summary: reader storms into peter's apartment, upset over her last tinder date being a complete tool and refusing to eat her out. peter gets a little... distracted.
wc: ~2.1k
cw: ! MDNI ! not full smut, but descriptions of peter being hard, talking about oral (fem!receiving), dry humping, hints of peter being an absoulte munch, swearing, peter getting so embarassed he makes half-jokes to himself about suicide, friends to lovers sexual tension babyyyyyyyyyy
masterlist and taglist!
he didn't mean it. honestly.
in fact, there's nothing peter wanted more in this moment than not to be painfully hard. but here he was, and he didn't know what the fuck to do.
you had let yourself into his apartment with your spare, angrily marching down his hallway already yelling, up in arms about your latest shitty tinder hook up. his bedroom door slammed open, causing him to jump from where he was working at his desk. he looked to you with wide eyes as you continued the rant you'd started upon entering the threshold of his apartment.
"i mean, seriously? i give you the best head of your life, and you return with saying how 'disgusting' going down on me would be? and then you have the audacity to get mad at me when i don't want to fuck you? what the fuck is wrong with the men of new york?!"
you threw yourself down on his bed, frustrated sighs wracking through your chest as you attempted to calm yourself down, hands rough in your hair. peter stared back with bewilderment, and unfortunately, upon the thought of eating you out, an insane hard-on.
it's not like you hadn't talked about sex in the past five years of knowing peter, the two of you told each other everything. peter had just never seen you so... vulgar about it. so frustrated. he knew he needed to come up with a response — hell, he should've a solid thirty seconds ago — but he was currently willing his blood to stay in the upper half of his body, failing miserably as he couldn't fight off images of you spread for him out of his mind.
"what do you think, pete?" your voice snapped him back to earth.
"w-what?"
you gave a shrug, staring down at your lap and thankfully not seeing peter adjust himself and bring a sweatshirt into his own lap.
"i dunno, maybe i'm being the crazy one here. is it so bad to want head in return?" you stared at him expectantly, like you hadn't just asked him the most insane question he'd ever heard.
he shook his head a little too quickly, mentally cringing at how awkward he was being. parker, pull your shit together!
"no," he responded honestly. "i don't think you're being crazy." i think he's crazy for not wanting to.
you gave another heavy sigh, this time your turn to shake your head. "this is the third guy in a row who was appalled i even dare to bring it up. isn't that fucking crazy?"
peter nodded as though he was in a trance, eyes glossy as he stared at you. his reply fell to a whisper, not trusting the pitch of his own voice right now. "fucking crazy."
he held your gaze for a while as you sat in a comfortable silence. maybe for you, peter, however, was looking for any possible exit strategy that could come his way. his mind was going a million miles per hour, rushing thoughts of having you under him keeping him twitching against his sweatpants. he shifted in his seat, a lapse of judgment on peter's end as the sweatshirt in his lap moved against his groin, a sharp exhale falling from his gaped lips as he did everything in his power to hold back a moan.
if you noticed, you didn't let him know, giving him a soft smile as you stood from his bed to walk closer, gaze now heavy on the physics notes sprawled on the desk. you leaned over his shoulder, a hand on the back of his chair to stabilize yourself as you peered down.
"i'm sorry for complaining about my trashy sex life, this looks a thousand times more important. jesus, what even is all this?"
you leaned down further, your chest now brushing against his shoulder blade as you skimmed the papers, breath hot against his ear. normally, your proximity was no issue for peter — you've been best friends for years, touch wasn't foreign. but with his current circumstances, your touch against him was sending his senses into overdrive, and he was going to combust.
"j-just... physics... i-i guess." he stuttered, not daring to move his head a millimeter as your cheek nearly grazed his own.
you gave a gentle chuckle, the sound earning a groan deep in peter's throat before he knew to stop it. "yeah, i could figure out that much, parker. what's up with you? you're being weird."
you pull back slightly to adjust, immediately turning around to sit on peter's knee. again, it was something you'd done hundreds of times before with no other thoughts or implications, but with the sinful chains around his thoughts right now, it only threw him off more. you went to grab the sweatshirt in his lap, hoping to shift onto him more comfortably. he immediately grabbed your hand to stop you.
"no! i-i mean, i'm fine. i'm not being weird." he let go of your hand, crossing his arms and giving you a shrug, his best attempt at coming off nonchalant. his best wasn't good enough.
"yeah right, peter. what's your prob-" while speaking, you had grabbed for the sweatshirt quicker this time, using the momentum to immediately swing your leg over both his thighs to sit in his lap properly. you sat down fully, cheeks instantly flushing pink, "oh."
there were many times in his life when peter thought about ending it all, but none as much as now. he was going to have to either move countries, or jump from the empire state without his web shooters. those were the only two options circling his head as his wide eyes met yours, a red tint taking over his entire upper body.
"i'm so sorry, h-holy shit," he breathed out, grabbing at your hips to lift you off of him so he could get out of here as quickly as possible. you resisted him, though, doing what you could to fight against him and stay firmly planted on his lap. that made him panic even more. because, of course. he wasn't going to have time to kill himself. you were going to kill him first.
"i-i tried to, i don't... i'm so sorry."
you put your hands on his chest, a genuine look of bewilderment splayed across your features. "is that... is this because of me? what i was talking about?"
not only were you going to kill him, you were going to torment him about it first. and he knew he deserved it.
"pete—"
"i'm so sorry, please let me go, i didn't, i—"
"pete, listen to me."
"this is so embarrassing, i really didn't mean to—"
"peter," you let out his name in a voice he hadn't heard before, something torn between a growl and a moan — all while dragging your hips up against him. he gave a shaky exhale at the pressure, the feeling of you rutting against his cock stopping his guilty rambling.
you found his gaze, his pupils blown and irises dark, a direct correlation to the twitching of his cock as you gave him another soft roll of your hips. his hands found your hips again, holding you firmly in place to stop the teasing movement. his brows knit together, geunine confusion plastered across his face.
"what... what are you doing?" he was breathless, chest heaving as he stared back at you. you hesitantly reached a hand to his hair, palm splaying out on his scalp as your thumb traced circles on his temple. even in his worst possible moments, you were there to calm him down. he had absolutely no idea why you weren't yelling at him, or what you were even still doing here, but he wasn't going to fight it. he melted into your touch, and his breathing hitched as you leaned in closer.
"have you always felt this way?" you whispered, breath against his cheeks sending goosebumps across his body.
"felt... what?" he tried to play dumb, despite the fact that you could also feel how excruciatingly hard he was against you. when he daydreamed about confessing he was in love with you, this was never a scenario in his head.
you let your hand graze slowly down the side of his face, fingers coming to trace his sculpted jawline. his breath didn't just hitch at this point, he was pretty sure his lungs stopped working entirely.
"why haven't you ever said anything?" it wasn't angry, it was a genuine question.
he let out a scoff, a hand leaving your hip to scratch the back of his neck, embarrassment covering his features for the hundredth time this evening. "yeah, well. this isn't exactly how you want to tell your best friend you love her."
your eyes widened, and peter's followed, realization of his words hitting him.
"you love me?"
"holy shit, that's, i didn't, oh my god that's—"
peter's panic was cut off and replaced with awe as he felt your lips crash against his, a feeling he'd been dreaming of since the day he'd met you back in high school. he immediately reciprocated, tilting his head to deepen the kiss and letting a long overdue moan escape from his lips. you smiled against it, both hands interlocking with those brown curls you'd been dying to run your hands through, just like this.
peter nipped at your bottom lip, earning a sharp gasp from you that allowed his tongue much-needed entry into your mouth. the kiss was nothing short of hungry, years of pent-up feelings being released hot and noisily as peter bruised his lips against yours.
he pulled back sharply, out of breath and looking at you as though you weren't real. "wait, i dont... you...?"
you laughed at the lack of his question, though instantly understanding him. you gave a soft nod, a blush creeping over your cheeks as you brought your hands to cup his face. while the kiss was downright sinful, the way you looked at him filled him with nothing but reverence.
"every shitty tinder date happened after i chickened out of telling you how i felt. i just couldn't stand to lose you, peter." you added sadly.
he gave you a knowing look, nodding in agreement. "i know what you mean," he squeezed your hips, a contagious smirk controlling his lips. "wait, you've been going on shitty tinder dates since we moved out for college three years ago."
you returned the smirk, fingers trailing down to ghost the tendons in his neck. "i know."
peter pulled you in again, no longer embarrassed at the desperate noises escaping his throat as he attacked your lips, this kiss somehow hungrier than the last. you grinded down against him again, a raspy "fuck" leaving his swollen lips as he held a firm grip on your hips to keep you moving.
you chuckled at his desperation.
