would love to see some aftercare w tasm!peter where reader is just soo sleepy and he is so tender <3 i adore the way you write him
Thank you for requesting!
cw: mature themes (mdni please), afab reader
tasm!Peter Parker x fem!reader ♡ 551 words
Peter might be a pervert for thinking you’re most beautiful like this, but he’s not that worried about it.
Maybe he is a pervert. It’s only for you, specifically, so whatever. He has a feeling you’ll forgive him.
You’re lying on the bed, your limbs lax now, like the last hour or so has taken it out of you so completely that you can’t move a muscle. Peter loves that he gets you like this. Completely unselfconscious. Your lips are kissed swollen, and there are little love marks on your chest to match the ones on Peter’s neck and shoulders, and your eyelids are as droopy as if they have weights sewn into them. He loves to get you like this too; completely tuckered out.
You rouse enough to hiss when Peter brings a wet washcloth between your thighs.
“Hey,” you say, almost scolding. It makes a laugh bubble up in Peter’s chest, which he generously swallows.
“Sorry.” He tucks his grin inside your knee, kissing softly. “I’ll be quick.”
He sweeps the cloth through your folds, and you hiss again, one leg coming up protectively as though you can’t help it. Now, Peter frowns.
“Is it really that sensitive?” he asks you.
He guesses he couldn’t blame you. You and Peter spent more time teasing each other tonight than you have in a while, and you weren’t exactly begging him to go easy on you. Your labia are as kiss-swollen as your mouth, maybe more.
The look you give him says you know he knows. “Yeah.” You heave a sigh, like speech is exhausting, your eyes drifting shut again. “I’m sore all over. Aren't you?”
Peter is, but he also spends his free time doing acrobatics and heaving himself around by his arms. If he twinged a bit walking to the bathroom and back, he bets you’re feeling worse.
He rubs over your hip consolingly. “Wanna take a bath?”
You think on it for a while. You’re tempted, Peter can tell. “I don’t feel like getting up.”
“I’ll carry you.”
You hum somnolently. “Thanks, but you…” You fumble for Peter’s hand. When you find it, you squeeze his fingers, his sweetheart. Peter squeezes back. “You have to get up early for work.”
“Yeah, but I don’t mind.” He catches his voice softening, as if he’s trying not to disturb your sleep when really he’s trying to keep you awake. He doesn’t do anything to correct it. “I’ll have coffee either way. Let me give you a bath, pretty girl.”
It’s a visible effort to open your eyes. You look at Peter like he hung the moon. “Sure?”
He grins. “Yeah, I’m sure.”
“You’d do that?”
Peter groans, his head dropping to your leg. He lets his voice buzz against your skin. “Are you serious? God, I know you’re tired, but let’s use our brains for a second.”
He picks his head up to take yours between his hands. You look slightly more awake than you were a moment ago.
“I would do anything for you,” he says. “Got it?”
Peter watches your surprise meld into a more startled kind of pleasure. He kisses it right off your lips.
“Dramatic,” you accuse, settling back into your pillow as Peter stands to start your bath.
summary: peter parker isn't mentally prepared to see his teammate and crush wearing an 'i ❤️ spiderman' t-shirt, but he tries to play is off smoothly despite being around teammates who can read his behaviour better than anyone in the world.
wc: 1k+
cw: fluff, peter gets humiliated. trying to bring the old thor eats poptarts and clint is in the vents vibes back.
The elevator announces its arrival at the avengers living quarters with a muted ding sounded from inside its closed doors. They begin to open with a dull noise as the mechanisms shift, and from across the living room, Steve hears you humming absentmindedly from inside the elevator. The doors finally open, and the three avengers in the room glance up as you walk out, sipping at a cold drink, your phone in your other hand. There’s a couple of shopping bags hanging from your arms, and your lips are decorated with what seems to be a new gloss.
Natasha and Steve watch as you walk slowly towards the couch, letting all your bags drop from your arms, and Peter, on the couch in front of them, listens closely to your movements while pretending to mind his own business. Your eyes are still glued to your phone as you scroll through texts you missed out on hours ago, and you slump down on the couch between your shopping bags, melting into the cushions and throwing your feet up onto the table. Peter turns his head to look at you, smiling softly at your focused expression. He’s on his own phone, seeing in real time as the texts between him, Ned and MJ get read by you, your little profile photo popping underneath each message as you read it. He almost feels bad for you; the three of them aren’t done with this conversation and it started the second you left the tower.
