Rating: M - No sex, but adult themes are discussed and mentioned in brief. This isn’t smut. It’s soft hurt/comfort.
Warnings: Lil’ bit angsty because Peter has trauma (tm), mentions of sex, mentions the possibility of children but never specificed whether biological or adopted so nice and open there, Peter is getting an achy back,
Summary: Peter always looks after you when you’re not feeling your best, but he’s not so great at accepting it in return. His middle back pain has become more frequent and your worried, you take the issue into your own two hands.
Notes: Um, I love my boy. Thanks and goodnight.
“Ah, Jesus…”
“Pete?” You come out of the bedroom at the sound of his groaning, he’s leaning against the back of the couch with one hand, still in his Spidey suit except for the mask, which is on the couch. His other hand is pressed back against the middle of his back, as he bends and stretches in an attempt to work out a crick that keeps coming back. His notorious middle back pain. He’s only in his twenties, but his back pain has been getting worse and more persistent. Until this point you’ve let him get on with it, helping him stretch and massaging his back when you can. But, you know he probably needs to see a professional about it. “Hey, baby…I’m okay, really.” He waves you off, head tilted back as he gasps at the twinge in his back. You close the gap between you, taking his face in your hands and brushing your fingers across his cheeks in an effort to soothe his discomfort. He leans into you like you’re a fresh breeze on a boiling hot summer day. It worries you, a lot, how much Peter hurts sometimes. In these normal ways particularly. A cut you can see, it’ll heal and it’ll be gone, but the persistence of his back ache has you worried because you have no idea if it's more serious than just an ache.
“Is it your back again?”
“Yeah, I must have over done the whole swinging thing today…Ah..” Your hands glide down from his face over his shoulders to press over his own on his back, pushing his own hands out of the way, you feel for the tension in the middle of his back. Tight like stone rather than muscle, so hard you almost feel the pain yourself.
“Peter, sweetheart…” You start to rub little circles into the muscle, watch as the smallest bit of relief fills Peter’s face, his brows softening, his face slacking. But, you know it’d be better if you got him to lie down on your bed and had a proper go at tackling it. He needs a wash too, he’s clearly been thrown about tonight, face covered in dirt and suit covered in it too. He looks like he’s been up a chimney.
“Oh nooo, you never call me that unless i’m not gonna like it…” Your hands still as he looks down at you. You have that look on your face, the one Peter knows means that you’re about to tell him to do something that he might not want to do. Always because you care about him, always because you worry.
“Have you considered that maybe, just putting the idea out there, maybe your bad back isn’t from the swinging…but from all the falling and crashing into cars and buildings that you do?”
“What? I don’t…baby, I don’t fall and crash into things that much I mean…” Okay, so maybe he fell through a couple of buildings today and last week…and the week before that and before that…but, his back is a temporary issue, Peter’s sure of it. It’s not serious, he’s still fit enough to carry you in his arms, toss you over his shoulder, and make love to you like the youthful twenty-six year old that he is. He’s not incapable, he’s fine. He’s fine and he’s not getting old.
You can see him getting his back up, all defensive, as he pulls away from your hands. He’s never liked admitting he needs help or that there’s a problem, always needing to be capable, in fear of people leaving, abandoning him. You’re not going to run away because his back hurts, but you know deep down he’s scared you might, he’s scared you might not need him or want him anymore. He’s scared that when he starts needing your help, you’ll leave because it’s too much effort. It’s silly because you never would. You love him and his rickety back. You love looking after him and making him feel loved. But you also know that he still needs to learn that, to move past the trauma of being abandoned at his Aunt and Uncle’s house. The trauma of being the kid no one really liked much in school. The trauma of two of the people he loved most dying and leaving him alone. You see a lot of your own fears in Peter, it’s why you never run away from it, because you understand that something as small as admitting his back is a problem might seem like a bigger issue entirely. He’s always the capable one, always the one everyone needs to solve his problems, if he can’t do that? You know he wonders if people will stick around.
“Last week you crashed through the grocery store, then fell on a taxi and got thrown through a bus…a bus, Peter….Just, you’re not getting younger and…” You reach for him as he pulls away, knowing he wants you to follow. He wants you to persist, to prove to him you’re not fed up with him. So you grab his hands and interlock your fingers together, holding him close and squeeze his hands a couple of times.
Peter lets you draw near, stepping into his space. “Baby, are you calling me old?! Do you…are you going to find yourself a younger man, is that it?” It’s said as a joke on his end, but…it’s not really. You’re not that far apart in age, but he feels older and he feels like he’s not as good at loving you anymore. Maybe he’s too much like hard work now…the truth is he's not sure what he would do if you didn’t love him anymore. He loves you so much, so deeply that he can’t imagine a life without you next to him. When he thinks of the future, he sees you and him with rings on your left hands, maybe there’s a couple of kids involved or…or maybe you just get a pet. But, you’re always part of that plan, no one else. The thought of you leaving…it hurts.
For you, he’s never going to be too much like hard work to love. Loving him feels easy, is easy, even when things get rocky or bumpy. There’s never been a moment when you’ve felt that feeling slip, where it’s disappeared, not even for a second.
“Peter, I love my older man,” You say as if he’s ten years your senior and not just a year older. As if he’s in his forties and not his twenties. “But, I'm serious. Maybe you should see an actual chiropractor, just so it doesn't get worse. I will love you till the end, but I want you to look after yourself. I’m good, but I’m not a licensed chiropractor, baby.” You wrap your arms around his neck pulling him in for a tight embrace, one you know he needs.
You’re so warm, so soft, so you. You smell like your favourite perfume and that hair mask you put on when you’re treating yourself. You mold your body against his, so tight there’s barely any gaps between you and he doesn’t mind even when his back twinges a little at the embrace. He’s just happy to hear those words. That you love him, that you’re not stopping. That this is just you making sure he’s okay, not anything else. He loves you, God, Peter loves you. He never thought he’d love again after Gwen and he hopes he never has to love another person again. Just you.
“Yeah, honey, sure, how am I gonna explain why my back hurts? Oh, yeah, so I'm Spider-Man…and a giant gorilla threw me through a building last week and my back hasn’t been the same since?” Despite the sarcasm, he’s smiling at you, hands slipping into the back pockets of your jeans as he pulls you closer. He can be the most difficult man on earth.
You roll your eyes at him, always so defiant whenever you suggest professional attention, all in the name of his secret as if lying isn’t an option. It’s not like he told you the truth about all those bruises when you first became friends. You’re beginning to suspect your boyfriend just really doesn’t like seeing doctors or medical professionals. “American football? Rugby? Gymnastics? Maybe you’re an acrobat at a circus? You can’t keep avoiding help, Peter!” You supply some pretty plausible excuses, if you do say so yourself.
“Baby, sweetheart, love of my life, pain in my ass.” he pinches your ass as he says it and you poke him in the stomach and Peter pulls back just a little with a laugh and then a gasp of pain, before his smile drops into something softer as he presses his forehead to yours. “I’m fine. Really. Your back rubs always help and it’s not like you don’t get back ache too. We’re both getting old, two cute old people, together with our achy bones and our little zimmer frames. ”
You try to resist the smile that brings out of you, but it’s impossible. He’s so cute that despite your attempts at stopping it all that happens is your smile comes out scrunched up. “Stop being cute, Pete.” You look away for a moment, composing yourself, before returning to the seriousness at hand. He hates that he can never get you off topic, you’re like a dog with a bone sometimes. Distraction doesn’t work. You’re too smart for that. Your attempt at not smiling is cute though. You’re cute all the time, he thinks. “I just worry…I’m not the one falling on top of cars from a great height.”
“I know you worry. I love you for that, but it’s okay…I’m okay, baby.” He pulls you closer, hands still in your back pockets like you’re in high school and kisses you. It’s sweet and familiar, the way his lips press against your own and his tongue traces your bottom lip lazily. He’s so familiar at this point you’d be able to pick his kiss out from a line up, the way he tastes, the way he always pushes as close to you as he can get, the press of his nose into your cheek, dimpling your skin. Even the way his hands move to grip your hips, firm and secure. You couldn’t mistake Peter Parker’s kiss for anyone else's.
