 》 TROPE/GENRE: strangers to lovers (mostly implied); soft angst; hurt/comfort 》 SUMMARY: Peter found a strange comfort in the graveyard, no less. But hearing about your day-to-day had been the highlight of his. And when one night led to the both you showing vulnerability, suddenly, Peter didn't feel so alone anymore. Maybe a stranger's comfort wasn't so bad. 》 WARNINGS: Spoilers? (i mean it’s been a while); bad jokes/puns (one about chicken & one about sex lmao); peter eavesdropping (sorta...ya know, enhanced hearing); it’s mostly set in the graveyard so...; mentions of: death, car accident, drunk drivers, being in jail for a moment, petty theft, peer pressure; and overall just dealing with grief and peter & reader bonding over their experience with grief. 》 WORD COUNT: 5.2k+ (issa baby fic)

📍 BLOG NAVIGATION ✩ P. PARKER MASTERLIST ✩ MAIN MASTERLIST ✩

⊱ ─────.⋅♚ *｡･ﾟ.★. *｡･ﾟ✫*.

Some might consider it unhealthy, but was there really a 'right' way to deal with the loss of someone you hold near and dear to your heart? They might even say it was excessive, but who were they to police him? They didn't know what he was going through. They could never understand what he was going through.

A part of him had excused it with his wounds being fresh, that with time, he'd be able to learn not to dwell too long on the remnants of the people he loves. Maybe with time, he'd be able to move on, something that seemed so impossible at the moment. But he'll get there—well, he hoped so, at least.

Either way, there was no doubt that everyone handled grief differently.

For Peter Parker, that was visiting May's grave every day.

Once was enough.

That was what he limited himself to, at least.

But still, it was barely enough to settle the demons in his head. Barely enough to stop him from replaying the scene over and over.

Peter had been recalculating in utter desperation as to what else he could've done better, what else he could've done more to save her.

That was what it was like most nights.

Some nights, though, his mind would switch things up a bit, thinking that maybe he was going about it wrong. Maybe it was a case of what he shouldn't have done.

Those nights Peter sometimes found himself picking apart every choice he'd ever made before it led to that point.

Maybe if he hadn't chosen to go on that stupid school trip to Europe then this wouldn't have happened. Maybe his identity wouldn't have been revealed and it wouldn't have led for that first domino to tumble, knocking over the rest that made his life turn for the absolute worse.

Or maybe, he didn't need to go that far back in the past. Maybe he simply shouldn't have chosen to question Dr. Strange's decision to send those villains back to where they came from immediately.

But sadly, that was all there was to it.

Peter's thoughts were simply and only just a whole bunch of unanswerable maybes.

Maybe this, maybe that. Maybe he owed it to them to try his best and fix things, maybe he didn't owe them anything at all. Maybe it was the wrong choice to try and save everyone, maybe it was right.

Aunt May said he did the right thing.

But it didn't feel like it sometimes.

Hell, it didn't even feel like it was even worth it. And no matter how much he tried to tell himself that it was right, his thoughts still managed to convince him that every. single. choice he made was simply wrong.

It wasn't even difficult to come to that conclusion anymore. Because ever since he got bitten by that spider, his loss considerably outweighed all his wins. And from then onwards, it just felt like he kept losing, and losing, and losing, and losing.

Right now, the most mundane thing he'd been losing lately was sleep, at the very least.

He'd gotten a job as a delivery guy at this small chicken joint a couple of streets down his apartment. Some might call it cheating—in his opinion, it was simply taking a shortcut—but he'd leave the bicycle they'd lend him in an alleyway and just swing the chickens to their destination. Sure, changing in and out of his suit was a bit tiring but it was definitely far better than dealing with New York traffic.

Apart from that, he'd also begun with some freelance photography work, dusting off the old DSLR camera Ben and May got him. He got decent at it a while back. But it got long forgotten the minute they bought him his first video game console, two years later.

He was starting off small, from random birthday parties to taking photos of restaurants or any establishment that was looking to use the pictures for ads or whatever. He was up for anything, anyone who didn't mind getting an okay photo at best.