Then, despite having just sat down, you get to your feet again. You put your drink on the table, putting your phone in your pocket and grabbing all of your bags again. And it’s only then, when you’re standing up straight and moving all your bags to one hand that Natasha sees the design on your tee. She instantly grins, taking the moment to stare while you pick up your drink again and take another sip. Then, she strikes.
“Is that an ‘I love Spiderman’ shirt?”
Peter’s head snaps up towards Natasha, then towards you. You aren’t taken aback by the question at all, only glancing down at your shirt and humming. “Huh, yeah. I’ve had it for a while actually, but these jeans were just never clean.”
Peter’s heart thrums a little too hard in his chest, and he doesn’t miss the way Steve’s lips quirk up into a smirk at his reaction — one which is only obvious to the super soldier. He shakes himself out of his daze, calling out “That doesn’t look like me at all.”
The way you laugh causes another dangerous reaction in Peter, whose breath hitches as you smooth a hand over the graphic design of your shirt. There’s a big red heart, and on it swings an animated Spiderman, who admittedly looks nothing like Peter. In or out of his spider suit. “I’ll make sure to let them know.” You tell him, walking away in the direction of your room.
“Good job buddy, you almost managed to hide that little crush of yours.” Steve comments when you're out of earshot, and Peter huffs to hide the way his face darkly flushes. He sticks his nose back into his phone to hide himself from Natasha before she gets involved with the teasing too. “You gonna tell her how you feel one of those days?” She asks, her voice velvety smooth in a way that almost has Peter marching up to your room and confessing his feelings for you. “I don’t know what you guys are talking about.” He retorts, pitch spiking embarrassingly.
Steve laughs, the sound coming from deep in his chest, and Peter wishes in that moment that he could just disappear. He doesn’t think he’s ever heard Captain America laugh like that. Neither does Tony apparently, who comes walking into the living room with something to say — because when does he not?
“A laugh from Captain America? How do you manage that?” Tony asks, pulling his phone out of his pocket. “Is it the little article that came out about your girlfriend?” Peter and Natasha straighten up: Peter in a panic and Natasha in a newfound curiosity.
“What article?” Peter squeaks, his mouth going dry. Tony smirks as he walks around Peter, sitting down in the exact spot you were in just a couple of minutes ago. He puts one foot on the table, then swings his second leg over it while he flicks through his phone. “Oh, just this article that popped up on my google alerts. ‘Avenger goes shopping in New York City wearing an ‘I love Spiderman shirt: Is she telling the fans to back off her man?’ And there’s this cute little picture of you guys in your suits outside this mexican place.”
Tony hums to himself as Peter sits there in horror, only imagining your reaction. Would you laugh it off, make a joke, and pretend it never happened? Would you make a face and an accompanying noise of disgust, only able to see Peter as a brother to you? Peter shudders at the possibility.
“That sounds like a first step to me.” Encourages Steve with a smile, but Peter decides to move his gaze to Natasha instead, eyes widening at the sight of her grinning widely at her phone and scrolling through what he only imagines can be tabloid headlines. In his hand, his phone screen lights up with notification after notification, and he furrows his eyebrows as links keep going through the Avengers group chat, all under the name ‘Spider sister🤪🤪🕷️🕷️’. “Not cool, Natasha!” Peter argues, and yet he opens the group chat to scroll through all the news articles she sent. “Now she’s gonna see all of those!”
Except what Peter doesn’t know is that in your room, you scroll through your phone with a smile on your face. You’ve purposefully looked your name up yourself after seeing the text through Natasha’s notification, not wanting her to see that you’ve read her messages. You’re honestly impressed that the news outlets got your message so clearly, but you’ve also learned how to communicate with them, so what can you say?
Maybe this will finally hit Peter with an inspiration to come and tell you how he feels. If not, you might have to buy a ‘I love nerds who are also my roommates who are also spiderman’ shirt.