He loves kissing you. You’re a sweet kisser even in the throes of passion, you kiss him like you love him (which you do). You’re gentle with him and constantly drawing him closer, like he’ll never be close enough. He kisses you because loves to, but…there’s a part of him that hopes it’ll distract you from your worry about him. That you’ll let it go. He knows that’s a fool’s errand though. You’ve never let anything go in your entire life, especially not when it comes to caring about him and how he’s doing. Even when he thinks you’ve let it go, you’ve just put it aside for a moment to bring up again later. You’re stubborn like that, it can be a pain, but…he loves it about you too.
You pull back first and he follows your lips pushing forward and you push him back by the shoulders. He blinks at you with a pout, hands tightening on your hips to drag you back towards him, your next words stop his attempt at kissing you again. A great distraction you know he’s trying to employ. You know all his tricks by now, whether he realises that or not.
“You hurt anywhere else?” You take the time to look him over, noticing a couple of scratches and a few holes in his suit, easy patches, but the skin underneath is scabbed over and angry. You can’t see anything major, but with Peter it’s hard to tell sometimes.
“No, not really. Couple of bruises, a couple of scratches, nothing major. I’m fine, I promise, baby.” He can see you cataloguing his body, what might be wrong with him, you have it down to a fine art, often knowing the answer before you ask the question. He knows better than to lie to you or hide anything major, if he did…he knows you’d be angry, he knows it wouldn’t end well, and Peter values your relationship too much to risk it because he’s worried you’ll know about some broken bones or cuts.
You pull back from him, grabbing his hands as you go to remove them from your hips. Peter groans at you, “Babe?” You just smile and lock your fingers together, tugging him towards the bathroom as you go.
“C’mon, we’re getting you a bath and one of my world famous massages.” He stumbles after you, only now realising just how tired he actually is after a whole day of work and an evening of patrolling the city. His feet ache as you pull him after you.
“You’re treating me to the whole works tonight, huh? Is it a special occasion? Did I do something?” You sit him on the lid of the toilet when you make it to the bathroom, running your hands through his messy brown strands, trying to tame them for a moment. His deep big brown eyes seem to glitter when he looks up at you like that, a warm flush to his cheeks as he leans into your touch like a cat seeking warm sunlight on a windowsill.
“Only being your handsome-” you cut yourself off to lean down and press a kiss to the tip of his nose, “funny-” the apple of his cheek, “wonderful-” that spot between his brows that he furrows so much “sweet self.” He’s bright red in the face, even the tips of his ears are warm and you giggle at it, adorable as he can be before pulling yourself away to run him a bath.
He’s not as fussy as you when it comes to his baths, but you know he needs a nice warm one right now, to help get him clean and limber him up a bit before you have a go at unknotting some of that tension in his back. It’s not an uncommon ritual, but Peter tends to shy away from you caring for him, especially if he could be caring for you instead. He often prefers to give than take, it’s a similar situation in the bedroom too. Always the giver and rarely a willing receiver.
He watches you as you run the bath for him, sitting on the edge of the tub, running your hand through the water to make sure it’s not too cold or too hot. He can imagine you doing it for your future kids, a small child sitting where he is, waiting for bath time as you check if it's safe for them to go in. He can see you bringing out rubber ducks and bath toys, making up silly scenes for them, can see and almost feel the tender way you’d smooth the top of their hair and press a kiss to it. God, he wants that with you. A family. He wants it so badly he can feel his chest ache with a yearning inside him.
“What’ya thinking about, Tiger?”
“Mmm?” Peter shakes his head and refocuses on you, you’re watching him with soft eyes, but scanning his head now as if looking for a bruise or a bump. You push his hair back from his forehead and use it as a pretence, he can feel you searching his head for a bump or cut, any indication that his spacing out isn’t just him being Peter.
“You, you’re thinking hard over here…or are you just concussed?” He shakes his head, no he’s fine. Not a single knock to the noggin’. You seem content when you don’t find any indication of a bump. “What were you thinking about, baby?”
“Just you…”
“Just me?” You feel warmth run through you, a little smiling tugging at the corners of your mouth as Peter watches you. There’s a little guarded look behind his eyes as he continues, like he’s worried he’s going to say the wrong thing.
“And maybe…” You reach for his hand and squeeze, just enough to remind him who he’s talking to. You’ve seen him covered in blood, barely standing. Nothing he could say would make you run away. “You can tell me, Pete, have I run off yet?” He shakes his head no. No. You’ve been here the whole time, staunchly loyal and so very, very wonderful to him. Even with nightmares and traumas and worries. Even with villains and robbers. “I just…I was thinking about h-how I'd..I'd like to have a family with you one day.”
He gets twitchy when you don’t respond immediately. You’ve pulled back a bit, a look of surprise on your face, those eyebrows of yours so high up he’s worried he’s given you a heart attack. His shoulders drop in relief when that look turns into a soft grin, your teeth showing from between your lips, eyes glittering.
“Really? You want kids? With me?” You’ve thought about it. Yeah, of course you’ve thought about it, but Peter…you’d always thought he’d be reluctant, worried about the safety of a family and his double life. You’d let the hope sit in the back of your mind and tried not to dwell on it too much.
“Yeah, if…if you want that…someday…”
“If you play your cards right, Parker, yeah, I'd like that.” You’re both grinning at each other like idiots, even as you turn the taps off to the bath and pull him to his feet.
Peter struggles out of the suit today, more so than usual. His back twinging and screaming at him as he tries to shuck it off. Your hands help pull the top half over his shoulders and head, even as every muscle yells at him to stop moving. He struggles to bend, so you help him roll the bottoms off along with the shoes. You’re careful with him, taking your time. When he’s finally free of the suit it’s a relief and you urge him into the tub as you remove your own clothes.
He scoots forward, a hard feat with his long legs, as you step in behind him, wrapping your hips around his from behind.
“You can lean back, baby. Let me take care of you, okay?”
He doesn’t really have much energy to argue as you pull him back against your chest gently. Your hands brushing back his hair and roaming over his shoulders. He can’t help but sigh loudly, the water is warm and it soothes some of that ache in his back. Your hands are gentle as you grab the bar of soap off the side and run it over his skin.
Peter loves taking care of you, but sometimes, he has to admit that it’s nice to be taken care of too.
You’re gentle with each cut and bruise as you run soapy hands over his body. Dirt and dry blood washed away into the water, like worries drifting away from his mind. You take extra care with his hair, pushing his legs forward and leaning him back gently, mindful of his backache as you cup water to pour over his hair. You take your time lathering and massaging the shampoo into his locks, and it’s impossible for him to keep his eyes open as your nails drag across his scalp and down to the base of skull, working at a couple of knots there.
You don’t need to spend ten minutes washing his hair, carding your fingers through brown strands and massaging against his scalp, you both know that, but you do it anyway because you know he loves it. Peter melts whenever you touch his hair, it’s the same for you too, something so intimate and tender about it all. He doesn’t always let you take care of him, so you make the most of the opportunity while you can.
He feels practically boneless by the time he’s fully clean and the water has run cold, other than that awful sharp tension in his back that hasn’t gone away, only dulled slightly by the warmth of the water.
Peter doesn’t want to move, to get out of the water, but you force him out anyway and dry him off with a towel. He’d normally insist he can dry himself, but he feels heavy and you smile softly at him when he lets you do this sort of thing.
He follows you to your shared bed, hand being tugged by yours , urging him forward despite his heavy steps until you encourage him to lie down on the bed on his front. He falls more than anything. Letting gravity force him face first onto the bed, before you urge him to scoot up higher so his legs don’t dangle off the end. Ridiculously long as they are.
He hears the click of your knuckles as you crack your fingers, feels the weight of you as you straddle his hips and sit down gently on his thighs. It’s vulnerable like this, his body bare, his face hidden in your pillow that smells like your shampoo, his back turned to you. His trust in you is implicit, he doesn’t doubt you have his best interests at heart, that you love him or that he’s safe with you.
You take a moment to admire his back. The strong muscles carved from every swing through the city, every punch thrown. He has beauty marks and freckles dotted over his skin like constellations of stars and you reach out a finger tip and trace a few, smirking at the shiver that runs through his back at the light touch.
