𝐀/𝐍 - All credit goes to the writer webslingingslasher on Tumblr
https://www.tumblr.com/webslingingslasher/734065965916160000/sometimes-i-like-to-think-peter-confessed-to?source=share
Parings → Peter Parker x Reader
Warnings → blood, language, injury
Summary → You find Spider-Man bleeding out in your room, prompting you to rush to his aid. As you try to help, tension and disbelief fill the room.
｡･:*:･ﾟ★｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ
Peter was on the brink of blacking out, bleeding out, and dying, and all he had was you because May is at minimum thirty minutes away.
Peter leaves a bloody handprint on your window when he pushes it open, then collapses to your floor while heaving for air. You nearly jump out of bed at the sound, terrified and ready to call Peter because who the fuck entered your room through your window in the middle of the night?
Except it's Spider-Man, and you jump into action, getting to him in two steps and hitting the carpet with your knees.
Grabbing his shoulder, "Oh my God, oh my God, Spider-Man, are you okay?" He's not okay; he's dying on your floor.
Peter doesn't have it in him to play pretend; he rips the mask off. You gasp and throw him back into the wall; Peter groans.
"What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck, what the-"
"Y/n/n, please."
You run around your room; your mom packed you a first aid kit when you moved to college; you've never used it. Now you need it; where the fuck is it?
"What the fuck, what the fuck, what the actual fuck, Peter?"
He's clutching his side; there's so much blood.
"This is why you're not allowed to do this; you promise me right now you'll stop."
"You know I can't," he gasps for air, "do that."
"Oh what the fuck, this isn't happening. What the fuck, is this how you thought of telling me? I mean, what the fuck?!"
"You're doing a great job at handling it babe, super stellar."
You throw a towel at him; he holds it to his worst laceration.
"Don't you dare get upset with me; you're the one leading a double life showing up to my fucking window at death's door. Fucking hell, Peter. What the fuck!"
"Can I please get a band-aid?"
You find the kit; you tear the plastic and open it.
"You need a fucking trauma unit."
Peter pulls out a roll of gauze, then motions towards his suit, "Do me a favor and get me out of this."
"Oh my God, am I dreaming? This isn't real life; you're not real."
Peter's struggling to free himself; you help while dazed. Your brain is melting. "Is this a bad time to ask for an autograph?"
He stares at you; you blink back.
Peter can't believe he has to say it. "Yes. It's a terrible time."
You pull the suit down to his hips; he's cut a million different ways. "So, is that a no?"
Peter wraps the gauze around his arm and tears it with his teeth; the sight makes your heart thump. He looks up at you when he hears your heart beat change. "Don't you dare get turned on right now; that's sadistic."
"You're hot when you're bloody."
"Oh, Jesus Christ. Fucking cauterize me, and you can live out your fantasies."
You grab a handful of band-aids and a tube of Neosporin. "On it."
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