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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peter came in through the window last night ; cw. fluff , established relationship , rom-com cliché's , prompt inspired by the song of the title ; words. 0,6k
author's note ⌇ with the brand new day trailer out i feel like the best thing i could do is comeback with a peter parker blurb even though its tasm!peter lololl anyways feel free to send in some of ur thoughts and requests for himmm
dating new york's infamous spider-man was far from normal. even before that, who knew you would have a spark with the boy you barely acknowledged in high-school? never mind that, who knew he'd be your boyfriend let alone the blue and red vigilante crossing the busy streets? it's a bizarre scenario your thirteen year-old self would've imagined. but hey, you're living it now.
somehow, you'd have to smuggle late night emergencies and early morning absences within your routine. peter would crash by during the most painful hours and yet you showed no complaints, patching him up as you listen to his recent encounters with all kinds of villains, and finishing up with kisses plus takeaway pizza from the shop nearby.
you were used to him entering your room via window all bruised up and muddy, with puppy dog eyes you couldn't imagine saying no to. but of course, being peter parker's girlfriend you wouldn't expect anything less. not when your bed-rotting, music-listening, session was interrupted by obnoxious knocking. peter parker smiled obliviously through your window, mouthing a 'please let me in' whilst giggling internally.
the skies were melting into a dark orange and purple tint, you got up to open the locked latch as peter struggled to find balance. greeted with a kiss on the nose, peter clumsily fell onto the carpet— all existence of his spider-senses seem to vanish into thin air when he's around you. you scoff in disbelief whilst he fixed his hair, peter finally spoke, "don't look at me like that, at least i'm not bleeding onto your carpet like the last four times,"
"five times, actually," you correct him.
he scratches his head, he asked, "you keep count?" in which you nodded. you took the time to study peter, it was a refreshing sight to see as he's correct on one thing, he isn't all bloody. he was wearing the shirt you bought him months ago, layered on top of a long white sleeve top, and it complimented the jeans he was wearing too. you were undeniably in love with him at this moment— peter looked as if he just came out of your favorite 2000s rom-com.
"if you're not all beaten up, why come so suddenly through my window?" you furrowed your brows, peter shrugs ultimately, "i dunno? it's a nice change, and i don't think your doorman likes me anyways," the room lights up alongside his dimples. you gesture peter to join you on the carpet, "mr. stevie? he's the sweetest, what could you possibly do for him not to like you?" he leans onto your head.
"remember when you were sick and i had to buy two huge tubs of soup and deliver it to you personally?" peter questions, you nod slowly, as if you were unsure— "yeah, well, i only gave you one tub, because guess what happened to the other one..."
"oh peter, don't tell me you spilt it—"
"all over his attire, fully coaxed in warm soup."
you slapped the palm of your hand onto your forehead, peter laughed as he fixed the crook of his glasses. the laughter slowly fades into one with the light of the sun setting, the hues mixing harmoniously with you and peter's features. he took a moment to fully embrace your beauty. you did as well— peter's glasses were slightly crooked from all the falling and tripping throughout the months, his hair messy from either the wind outside or his sudden entrance, the shirt hugged him so well you knew the second you gave it it's as if it was made for him.
peter's gaze was locked onto yours, "if you wanted to kiss me, you know you can, right? i didn't come through your window for nothing." his teasing tone made you snap back to reality. the stupid grin on his face grew as you became embarrassingly red.
can you do a fic where one of the peters (garfield or holland) is making out with the reader and starts to kiss and bite her neck and the little sounds she makes drives him insane
three strikes
ask box | taglist | blurb masterlist | main masterlist
w/c: 655
warnings: making out, suggestiveness
a/n: i went with tasm!peter hehe, def a fluffier approach to it but so so adorable & i hope you enjoy! keep the reqs coming y'all <3
winter in the city is magical. everything in the park is covered in a light dusting of snow, all the stone pathways and the trees, couples hand in hand and kids playing. then, there's peter. he's looking up at the sky with his tongue stuck out. he's so focused on trying to catch snowflakes that he doesn't notice you digging your hands into the snow, collecting a handful.
something hits peter's chest; a snowball. he looks across the way, where you're smiling mischievously. he brushes the snow off his jacket, chuckling. you're already making another snowball.
"i dunno, babe. i wouldn't do that if i were you."
despite peter's warning, you aim your arm to throw.
"you're playing with fire, you know that?"
"no, i’m playing with snow."
"oh, that's cute. really cute."
you promptly hit peter with the snowball. he raises a challenging eyebrow, and you know you're in for it. you start to run away, giggling, peter chasing after you. he's quick to catch up. he grabs your waist and pins you against a streetlight, breathing out smoke into the cold air through laughter.