"you're telling me i could've been doing this the whole time instead of shitty jocks thinking its gross to make a woman feel good?" you sighed out as he trailed down your neck, teeth nipping and bruising your soft flesh as he continued to move against your hips, leaving you to soak up the feeling out how hard he was underneath you.
peter groaned in frustration, standing quickly with you still wrapped around his hips. he held you with one arm as though you weighed nothing, lips still attached to the pulse point in your neck. he used the other to catch himself as he threw you down onto his bed. you gasped, your back hitting the soft mattress as you took in peter's frame over you, hands on either side of your head.
he pulled back from his artwork on your neck, his jaw clenched. "i can't believe anyone could ever tell you such nonsense,"
he leaned down again to peck at your lips, hands making their way down to explore your sides. "i can't tell you what an honor it is to even think about how good you taste," he growled in your ear.
you gave a gasp, his words alone enough to have your cunt aching, as if you hadn't been since the second you sat down on his lap. "you... you think about that?"
he let out a chuckle as he sat back, his hands teasingly making their way to the button of your jeans. he ran his fingers under your waistline as his other hand tugged at your zipper, the feeling of your muscles tensing under his touch driving him absolutely crazy.
"more times than you could torture out of me," he pulled your jeans down, nearly finishing in his sweats at the sight of the delicate lace underwear against your burning skin.
summary: business is slow, you’re losing hope. so peter does what any reasonable guy would do—sends spider-man on a bakery rescue mission.
warnings: baker!reader, college!peter, mild angst/self-doubt, best friends pretending they’re not in love, spider-man chaos, FLUFF (like a lot of it!!)
- a/n: my first spidey/peter parker fic!! 🕷️❤️ hope you like it <3 (fun fact: i love baking but i haven’t had the time lately thanks to school, so this fic let me live out the dream for a bit lol.)
The shop smelled like vanilla and cinnamon, the kind of cozy sweetness that clung to the air and made you want to curl up in it. But despite the warmth, it was quiet—too quiet. The display case gleamed with neat rows of cookies and cupcakes, each one perfectly frosted, waiting for customers that never seemed to come. The only real noise was the steady tick of the clock above the door, its rhythm filling the stillness until you finally let out a sigh and dropped onto a stool behind the counter.
Peter was there, like always. Perched on the counter with his sneakers dangling, he looked perfectly at home in a place he definitely wasn’t supposed to be sitting. He was already halfway through the sample tray you had set out that morning, his fingers dusted with crumbs, a smudge of chocolate caught near his thumb.
“These are delicious,” he said around a mouthful of brownie, words muffled but full of conviction.
You lifted your head just enough to give him a look, part amusement, part exasperation. “Peter, you say that about everything.”
“Because it’s true!” His whole face brightened as he turned toward you, holding up the brownie like he was swearing it in as evidence. His grin was boyish, infectious, a little crooked in the way that made your chest ache if you looked too long.
“Then why hasn’t anyone stopped by?” The question slipped out quieter than you meant it to, fragile around the edges. You traced the worn grooves of the counter with your fingertip, the sugar in the air suddenly too heavy. “If they’re so good, why haven’t I sold a single thing?”
For once, Peter didn’t have a quick reply. He swallowed, and the teasing curve of his mouth eased into something quieter, his eyes softening in a way that made the moment feel suddenly still.
You turned away quickly, not wanting him to notice too much, but your thoughts had already begun their spiral. The silence pressed in, and in its weight, those old voices began to stir again.
A bakery? What about college? your parents had asked, the lines of worry etching deeper with every word. You need a degree. A steady path. School first, dreams later. Otherwise… it’s not going to last.
They hadn’t understood why the idea of classrooms and lecture halls felt so hollow compared to the warmth of a kitchen, the hum of ovens, the smell of sugar melting into butter. Why the thought of baking for people—of creating something sweet enough to carry them through the hardest days—felt more important than any syllabus ever could.
Still, their doubts lingered. They always came back when you locked up early, when trays of untouched pastries stared back at you like unfinished promises, when the bell above the door stayed silent no matter how long you waited.
Peter had been one of the few who never questioned you. He was there from the beginning—scribbling logo sketches on napkins at a crowded coffee shop, leaning over your notebook with a grin and far too many opinions. He taste-tested your recipes until he was practically living on sugar, and he never stopped telling you it wasn’t crazy to chase what you loved.
At the time, it had seemed like the right move.
But now?
You stared at the cupcakes behind the glass, the frosting catching the light in perfect little swirls. Then your gaze slid to the “OPEN” sign in the window, and for a moment, it almost felt like the quiet itself was taunting you.
“Maybe this was a mistake.” The words came out before you could pull them back, too quiet, too heavy.
“Hey. Don’t say that.”
Peter’s voice cut through immediately, low but certain. He pushed himself upright from where he’d been sitting on the counter, sneakers squeaking as he shifted to face you fully.
“You’ve worked too hard for this to be a mistake,” he said, and though his eyes were soft, there was something firm beneath them—like he needed you to believe it as much as he did. “It’s just… a rough patch. Everyone has those. Besides—” his lips tugged into that smile you knew too well, “—you make the best brownies in New York. I swear.”
Before you could argue, he snagged the last brownie square from the tray of samples and leaned across the counter, holding it out to you.
“I know what my brownies taste like, Peter,” you said, aiming for stern but the warmth in your voice gave you away
He didn’t back down. Instead, he leaned closer, nudging the bite toward you until it hovered just shy of your lips. His brows lifted, wordless challenge written across his face: go on, prove me wrong.
You caved with a roll of your eyes, a reluctant smile slipping through despite yourself. Your fingers grazed his as you took the brownie and popped it into your mouth. The rich chocolate melted across your tongue, and a quiet hum escaped before you could stop it.
Peter’s expression lit up like he’d just won the lottery. He leaned away, the corner of his mouth curving with a satisfied little smirk.
“Now tell me that isn’t the best brownie you’ve ever had,” he challenged, smugness woven into every word.
You tried to fight it, but laughter broke through, bubbling out of you until you had to press a hand against your mouth.
“Exactly.” Peter pointed at you with mock triumph, grinning wide. “Honestly, you could give any bakery in Queens a run for their money. Probably the whole East Coast.”
You shook your head, another laugh slipping free. “Okay. Now you’re pushing it.”
“Maybe. But I’m right.” His smirk softened into something steadier, a smile that felt quieter, almost like it was meant just for you.
He knew it wasn’t a cure-all, not yet. The doubts would circle back, maybe even tomorrow. But right now, you were laughing again—and for Peter, that was just step one.
The next morning unfolded in its usual routine. You flipped the sign to OPEN, set a plate of samples by the door, tied your apron, and settled behind the counter to wait.
Outside, the city flowed past in waves—people rushing with coffee cups, coats brushing against each other, not a glance spared for your window. You used to lift your head at every passing shadow, hopeful, but that habit had faded. You knew better now.
The clock ticked in steady rhythm, the sound stretching each second longer than the last. The hours crawled, weighed down by the same silence that had become a little too familiar for your liking.
And then—
The bells above the door rang out.
The chime shattered the stillness, sharp and bright. You nearly jumped, heart leaping so suddenly it left your hands trembling against the counter.
Someone had actually come in.
But it wasn’t the sound that stunned you.
Your gaze lifted, and the sight froze you where you stood.
Red and blue filled the doorway, sunlight glinting off web patterns stretched over broad shoulders.
Before you knew it, your mouth had parted, the word tumbling out in disbelief.
“…Spider-Man?”
He stood framed in the morning light, the suit impossibly bright against the muted colors of your shop. The door clicked shut behind him, and then—like this was the most natural thing in the world—he strolled up to the counter.
“Morning!” His voice was cheerful, muffled through the mask but somehow still carrying that unmistakable warmth. “So, uh, I’ll take… let’s see…” He tilted his head as if studying the display case with the same focus he gave the city. “A dozen cookies. A batch of brownies. Oh—and cupcakes. Gotta have cupcakes.”
You blinked at him. Once. Twice. “What?”
Leaning casually against the counter, he dropped his voice a notch, like he was letting you in on a secret. “Big day in the city. Lots of crime to fight. Figured I’d stock up.”
Your mind couldn’t catch up, but your hands didn’t seem to care—boxing baked goods, stacking cookies, moving on autopilot. Every time you looked up, it only got stranger: Spider-Man, in your bakery, debating cupcake flavors like this was a normal Saturday for him.
By the time you rang him up, it still didn’t feel real. He stood there with cash in hand, tapping his gloved fingers lightly against the counter, calm as ever.
The bell chimed again when he left, the door shutting behind him as he disappeared into the rush of morning traffic, carrying the scent of sugar with him.
It hit you then, so fast you almost forgot to breathe.
Your first real customer—your first real sale—was Spider-Man.
You almost laughed out loud. Surely that would be the strangest thing to happen this week. Maybe this month.
But while you stood frozen behind the counter, still reeling from the sight of him walking out with pink boxes stacked in his arms, Spider-Man already had the rest of his plan in motion:
Step two.