There wasn't much to it, though, since nobody was really keen on hiring someone who didn't have experience. As a matter of fact, he didn't even have a high school diploma. Which had now led to him sacrificing countless hours of studying for his GED tests.

So, it was safe to say that he was handling a lot, especially juggling it with his still ongoing nighttime patrols.

Yet all of that seemed so much easier compared to what he had to deal with once he was lying in bed, wide awake even if it was past midnight. What went on in his day-to-day was only a fraction of the reason why he was losing sleep because his damning thoughts just had a habit of being so loud once everything else had quieted down.

It was hard as it was dealing with grief, even though he for sure had dealt with it more times than needed in such a short amount of time.

But what was more difficult about it this time around, was dealing with alone.

And Peter Parker was truly and utterly, alone.

No fellow Avenger to advise on ways to deal with this. After all, they were the only people who could understand even the slightest bit of what he was going through.

Saving the rest only to fail at saving one, losing someone in the midst of fighting for the rest of the world.

No Happy to offer some guidance on dealing with the loss of someone near and dear to you. Or for him to just be there as someone Peter could relate to, just like when Tony had died.

No Ned and MJ to give him company, offer their different ways of comfort as best as they could. They weren't there to simply make him laugh, offer that tiniest moment of reprieve, distract him with their theories and arguments about anything and everything to help him escape from, well, everything.

Right now, Peter had no one.

Going from having the people he truly cared about be only one call away, to suddenly being someone labeled as 'unknown number' in their contact lists, it was difficult.

But maybe he would just learn to live with it.

And maybe the first step to being able to live with his grief was to visit May frequently.

It didn't matter what time of the day it was. Whether it was early morning or just a few minutes after lunch, or when the sky started tinting orange as the sun slowly set. Midday or midnight, dusk or dawn, it didn't matter as long as he could visit her just once.

Maybe a part of him was hoping that by some miracle he'd hear her voice again, telling him, even if it was the last time, that you're going to be okay.

Peter needed it, so badly. He needed to be told that things would turn out alright because him being fine? It seemed like a far-off dream at this point.

He'd been to space, been to the mirror dimension, fought villains from other universes, been the center of a spell that erased people's memories and made them forget who he was.

Surely hearing the voice of a loved one that had passed wasn't too much to ask?

Yet every day, every moment he ventured into the graveyard, he was met by silence.

Well, aside from the distant hum of New York as life moved on. There was also the deep howl of the wind at night, a few cracking branches accompanied by the soft coo of crows.

Some would probably find peace from all the white noise, but Peter couldn't say he found any comfort in it. He'd only grown accustomed to it, used to tuning out the rest of the world to avoid being reminded of a life he once had.

Still, quietness had always been typical during his visits.

That, until one Saturday afternoon.

•••

Peter sensed another person approaching before he could even see them.

The soft crunch of fallen leaves was what he heard first, followed by a soft humming of some holiday song.

He looked up from the book he was reading, curious eyes landing on someone carrying flowers, a slight pep in her step which was unusual given the location.

Still, there was something about you that Peter couldn't help but be drawn to.

"There we go, all nice and clean," he heard you say, rustling of dried leaves and the soft brushing of clothes following suit. "And flowers well hydrated with bottled spring water."

You were talking to yourself.

It was a habit, he assumed. You just seemed comfortable doing it, as if you were having a mundane conversation with someone else.

Peter found it oddly endearing.

"I brought your favorite this time Dad because I am sure you're complaining to Mom why I always bring her favorite flowers," you explained with a soft laugh. "I sometimes forget you're a flowers type of guy, too."

No—you weren't talking to yourself.

You were talking to the gravestone.

His curiosity piqued even more.

It wasn't that you were being loud, either. Not at all. You were speaking softly as you typically would if you were by yourself in a graveyard, no less.

But because of his enhanced hearing, he simply couldn't help but listen.

"Sorry I haven't been here for a little while, just been busy with you know, moving, college, finding a job with a minimum wage that will not cover rent alone so what even is the point? We look for a job to survive but when we do find a job it doesn't even pay you enough to get by? Some people don't even hire you because 'not enough experience' and I'm like, duh? I'm trying to gain experience hence why I'm applying? Who even invented this shithole?"

