1.1k fem reader, sweet sweet fluff, non-sexual intimacy, idk slightly ooc (?) peter because his old silly self lives in my heart Forever, clothes sharing and routines as peak romance
"are you home?"
you ask this standing in the hallway. peter's end of the line stills as you note that the thin crack between the door and carpet doesn't shine with light.
"yeah," he says, too quickly. then, like he's tacking on an afterthought: "wait, is that a trick question?"
"you tell me."
"...almost. like, i'm right here."
speak of the spider, and he shall come—or, yank open the door and lean against the frame in a way that's too dramatic to be casual. you offer a wry smile to your boyfriend, who is pressing the phone against his masked cheek like he's pretending it's your hand.
he hangs up, and offers sheepishly, "five second rule?"
your eyes flick shut as you try to pinch your endeared smile into a line. "fine."
peter oh-so-chivalrously helps you shuck off your zip-up, body language half-smug and all sweet sincerity.
"hi," he breathes once he kicks the door shut with his foot. stands there almost awkwardly, hand greeting you with this short, embarrassed jerk that shouldn't be so charming.
then his dazed spell breaks, and he's closing the distance in a few quick strides, yanking his mask off so he can press his bare skin to your cheek. the firm line of his shoulders melts. strong slender fingers tug your waist until your chests are flush together and his body heat is spilling into yours.
meek, peter admits, "i missed you."
you run a hand through the soft curls brushing the nape of his suit—they're getting longer, darker. he'll need a trim already, one of the many strange, miscellaneous things that come with his recent mutations. "me too."
nevermind the fact that you made out this morning before leaving, or that he was stuck to the window of the train you rode to interview a source, or that a sandwich with your exact order fell from the sky circa lunchtime.
though he never fails to leave you sweet, earnest reminders throughout the day, they all pale in comparison to the visceral way every muscle and bone in his body unlocks and softens in your arms.
it's a moment of wind and warmth and the faint scent of his sweat and laundry detergent mingling. he pulls away, only to press a lingering kiss to your temple.
"did you have dinner yet?"
"yeah," you sigh, toeing off your shoes and letting him corral you toward the bathroom. "you?"
"picked up something from del mar."
this is how it is. quiet conversation, two pairs of feet padding over hardwood and tile in his little apartment, affectionate pecks exchanged between placing a lump of his clothes in your hands and scrambling into the bedroom to shuck off his suit.
wouldn't trade it for anything else, you think, pulling on the shirt and sweatpants and tossing your stuff into the hamper, which lies crumpled in the corner of the bathroom.
"so," he starts, gliding back into the bathroom just as you situate yourself on the countertop. you yawn, dinner settling low and full in your stomach, but the sight of his bare chest and pants slung low on his hips cuts through the sleepiness.
peter guides your legs apart so he can settle between them, dispensing a dollop of cleanser in his hand because he treats cleaning up your face like his life's mission. "how was your interview?"
"entertaining." cool foam smooths along your cheekbone first, and you lean into his careful touch. "guy kept going in circles and wouldn't answer the damn question."
"did you get it, though?"
"eventually," you mumble, dragging your knuckles down the ridges of his stomach. there's a bruise blooming over his ribs, a scar beginning to whiten above his navel. restraint and fatigue bites at the edges of your desire to hook your fingers into his waistband and kiss him better.
he rubs small circles into your forehead. frisson kisses down your spine at how sincere his attentiveness is. "y'know, i could always..."
groaning, you knock your knuckles lightly against the hard surface of his pecs. "don't even finish that sentence."
he snickers, dimples winking at you in a way that shouldn't feel as buzzy as it does. "just saying, maybe i could try interrogation mode again."
you traces the freckles spattered across his sternum, not missing how his oddly strong heartbeat flutters beneath your touch, or how the flush in his ears seems to deepen. "leave that to the journalists."
"'kay," he concedes, a little too happy and immediate. "close your eyes, please, i don't wanna burn you."
"alright."
this might be your favorite part. of all guilty pleasures, this one would make you a criminal.
it's the quietness, the familiarity. peter's breaths puff from his nose, all tight and concentrated. he leans in close, really close, and you know his eyes are flicking all over your face, studying and cataloguing and memorizing.
thumbs swipe feather-light over your closed lids. trace the bags beneath your eyes, sooth the corners, work on the crease between your brows that he once described as cute-when-you're-a-little-mad-at-me.
you could shoot a look of vague exasperation and it'd be over for him.
then he pauses. his fingers, so fucking tender and earnest, cradle the curve of your jaw. he stammers over his own breath like a nervous fool, like he hasn't done thing a million times, like he's still reliving the moment he realized he was in love.
peter kisses you, chaste and sweet and salty, just a little chapped from the wind but also baby-soft because the old habit of peeling his skin with his teeth hasn't died hard. he lands two kisses for the sake of it, as if he just couldn't get it out of his mind.
something behind your ribs aches. you graze the scar on his belly; he shivers between your legs.
you hear his throat click quietly as he swallows. he murmurs his next words with his lips not being able to bear distance from yours. "the cleanser tastes really bad."
you can't help but lose fighting back your laugh. "seriously?"
"okay," peter protests, and you can practically see him in your mind with his mouth all screwed up and his head knocking back to plead his innocence to the ceiling. "first of all, don't open your eyes, and second—"
peter swallows your laugh with another earnest press of his lips. oh, now you can taste the bitter chemicals.
you make a face, one that definitely contains the frown wrinkle he loves so dearly. "ew."
"second," he says, voice trembling—you don't even have to open your eyes to know that it's because he's grinning at you with that thousand-watt smile and devastating dimples. "even if i had to taste it every time, i'd still kiss you."
"such a sap," you remark, not miffed at all. "that's enough kisses for a night."
"just one more, then?"
you knock your ankle against the side of his leg. "hm. i guess enough is subjective."
andulkaphoto
turnnoffyourmind
romaincrisis
prguitarman
gamechangershow
vaporwave
2087
stormborns
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