The city roared beneath Peter as he swung high between skyscrapers, the boxes secured to his back with a neat band of webbing. He wasn’t chasing criminals today—not exactly. His mission was sweeter.
He landed on the edge of a crowded street, springing lightly to the pavement and pulling out one of the boxes with a flourish. “Fresh from the best bakery in Queens—actually, scratch that—the best in New York,” he said, tone teasing but proud.
Heads turned, phones lifted, but his grin was for the two wide-eyed kids nearest him. He pressed cookies into their small hands, crouching until he was eye level. Chocolate smeared instantly across their smiles, and Peter leaned in with a conspiratorial whisper.
“Be sure to stop in and tell her who sent you.”
Their eager nods made his chest ache in the best way.
The rest of the day unfolded like that. Spider-Man became less of a crime fighter and more of a one-man delivery service, swinging across blocks with boxes tucked under his arm. He handed cupcakes to a delivery guy juggling too many packages, slipped a cookie to a tired nurse waiting at the bus stop, and even traded a brownie for a balloon just to make a little girl laugh.
Each time, he said it like a promise:
“Go check out the bakery. Best in Queens. And don’t just eat—tell her.”
Word spread fast, faster than any sugar rush, but the city never stayed quiet for long. Peter was working through the last box when the wail of a store alarm cut through the street. His head snapped up just in time to see two men sprint past with bags banging against their legs. He sighed, set the box carefully on the curb, and vaulted upward.
Two web zips and a quick thwip later, the thieves were dangling upside down from a lamppost, muttering curses while a small crowd clapped. The cops arrived moments later, and Spider-Man snagged the waiting box before they could thank him.
“Donuts? Nah,” he said, pressing the brownies into one officer’s hands like it was standard procedure. “You need these. Trust me—way better.”
By late afternoon, only crumbs clung to his gloves. He stood on a fire escape above the street, the city humming beneath him, bathed in gold. He thought about how many smiles those boxes had sparked, how many strangers were walking away today with chocolate on their tongues and your bakery’s name on their lips.
A small group of teens spotted him from below, waving and shouting his name. He leaned against the railing, grinning behind the mask.
“Alright, guys,” he called, voice carrying over the traffic. “You know the drill. Tell your friends. Tell your family. Then go tell her. She’s the real hero.”
Their cheers followed him as he stepped onto the railing, fired a webline, and launched himself back into the city, the last light of day trailing after him.
Step two was done. Now all he had to do was wait.
Back at the bakery, the evening crept in as you stood to close up. The silence after Spider-Man left pressed in on you like nothing had even happened. No new customers. No rush. Just you behind the counter, the quiet hum of the fridge, and the too-neat rows of untouched sweets still gleaming beneath the glass.
You reached for the sign on the door, fingers brushing the cool edge as you flipped it to CLOSED.
A laugh slipped out, thinner than you intended, echoing in the empty shop. “Of course my only customer today was Spider-Man. Figures.”
You tried to play it off with a shrug, but the sting was still there, sharp beneath the joke.
The next morning, you unlocked the shop with a sigh, already bracing for another long, empty day. The bell jingled dully as you stepped inside. You flicked on the TV for background noise, tied your apron with slow, practiced movements, and began arranging the day’s samples.
Your phone buzzed.
Then buzzed again.
And again.
You frowned, wiping your hands before pulling it from your pocket. The screen lit up in a storm of notifications. Mentions. Tags. DMs piling so fast you couldn’t keep up. Videos and photos filled your feed, all of one subject.
Spider-Man.
Your breath caught as you scrolled.
There he was, swinging through Queens with your bakery boxes strapped to his back, sunlight glinting off the webbing that held them secure. Another clip showed him crouched low, handing out cookies to a pair of kids who clutched them like prized trophies. The comments rolled in beneath, relentless and dizzying:
“Is THIS the shop Spider-Man was talking about???”
“Going here today. Who’s coming with me?”
“Spider-Man approved!!”
Your hands trembled as you kept scrolling, pulse racing faster with every new post. The flood of comments blurred before your eyes, excitement bubbling off the screen so quickly you could hardly breathe.
Was this real? Was this actually happening?
And then—
The Bugle Segment.
The TV screen cut sharply to J. Jonah Jameson, already mid-rant on the Daily Bugle's live broadcast. His face was a blotchy shade of red, mustache bristling like it might leap off his lip at any second.
“Spider-Man—menace, criminal, sugar dealer apparently—was spotted yesterday handing out baked goods across the city like some kind of Willy Wonka in spandex!”
He punctuated the words by slamming a fist down on the desk, papers jumping with the impact. In his other hand, though—completely undermining the tirade—was one of your cupcakes, the wrapper peeled back to the base.
He took a massive bite, frosting smearing across his lip, and barreled on without pausing to swallow.
“Disgusting PR stunt—mmph—he’s corrupting the youth with sugar highs—” another furious chomp, crumbs scattering down his tie “—what kind of vigilante bribes cops with brownies?! Criminal, I tell you!”
The chyron blazed across the bottom of the screen, impossible to miss:
“Spider-Man Promotes Local Business.”
And beneath it, bold and clear, was your bakery’s name.
The chime above the door was the only thing that tore your eyes from the TV—and it didn’t stop. Another followed, then another. People were actually lining up.
Before you knew it, the shop was alive in a way you’d only ever imagined. People filled every inch of space, laughter and chatter bouncing off the walls as you scrambled to keep up. Cupcakes vanished from trays faster than you could frost them, cookie boxes stacked high behind the counter, the register dinging over and over.
You rushed between shelves, apron dusted in flour and sugar, trying to keep pace with the flood of orders. A dozen cookies here, brownies there, three cupcakes with sprinkles—it was hectic, exhausting, and yet your cheeks ached from smiling.
You barely noticed the bell this time, too caught up in the rhythm of it all—until a familiar voice cut through the chaos, warm and teasing.
“Busy day?”
Your head snapped up so quickly you nearly dropped the box in your hands.
Peter stood just inside the doorway, hair mussed, backpack slung over one shoulder. He looked completely casual, like he hadn’t just missed an entire day of classes, like he hadn’t been suspiciously absent through all the madness.
“Peter.” His name left your lips on a breath, equal parts relief and confusion.
He glanced at the crowded shop, then back at you, a faint smile forming. “Guess I picked the wrong day to skip the free samples, huh?”
You laughed, soft and incredulous, the sound catching in your throat as you filled another box with cupcakes. He grinned wider at that, but there was something softer beneath it—something steady and quiet, like he knew exactly what this moment meant to you.
“Want an extra hand?”
“Yeah. Please.” It came out breathless, caught somewhere between helpless and thankful.
He didn’t hesitate. Tossing his bag into the corner, he slipped behind the counter like he belonged there, rolling up his sleeves and reaching for the first box without a second thought.
Even with Peter at your side, the rush didn’t slow. The bell above the door rang endlessly. Orders piled high on the counter. Voices overlapped in waves, the shop buzzing with more life than you’d ever seen.
Between two orders, you darted toward the back to grab more boxes, squeezing past a group of teenagers debating whether to get one cupcake or six.
Just as your hand reached for the swinging door, you felt a small tug on your sleeve.
You turned, blinking.
A little boy, no older than six, stood in front of you with a brownie clutched tight in one hand. Chocolate smudged the corner of his mouth, his other hand still loosely holding onto your sleeve like he didn’t want you to miss what he had to say.
“Spider-Man said you make the best brownies in New York, so it has to be true!” he declared proudly, voice piping above the chatter.
Everything around you softened.
The laughter. The lines. The constant ding of the register. For a moment, it all blurred at the edges. All you could see was him, and the chocolate on his smile, and the way your heart gave a quiet, aching twist at his words.
You smiled down at him, warm and full and maybe a little glassy-eyed. “He said that?”
The boy nodded, like there was never any doubt.
And for the first time, you let yourself believe it could actually be true.
By the next hour, you were completely sold out. Every brownie, every cookie, every cupcake—gone. Only a few stray crumbs lingered in the trays, quiet proof that something sweet had been there at all. The last customer waved on their way out, calling over their shoulder with a cheerful promise to return tomorrow.
You crossed to the door, flipped the sign to CLOSED, and this time the motion came with a smile, wide and certain, stretching all the way to your eyes.
When you turned, Peter was there, leaning against the counter, peeling the wrapper from a cupcake he’d clearly saved for himself. He caught your stare and smirked, lifting the cupcake like he was toasting the end of a long shift.
“Well, I’d say that was a pretty successful day,” he said, voice warm with amusement.
Your laugh came quick, loud and full, echoing across the now-empty shop. “Yeah. It was.”
The laughter faded, your smile faltering just a little.
“What?” Peter asked, pausing mid-bite, his brow creasing.