Peter found himself nodding along, unable to argue with your claims when they were filled with nothing but the truth.

"Sorry, sorry, it just doesn't make a damn sense," you sighed. He could almost hear you rolling your eyes. "Anyway, I then have other adult things I really don't want to deal with like learning how to deal with taxes and stuff which is so dumb given I'm close to broke and—where does my tax go, anyway? Some politician's tenth vacation to the Bahamas, probably."

For the first time in a long while, Peter cracked a smile.

"Ugh, I am sorry, I promise I don't come here only to complain to you guys," you said, "But I am doing okay…"

He couldn't really explain the 'why,' but the soft tug in his heartstrings was definitely real when he heard the melancholia in your voice.

"The holidays are coming up," you said softly, the slight shake in your tone unmistakable. Yet as it rushed to the surface, it was just as quickly replaced with a chipper one.

"They always tell me how you both are watching over me now. But I don't know if I really want that," you sighed exaggeratedly. "Not because I hate you guys. But imagine if I was having sex? I really don't want to think about you 'watching over me' because it's really uncomfortable."

Peter couldn't stop his snort, his eyes widening as he spared you a glance. He was as grateful that you didn't seem to hear him.

The last thing he wanted was for you to think he was eavesdropping—well, maliciously, at least.

"It's a joke, Mom. See, Dad gets it."

Silence hung in the air after that, a sudden gust of wind blowing away the leaves that littered the snow-covered grass.

But he had a feeling the shake in your voice wasn't because of the cold.

"I really miss you guys…"

Peter left at that.

He didn't see you again for the next few days, probably because he never did visit at the same hour of the day. He never actively tried to see what time you were there, either—if you went every day at all. He'd just become a stalker at that point.

So, every time you did cross paths, it was entirely by chance.

The next encounter was when he brought his lunch with him to the graveyard. He'd caught sight of you sitting on a pink blanket that was laid out on the grass, legs crossed with a box of pizza to your right.

Instinctively, you looked up and over your shoulder when you heard his footsteps.

Your eyes immediately locked with his.

Pretty was the first word that came to his mind.

Beautiful, when you offered him a sweet and warm smile.

"Hello," you greeted.

Peter couldn't help but smile in return.

"Hi."

Nothing else was said after that.

You both respectively ate your lunches in your little corners, your soft humming bringing a comforting peace, one he still couldn't quite explain.

And from there on out, Peter learned that you did go there every day, but it was only either at lunchtime or late in the afternoon.

Because whenever Peter went during those times, you were always there.

As he said, he never actively tried to be there whenever you were. He didn't change anything with his routine. He still went there at random times of the day.

You and him crossing paths simply happened.

And most of those moments, Peter couldn't help but listen in on your rambles.

It might have been wrong, otherwise, creepy, but it wasn't like you were unaware of his presence. You weren't being loud, but you weren't exactly whispering into nothing either. If it were an unenhanced being, they would still hear you, but maybe only slightly inaudible. Peter just had the ability to make out your words a little clearer than the average person.

Besides, all your stories had been mundane at most, quite adorable at best.

Like that one time you ran into a post because you saw a cat wearing some boots and a clear raincoat across the road. Or that time you missed your stop in the subway because you kept talking to a Corgi who was lounging comfortably in their owner's backpack.

"His little legs were so cute!"

Like he said, adorable.

But if it was something personal, though, he'd learned to tune it out. He made sure to keep those matters out of his ear, leaving your private conversations, well, private.

Yet your silly and terrible jokes, your gripes about society and the unfairness of the world, to your little story times and mundane gossip of what you'd heard on the street, Peter couldn't help but tune in as if he was listening to the morning radio.

It made Peter feel lighter somewhat, a feeling he never once associated when being in a graveyard.

He didn't know if it was your stories, or if it was simply hearing that soft tone of your voice. Either way, he found it comforting, which was so strange.

Never had he ever thought he would find comfort from a stranger, no less.

A strange comfort.

•••

"People always ask why did the chicken cross the road. They never ask why the chicken didn't cross the road."

Peter perked up in curiosity, ready to hear another of the many jokes you'd completely ruined.