“Someone’s sensitive,” You tease him, as you lean forward breathing warm air across the back of his neck, before placing a delicate kiss at the base of his skull.
His voice is muffled in the pillow, “Not funny, m’too tired for that, baby.”
“I know, tiger…I know.” You have no intention of having sex with Peter tonight. He’s far too tired and you’re far too concerned about his back to suggest any rigorous activity. No matter how handsome he is.
Every touch from that moment on is innocent and meaningful. There are no more teases or light strokes as you make your way down his back, searching for every tight spot and point of pain in need of your attention.
His shoulders are tense, rock solid underneath your hands and you're careful not to hurt him, but apply a bit more pressure there than his upper back. Peter groans and preens under your hands, sounds of relief more than anything else and you feel pride when you feel his body relax underneath you bit by bit, muscles unwinding and unfurling.
His mid and lower back are a mess of tight knots of muscle and tension, worse than you’ve ever felt it before. It worries you, but you know you just need to persist with bugging him about it, know that all you can do for now is put your less skilled hands to the task of easing his discomfort. Until he accepts defeat and visits a professional.
He’s always loved you, but it’s moments like this where his heart feels so full of affection for you and how you take care of him, moments like this where the thought of marrying you is so strong and overwhelming that he has to bite his tongue, lest he ask the question without the fanfare you deserve.
“Fuck, you have magic hands, baby.” He feels more relaxed than he’s ever been. The ache in his back subdued by your hands, he doesn’t ever want to move.
“I know, you say that everytime, webhead.” You’re careful as you make your way off of him and pull the covers back from underneath him, with very little help from Peter himself. He’s rather boneless, only having enough energy to roll onto his back and kick his feet under the covers.
You’re quick to join him, curling up to his side and resting your head in the crook of his neck. He smells like soap and shampoo, clean, fresh. His skin is warm beneath your cheek, his arm is heavy and comforting as it wraps around your waist and pulls you tighter into him, your legs twisting and locking together. The weight of you against him, the feel of your lips pressing a kiss to his skin, is a massive comfort.
“Thank you for taking care of me.” He mumbles it into the top of your head, a kiss pressed against your hair in those last moments before the two of you fall asleep.
“I’ll always take care of you, Pete. That’s my job.” It’s a promise, he knows it, but as always it’s heavy and too meaningful for him not to make a joke about. Even as he wants to find some meaningful words to say in return.
“I thought you were a teacher?”
“Shut up and go to sleep…” You roll your eyes at him and gently bite the skin of his shoulder, small and playful, a nip more than anything and he chuckles at you in the dark.
“Night, baby. Love you.”
“Love you too, old man.” You squeal out one last noise in the dark of your room as Peter pinches the bare skin on your side, letting the silence envelope you in the same way the darkness does.
Maybe he’s getting a little achy, maybe he needs a little more tender love and care, but you love Peter Parker and you’re happy to return the favour.
Rating: E - 18+ NO MINORS! If you’re under 18 piss off and wait for your 18th birthday, thanks!
Warnings: Smut/sex, no minors thank you., technically public sex but like no one is around so it’s probably more outdoor sex, Peter is a soft dom, you have a thing for skaters, Peter has a thing for you, established relationship, this is post NWH Peter so we’re all in our 20s. Peter has a thing for your hips? Mentions the pill, but no use of a condom. You have a thing for Peter’s hand around your throat. Aftercare
Summary: Peter still skateboards, even though he’s in his 20s now, you’ve always wanted to learn but never tried. Peter decides to show you how it’s done. If it’s an excuse to touch you...well, that’s just a bonus.
or
Peter’s supposed to teach you how to skate, instead you end up fucking against a wall in a warehouse.
Notes: I’ve been very tempted today to buy a skateboard and learn how to skate...but I also not cool enough and clumsy sooo...this is me living out my dreams in fiction.
Also this started as fluff and...quickly changed to smut so...
Maybe you’re a little old to learn how to skateboard, but you’d always wanted to learn growing up and had always been too unsure to try it out, you never had someone to teach you. So, it’s natural in your twenties to be curious about it, especially when your boyfriend still skates around when he gets the chance. Especially when he looks fucking hot doing it. You don’t mention it to Peter, no matter how many times you go to the dockside with him to watch him skate. He long since stopped going to the skatepark, it’s easier to get away with his more ‘superhuman’ tricks this way and you don’t mind the quiet either. It allows you the freedom to ogle him without feeling embarrassed, no one to catch you this way.
You enjoy watching him, he’s good at it and he still manages to give off that cute, skater boy vibe that you would have fallen hook, line and sinker for in school. The only difference is neither of you are teenagers anymore and he’s definitely not just some cute skater boy, but your hot superhero boyfriend and you’ve already fallen hook, line and sinker for him and what he has going on.
You can’t really help it, watching him skate around, do some kickflips and some more extreme jumps and tricks, it makes you want to learn again, to get on that skateboard and try it out. It also makes you rub your thighs together discreetly, there’s something about the confidence, the competence with which he skates, the way he pushes and twists his body that turns you on and you hope he never notices. God, if Peter knew he'd be insufferable. He was a massive tease when he wanted to be.
The desire you feel for him is only compounded by the fact he’s stripped off his t-shirt and jacket, he’s been skating in that black tank top he wears to bed sometimes, the one that highlights his fucking arms and shows how goddamn strong he really is. He always looks so lean in his big t-shirts and jackets, but underneath, Jesus, his arms. Your eyes are always drawn to them, to the bulge of his bicep, the veins that crisscross his forearm, his hands, large, so huge compared to your own, the way they could just wrap around your throat and press into your hips. It’s downright lewd and you’re glad spiders don’t have telepathic abilities.
You have to physically shake yourself out of it, refocusing on his feet on the skateboard. It’s almost magical the way he can make it glide smoothly across the tarmac and concrete, there’s no hesitancy in his actions and it reminds you of how he swings from building to building. A surety in himself, a confidence that you adore, especially when he can be so awkward at times. You love the awkwardness too, though, the sweet disposition that has him stumbling over words sometimes.
Peter knows you want to learn how to skate, you’ve never said it, but he’s noticed it. You’re always so intent on watching him and there’s always a longing sort of curious look you watch him with that screams ‘let me have a go’. The sort of look Peter catches on your face as he cruises towards you on his board and stops just short with practiced ease, a teasing smirk on his face that brings out his dimples. You like his dimples, he knows you do. Maybe he’s using them against you, maybe it’s an accident, you’re not sure, but you want to kiss his dimples off of him.
Maybe it’s a little bit selfish, that he wants to teach you to skate. To get his hands on you and help you adjust your stance and position. He thinks it’d be kind of hot to see you skate around on his board, some sort of teenage dream, and any excuse to touch you is a good one in his book. Not that Peter really needs an excuse, he’s twenty five, he’s your boyfriend and you live together, there’s rarely a moment in your presence that he doesn’t reach for you, but the whole idea of it appeals to him more than he’d ever let anyone know. Probably because he can already imagine how flustered you’d get at his teasing.
Fuck, Peter wants to touch you all the time, especially when you’re wearing that skirt, the one that makes your hips look like he could just take a bite out them like a sweet candy apple. It stretches across your skin and conforms to your shape. With your beat up converse on and his jacket over your shoulders you look like a wet dream, it doesn’t help that you look so sweet either. All wide-eyed and adorable as he stops in front of you. Fuck, if you’d gone to school with him, if he’d seen you walk down the corridor looking like that? He’d have had no chance, you’d have been his teenage dream. He’d have been a smitten loser, you’d probably never have glanced his way or he’d have been too shy to make any sort of move.
“Hey, you, uh, you wanna…take it for a ride?” It’s not his smoothest but he’s still trying to get his brain off the image of your hips in that skirt, of hiking it up your thighs and pressing himself between them. He kicks his board up and holds it out to you. You’re watching him with a mixture of apprehension and longing, like you so desperately want to say yes, but you’re not quite sure you should. It’s the same face you made right before he kissed you for the first time, the same face you made right before you invited him into your apartment, before the two of you made love for the first time, he can’t help the way his eyes look you up and down at the memories, cataloguing you, reminding himself of each line of your body. The way your skirt sticks to your hips and your lip gives underneath your teeth, the look of your eyes from beneath your lashes and the sight of your bare legs curving underneath you as you sit there.