You shook your head, brushing your hands on your apron. “Nothing. I just…” You hesitated, glancing toward the window as if you might catch a glimpse of red and blue swinging by. “I wish I could thank him. Spider-Man.”
For a moment, Peter’s posture stilled. His thumb pressed a little too hard into the edge of the wrapper, the paper crinkling softly between his fingers. When he finally spoke, his voice came low, almost hesitant.
“I’m sure…” he said, barely above a whisper. “I’m sure he knows.”
You turned toward him, the warmth in his voice tugging something loose in your chest. “I hope so,” you murmured, stepping closer. “But even if I can’t thank Spider-Man…”
Your voice gentled as you came to stand in front of him, the distance between you shrinking to nothing. “I can thank you. You’re kind of a lifesaver, you know.”
Peter blinked, looking momentarily lost, like he didn’t quite know where to put that kind of praise.
“You’ve been here through all of it,” you said, the beginnings of a quiet smile touching your face. “You’ve listened to me stress about the shop, tested every recipe, eaten more frosting than anyone should. You’re a lifesaver.”
Your voice dropped, the words falling softer, closer to something unspoken.
“Thank you, Peter.”
He hadn’t expected that. He thought the gratitude in your voice would only belong to someone else—to Spider-Man, not him.
It caught him off guard.
Still, the response came easily, like it lived somewhere deep in him.
“Of course.”
Then, before he could stop himself, something else slipped out—words that felt too natural, too true to hold back.
“I’m just… happy that you’re happy.”
The air shifted, warm and still, like even the world had paused to listen.
It wasn’t teasing. There was no deflection or joke to hide behind. Just something real, something simple.
And somehow, that made it hit even harder.
Peter cleared his throat, small but telling—like he’d only just realized how that last line had sounded.
“Uh…” His voice came out deeper than before, a little rougher around the edges as he focused on splitting the cupcake in two.
He lifted one half, offering it to you with a crooked smile that didn’t quite mask the warmth behind it.
“Victory bite?”
You smiled despite the flutter in your chest, taking the piece from his hand without saying a word.
The cupcake was soft against your fingers as you bit into your half, the flavor rich and warm, sugar and vanilla melting on your tongue. Peter did the same, though he took his half in one bite—because of course he did—and then wiped a bit of frosting from his thumb, pretending not to notice the way you were watching him.
Then—
He leaned back, that effortless ease finding its way to his face again. “Alright,” he said, tone low but playful. “Tell me again about the Bugle segment. Word for word.”
You tried, but laughter hit before you even got a full sentence out. The memory of Jameson ranting on-air, frosting still on his face, was too much.
“He called Spider-Man—” you started, breath catching as you fought another laugh, “—a menace, a criminal, and a sugar dealer. All while eating one of my cupcakes.”
Peter’s lips curved, but he didn’t interrupt. He just watched you, quiet amusement softening into something else.
His gaze lingered on the way your shoulders shook, the sound of your laughter spilling into the shop, your voice hitching on the edges of words you could barely get through.
And that was the point of all of it. The swinging, the deliveries, the whole crazy plan.
For this.
You, standing here, happy and glowing and alive in a way you hadn’t been in weeks.
Which meant one thing.
Mission accomplished.
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Summary: His problem was this—that stupidly impossible and funny mouth of his. Peter Parker and his witty responses. Peter Parker and his clever quips. Peter and that mouth you'd love to shut so much. So you do.
OR; At a bar, you finally snap and give Peter Parker something better to do with those gorgeous lips than running it.
WC: 5,7k
A/n: I missed writing about my boyfriend, so here I am. Spidey enthusiasts, gather around, please! I love this Peter Parker playlist to set the mood. / read on ao3
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
"Oh my goddess in fucking heaven, do you ever shut your goddamn mouth, Parker?!"
The whole bar goes quiet, and as soon as his name is out of your lips, it's a heartbeat too late.
The drink in your hand feels like a bomb as Peter turns around, a stupid smile already plastered on his stupidly gorgeous face.
Everything about him is so—so stupid. He said so himself in class once. "I'm the world's stupidest genius, professor," with a laugh, that smile, that easy shrugging shoulder.
His eyes are fixed on you, as chocolate as ever, as bright and sparkling as they were when you first met him, but with a glint of something unrecognizable. When he opens his mouth, your chest tightens and your breath stills, waiting for it, knowing something clever and smart will come out of it, dreading whatever it is.
"You said you want to shut my mouth, did I hear that correctly?"
There's sweat somewhere in the back of your neck, you're sure of it. "I didn't say that."
"No?" He props his chin on the backrest of his chair, eyes now fixed in your direction and glinting with something you have never seen before. "I could've sworn I heard you saying you wanna shut my mouth."
"Nope. Hearing things once again, Parker. All I did was question whether you have the capacity to ever shut that trap of yours."
The image is born without your permission at his words, though. You wanna shut my mouth.
They echo.
You wanna shut my mouth.
How would you go about that?
You shiver.
He pouts. Sometimes, Peter does that—one of his annoying habits that drives you up the wall, or simply drives you to stand up as you are right now. Standing up in the middle of your table because that boy can get under your skin, no matter where you are, no matter how sober or not, apparently.
"That's mean. Why are you so mean to me?" The question is delivered with a smile.
You roll your eyes and bat away the hand of your friend who's pulling on your jacket in a silent request for you to sit back down. "I don't know. You awaken that part of me like very few people do." It was the truth, and it also wasn't.
The truth—the embarrassing and mortifying truth came with a weight you had no desire to even think about right now, in the middle of the bar while surrounded by your friends and once again arguing you Peter. The overlying excuse, on the other hand, had its own truth—even before The Incident, Peter already got under your skin.
His existence meant danger before you knew about his stupidly witty mouth and his clever brain. Before you shared classes with him, only to discover how funny he was underneath all those clapbacks.
"How can I put it back to sleep, then?" He lifts both arms in mock surrender, dropping a bit of his drink on the friend next to him. "I didn't even—oh, shit, my bad Lia, wasn't paying attention. I didn't even do anything to you this time!" He redirects his attention to you after his apology, and there it is—the sweet, and yet cocky smile that drives you up the walls. "I was here, talking to my friends, having a nice time, and you decided to meddle in our conversation. What did I say this time that pissed you off so much?"
This time, the clapback belongs to you and it's at the tip of your tongue. "Ah, so you're the only one who can meddle in other people's businesses, is that it?" Even his friends laugh at it.
Peter winces a little through his smile, and there you are, smiling as you bicker with him once again.
How many times have you ended up here? Wanting his clever mouth to be shut while talking to him at the same time? Prodding and poking whenever you get the chance.
"Fine. I'm a meddler. I can admit to that, but can you admit that so are you?"
"I don't have to admit anything to you," you replied just for the sake and pleasure of being difficult.
Peter was still smiling. He did the nose scrunch thing once again, and you hated how your entire chest responded to that stupid habit of his. "You like being difficult."
"And you like being mouthy and loud about it."
"I'm seriously wondering what I said this time that was so wrong that it earned your rage." He gestures with the empty hand this time. "We're at a bar, milady! And although it seems our old married couple bickering seems to entertain the masses even here, I'm pretty sure you're as tipsy as me. You were supposed to be having fun."
I am right now. "Who said I'm not?" It was harder to keep your smile and facial features organized into something neutral or sarcastic with alcohol in your system.
Peter's smile widened. "I'm taking that as the admission, then."
"Admission to what?"
"How much you adore pulling my pigtails." As if the words were not enough, Peter pretends to tug a chunk of his hair and feigns wincing in pain. Somehow, the smile's still there, in his eyes, in the corner of his mouth.
This time, you roll your eyes and sit back down, too bothered by how much his glee affects you. "You wish, Parker. Just—you could try keeping your shitty and wrong opinions to a low volume, at least."
From this distance — there are two tables filled with people between you and the object of your conversation — it's a bit hard to tell, but you're sure his friend makes a comment about you two under his breath.
Peter either misses it or chooses to ignore it. "I'm gonna have to insist, then. What was it that I said so wrong this time, milady, hm? Maybe I'll even apologize."
"Why don't you two stop half-screaming from across the bar and go talk somewhere else? Jesus fucking Christ, every Monday and Wednesday this shit." It's someone from one of the tables between you both.
The guy's friend says loud enough for you to listen. "Leave them to it. You know how they are."
And he replies with, "Of course I do! Everybody fucking does. Every week. Just fuck already, for fuck's sake. And stop talking over fifteen thousand other people!" He adds that last bit with a directed look at both of you.
Just fuck already.
It mixes in your brain with you wanna shut my mouth and suddenly—yeah. "I'm going outside," you announce to your friends.
"What?! Babe, no. We were in the middle of our ratings," she gives you puppy eyes, but you're already coming around the table.
Rating every Tolkien character from least to most fuckable would have to wait until after your freak out.
"I know. I'll be back. Keep on without me," you need air. Also water.