He found it absolutely hilarious how you were churning typical and old punchlines into horrible ones.

The funniest part was, it seemed like you were doing it on purpose.

"Why, you ask? Because they physically can't anymore," you said, pausing for added effect. "People enjoy eating chicken legs way too much."

Peter's eyes grew wide, gaze landing on the chicken leg he just finished. He couldn't stop the sound that escaped his lips.

It was a mix between a wheeze, a laugh, and a cough.

Loud enough to get your attention.

"Hey," you called, voice sounding closer. "Are you okay?"

"Oh—uhm, hi," he stammered, caught off guard when you were now suddenly in front of him. Clearing his throat, he nodded. "And yeah, I'm good,"

"Do you need some water?" You offered him a bottle.

"No, no, I've got my own," he declined, lifting his bottle. "But thank you."

"Oh okay," you said, smiling sweetly. "It just sounded like you were choking or something so I wanted to make sure if you were alright."

Peter blushed.

"No, I was…uhm—" He scratched the back of his neck. "I was holding back my laugh."

You tilted your head, bottom lip jutted out and Peter found himself thinking of ways to smooth out the little crinkled on your forehead, maybe kiss—wait what?

"Why would you do that?" you asked.

Shit.

Did I say that out loud?

"Sorry?" He blinked at you.

"Why would you hold back your laugh?"

"Oh," he sighed, mostly in relief. "Just didn't want to seem creepy and I wasn't…eavesdropping or anything but I uhm—heard your joke." Chuckling shyly, he smiled. "It was pretty funny."

"Funny because it was bad?" You raised a knowing brow. "If you say it was good then I'm really going to question your sense of humor."

"It was really bad," he admitted, breathing out a laugh.

The way your smile brightened made Peter's heart do a funny thing.

"Thanks," you giggled. "I pride myself in my bad jokes."

"Yeah," he breathed out, willing his heart to stop being so goddamn weird, what is going on with you? "And sorry for not helping the chickens cross the road."

You stared at him confused.

That was until he pointed towards the bag on the ground that had the logo of a chicken on it.

Your hearty laugh rang in the air.

Peter found himself growing warmer at the sound, the burn starting right in his chest and spreading to the whole expanse of his body.

"I—whew, sorry, wow," you heaved after a moment. "Haven't laughed like that in a while."

Both of you fell silent after that—not an awkward one. If anything, it was pleasant, like there was an unspoken understanding being exchanged with a simple look.

"This may seem like weird advice but try and talk to them," you softly said.

Peter looked at you, confused.

You gestured toward the tombstone with a sympathetic smile.

"They might hear it, they might not, there's really no way of knowing," you explained. "But what more could you lose if you try? Plus, you'll get it off your chest and that's always progress."

"I—" Peter nodded, the corner of his lips curling up. "Thank you. I'll keep it in mind."

You smiled at that. "I'll see you around."

"See you around," he hummed, gaze never leaving your figure even as you left, his eyes steady on the path you walked on as he mulled over your words.

It was kind of weird advice, but at the same time, it made perfect sense.

Peter didn't question it nor did he judge—who was he to judge? After all, everyone handled grief differently.

But as he sat down on the ground, eyes steady on the lettering of May's name, he found the words flowing out so easily.

"Hi, May I—" Peter took a sharp breath, blinking away the sting that started to settle in his eyes. "Wow. It's been a while since I've talked to you, huh?"

It started out simple, filling her up with what was new with his life recently—the job, his education, all those mundane stuff.

But then as he shifted from one topic to another, he inevitably started talking about all the things that felt so wrong. And once that train left the station, it was so difficult to stop.

It wasn't a complaint. It was an unloading of the baggage he'd been carrying around alone for quite some time now.

All the loneliness and grief, the boiling anger and consuming regret, the love and the love lost, to the bleak look of what his future held.

Peter didn't realize he was crying until a soft gush of wind brushed his cheeks, the coldness making him catch his breath with a shiver.

And then, a small white butterfly flew right in front of him, stopping momentarily before disappearing into the now setting sky.

Peter let out a breath.

Lighter and relieved.