"you wanna try that again?"
peter's gaze darts between your eyes and lips. you bite back a grin.
"kind of."
"what a shame. it'd be strike three."
"what happens after strike three?"
"you wouldn't get this."
peter leans in and kisses you. you loop your arms around his neck, deepening the kiss. he hums in content, hands squeezing your waist and lips trailing over to your cheek. he pecks both your cheeks, your nose, just above your lips, peppering kisses all over your face until you're giggling and trying to push him away.
"no, no, no, stop! that tickles!"
peter kisses down your chin and back up, across your forehead, over to your temple. you grin despite yourself, tugging at his locks that are damp with snow.
"i’m serious, pete! stop it!"
"no can do, babe. can't help myself, you're just too damn cute."
peter pecks your cheek a few times, earning a noise of protest.
"so cute i could eat you up."
"nuh uh."
you pull the zipper of your jacket all the way up so it's covering the lower half of your face.
"yeah huh."
peter leaves big, lingering kisses on your forehead, each one punctuated with a mwah. when you realize he's not going to let up, you finally concede. you uncover your face and capture his lips with yours, the only way to make him stop. your nose nudges his, head tilting to look at him.
"are you done?"
"not even close."
peter kisses you again. you kiss him back, smiling into it. he moves your jacket out of the way and continues his kiss attack, this time on your neck. you let him have his fun, enjoying the feeling of his lips on your skin. you squeal when he finds one particular spot and nips at it.
"pete! what're you doing?"
"i told you, eating you up."
he playfully bites at your neck between a series of kisses, arms locked around your waist, drawing the most adorable sounds out of you that he can't get enough of. you thread your fingers through his hair.
"don't forget we're in public, mister."
your tone doesn't match your words, unconvincing, and you're resting your head on the lamp pole so peter has more access. he smirks.
"i know, they're just love bites."
he starts to suck at your neck. the pressure is light, but enough to leave a hickey. you play with his fluffy hair, letting out a noise between a sigh and a moan. you feel the vibrations from peter laughing. you feel something poking at your thigh, too.
"and you're telling me we're in public? whew, i think we'd better get you home."
"you'd like that, wouldn't you?"
peter answers by holding you in place and kissing down your neck, making you breathless from laughter.
omg mal congrats on 8k 🖤 may i request venom with tasm!peter (or james 🫣) with the prompt “whispering words of admiration and love between a kiss”
hi angel thank u so much! went with peter cos I haven’t written him in forever hehe hope u enjoy!! join the celly
tasm!peter parker x fem!reader, 0.6k words
“You’re so pretty,” Peter murmurs against your lips.
You try not to melt. Peter’s got you pressed into his mattress, poised above you with his knee wedged between your legs. You’re not so much kissing him as letting yourself be kissed, too breathless and too flustered to do much else. One arm braced on the pillow next to your head, Peter uses his other to hold your shoulder, his thumb pressing into the hollow of your neck.
“You can't even see me,” you whisper back. It’s getting dark in his room, mostly shadows but for a few strips of pale moonlight painting the floor and wall. You don't know how long he’s been kissing you like this. You just know you’re dizzy enough that it could've been hours by now and you wouldn’t know.
Peter laughs against your tingling mouth. “Mm, but I just know you look so pretty right now,” he whispers. “You’re beautiful all the time.”
Warmth blooms in your chest like a flower in spring. You don't know why he has to say things like that. As if his kissing wasn’t enough already. It’s like he wants you dead.
Peter kisses the side of your mouth languidly. Then his lips start to migrate downwards, searching. He paints a hot, sticky trail of kisses moving towards your neck. Meanwhile you’re gripping his shoulders like they’re a lifeline, scared if you let go you’ll melt into the bed like a popsicle in the summer.
“D’you want a hickey?” Peter murmurs into the space under your jaw. His teeth graze your skin lightly and chills shoot down your spine. You grab him harder.
“Yeah, okay,” you nod. His head’s low enough now that you can push your hand up into his hair, fingers curling into the thick, messy strands at the nape of his neck. You push your other hand over the hill over his shoulder to hold his bicep.
Peter hums and his mouth moves downwards to your sweet spot, right in the juncture between your neck and shoulder. He kisses you first, a hot press of his sticky lips. Then his lips part, and his tongue pushes over your skin, warm and wet. You shudder.
Peter chuckles lazily into your neck. “You okay?”
You pinch his arm. “Shut up.”
