𝐏𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐞𝐫 𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐭 𝐁𝐨𝐨𝐤

Held Too Tight

Parings → Peter Parker x Banner! Reader

Warnings → Training accident, Loss of consciousness, Choking, Hurt/comfort, Guilty Peter.

Summary → During combat training, Peter underestimates his strength, accidentally choking you unconscious.

          ｡･:*:･ﾟ★｡･:*:･ﾟ☆  ｡･:*:･ﾟ★

You weren’t supposed to hit the floor that hard.

Training with Peter was usually the easiest part of your week—mostly because he showed up with three granola bars, a notebook full of color-coded questions, and enough energy to power Stark Tower for a month. And because, unlike most of the team, he actually listened when you told him to adjust his stance.

Today, though… yeah. Today was different.

“Okay, one more round,” you said, flicking your gloves. “Close-combat only. No webs.”

Peter nodded, bouncing lightly on his toes, curls flopping. “Right. No webs. Only raw talent. Pure skill. Years of—”

“Peter.”

“—like two weeks of practice—okay, stopping.”

You smirked and motioned him forward. He charged in with that same eagerness that made him lowkey adorable and lowkey dangerous. His movements were definitely cleaner—tighter guard, smarter footwork, better weight distribution.

You were actually proud of him right up until his arm hooked around your neck.

At first, it was fine. A clean hold. Controlled. You could break out of it if you really wanted to.

Then he tightened.

For a second you thought he was just over-committing like usual. Peter always forgot how strong he was. But then your breath hitched, and a rush of pressure shot behind your eyes.

“Peter—” you tried, but it came out thin, choked.

He didn’t hear you. He was focused. Determined. You felt his grip lock in even more.

Your vision flickered. The mat tilted somewhere left. Your fingers tapped weakly on his arm—your nonverbal signal for “ease up.”

Nothing.

Just his heartbeat pounding against your shoulder and his voice—muffled, excited.

“I—I think I actually got the angle right this time—!”

And then everything went dark.

—

The world came back in fragments. Cold mat against your cheek. Someone yelling your name. Hands shaking your shoulder. A voice cracking in panic.

“Y/N? Y/N, please—God—please wake up—”

Your eyes fluttered open.

Peter’s face appeared above you, pale as paper, eyes glossy, curls plastered to his forehead like he’d sprinted a marathon and fought a god on the way.

You blinked, dazed. “What… happened?”

He made a noise. An actual noise. Somewhere between a sob and a dying violin.

“I choked you out,” he blurted. “I—oh my God—I didn’t know—I didn’t feel it—I swear I didn’t feel it—Doctor Banner is gonna kill me—are you okay? Are you dizzy? Are you breathing? Do you know what year it is? Do you hate me? I’m so sorry—”

“Peter.”

He froze.

You coughed, pushing up onto your elbows. Your head spun, but you were aware enough to put a hand on his cheek.

“I’m okay.”

His eyes dropped to your hand like it was some kind of fragile artifact. “I— I could’ve hurt you. Really hurt you.”

You gave him a weak half-smile. “Kinda did.”

He winced like you’d stabbed him through the chest.

“Hey,” you added quickly, squeezing his arm, “it was an accident. You’re stronger than you realize. That’s the whole point of training—you learn your limits before you break someone’s spine in the field.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better,” he muttered, eyes still shiny.

“Well,” you breathed, forcing yourself into a sitting position, “you at least got the technique right.”

He looked at you like you’d just confessed to a war crime. “Y/N— you passed out.”

“I know. And honestly? You were like… two seconds away from a perfect hold. Your leverage was excellent.”

Peter’s ears turned bright red. “Don’t compliment me right now. I almost killed you with my bare hands.”

You snorted. “Okay first of all, relax. You couldn’t even kill a houseplant.”

“That’s not—plants are complicated!”

You nudged him with your shoulder. “Come on. Help me up.”

He sprang to his feet so fast he nearly tripped, then offered both hands like you were a delicate Victorian duchess. He hoisted you up, staying glued to your side like you might collapse again at any moment.

“You’re not training for the rest of the day,” he declared quietly. “I’m serious. I’m putting my foot down.”

“You’re bossy when you’re scared.”

“I’m not scared.”

You raised an eyebrow.

His voice cracked. “…I’m a little scared.”

You softened. “Then walk me to medbay, tough guy.”

He nodded instantly, looping an arm around your waist—not tight, not even close, like he was afraid to touch you too hard again.

As you leaned into him, his voice came out small, almost whispered:

“Please don’t pass out on me again. I aged like twenty years.”

You smiled, letting your head rest lightly against his shoulder.

“No promises.”

He groaned. You laughed. And he held you just a little closer—carefully this time.
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