It could've been a coincidence, or maybe it wasn't at all.

But what more could he lose if he took that as a sign that she heard him?

So with a small, tearful smile, he sighed,

"Thanks for always hearing me out, May."

Since then, he'd grown to tell May about his day. Some were tougher than others, while some were snippets of his new life—mundane and simple but starting to become fulfilling the more he looked at it from different perspectives.

As the weeks passed by, Peter's everyday visits became every other day. At first, the guilt of missing a day was heavily consuming. But it didn't take long for it slowly turn into a soft lull—still there, but not as bad as it used to be.

There was one other thing he hoped for whenever he wandered into the graveyard, though.

To see you again.

If it was one last time just so he could say thank you, then he'd take it.

That didn't mean he wasn't wishing for it to be more.

•••

The hair on every inch of Peter's body stood up when he heard it.

It was definitely not his spider sense going awry. This was very much a human reaction.

Well, he could imagine that when the first thing a person would hear as they venture into a graveyard in the dead of the night was crying, even the toughest men would get spooked.

But as soon as Peter located the source of the sound, his heart broke.

He wasn't expecting to find you, sat on the cold ground alone, hugging your knees to your chest, body shaking with sobs.

His first instinct was to fight whoever it was that made you cry because how fucking dare they?

But with a controlled breath, Peter walked over to you, making sure to step on dried leaves so you'd be aware of his presence.

Your head snapped up at the sound, puffy red eyes landing on him.

His frown could only deepen as he slowly sat beside you, offering you a tender smile with his arms wide open.

You stared at him with furrowed brows, eyes switching between his face and his open arms, downright confused.

Peter couldn't blame you. After all, you didn't know him.

He was ready for you to yell at him for being a creep, to scream at him to get lost. He was prepared for you to push him away—hell, punch him in the face—and run as fast as you could.

But instead, your lips quivered, a broken sob following suit. With your head hung low, you fell into his embrace.

And Peter hugged you as tightly as he could.

He didn't say anything, didn't feel like it was needed. He simply held you close, rubbing circles over your back as he gently rocked you from side to side.

Crying it all out until you couldn't anymore was, most of the time, the best thing you could do at the moment.

So he let you.

Only when your sobs turned to sniffles to soft shaky breaths did you pull away.

"Your shirt," you gasped shakily, bottom lip jutting out as your eyes began to water again. "Oh no, I'm sorry."

"Hey, it's okay," he reassured, squeezing your shoulders before reluctantly letting you go. "I wouldn't have offered you a hug if I minded."

"Thank you," you whispered. "I really needed that."

"No worries." He nodded with a small smile. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"It's just—" you sighed, wiping your face with the sleeves of your coat. "It's my first holiday alone so it's been kinda tough."

"Me too," he hummed, smiling sadly when you looked at him, a mixture of surprise and understanding crossing your face. "My parents have been gone since I was a kid, and I was left with my uncle and aunt. My uncle died a few years ago so all I had left was her but now she's…"

"I'm sorry," you softly said, your hand finding his.

You gave it a squeeze.

Peter squeezed back.

"I only had my parents growing up," you started, gesturing at the tombstone. "Didn't get to meet my grandparents, never really met many of my relatives because they're all halfway across the world, so now it's just me."

Peter didn't know what it was, exactly. Maybe it was the warmth of your hand still holding his and your kind eyes bearing no judgment or pity. Maybe it was the sheer comfort you provided, one that he still couldn't quite explain.

Either way, he found himself sharing what it had been like for him. Sure, he left out details to keep his deepest secret uncovered, and to come and think about it, it was mostly things connected to Aunt May. But Peter definitely spilled way too much to someone he barely even knew.

He did not regret it one bit.

"I promised to protect her and I—"

"I'm sure you gave it your all," you assured.

"Not enough to keep her alive," he scoffed, tone far more bitter than he intended to. He caught himself, shaking his head. "Sorry, sorry—"

"Never apologize for how you feel," you said firmly.

Peter nodded, his attention caught by your thumb that was absentmindedly running circles over the back of his hand. You'd been holding onto it as you listened to his story, and he found himself not minding it at all.