In the back of your neck, there's the prickly and distinct feeling of being observed as you wander to the bar and order a bottle of water. "Actually, make it two, please?"
He's observing you as you walk out of the bar to the back alley where all the smokers gather. Without a glance in his direction, you can confirm that Peter Parker has observed every step you take before you are out of his sight.
The air does you good, though.
It's chilly, and it smells like cigarettes instead of back alleys, and it's a trade you'd make any day.
None of the people smoking bother you.
Drinking the water does wonders for calming your nervous system down on any given day, but today, words are rolling around your head, and they are enough to turn your brain hostage.
You wanna shut my mouth.
Yes. Groaning, sipping bigger gulps from your bottle, you can admit to yourself, under the blanket of darkness and surrounded by complete strangers, you would love to shut Peter Parker's mouth.
Maybe the confession is too much for a brain without its usual filters because it breaks a dam.
It's a domino effect: one image of you shutting his mouth inside the bar created directly by his own words, melts and gets mixed, shuffling into another image.
In this one, both of you are in the classroom you share, and yet there you are, still shutting his mouth.
Suddenly, all the instances where you and Peter have ever shared the same place are flooded by those: shutting him up, quieting him, making him lose words, making Peter unlearn all the clever things he knows until he has nothing but blabber to say or whimpers to release, noises, gasps, your name, your name—
The prickly sensation on your nape returns, and you react as if being stung.
Tense. Waiting for it, knowing it's coming, there he is, your brain offers, but you're too much of a coward now to look.
He approaches anyway.
"Permission to come closer?" He asks.
What a fucking nerd. Not that you are far from one, but you snicker at the comment, curse yourself mentally and maybe under your breath, but allow it anyway. The side eye you give him tells him just as much.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
She's loud, mouthy, insanely clever, beautiful, and all the things Peter keeps telling himself he only observes.
It's easier said than done.
Easier in class when it can be pivoted towards something purely academical, or at work when he can pretend it's harmeless due to the distance, or at night as he swings from building to building and she's only in his mind, and not his life.
It's harder when he's been drinking with his friends and she looks even prettier without all the walls so hung up tight.
Alcohol makes people's filters go down.
Not his—Peter doesn't have a filter, never did, and ever since the bite his body responds to very little things, at the same time as it responds to absolutely everything.
His body responds to her.
Gods, if only bickering with her weren't so damned adictive.
When their little scene causes other people to complain and she leaves, Peter curses under his breath, leaves his glass on the table and gets up before he can even think about what he's doing.
His hearing picks up on Lia's 'oh, fucking finally' and the way Jorge responds with 'I know, if they don't get it out of their system I'm doing something insane like locking them inside a cupboard, I don't fucking know' and he thinks oh...
Maybe it's not 'easy', then.
Maybe it's been only 'obvious' and 'ridiculous' so far.
Too bad—Peter's got no other way of flirting. He can admit it as he navigates the sea of bodies to make his way outside now; they have been flirting.
He's been, at least. Despite his promises to himself that Peter Parker had no right to flirt with anybody, that he had no right to make anyone his anything ever again, that's what he's been doing — they've been doing? — and everyone's been watching, annoyed or amused, entirely aware of what's going on.
The alley is filled with smoke that come out of the three groups standing in their little circles, but his gaze fixes on a very specific body standing alone against the wall, chugging a half emtpy bottle of water.
Fuck it.
He approaches, shoving both hands inside his hoodie in hopes of maybe not being so flamboyant and expressive. Not flirting too much.
(Who is he still trying to fool?)
"Permission to approach?"
Her response is a snicker, and Peter notices her body language switches to straight up shoulders without even glancing in his direction.
"Hi, Parker."
"Hello, milady."
"What can I do for you?"
Shut my mouth, apparently. Peter holds the teasing for now and his eyes wide in surprise when he sees a bottle of water being lifted in his direction. He takes it. "Thank you." Does she think he's tipsy? Probably. "Sorry if I annoyed you in there."
"No, you're not."
He smiles before he takes the first sip. "Eh," he is sorry... a little bit. "I kinda am."
Another snicker. She finishes her bottle of water. "Hard to believe ya."
"Why is that?"
"I think you love pissing me the fuck off."
Peter laughs. He hasn't gotten used to how foul mouthed she is just yet. It's been more than a year but it still makes him laugh and think about what his uncle would've said if he heard how much such a pretty lady can curse.
Probably something old fashioned enough to make her say even more curse words.
"I..." he thinks carefully of his next words and feels the entirety of his neck tingling, then warming when her eyes set on his face. "... like how passionate you can get while arguing."
At that, she takes a second. Then, she answers with, "What the fuck does that mean?"
"Means that you get involved in arguments and discussions in nice ways."
"Nice ways? What we've been doing is nice?"
"It hasn't been?"
She stops, and Peter's seen enough to recognize when a smile is being held back. "You're crazy."
He smiles. "So are you."
"It seems that way." A sigh. "Peter..."
"Yeah?" His heart speeds up. She never says his name. That is the distance—his delusion about all of your exchanges being nothing... and the way you never say his name. He wants to hear it again. Desperately. One single time of his name out of your lips, and he already wants to hear it again.
God, what are you doing to him?
"I'm sorry," you say.
Peter stops in his tracks, his entire body still. "I—what?"
"You heard me, don't make me say it again."
"I know I did, I just—why? I don't get it. You've got nothing to apologize for."
Your eyes are not as glassy as they were inside the pub, and when you look at him, Peter feels something pull him a step closer.
There's a distinct vulnerability in the way you're staring that he's never seen before, or maybe never saw from this proximity to be able to identify.
"Don't I?" your voice is low and he misses the way you were speaking to him in there. He shakes his head, and takes one more step. He ignores the way this is the closest you two have ever been, and tells his speeding heart to shut the fuck up because it's too loud. You lick your lips and—fuck, maybe it's kind of impossible to tell his heart to do anything in your presence other than react to every miniscule action of yours. "I've been told I'm a... what's the term? Raging bitch, I believe, a few times."
His laughter is loud and honest, and it makes him happy when his eyes open and he sees that it pulled a smile out of you. "Oh—fuck, I'm sorry. That was hilarious."
"You think me being a raging bitch is hilarious?"
"No!" He's still laughing, but he's also warm enough to feel it in his face from the way you're staring at him from under your lasher. He mentally takes note that you made no comment on the proximity. He relishes in that fact. "No—I just think it's funny how much men are fucking crybabies nowadays." He chuckles when your eyes widen in surprise and your smile does too.
"Who said it was only men who called me that?"
He says your name in a tone that says 'please'. "I don't go to the same course as you but we do share two classes, remember?"
"Yup. We bicker in them every time."
"Exactly. I might've heard it once or twice when someone said something about people I know. About you." He might've also told them off every single time, but he keeps that part to himself—for now, at least. "They're raging bitches if you ask me."
The way you laugh should be printed and bottled. "They really are."
"Not me, though?" He's fishing, and from the way you look at him, you call it immediately.
"Parker."
"Oh, no!" He groans, hands flying out of his pockets straight to his face. "Back to Parker, fuck me!"
You laugh again, and Peter cannot get drunk, but he is. All your little 'fights' and arguments have never been real—you two enjoy playing the devil's advocate when in each other's presence but you've always been aware the other one is a decent person, he's aware of that. He knows you don't actually hate him because Peter's seen how you react around people you hate. Around men you hate, especifically.
"I can't call you by your name?" You ask, being difficult.
There it is. The thing you two do—be difficult with one another. "That's my surename."
"Which is part of your name."
"I know, but Peter sounds so much nicer."
"Hmmmm, I don't know. I'm quite fond of Parker."
His smile is wicked when hearing those words. "I'm printing that out and putting it on a T-shirt."
You try to fight a giggle and lose it. Peter had no clue what he was expecting out of tonight—frankly, he just wanted to please one of his friends by doing something he rarely does (or has the money to) and go out for a bit, and suddenly, there you were.
Suddenly, here he is. Laughing with you.
"You're actually ridiculous."
"But not a raging bitch?"
You punch his arm, laughing. "Stop!" Peter's heart spikes once again at the contact. "I hate it when you're funny."
"So what I'm hearing is that you hate me?"
Peter's cheeks hurt by now. He's been here for what? Two, three minutes tops, and his cheeks hurt because he's unable to stop smiling.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
It's the smile that's doing it—your heart is attempting to murder you, or maybe Parker is, because he's been smiling non-stop and it's doing things to your insides that you're unable to stop now.
This might be flirting.
A part of you — the insecure girl who still lives somewhere in your subconscious — tells you there's no way Peter Parker is flirting with you.
The women who grew to have at least some confidence in reading basic signs and body language says his tilted head and side smile are more than enough.
You test the waters.
"You're not that funny, Peter," and there it is—his squirming when you say his name in a low voice.