You feel him smile. “Yes, ma’am.”
You’re about to say something smart back when his teeth scrape over your neck. You inhale fast and tug him closer, your heartbeat turning frantic. Peter takes your skin between his lips and sucks at it, bullying your neck with rough, open mouthed kisses and the scraping of his teeth. He kisses you like this until you go hot as coals under him, worse when he presses his knee up further between your thighs.
When he’s done abusing your skin, Peter straightens up, hovering above you. You can just make out his face in the semi-dark, handsome as ever, his lips swollen and his chest heaving. Your own chest heaves as he looks at you in silence.
”What?” You ask, shy under his heavy gaze.
Peter shrugs. “Nothing. You’re beautiful.” He ducks down to kiss you again, on the mouth this time. “I love you,” he murmurs softly.
You really truly think you might melt in his hands any second now. It’s only a matter of time, when he’s being this sweet on you.
“I love you, too,” you manage weakly.
Peter grins an amused sort of grin. You wonder if he’s teasing you for your inability to function properly, but you don't care enough to do anything about it.
“You want another hickey?” He asks. He thumbs your throat, where your skin feels sensitive and raw. You’re sure it's bright purple by now. “One isn’t really enough, right?”
You tug him back down in lieu of an answer. You don't think you could get the words out if you tried.
— summary: peter keeps forgetting your groceries, you come up with a way he'll definitely remember next time.
"Stay still." You hiss, for the tenth time. Peter doesn't listen, and your black pen run down his hand once again. You're trying to take note for him, in hope he'll remember to run your errands this time. So far, you've written "eggs, flour, chocolate" and about four scribbled lines, either because he already bought it that week or because, like now, he moved his arm.
"Sorry, baby, maybe write it down next time on a non living being?" Peter suggests, looking at you with puppy eyes that you swear don't work on you.
"I have." You have. On three different pieces of paper, but he never checks them until you remind him to do so, and by that time, he's already home. You tried texting him it, but the same situation followed. This time, at least you hoped, he wouldn't forget it. "Don't forget the tomatoes have to be-"
"Organic." He completes the sentence for you, picking up another marker just so he can tap it on your forehead, tip closed. He uncaps it with his mouth and draw a wiggly tomato on his arm. "I got it, bug." You circle the word nevertheless, Peter pulling his arm away from you as he feigned offense. You frown again. "I'll drop by that cake shop and buy you a slice."
You know he's trying to bribe you, but you do like the cakes Peter brought you on all his walks, the one thing he never forgot.
"I love you, y'know that?" You smile, drawing a small heart next to his elbow to prove your point.
"I look like your sketchbook." Peter frowns, looking at his arm, half of it covered in your handwriting and drawings.
"My sketchbook wouldn't never complain. Or move this much." You argue back, leaving a kiss on his cheek before you stand up. "Please don't forget anything."
"Won't do, how could I?" He smiles to you, half amused half feign offense. You blow him a kiss before he pushes past the frame of your window with ease, landing on the fire exit. It's less graceful than he thinks, but you still smile as he lands, leaning against the window. "Harry will take the piss of me."
"Maybe you deserve it."
He lets out a huff, breathy and soft, something that to a trained ear like yours, sounds suspiciously like "I love you too."
@urluvautii helped come up with this idea lol fictober
“Peterrr, keep your eyes closed!” You laughed, backing away from your boyfriend as he inched closer, brown eyes squeezed shut, hands reaching to feel the material of the mystery costume hugging your skin.
“Baby, you’re killin’ me-” “Open!”
His jaw went slack, glasses eagerly pushed atop of his head as if somehow not having them over his eyes would help him see better.
“You like it?”
The little hip movement you did made it so much worse for Peter.
There you stood, the most beautiful woman he had ever known, standing in front of him in a fucking Spider-man costume.
A skintight, shading accurate, Spider-man costume.
“Oh my- I think i just died and went to heaven” his words were hushed and fast, hands finding your waist pulling and pushing all at once.
Your laugh rang through the air, music to his ears, arms locking yourself onto him around his neck when he finally got you to the edge of his desk. “Do these web shooters work, miss spidey?” he trailed his fingers up your arms, pulling once he found your wrists.
“Prototypes, I might’ve stolen from the real Spider-man”
Peter chuckled, dipping his face into the crook of your neck. “Why don’t we find out, baby?”