You don’t seem to notice the look he’s giving you, more concerned at the prospect of making a fool out of yourself…even though you want to. “I…I don’t know, Peter…I have pretty bad balance and I’d probably just look stupid doing it…” You can already see it in your mind’s eye, you falling on your arse repeatedly, pride bruised. But, then again…there was the promise of Peter’s hands on you, so tactile as he always is, you know your boyfriend wouldn’t be able to resist…it’s a tempting, teasing little thought.
“Okay, first of all, you could never look stupid, I one hundred percent guarantee that if you ride my skateboard you’ll be the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.” You look away from him in embarrassment, warmth filling your cheeks, teeth biting into your bottom lip. It’s fucking adorable. “Second of all, I’m not gonna let you fall, baby. C’mon…I’ll take good care of you, my pretty lady. I always take good care of you, don’t I?” Peter holds his hand out, fingers curling to beckon you to take his hand. It definitely doesn’t help your thoughts that he’s said those exact words to you before in an entirely different context, one where there are far less clothes and many more walls and locked doors.
Fuck, you look so sweet, looking up at him like that from the curbside. He wants to ruin you, take you apart and put you back together again until your legs are too weak to walk home and he has to carry you back to your shared apartment. Shit. He wants to take care of you, sure he does, but his mind’s not exactly on skateboarding and it’s technique right now.
“Aren’t I a little too old to learn?” You stare at his hand torn between saying yes and saying no. Surely it was a bit weird for you to learn now, you were an adult…wasn’t skateboarding for kids? Your parents definitely would have told you it was…
“Old? Old? Did you, my beautiful, wonderful, sexy girlfriend, just call yourself too old to learn how to skateboard? Oh, no, no, no. You’re learning now, baby. C’mon.” He doesn’t give you the choice this time. Peter shoots out a web that wraps around your waist to pull you onto your feet and towards him, rather unnecessary if you do say so yourself. Especially as the force of it has you colliding into him hard, hand resting on his chest, his own wrapping around your hips. Pulling you tight against his body like he thinks he’s on the front cover of some sort of romance book. His chest is so firm underneath your hand and he’s alway so bloody warm…you’re not sure how you’re supposed to learn how to skate under these conditions.
“Peter!”
“C’mon, I know you want to…indulge me.” He shakes the skateboard at you like a treat. It’s that little smirk of his, the cheeky one he gets, the one that makes him look so stupidly sexy, that has you agreeing.
“Fine, but if I hurt myself, Peter Benjamin Parker…” Your threat is left unfinished and empty. Peter is all too eager to place the skateboard on the ground and get you onto it. Too eager to get started, to have an excuse to keep his hands on you, to guide you and move you.
He keeps a foot on the board to keep it still and steady for you, hand holding your own as he helps you get onto it like he’s helping you into a carriage. It feels weird beneath your feet.
The first thing you notice is how strange it feels to be taller and higher off the ground, it feels rocky and unstable, the next thing is how Peter’s hands instantly rest on your hips, fingers dipping into your flesh, holding you as close as he can with a skateboard in the way. You’re almost certain at this point that your boyfriend is using teaching you as a guise to touch you, but you’re not going to complain about his strong hands on your hips or any desire he has to touch you. Not when he’s been riling you up this whole time, probably without even realising it.
Peter’s not going to lie to himself, he revels in the feel of your hips underneath his hands, how his fingers dig gently into your skin, how your back straightens at his presence, pushing back slightly towards him. He licks his bottom lip and tries to focus on correcting your narrow stance, kicking a foot between your own. “You need to widen your stance, baby, otherwise you’ll lose your balance and fall off. I don’t want my pretty baby getting hurt.”
He’s always flirtatious with you, but usually in a joking way, this is a less common side of Peter. The sort of side you tend to only see in private. His eyes burn your skin and you’re certain skateboarding shouldn’t have this much tension or touching involved. He’s liberally applying every pet name he’s ever had for you in quick succession and it’s hard to concentrate. Still you try to follow his directions, planting your feet a bit wider under his guidance.
“Uh-uh, wider, spread your legs for me, baby...” This time his foot kicks yours apart roughly, hands pushing at your hips to urge you to move them apart, as his thigh presses between yours grazing over your centre too lightly to bring relief, but enough to tease. A flush of warmth fills your whole body and you’re certain at this point that Peter just wants to wreck you and your sanity because he only uses that low, gravely voice of his in bed and this is not your bed. There’s no way the press of his thigh at your cunt is an accident, there’s no need for it there other than to make a very clear statement that Peter wants you. Every single teenage fantasy you had about the skater boy down your street flits through your mind, this time with Peter taking the leading role. It’s like being eighteen again.
He can hear how fast your heart is beating, a staccato rhythm in your chest. He can feel the red hot warmth between your thighs on his leg, can see how your skirt starts to inch up because of his intrusion in your space. Can feel how you lean back towards him, how he has to press one of his hands between your shoulder blades to straighten your stance and he fucking loves it. He loves you all the time. He loves how you react when he’s sweet and soft, but fuck if he doesn’t love how quickly he can turn you on. There’s a tremble to your body, a shivery impatience, and he can't help but tease, to trail his fingers over your hip and down your leg, hitting bare skin as he grips your thigh firmly and twists your leg to the side. The strength of his hand on you does it and you know you're wet, the rubbing of your panties against you a reminder of how sensitive you’ve become, and he hasn’t even touched properly yet. You’re so done for. “You gotta face sideways, baby, push your hips to the side for me, honey…that’s a good girl.”
You haven’t even taken a single step, haven’t moved an inch on this goddamn skateboard and you’re ready to hold up your hands, to surrender, to drag him all the way home and let him fuck you in your shared bed in whatever way he wants. But, he keeps going under this pretense, pressing against your back and breathing across the shell of your ear.
“Whenever you’re ready, baby, you can kick off and get this party started, okay? You’ve got this, baby.”
His absence is felt so acutely when he steps back, leaving you on the skateboard alone and fuck, you were actually supposed to be learning how to skate weren’t you? This wasn’t supposed to be some sort of foreplay plucked from the mind of an eighteen year old you, the fantasies of a past time when your biggest concern was passing exams, getting your grades and whether your crush liked you.
It’s cute, how you seem to freeze once he steps back, coming back to reality. Fuck, you’re breathless and trembling, but he gives it to you cause you try to skate anyway, put your foot down and roll and roll and roll. He keeps pace with you, your slow crawl humorous. But, as tempting as you are he still wants to make sure you’re okay, that he’s there to catch you.
“C’mon, pretty baby, you can go faster and harder than that, can’t you?” The way your head drops back, exposing the length of your throat is delicious and he’s so close to just calling quits, to stopping the pretence right now, grabbing you and shoving you up against a wall, hiking your skirt up around your waist where it belongs.
But, there’s something about your neediness, the way you can’t rub your thighs together to give yourself any relief like this, the frustration as he watches your hips twist a little, yet your determination to act as if it’s fine. As if you’re not soaking through your panties, desperate to have his hands on you again.
Fuck, Peter. He’s doing it on purpose, you know he is, because when you look over his eyes are dark and half-lidded, that stupid smirk in place showing the tips of his teeth. He’s enjoying this too much. It shouldn’t make you want him more that he’s riling you up on purpose, but it does, he wants you badly and fuck, if that isn’t a turn on. To be so wanted, so needed, so desired that his eyes are practically black. With Peter it’s very hard to ever doubt his devotion to you.
You’re determined to keep the pretence up, the charade of being taught how to skate, even as you find no relief from the heat and wetness between your thighs. The stance required for skating does not allow for the slightest bit of friction between your legs, the most you get is the brush of your panties against your clit as your hips twist of their own accord. It’s torturous and evil and you know he knows it, can clock the way his eyes focus on your hips.