He groans again. "God, you're such a shitty liar."
"So you're back to insulting me now?"
His laughter is so nice it's unfair. "Fine. Fine!" He throws both hands up and bites his lip and your brain's sirens go off, spinning in red, blue, and screaming. "I'll just leave then. I'm not funny and I'm clearly bothering you..."
The bait is so ridiculous you're able to reel the laughter in this time, watching as he spins on his heels with the precise smoothness of his moves that always baffled you, and he starts walking away slowly with his head and eyes still on you.
You manage to hold back the desire to reach and hold him by his clothes, too terrified of what you'll end up doing if you touch him again.
You felt a jolt of electricity at the simple touch, and you keep your hands to yourself this time.
"You need a compliment from me this badly, huh?"
He stops pretending to walk away. "I would like at least the admission that I'm the funniest guy you've ever met. It's the least you could give me for making you laugh so much tonight. Plus all those times I made you laugh in class inside your head but you held it in because you gotta keep up your appearances, milady."
It's only one compliment he's fishing for, but you decide to throw everything up in the air and—well, fuck everything.
Peter is flirting with you, and maybe you've been stupid all along to think that the biggest crush you've ever had was once sided.
So you decide, for once in your life, to be brave.
He's waiting patiently, a small smile still in the corner of his mouth as he waits to see if you'll yield, and you dive into it.
"Well... you're not only the funniest guy I've ever met, but..." you speak slowly, watching as his shoulders straighten and his face sombers at the realization something else is happening here. "Also... the smartest."
And there it is.
You've done it. You managed to shut Peter Parker's mouth.
Matter of factly, his mouth opens up slightly, gaping at your words and his eyes widen at the sincerity in your voice.
Without waiting for his brain to catch up with what just happened, you decide that since you're wet already, might as well swim in this accomplishment.
I managed to shut up smarty pants Peter Parker.
"You're also sweet," you add, smiling in victory when his eyes widen even more. "I mean—walking with arms linked with your aunt in the market? That's—god, I wanted to jump into the river when I saw that, and we don't even have rivers here! That was so sweet. She looked adorable, by the way. You two laughing, talking. You're also quite talented. I noticed all your seminars have pictures that you took, and they're really fucking good, y'know that?" He has no answer to your question, but you're flying high on how stunned he is. Too stunned to speak. "You've got a great sense of morality from what I've heard around campus. That's hard to come around in guys these days. I know that's one of those 'bare minimum' requirements, but—still. Hmmm..." you wonder how much more you can make his jaw fall, and decide to end on a high note. Pretending to just remember something, you go. "Oh! And..."
This time, it's you who steps closer.
There are only a few inches separating you two now, and you get to see that he's blushing from this distance — or lack thereof.
Even in the darkness you can see it, and if your heart was beating fast before, it's beating hard enough for you to feel it in your ears now.
"It doesn't hurt that you're also the most handsome guy I've ever seen. I know beauty's subjective, or whatever, but... to me. You're really pretty to me. I like when you're wearing your glasses, too."
The world spins and halts then, because Peter huffs out a single breath and the next thing you know, both of his hands are on your neck.
Then, his lips are on yours.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Your skin is feverish under his touch.
Peter knew it must be just his imagination, but your words drowned every thought he's had tonight—fuck it, it drowned every thought he's ever had in his whole life it seemed.
One of his hands slides through your side feeling every inch ofyour arm and then wraps around your waist, pulling you closer. As close as you can get.
He's rewarded by a groan, muffled against his mouth. Swallowed by his tongue.
There's your tongue, sliding with his with the precision and tempo of someone who's been doing that for years, despite it being only the first time. Peter moans when your hands squeeze him right back. He loves how strong you hold on to him. He loves how you fit your body inside his hold, squeezing yourself to push against him, grind against him, and he's whining into the kiss.
"Fuck—I did, I fuckin' did—oh." Your words are muffled by your sigh when he sucks on your earlobe.
"Did what?"
"I shut you up," your giggle is a little bit of a moan, and Peter manages to chuckle as he assaults your neck. "That feels good."
"You feel good," he grabs your waist tighter, being extra careful with his strength there, and then someone in the alley wolf whistles, reminding the both of you how not alone you are in here.
The realization hits you both at the same time, stopping the kiss, but not the desire.
Ignoring the taunting that comes next, he focuses on the way you stare at him with expectation.
Peter smiles and you beat him to it. "Your place or mine?"
He winces a little at the question, but then he's hit by those words that tattooed themselves all over his brain once again, the part where you went 'I mean—walking with arms linked with your aunt in the market? That's—god, I wanted to jump into the river when I saw that, and we don't even have rivers here! That was so sweet. She looked adorable, by the way. You two laughing, talking' and he realizes how much you got under his skin by blurting out everything that you seemed to be thinking regarding him.
His face relaxes back into a smile and you're waiting for it, patiently. "Ah—I live with her."
"Oh! Your aunt."
"Yeah." He'd leave it at that, but he feels the need to add: "I did have my place for a while, but when she fell at work—didn't feel right. Didn't wanna leave her alone after that."
"Of course not." As simple as that, and said with a smile that makes him want to burn everything down, or maybe build a whole fortress around you. "Mine, then?"
Peter nods, then drags you away.
In the cab, Peter watches as you text your friends to let you know that you're alive and won't be coming back. He does the same, and feels with a jolt of electricity running through him the second your hand comes to rest on his thigh.
As a result, he's half-hard by the time the ride is finished and you two make it to your apartment.
"I have a roomate, but she's still at the pub," you lock the door behind you and he nods, understanding he can do as he pleases.
Peter sort of wants to make you scream.
There's a second of silence when you two are alone in the dark, and you throw your keys in the table next to the door.
Slower than the first time, he glues himself to you once again.
This time, there's nobody around to stop either of you.
First, he starts by undressing you.
Piece by piece of clothing, Peter unwraps you with the same care he unwrapped the first gift he got from uncle Ben that he knew was expensive. None of the harsh and rushed tearing—he removes the clothes, leaving kisses on every new inch of exposed skin.
A part of him wants to shy away when you decide to do the same with the exact same care, but your gaze pins him to his spot, unable to move or do anything to stop it.
He's burning.
Peter feels exposed—worse yet, he feels seen, and wanted, and where there usually would be jokes there's nothing but silence.
He enjoys how you drag both you to your room without detaching your bodies.
Then, something happens to break the silence—when the back of his knees hit the edge of your bed and he sort of stumbles into it, his hands fly to his sides, dropping the picture on your side table on the floor.
"Oh, shit! Sorry, I'm sorry," he mumbles.
You laugh at him, picking the frame up and putting it back on its place. "It's fine." You sit on his lap earning a groan from him—there are only a pair of briefs and panties separating your bodies, and the way you grind and wiggle to feel his hard cock makes him whine, too. "Hmmm."
"What?" you ask in a low voice. The silence spell was broken, and Peter's hands are all over you again.
His brain keeps screaming for him to be careful all the time, but that voice has to swim with all of the want and need he's feeling. "Such a baby."
Condescending tone—and he whines louder. Huh. "Shut up."
You chuckle, wiggling your hips slower, making a mess of his neck and chest with your mouth. "You want me to?"
"No."
"Thought so." The way you whine your hips makes your pussy fit along his cock and Peter hasn't felt this lightheaded in years. "Wanna ride you, Peter."
"Oh, fuck."
"You like it when I say your name, don't you?"
"I really do," and it sounds like a confession even to his ears.
"Hm. Maybe I'll have to make you earn that, then."
Peter refuses to admit he's a whining mess underneath you, but there's probably a stain in his briefs already and the desperate way he's bucking his hips into you while his hands grip your hips strong enough to maybe leave bruises says enough.
"You're mean," he sounds wrecked and you barely started.
Peter opens his eyes to see you smiling in delight.
"I think you like it," it might be the way your condescending tone is just right or maybe it's just you, but he does. Peter nods, defeated and desperate, and grinds harder. "Fuck."
"Yes, please."
"Patience."
"Okay," he yields in the same second. He'd allow you to hang him upside down right now. "Whatever you want."
"Oh, god." He's thankful for this, at least. He's not the only one wrecked in this room. "You're so good."
Peter has some objections to that, but they get lost when you get up for a second and then remove the last items of clothing separating both of you. He has to bite his lip when he sees you grabbing a condom because as much as his brain is screaming at him to fill you up until you're dripping down your thighs with his cum, there's no safe way to tell you he's unable to transmit any diseases.
"I wanted to give you a mindblowing blowjob, but I'll be honest—"
"Please sit on me," he begs.
The smile you offer him is the brightest thing he's seen in months. There's a laugh, too, and Peter's too high on your touch to even manage a smile.
The next two hours pass in a blur of limbs, sweat, tongue, slick, and muffled words tangled in moans, screams, whines.
Peter has to hold his strength and he loses that battle a few moments.