If anything, a part of him wanted you to never let go.

"But I get it," you breathed out. "The whole 'this is my fault' thing."

"Was it an accident?" he asked softly.

You nodded. "Car crash. Some drunk frat boys thought it was a good idea to test out how fast they could go in their new truck into an open road."

He frowned. "That's not your fault."

"It is," you insisted. "They wouldn't have been out on the road in the first place if they weren't coming to pick me up in the dead of the night." Shaking your head, you scoffed, "I wish I could say I was at a friend's house but they were coming to bail me out of jail."

Attempting to lighten up the mood, Peter softly bumped his shoulder with yours. "Am I in the midst of a troublemaker?"

That earned him a teary chuckle.

He took it as a win.

"Not quite," you sighed, your smile fading. "Got hung up with the wrong crowd. They kept teasing me that I was too much of a miss goody two shoes and that I should live a little."

"Peer pressure is one nasty thing."

"Yeah well, I still did it." You shrugged, anxiously gnawing on your bottom lip. "A group of us were walking home from a party and we passed by this random minimart on the way. My so-called friends thought it was a good idea to dare me to steal one thing from the store, to break my 'good girl' streak as they put it.

"They all gave me ultimatums, one of them was either I steal something or they'll tell the whole school that I was the real definition of 'The freaks in bed are always the quiet ones' so my loser reputation is no more. They said they can't hang around me anymore if I kept being the loser of the group. It was tough because they were all the friends I had."

Peter couldn't stop the surge of pure anger that ran through him. "They sound fucking horrible."

"Yeah, and I was stupid enough to go along with it." Shaking your head, you chuckled, tone void of humor. "It wasn't even the owner who saw me, it was some random white woman yelling bloody murder as if I was burning the goddamn place down. And the second my friends saw the security guards? Oh, they ran, left me there to fend for myself."

Peter unclenched his fist, settling to rub circles on your back instead.

"It was one candy," you choked back a sob, gesturing towards the tombstone. "But the punishment feels—"

Peter wrapped an arm around your shoulder, pulling you in for a side hug when you started crying again.

"And you know what hurts most?" you whimpered, fisting his jacket as you laid your head on his shoulder. "Knowing that the last memory they had of me was just filled with disappointment."

"I'm sure that's not true," he said softly, squeezing you close. "They loved you."

"I know they did I just—"

"Wish you could go back and change every decision you made?"

You lifted your head off his shoulder and looked at him, eyes glossy yet he saw the flicker of gratefulness in them.

Peter felt it in himself too, an appreciation to finding someone who could understand even the littlest bit of what he was going through.

"Yeah," you shakily breathed out, letting out a soft laugh as you wiped your nose. "God, what a way to celebrate the holidays, huh?"

He chuckled at that, nodding.

It was definitely something, crying your heart out, spilling all your trauma to a stranger in the dead of night at a graveyard.

But there was only one thought that stayed at the forefront of his mind.

Peter didn't feel so alone anymore.

"Yeah," he hummed, a shy smile playing on his lips. "But I'm glad I'm not alone."

Your whole face brightened, your fingers interlacing with his.

"Me too," you said, smiling. "We're going to be okay."

Peter felt some weight lift off his entire back at those simple words of reassurance.

"We're going to be okay."

Teasingly bumping his shoulder with yours, you hummed, "I'm Y/N, by the way."

You both laughed at the absurdity of it, getting to know each other's pain, regret, hurt and grief before even getting the chance to know a name.

"Peter," he sighed, squeezing your hand. "Peter Parker."

Later that night, he somehow gathered up the courage to ask if you wanted to get some hot cocoa with him. And when you said yes with that smile he'd grown to adore so much, Peter had an inkling that you wouldn't stay a stranger to him in the long run.

But for now, as you laid your head on his shoulder, your soft breaths visible in the cold air, tiny snowflakes on your lashes, face glowing underneath the moonlight, warmth and contentment bloomed in his chest.

Peter was smiling.

Genuine and pure, and perhaps a sign of a new beginning.

A stranger's comfort wasn't so bad, after all.

✫*ﾟ･ﾟ｡.★.*｡･ﾟ♛ *.

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