You find the strength to put your foot back to the ground and push off harder this time, too hard out of frustration, you can already feel the fear at the momentum, your desire briefly ignored in favour of fear. “Peter!” You’re scared screech has him running to catch up with you, grabbing you just as you begin to teeter off the skateboard and towards the ground, lifting you high up and into his arms.
Your legs wrap tight around his hips to catch yourself and, “Fuck…” He groans out at the warm touch of your cunt against the front of his jeans. Forehead dropping to your shoulder, lips brushing against the hot skin of your neck. “Fuck, baby…”
“Peter…” It’s a whimper as you tighten your legs around him and grind against his lap, hands twisting up into the brown strands of his hair, tugging at the relief you’re finally getting. For the first time this evening you’re finally getting some semblance of relief, his breath is hot against your skin and it sends an involuntary shiver through your body.
“Slow down, baby.” His hands grip your hips firm and tight and stop them from circling against his own and you can’t help but let out a frustrated sob, “Peteee, pleaseee…baby…” It’s frustrating that you can’t shift your hips against his grip, he’s too strong, and Peter doesn’t want this to end too soon, wants to see you absolutely wrecked because of him, not anyone else, him.
“I’ve got you, you know i’ve got you….Fuck, baby girl, I bet you had a thing for skater boys in school, huh? Bet you always wanted to be fucked behind the bleachers, huh, sweet girl? Would you have let me? Let nerdy little Peter Parker sneak you into his room?” He abandons his skateboard, walking the two of you towards an empty warehouse, one he knows has a sturdy wall out of sight of the non existent people. This dockyard was practically abandoned all day long, let alone in the evening, an opportunity to skate, and an opportunity to fucking ruin you without having to swing you home.
Your back is pressed against cold metal, some sort of wall, as Peter slides a hand between you to cup your thigh, hiking it up higher against him as he urges your hips to grind against his cock through the fabric of his jeans. “I think…I think you’d let me fuck you, right here, right now, against this wall, isn’t that right, baby?” God, Peter does things to you, the way he looks so sweet and gentle and then switches, tells you want to do and takes control.
“Yes…fuck, yes, Peter, anything, baby…anything…” You’re pretty incoherent, just mindlessly grinding your hips against him, seeking any sort of friction, relief, head thrown back and unsure how you’re still even breathing. He’s so tall, like this he feels big and looming, forehead pressing into your own as he nuzzles your noses together, still sweet, still tender even when you know he’s going to ruin you.
“I think I should help my pretty lady out, don’t you?” Peter’s hiking your skirt up around your hips like he's wanted to the entire time before you even answer him, groaning at the sight of the wet spot on your panties and the undulation of your hips that’s so much clearer without the fabric in the way.
“Please, please help, baby, you always take such good care of me.”
“Shh, shh, it’s okay, I've got you, I've got you, baby.” His fingertips glide across your skin, shucking you of your panties in the shortest time imaginable, even as he has to drop you to do so. You’re not apart for long, though, he has you pressed back up against the wall, legs wrapped around him before you can even think, pocketing your panties in his back pocket like some sort of trophy.
You press kisses to the length of his neck, incessant and mindless as his fingers drop to graze back and forth across the skin of your inner thighs, “Stop teasing, baby…” You’re whining, whimpering because he’s such a tease.
“I’m just making sure I take care of my baby, m’not teasing, sweetheart” He's a liar and his grin says it all, all teeth and tongue as he pulls your head back so he can watch your face twist and change. A hand wrapping around your throat, firm, confident, but still soft enough, aware of his own strength as he squeezes the sides of your throat in a way that has your head dropping back with a moan.
His other hand finally stops teasing your thighs, finally starts to circle your clit in a way that has you writhing and twisting, almost too much after such a long stint of anticipation. “Shhh, shh, I've got you…” Hand still on your throat, Peter squeezes as he slips a finger inside you, your warm walls gripping and pulling him in. “Fuck, your so wet, is this all for me, baby?”
“Uh-huh, all for you. God, Peter…y-you drive me crazy…you..” You’re not sure what the English language even is anymore at this point, words failing you as his thumb circles your clit, finger pushing back and forth inside you till he finds that spongy little bit that makes your legs clamp tighter around his hips.
Once he’s found it, there’s no avoiding it, he manages to hit it each time he presses back into you like some sort of magic button. He was always really good at arcade games, you think those motor skills have probably come in handy right now, magic fingers pushing you towards an edge that you can't even see.
“There we go baby, I’ve got you…” He presses sweet little kisses across your cheeks, your nose, your brow, even as he presses another finger into you, stretching you deliciously and hitting that spot time and time again. Your hips grind and push forward, rutting to meet him, the familiar burning twisting sensation in your gut only building and building with each circle of his thumb and press of his fingers. Your skin is burning. “You look so pretty like this, sweetheart, wish I had my camera, you’d make such a pretty picture right now…” God, if he could capture this moment, the glaze of your eyes, the way your thighs seem to jiggle with each grind of your hips, how your skin is warm and soft, the way you press into the hand around your throat, so much goddamn trust in him. He’s rock hard and the most you’ve touched him is grinding against him, fully clothed. Shit, he wishes he had his camera, could stare at this sight forever, get lost in the memory even when one of you is away.
“Peteee…” Your noises he loves the best, how whiny and desperate you get, how he seems to make you forget words, other than his name and please. Fuck, he never thought he had that sort of power, but you make him feel so fucking hot, so in control.
“It’s okay, baby, it’s okay…” He says it even as he presses a third finger into you and you feel fit to burst, it’s too much, you’re too full, you babble at him incoherently and he just shushes you with sweet words, “You can take it, sweetheart, I know you can.” You’re not sure you can, you want to pull him closer and push him away all in the same instance, your body a livewire of nerves, synapses firing off in your brain at every press of his fingers and circle of his thumb.
“C’mon, cum for me, pretty lady, c’mon…” He tightens his grip on the sides of your throat, watches the way your eyes roll into the back of your head as the buzzing fills your ears, blood rushing through your veins.
That coil within your belly, the spring winding up to snap goes as you cum around his fingers, squeezing him so impossibly tightly between your walls, your arousal coating his fingers. He’s careful as he releases your neck, pressing sweet kisses across your skin, even though he was careful, even though you won’t have a single bruise, he braces his hand against the wall by your head.
You watch him as you catch your breath, heat already welling back into your stomach as his fingers, wet with you, leave your cunt and he presses them between his lips, groaning at the tangy taste of you on his tongue. Fuck, any other time he’d have his head between your thighs, lips on you, but now is not the time…any other time he’d dive into you and hope to die that way, thighs wrapped solidly around his head as he worships at the altar that is you and your love for him.
“You taste so good, baby, all for me, huh? You gonna be good for me? My good girl?”
“Always, always your good girl,” You’ve caught your breath and some of your sanity back, the warmth of your orgasm clearing your head enough to know that Peter is rock hard and aching for you, that he’s been so, so patient, so desperate to please you and you’ve neglected him. He doesn’t rush you still, just presses kisses against your skin as you breathe in and out. He’s beautiful like that, warm and flushed, red across his cheeks as he watches you, tongue gliding across his bottom lips. It has you shifting your hips against him again, that desire building itself back up as he groans at you, your bare cunt pressed against his jeans, applying pressure to his erection.
You drag his lips to yours, open mouthed and hungry as you kiss him, tasting yourself on his tongue as your fingers tug and tangle in his hair. He moans when you pull just a tad harder and bites your lip with his teeth in retaliation. Your fingers make their way to his belt, eagerly undoing it before popping the button of his jeans open and unzipping his fly. You want him still, so badly, the weight of him, the warmth of him inside you as he tells you how good you are for him. God, you love his voice, it’s your favourite sound in the world, always so sweet, so tender even when he’s being devious and dirty.
It doesn’t take long for you to shove his jeans and boxers down his hips, enough for the length of him, hot, heavy and hard to spring against his stomach, the tip already leaking pre-cum from how desperate he is to be inside you.
“Fuck, Pete…” You can’t help it, you wrap a hand around him, twisting and pulling at his cock. The low groan that rumbles from his chest causes you to clench and you know you don’t have his patience for teasing, know you can’t sit here and wait it out, don’t have the patience to try to break him down into his constituent parts.