The second he snaps his hips up to meet your thrusts and is rewarded with a scream and a cry of his name, he moans even louder.
You moan so pretty, baby, you tell him.
That only makes him moan louder.
Don't do that, wanna hear you, you say when you catch him biting his lips, and he cries out at that.
"Oh god, god, please, Peter," you beg at one point, and that's when he first snaps.
He's been good—Peter's allowed you to sit on him at the speed you desire, torturing him by going as slow and as fast as you like, teasing him with smirks and playing with the head of his cock against your clit during a few moments, but when your thighs start to lose their strength and your knees weaken, you beg and that's all it takes before he flips you on your back and climbs on top of you.
Slides inside you again with so much ease.
Both of you are wet enough to make your whole sheets wet.
You're dripping enough to ruin every night of sleep he'll have for the following month, at least.
Then, there's the filth spilled back and forth between you two.
It turns out the sass and clever replies are worse in the dark and between four walls.
Peter whispers everything you seem to love hearing it, and it turns out, he does love being talked down by you—just a little.
You just do it so well.
"That's it—no. Slow down. That's it. Don't be greedy. Fuck—you wanted—oh, you want to please me so much, hm? So eager to obey. I like that. Don't go faster—don't cry, baby, I don't care—FUCK, just like that, Peter. Fuck me slow and I'll let you use me however you want, baby."
It gets to his head.
Peter's human — well, most of him is, anyway, and you seem to have the key to his guts.
All he can do is obey because he wants to obey.
Peter fits so well inside of you he grunts with the effort to not bury himself deep enough to live there.
Your voice whispering filthy, sweet nothings make a home in his brain, and he's almost crying by the time you grab his by the neck, strong enough to make him wonder if he will have bruises the next day, and say, "Fuck, I'm so close, let it go, Peter, fuck me, fuck me, it's okay."
He's almost sure he actually cries at that.
And then he does as he's told.
He lets go, and fucks you the way he secretly desired to every time you two exchanged looks. He fucks you while holding you by the neck, while holding onto your waist for dear life, while moaning and chanting your name over and over the same way you're screaming his.
Both of you get so lost in the pleasure that when you both cum, Peter thinks you two black out for a second.
He sort of wishes he could go to sleep inside of you, and that thought is the one that brings him back to life for long enough to eventually slip out and realize he'll have to be the one with the strength to clean you both up into enough shape that you can slide under a sheet and get some sleep, but he does all that on shaky legs and a foggy brain.
Peter's fucked.
Both of you are, and it goes beyond the mindblowing sex that just happened.
He pulls you into his arms and sleeps with that knowledge. That's a problem for when the sun is in the sky.
→ premise: peter needed to test how strong the new formula for his web shooters is so why not get his gf’s help, and have a little fun with it. its not like he had millions of other more scientific ways to test its strength.
→ pairing: tasm!peter x fem!reader
→ warnings: smut | 18+, bondage [with peters webs], fingering, small edging, peter possibly ooc, nicknames [baby, princess]
→ a/n: kinktober 04
Sure Peter had plenty of other ways he could test out the strength of his newly formulated web fluid. But you were just so eager to help your boyfriend out, always asking him if there was something you could do. Sewing up gashes and holes in his spider suit, patching him up after a fight, etc. So why not enlist the help of his pretty girlfriend instead of testing it out the same old boring way he always did. Of course being unaware of his little scheme you innocently and sweetly said yes when he asked if you'd help him out with an experiment. That was how you ended up in Peter's bed, hands restrained together and stuck to the headboard with his webs.
His body was currently nestled between your spread legs, eyes roaming your body before fixing on your face. Your lower half is entirely exposed, the breeze from his open window nipping at your skin making you squirm. “This wasn't what I thought you meant when you asked for help, and I said yes Peter” you whine and buck your hips into his touch as his hands roam up your sides, rubbing and caressing your body. You can feel the cool metal of the singular web shooter strapped to his left wrist. “Oh this is fully what I intended when I asked baby, tug all you want, squirm all you want” he coos as he uncovers your breasts by pushing your shirt up to reveal them. “Need to test how strong the new formula is” he explains softly as his right hand falls between your open thighs, middle and ring fingers nudging open your slit and rubbing through your folds. Slick immediately collecting on the tips of his slender fingers.
With a sharp intake of breath you twist your body and try shifting your hips away from his hands. His free hand that has the web shooter aims towards your writhing leg and shoots webs that wrap your ankle tethering it to his foot board. “You sure this wasn’t what you intended, princess? You're so wet for me” he emphasizes his tease with a tilt of his head, smirking softly as his two fingers push at your hole.
You whine and push your hips back on his hand trying to get them inside you, your hole clenching at the small intrusion. “I missed you Pete, you've been so busy” you explain and look through your lashes at your boyfriend hovering over you, your eyes full of longing and love. “Awww well i'm here now baby” he leans down and presses his lips to yours just as his two fingers push knuckle deep inside you. You let out a short surprised moan against his lips as you kiss back greedily. You tug at the webs around your wrists, hands desperate and itching to touch Peter. “Keep tugging baby, try your hardest, you can do it” he mumbles into your mouth, his words both encouraging and mocking before humming when you whine in response. Goosebumps rise on your skin from the pleasure, his free hand coming to pin your hips down holding them still.
Pumping his fingers in and out of your leaking cunt, a sloppy squelching sound filling the room along with your muffled whimpers and moans. “Fuck!~” you let out a plaintive cry and pull away from peters mouth when his thumb is added in, stimulating your clit. Rubbing small circles on your bundle of nerves as his fingers speed up their movement, making your mouth fall open and your head fall back against his pillows. Your hands tug as well as your leg at his webbing, the action doing nothing to tear or unstick it. A heat spreading through your body, you liked this idea of him tying you up with his webs more than you could’ve guessed, the heat settling and growing in the pit of your stomach.
“Come on baby, i don't think your tryin’ hard enough to break out” he taunts as his long fingers find that spongy spot deep inside you and start abusing it, the rough pad of his tongue speeding up its circles. “Gonna have you cumming before you break the webs princess” he chuckles softly and leans down to kiss along the exposed column of your neck. Your head goes fuzzy from his mouth on you, his fingers ruthlessly thrusting inside you, the feeling of him all over you. “Can’t- I can’t do it Pete, i cant break em’ fuck- please baby im gonna cum!” you whine and cry out, your eyes squeezed shut as you teeter on the edge of your climax.
He grabs ahold of your chin and moves your head up the movement forces your eyes open, you stare into his deep brown eyes, his pupils blown.
“Not yet baby, the experiment hasn't gone on long enough, need to see if they break” his voice comes out sweet yet concedesing as he crashes his lips against yours to muffle your wanton moan.
Truthfully Peter had gotten enough information from all your squirming and pulling that he figured it was strong enough, he was just having far too much fun playing with his pretty girlfriend.
→ a/n: i havent written for tasm!peter in a bit so I feel like he’s possibly out of character ? Idk I felt rusty when writing him
May I request a (Andrew Garfield's) Peter Parker "Spiderman" x male reader fic, where it ends with the iconic upside down Spiderman kiss? But this time the kiss occurs under a mistletoe that Peter's boyfriend (male reader) happened to hang it from their apartment's window when he was out being Spiderman (:. Peter doesn't notice initially but when he does he plays into it (even through the chilly wind and snow of New York), knocks on the window (even though he knows its unlocked), and he happily kisses his boyfriend. (Actually ends with some comfort, cuddling, and hot cocoa).
Andrew Garfield's Peter Parker will always be my original boyfriend💛. He is the best Peter Parker / Spiderman to ever have been and a big fuck you to Sony from taking away from us bisexual Peter. We were so close🫠
Christmas Eve Kisses
Peter Parker x Male Reader
Summary: Peter's out being a hero on Christmas eve of all days, but that wasn't going to stop you from the one tradition you loved.
A/N: Something short and sweet for the holidays. Andrew was also my og boyfriend, had his poster in my room above my bed.
CW: Fluff - Spider-Man kiss - Mistletoe
Words: 2k
The holidays didn't carry the same frantic magic they used to. Now that the two of you were older—and the apartment felt a little quieter with just the two of you—Christmas had shifted from a grand event into a series of soft, stolen moments. Between your exhausting forty-hour work week and Peter’s "second shift" as the city's neighborhood savior, time was the most expensive gift you could give each other.
But that didn't mean you’d given up. Even if your celebration was nothing more than a cheap box of chocolates and a predictable Hallmark movie watched through heavy eyelids, it was yours.
Tonight, the apartment was silent, save for the low hum of the heater and the distant sirens of midtown. You spent the evening untangling a nested mess of fairy lights, their warm, amber glow finally casting long shadows against the bedroom walls. It wasn't much, but it turned the cramped space into a sanctuary.