“Mm, I know, baby, I know…Just want to be inside you, you gonna let me? Mmm? Gonna let me take care of you again, baby?” A thumb presses against your chin, tilting your face up at him. He’s so intent like this, the way he watches you, eyes flicking between your hand on his cock and the pout on your lips.
You nod your head, words failing you again, for the millionth time today. His hand curves around your throat again, tilting your head to the side. “Use your words for me, beautiful, wanna hear you say it…”
“I…I need you in me, baby, need you in me, please?” You’ve never been able to understand it, how Peter can rile you up so fast time and time again, how no number of orgasms can stop the burning he can elicit in the pit of your stomach. He knows you, knows how to work you and you adore how deeply he knows you, in the bedroom and outside of it.
You’ve never been more thankful in your life for the pill. For the ability to just take him inside you, right here without needing to hunt around for a condom. You love Peter, but you’re not quite sure either of you are ready for a surprise baby just yet.
“Good girl, I've got you…” Both hands fall to your hips, squeezing, pressing, digging as he lifts you up higher against the wall and carefully begins lowering you down onto his cock. Your cunt swallows him like he’s made for you, like always it feels like you were destined for his cock. You’re so fucking warm, so wet, so tight as you slide down him and take him to the hilt, legs tensing behind his back to pull yourself as close to him as you can. You always forget how it feels, it surprises you every time, how full you feel of him.
“You feel so good, baby, like you were made for me, fuck…” His lips brush across the shell of your ear, hot breath warming your skin, before he trails kisses down your skin and across your jaw. Any patch of skin he can find receives its own kiss as you adjust to the size of him pressing against your walls.
He only moves when you do, your circling, pushing hips, telling him all he needs to know as he begins a steady pace. Peter pulls out of you and pushes back in, again and again and finds that spongy spot within you that makes your brows furrow and your voice catch in your throat until you can't even moan. Just breathe.
You rock with him, meet his thrusts and push against him, but it’s not enough and he can tell as he presses his forehead against yours and slides his hand between the two of you. Those long, dexterous fingers of his finding your clit and playing you like a guitar, circling just to the left and up, in a way that has your hands tugging at his hair and lips sucking on the skin of his collarbone, definitely determined to leave a mark. He doesn’t mind though, doesn’t mind walking around with evidence of you on his skin, he’s so proud you’re his girlfriend, could care less if every inch of him was covered in hickeys and scratch marks, so long as they’re from you.
“So close, Pete…”
“C’mon, baby, c’mon, be a good girl for me…” It’s mindless words, repeated phrases, barely legible or literate, but he always knows what names to throw at you to have you clenching down on him and grinding closer.
He knows you're close by the shake in your legs, the way your feet seem to curl and if he could see your toes he knows they’d be curling too. He’s so close, so hard, he knows the moment you cum he will to, the force of you around him will be the last straw, but he’s determined to make you cum first.
Peter wraps his hand around your throat, gentle, thumb pressing into the underside of your jaw and kisses you, it’s the tightening of his hand combined with his fingers against your clit that have your toes curl and back arching as you cum for the second time that day. Your walls squeeze him so tightly, your moan so deep in your chest it vibrates against his own, the way you shudder against him has him following after you, cumming into you as he kisses you, soft and sweet as the two of you relax.
His weight presses heavily against you, as you both catch your breath. You cup his cheeks tilting his face this way and that as you press breathless kisses along the bridge of his nose, the apple of his cheeks, the tip of his chin. “I love you, Peter Parker, you absolute tease…”
He pulls back laughing, loud and bright with his head thrown back, the length of his neck on display. There’s a nice purpling bruise by his collarbone, your own handy work and you can’t help but smirk at the sight of it.
“I love you too.” He lets you down on unsteady legs, but holds your hips to steady you. He helps you pull your skirt back down and you hold your hand out for your panties which you know are still in his back pocket.
“Peter. I’m not going home commando.” You can already imagine how badly that could go, especially if he chose to swing you home….you didn’t want Spider-Man’s girlfriend to flash the population of New York. Especially given the fact he’d cum inside you. While sex in strange places was certainly adventurous, at least in your apartment you could clean yourself up afterwards. For now a pair of panties would have to do when it came to keep things from getting embarrassing.
“But, baby…”
“Panties. Now.” He relinquishes them with a pout as if he doesn’t have access to your underwear drawer, and helps you get them back on, before tucking himself back into his own clothes and doing up his belt. You’re both sweaty messes, your hair a mess and your skin warm and flushed.
You look so good like this though, post-sex, blissfully happy and glowing and Peter can’t help but puff out his chest a little in pride, knowing he’s more than satisfied his girl, his lady, his beautiful partner. Your thoughts are similar. The tanktop still does wonders for him, still makes your eyes catch on his arms and now his chest is heaving to catch his breath, his skin has a rosy glow to it, his hair messy and unkempt from your hands. He looks so delicious and it’s ridiculous how insatiable he makes you, how even after two orgasms he still warms the pit of your stomach, how even the uncomfortable sensation of his cum against your panties can’t stop the desire you feel for him.
Peter grabs your hand, fingers locking with your own as he walks backwards out of the warehouse to find his skateboard and backpack. “Rain check?”
“Huh?”
“Skateboarding. Next time I’ll actually teach you…I just…fuck, baby, you’re so pretty and I couldn’t help it. You can’t wear that skirt next time.” You feel warm in the face all over again, it’s funny how he can fuck you silly and still him calling you pretty makes you feel shy. You hope it never changes, hope he always makes you giggly and giddy even when you’re eighty-nine and using a zimmer frame to get around.
“What’s wrong with my skirt?” You look down at it, you were sure it was fine this morning, but maybe you missed something?
“What’s wrong with your skirt is it makes me want to fuck you over whatever surface is nearest, and…” He pulls you close by the hand, wrapping his arms around you as his nose nuzzles against your own, “I don’t think that’s very conducive to a good learning environment, do you?” You don’t know how he didn’t have every girl falling over him in high school, either he developed his talent for talking after high school or people were blind and stupid to pass over him.
“I didn’t know you loved my skirt so much?” You raise an eyebrow, pulling back to look up at those big brown doe eyes of his, the ones you love so much. Gosh, he has pretty eyes, you swear they sparkle. Not helped by how the corners crinkle up and soften them either.
“Mmm, more like what your skirt shows off, baby.”
“What my skirt shows off? I think it’s quite modest.” It comes just above your knee, it’s not a mini-shirt by any stretch of the imagination. You’re certain he’s seen more of your skin in your pajamas…
He laughs at you, you’re adorably clueless and he loves you for it, “It’s not that it’s too short, baby, it’s that your hips look delicious in it…it’s like that red dress you have, the velvet one that hugs you? Ooph, I love your hips…” You know the dress. Whenever you wear it for a party or date you end up leaving early. You didn’t realise it was your hips that caused the commotion though, hmmm, you file that information away for later. At some point you’re certain you can use that against him.
Peter swings his backpack over his shoulder and grabs his board, never once letting go of your hand in the process. You’re ready to go home and get cleaned up, the mess between your legs is starting to get a little uncomfortable and you know Peter’s clocked that too, you know he’s noticed how you’re holding yourself a little awkwardly now.
“Take me home, Spider-Boy.”
“Oh, after all that, I'm a boy now?” It’s all fun and games, the little smile on his face tells you he’s teasing you again, a different sort this time. How playful he can be, one of the many perks of your relationship.
“Mmm, only because you're so boyishly charming.”
“I thought I was ruggedly handsome,” His pout does little for his claims, while he’s certainly handsome, the rugged bit only comes into play when he’s all gritty and covered in blood and dirt. Or that time he didn’t shave for a month, his beard growing in and changing the shape of his face.
“When you don’t shave…” You love him either way. He’s always handsome, always desirable to you, and no amount of facial hair or youthful vigour was going to change that. He’s smiling when shakes his head at you and you know he’ll probably stop shaving briefly, see if he can get you to call him rugged and you know you’ll oblige until he decides it itches when he wears the mask.