Finally, you reached for the sprig of mistletoe. With a small, knowing smile, you stepped toward the window. You pushed it open, wincing as the biting New York chill rushed in, and reached up to secure the mistletoe right above the fire escape entrance. It was a tactical placement—a trap for a tired hero. You could almost see it now: Peter swinging in, shivering and smelling of winter air and web-fluid, only to look up and realize he was caught.
You leaned against the window frame, looking out at the skyline and waiting for a flash of red and blue to break the dark. You knew he’d be home soon. He always found his way back to you.
After securing the mistletoe, you pulled the window shut, the latch clicking into place with a definitive metallic snap that seemed to echo in the quiet room. You gathered the empty cardboard box—now stripped of its tangled lights and plastic greenery—and tucked it away in the depths of the hall closet. It nudged against Peter’s old sneakers and a stack of forgotten textbooks, a small reminder of the life you were building in the gaps between his shifts.
The apartment was dim, lit only by the soft, amber hum of the new fairy lights bleeding in from the bedroom. You padded across the hardwood floors, your socks muffled against the grain, heading toward the kitchen. The December chill had seeped into your bones, and the thought of a heavy mug of hot chocolate felt less like a treat and more like a necessity.
The kitchen was a sanctuary of mundane sounds: the clatter of a stainless steel pot against the stove, the thud of the milk carton on the counter, and the rhythmic clink of a spoon against the tin of cocoa powder. You were just about to turn the dial on the stove, the smell of chocolate beginning to drift in the air, when a distinct thump-thump-thump vibrated through the apartment.
It didn't come from the front door. It came from the bedroom.
Leaving the milk on the counter, you retraced your steps, your heart giving a familiar, fluttering kick. You walked back into the bedroom, where the fairy lights pulsed like tiny stars. There, framed by the window and the silhouette of the fire escape, was Peter.
He was hanging upside down, his body a dark shape against the glowing New York skyline. His mask was peeled back just past his lips, bunched up around his nose, revealing the bottom half of his face. His skin was flushed a deep, wind-bitten red from the cold, and even upside down, that signature, lopsided grin was unmistakable.
Snowflakes drifted past his ears as he raised a gloved hand, tapping his knuckles lightly against the glass again. He gestured with a tilt of his head for you to let him in, his breath blooming in white puffs of steam in the winter night. He looked exhausted, his chin smeared with a bit of soot, but the sight of you seemed to be the only thing keeping that tired smile plastered on his face.
You crossed the room, the floorboards creaking softly under your weight—a familiar song of a building as old as your relationship. Reaching for the window lock, you slid the sash upward. Immediately, the city rushed in to greet you; it was a cacophony of distant sirens, the rhythmic rumble of the subway somewhere beneath the street, and the sharp, metallic scent of impending snow.
The cold rolled over the sill like a physical wave, biting through the knit of your thin sweater and making you shiver. But the man hanging there didn't seem to mind.
"Hey," Peter breathed. His voice was raspy, worn thin by the winter air and the adrenaline of the night, but it held a warmth that the New York wind couldn't touch.
You smiled, leaning against the frame despite the chill. "Hi. You're late."
Peter didn’t offer an excuse. Instead, his dark eyes flickered upward. He gave a subtle, playful nod toward the small sprig of green and red berries dangling just inches above his boots. A soft, huffed laugh escaped him, turning into a cloud of steam. He looked back at you, his expression softening into something tender and a little bit needy.
"Come here," he murmured, gesturing with a tilt of his head.
You stepped closer, ignoring the frost creeping onto the windowsill until you were mere inches from him. Peter reached out, his gloved hand coming up to cup your cheek. The fabric of the suit was cold and slightly textured, smelling of rain and the high-altitude ozone of the skyline, but his thumb traced your cheekbone with a gentleness that made your heart ache.
You let out a soft, breathy laugh, your eyes dancing. "What, am I about to get a famous Spider-Man kiss? Is that how this works now?"
Peter didn’t answer with words. He didn't need to. He just shifted his weight, the webbing of his line creaking slightly as he swung forward. The movement was fluid and practiced. He captured your lips in a soft, lingering kiss.
The angle was undeniably awkward—the bridge of his nose pressed against your chin, and you had to tilt your head just right to meet him—but the sheer romanticism of it drowned out the logistics. It wasn't the first time he had insisted on kissing you this way; Peter was a sucker for the classics, and there was something about being caught in his "trap" that made the rest of the world feel miles away.
His lips were cold, but the kiss was searing, tasting of home and the promise that, no matter how many villains he fought, he would always swing back to this window.
Peter lingered for a second longer, his forehead resting against yours as you both breathed in the frosty air. Finally, he let out a long sigh, his gloved hand sliding from your cheek to the window frame. With a grunt of effort that reminded you he was still human despite the powers, he hooked a leg over the sill and tumbled into the room.
He landed with a soft thud on the carpet, bringing a flurry of stray snowflakes and the biting scent of the night air with him. Immediately, he stood up and shoved the window shut, latching it tight. The silence that followed was heavy and sweet.
"God, it’s freezing," he muttered, though his eyes were still bright with that post-mistletoe glow. "You have no idea how good this room smells. Is that... cocoa?"
"I was just starting it when you knocked," you said, reaching out to rub his arms through the thin material of his suit, trying to coax some heat back into him. "I left the milk on the stove. Come on, before it burns."
You led the way back into the small kitchen, Peter trailing behind you like a weary shadow. He didn't stop to take off the rest of the suit yet; he just followed you into the warm, yellow light of the kitchen, watching as you turned the burner back on. The milk was just beginning to steam, a thin veil of white vapor rising from the pot.
Peter leaned against the counter, his mask now pulled entirely off and tucked into his belt, leaving his dark hair a chaotic, wind-swept mess. He looked older in this light—there were faint lines of exhaustion around his eyes—but as he watched you stir the chocolate powder into the milk, his expression was one of pure, unadulterated peace.
"You're doing that thing again," he whispered, his voice vibrating in the small space.
"What thing?" you asked, glancing over your shoulder as the chocolate swirled into a rich, dark brown.
"Making me feel like I’m actually home," he said softly. He stepped forward, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind. He was still freezing, the damp cold of his suit soaking into your sweater, but you didn't pull away. Instead, you leaned back into him, letting the heat of the stove and the weight of his chin resting on your shoulder anchor you both.
"It’s Christmas Eve, Peter," you reminded him, turning the heat down to a low simmer. "That’s what home is for."
He hummed in agreement, his arms tightening around you for a brief, needy second before he let go to reach for the mugs. The city was still out there, loud and restless, but inside the kitchen, the only thing that mattered was the steady whistle of the wind against the glass and the sweet, chocolatey steam rising between you.
"Go," you nudged him gently with your elbow, nodding toward the bedroom. "Shuck off the spandex and find something soft to wear. Pick out a movie—something mindless. I’ll finish up in here."
Peter didn't need to be told twice. With a grateful, tired grin, he pressed a quick kiss to the top of your head and disappeared toward the bedroom, leaving a trail of damp footprints and discarded gear in his wake.
In the kitchen, you took your time. You whisked the hot chocolate until a thick, frothy foam rose to the top, then carefully poured the liquid into two oversized, mismatched ceramic mugs. You didn't skimp on the marshmallows, watching them bob and begin to melt into the dark swirl of the cocoa. The heat of the mugs warmed your palms, a welcome contrast to the chill that had lingered in the air moments ago.
It couldn't have been more than two minutes later when you navigated the dim hallway, balancing the drinks with practiced ease. When you stepped back into the bedroom, the transformation was complete.
The suit was gone, replaced by a pair of faded grey sweatpants and a t-shirt that had seen better days. Peter was already buried beneath the heavy weight of the duvet, the covers pulled up to his chest. The only light in the room came from the amber twinkle of the fairy lights and the flickering blue glow of the television. The opening credits of a predictably snowy Hallmark movie were already rolling, the upbeat, jingling music filling the quiet gaps of the room.
"That was fast," you teased, stepping toward the bed.
"Record time," Peter muttered, his voice muffled by the pillows. He sat up slightly, reaching out to take his mug. His fingers brushed yours—warm now, finally—as he took the drink. He took a long, cautious sip, a soft sigh of genuine relief escaping him as the sugar and heat hit his system. "You’re a lifesaver. Seriously."
You set your own mug on the nightstand and climbed in beside him. The sheets were already warm from his body heat. As soon as you settled, Peter shifted, instinctively making room for you. He draped one long, heavy arm over your shoulders, pulling you firmly against his side.
He smelt like chocolate and mint when he kissed your temple, his breathing finally slowing down to match yours. Outside, the New York wind rattled the windowpane, and somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed, a reminder of the city that always needed him. But for tonight, the mask was tucked away in a drawer, the mistletoe was the only thing hanging over the fire escape, and the only world Peter Parker cared about was the one right here, tucked safely beneath the blankets with you.