Peter doesn’t even bother putting the full suit on, just grabs his mask and pulls it over his face to hide who is. He doesn’t have the energy to get undressed and put the suit on just to go back to your apartment where he’ll have to take it off again to get cleaned up. Plus, sweaty skin and spandex? Not the best combination.
“C’mon, baby.” Peter helps you wrap yourself around him so that he can swing you both back to your apartment. It’s quicker than the subway and he knows you’re not the most comfortable right now.
You lean your head into the crook of his neck and relax into him as he swings, he always marvels at that, the trust you place in him. The first time he ever took you out and about you screamed, clung to him tight, terrified of being dropped. After the fifth time you realised he’d never drop you, no matter what, since then you’ve even managed to fall asleep against him, so commonplace is it now to be swung about the city by Spider-Man. You always hide your face in his shoulder or chest in the busier parts of the city, the possibility of your face being photographed too serious to ignore, especially when you’re openly dating Peter Parker.
Your apartment isn’t far, not when you swing through the streets, that is, maybe ten or fifteen minutes of gliding through the air before Peter lands on your fire escape. You untangle yourself from him and pull open the window, the two of you returning to the warmth of your apartment. Shoes are kicked off, skateboard put down in its corner, backpack and mask flung aside.
“I’ll go run a bath,” Peter presses a kiss to your temple before leaving for the bathroom, you grab something to drink, throat parched and tongue dry.
He’s always particular about running a bath for you. There’s a way to do it, a temperature that it needs to be at, a certain bubble bath that needs to go in, the right sort of candles to be lit. Peter considers looking after you a science of sorts, and you’ve already waited long enough, uncomfortable in your clothes all because he was too impatient to teach you how to skateboard.
You trail in before it’s done, sitting on the top of the toilet seat and enjoying the cosy, romantic atmosphere that Peter’s made. He always does that, lowers the blinds, sets some candles to burn, makes sure it feels sweet and tender and soft. It’s funny how one minute he can have his hand wrapped around your throat and the next he’s running you a hot bath with your favourite scents wafting around the room.
Peter turns the taps off before it gets too full, knowing by sight now what height of water works for both your bodies in the tub without overflowing and pissing off your landlord. The first time you’d flooded the bathroom floor she hadn’t been happy and he’d been careful ever since.
“C’mere, beautiful.” He draws you up to your feet and carefully peels away each layer of clothing. It’s different from earlier, while Peter’s eyes still watch you like a hawk, still retain some heat, this is soft and careful, it’s about helping you get clean and comfortable. There’s no intention to touch you like before.
“Your turn, baby…” You help him disrobe, fingers pausing on the tank top, “I love this top…” There’s a wistful little hum in your voice and he’s surprised by it, you’ve never mentioned it to him before and he wears it to bed all the time, it’s unusual for him to wear it out and about. More of an undershirt than anything else.
“Yeah?”
“Mmm, you should wear it more often.” You humm, pressing a kiss to the round area of skin at the top of his bicep where it meets his shoulder, there’s a scar there, old and fading but you always seem to find it.
“If I wear it more often, are we going to need baths more often?” There’s a little smirk that crosses his lips, dimple more prominent as he considers that you don’t just like this top, you like how he looks in it. Just like he loves your skirt that now sits in a pile on the floor.
“Uh, on second thought, maybe keep it for special occasions.” He laughs and helps you pull it over his head, muscles in his arms and shoulders pulling and stretching as he does so. Your eyes light up, and he enjoys your admiration before you help him out of the rest of his attire.
“My lady,” He helps you in the bath first, hand held out like Mr Darcy at a ball and you stand in the water until he steps in behind you and the two of you sink in together. You rest your back against his chest and close your eyes.
You don’t lift a finger, not really, this is always about Peter cleaning you up, Peter looking after you…especially when he’s a bit rougher, a bit wilder, a bit more dominant, even if he never leaves a single bruise on you. Your hands come first, lifted from the water and each finger washed with your favourite soap, Peter’s lathered hands gliding over your wrists, your forearms, your elbow and bicep. He’s careful with every inch of you and while his touch is always reverent and intimate, it’s different from how he touches you when you make love.
He’s careful between your thighs, helping to get you clean but aware of your sensitivity. The glide of his hands over every inch of you brings you a sense of peace and you know how lucky you are to find a man like him. So caring, so dedicated, so gentle. He likes to be needed by you and you like to be doted on by him, because in many ways you do need him. Maybe not literally. You’d be fine to do this all on your own, but the peace, the contentment in your chest wouldn’t be there. Peter makes everything go quiet.
Peter kisses your temple and you lie back together until the water runs cold.
Warnings: Smut; possessive and rougher Peter, oral sex (f! receiving), love bites, an abundant use of pet names and dirty talk, bit of pain kink going on?, you wear Peter’s hand like a necklace like always, semi-public sex (its in a bathroom, no one can see but...they’re just down the hall), Dom Peter (when is Peter not a dom in my fics?), breeding kink at the end cause I have a problem, overstimulation (Peter’s out here wringing as many orgasms from you as he can tbh), massive amount of praise, there’s praise kink all over the shop in anything I write, little bit of angst at the start
Summary: You just wanted to go to a party, wear that dress that Peter loved so much, and show off your boyfriend. Spider-Man gets in the way, but Peter makes it up to you, after showing everyone that you're his.
Notes: I never expected this fic to get this long (11k words), but you’re welcome. Hope you enjoy, let me know what you think.
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Parties…they’re not usually your thing or Peter’s. Neither of you were big partiers and big crowds of strangers weren’t always your favourite to be in and amongst, especially when alcohol got involved. Usually something insane would happen that you weren’t mentally equipped to deal with, that or too much vomit. But a colleague from work, Jessica, had invited you to her party, some big event she’d booked a whole bar out for, a bar with a notoriously good view of New York’s skyline, and you felt like dressing up for once and trying to be social. You rarely had an excuse to get out your pretty dresses. You just wanted to get dressed up and go to a party with your boyfriend, to see that look cross face when he saw you for the first time. Where his pupils would widen and that little smirk would tug at the corner of his mouth, a sort of half-grin that always showed his teeth and made him look absolutely feral, like he wanted to eat you up. You’d even convinced Peter that the police could handle a few robbers and petty criminals for one night and if they struggled, he’d be there the next day to mop up the mess…or so you thought.
“Peter, we need to get rea-” You’re stumbling out of the bathroom in your robe to tell Peter to start getting ready when you spot him, already in his Spidey suit by the window, mask in his hands. He gives you a sad look and you know before you even ask that he’s got to go…that there’s something important he has to do. It doesn’t stop your heart breaking just a little bit. You really thought you could have one good night…one really good night. Fucking New York City strikes again. You want to be angry, but you know he wouldn’t do this if he didn’t need to. Peter had been very good throughout your relationship at only missing plans if he knew the police couldn’t handle it, if some sort of disaster or crime needed Spider-Man and his particular set of skills. He’d been trying so hard to maintain some sort of balance between the two sides of his life and his relationship with you.
“Peter…” He hates it, hates the way your face drops at the sight of him, how your voice dips down in disappointment, the way your hands clench in the fabric of your robe. He crosses the room quickly, hands cupping your cheeks and his thumbs rubbing against the skin there. Your eyes are already filling up with tears and he feels like the biggest asshole on the planet. His beautiful girlfriend just wants to spend actual time with him and he’s going to leave her alone to go deal with a bunch of weirdos in costumes. It hurts because he knows you just want to go to a party and wear a pretty dress and make him wear a tie for once in his life. That you just want him there and don’t want to go on your own, but he’s about to give you no other option. He feels like he’s standing you up…what sort of boyfriend does that? Fuck.
“I have to go, you know I have to go, baby…” He presses a kiss to the tip of your nose, to the apple of each cheek, the divot in your chin. You can tell by the shine in his big doe eyes that he hates this, hates disappointing you and it makes it even harder to be angry with him when you know he’s already beating himself up about it. As if a party is more important than saving people. You know he doesn’t have much of a choice and it’s that goodness in him, that desire, that need to help others that you love so much about Peter. To stop him from doing this would be to stop him being the man you love.
“You said you’d be there with me…”
“And I will be, okay? I promise, I'll be quick and then I'll go straight there, just think of it like you’re surprising me with whatever cute dress you decide to wear. If I'm here it’ll ruin the surprise, pretty lady.” His half-grin is forced and he knows it's a lame excuse. That it won’t feel like you're surprising him, instead it’ll feel like you're waiting on him, hoping he’ll arrive, unsure whether he will or not. He knows people will ask where is, give you those looks, the pitying ones and he wishes, for just one moment, that New York could sleep, just rest for a couple of hours so he could take his girlfriend out to a party. Like you deserved.
“Pete…” You know he can’t actually promise to be quick, to be there. He has no way of knowing how long it’ll take him to deal with whatever situation requires his attention. Maybe it’ll be quick, maybe he’ll be there, but who knows?
“I know, but, this time…it’s serious. It’s not just…” It’s not just some robber, or some random thug. It’s serious. Peter moves within your orbit, pressing his forehead against yours, his nose nuzzling against your own.
“Are there kids involved?”
“Yeah.” He watches your face fall, watches how you resign yourself, steel yourself to the facts. There are kids involved and it doesn’t matter if he doesn’t make it to the party because his other job, it’s life or death, it’s important, it’s the priority. You cup his cheek and look him dead in those big brown eyes of his, accepting the situation, no matter how badly it hurts. No matter how much you want to be selfish.
“Okay. They need to be your priority.” Peter hates that you’re so good at this. At accepting that something, someone else has to take priority over you. He hates that he can’t make you that priority all the time, like you deserve. Hates that you don’t scream at him, don’t shout and call him an asshole, that you accept it…because it makes him love you more, makes it harder to do the right thing by you and let you go, instead he holds onto you tighter. Even when he can’t give you everything you deserve. You’re so deeply under his skin, so deeply part of him that he couldn’t ever let you go, even if it was in your best interests.
“Baby…” He wants to say you’re his priority, and you are but…but still Spider-Man has to come first, those people have to come first. You know this and any attempt to soften the blow will only make things worse, he knows that. You don’t want false promises. You’ve only ever wanted him to be open with you, honest, something so incredibly hard when he desperately wants to protect you even from himself.
“Pete..it’s okay, really. Go be my favourite hero…Just, please try to turn up, or Jessica will think I’ve been lying about my handsome boyfriend.” You try to play it off as a joke, but it falls flat, not funny and…too close to home. The last thing you want is to be alone at a party where you only know a couple of people, and none of them you know very well.
“I promise. I’ll be there, my suit and tie are in my backpack and all, baby. I’ll be there.” He kisses you long and hard, it’s a promise that you still matter and you melt into it like butter on toast. You watch through lidded eyes as he pulls away and hides his face behind the mask.
“I love you.”
“I love you too. Be careful?”
“Always.” You watch him go, follow him to the window and watch until he swings out of sight. Then you make your way to your shared bedroom and begin to get ready for the night, even if it’s going to be lonelier than you previously thought.
You try to remember his words, to think of it as a surprise for him. That makes it easier as you pull on that dress, the one he loves so much; the red velvet one that hugs tight to your hips and leaves your shoulders bare. It makes it easier to swipe your lipstick across your lips and style your hair. It makes it easier to grab your bag and coat and leave the apartment on your own.
But easier still isn’t easy.
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───
“C’mon guys! I have a date to get to! Could you stop trying to kidnap little children for five minutes?” It’s frustrating and it’s ridiculous that of all the nights for a group of villains in stupid costumes to decide to kidnap children from an orphanage to use in some weird experiment to make themselves younger, they chose tonight. Peter really wasn’t feeling it tonight. Not when he had a van full of screaming and crying kids, a girlfriend to get to, and a bunch of weirdos in costumes trying to stab him. He hated knives and he hated the idea of you at a party alone.
“Awww, has the ity bity spider got a date? How sweet.” Mocks the big one in the stupid scarecrow outfit, straw poking out of his hat. He’s gesturing with his hands, twisting them over his eyes, as if Peter’s going to cry and it just serves to piss him off further. He shouldn’t be here right now, he should be dancing with you at the party or making you laugh at his stupid jokes about your coworkers.
“Wow, you’re gonna mock me? You look like a cheap attempt at a scarecrow! Where did you get your mask from? The dollar store?” Peter is quick to webb the guy's hands in quick succession to a nearby wall, dodging out of the way of a guy dressed as the Tin-Man who comes at him with a knife.
“Hey, no knives!” He knocks the knife from the man’s hands, “I can’t be bleeding tonight, she’ll kill me!” This guy is smaller than the last, he takes one hit to the head and collapses like a sack of potatoes while Peter shakes his hand in pain.
“Shit, ow! Was that really metal? Idiot!” The Cowardly Lion makes his way forward, Dorothy on his heels and Peter can’t help but think this is the weirdest crime he’s ever had to stop. He misses Dr Connors. At least he was an actual lizard man and not dressed up as one.
“But, seriously, guys, what’s with the Wizard of Oz costumes? You’re not really pissed off actors are you? No? Okay, so just a bunch of weirdos then, huh.” Peter’s eyes flick to the clock tower nearby, shit, you’ve been at the party nearly an hour by now and he’s still dealing with these assholes. Other than the police being slow to turn up, he’s starting to think they could have handled it without him. That makes him feel worse.
“Says the man in a spider costume!” Dorothy is an old lady with a terrible brown plaited wig on and bright glittery shoes that she can barely walk in. She’s also wielding a walking stick as a weapon. He feels a little bad, beating on an old lady, but…she was trying to murder some kids so…fair’s, fair, right? He’s pretty sure respecting your elders is made irrelevant when said elder has murderous intent.
“Whoa, calm down, Dorothy! I’m not the one trying to steal little kids to put in some ‘magic potion’ to make myself young again! What happened to Toto? You steal his youth too?”
“Don’t. Talk. About. Toto!” With each pause Dorothy swings her walking stick at him and he’s quick to dodge out of the way each time, ducking underneath the ‘paw’ or rather fist of the Cowardly Lion, just missing getting a black eye. He can’t get hit in the face either today. He can’t turn up looking like some bum who gets into fights all the time, even if he does get into fights all the time.
“Oh, whoa, lady, didn’t realise Toto was such a sore spot for ya!” The next swing of the walking stick catches him behind the legs and Peter falls prone on his back with a groan, there goes his middle back again. You keep telling him to watch out for it, but he’s pretty sure the universe hates him.
Looking at the clock face again, Peter wonders if he’ll ever make it to the party. All he knows for certain is this’ll be a hell of a story to tell you.
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───
An hour in and you’re already pretty eager to leave, but part of you won’t, can’t. There’s this little seed of hope that Peter will make it tonight and another part of you doesn’t want to leave only for him to arrive and find you gone. He’s bad at checking his phone like that, and to see him turn up to a party of strangers all alone? Only to find his girlfriend gone? No, no, you can’t do that. So you stay, nursing the same drink you’ve had from the start of your night and standing by the door to the balcony, out of the way enough you hoped to go unnoticed. Like many things tonight your hopes and plans were not going the way you wanted them too. You’re starting to wonder if the universe has a vendetta against you today.
“So, where’s the ‘boyfriend’?” Jessica siddles up to you, wine glass in hand, holding it just so to show off that massive rock on her finger from her fiance. She’d been parading him and the ring around all night, despite having been engaged for well over a year. You were pretty sure at this point she was just rubbing it in your face, to remind you that you were here alone.
She’d never seemed to believe you when you mentioned Peter, you weren't sure why, but she seemed to be under the impression that you’d made him up. Despite showing her photos of the two of you together on multiple occasions as well as the calls he often made to you while you were at work.
Jessica was…confusing. She could be lovely but also incredibly bitchy and you never really knew how she was going to behave…it made things…interesting to say the least. She definitely wasn’t your favourite person in the world, especially not tonight.
“Oh, Peter’s just running a little late, he had an emergency to deal with. He’ll be here.” You couldn’t actually guarantee that though, your eyes flicking to the clock on the wall. It was an hour into your arrival and over an hour since Peter left to tackle the next big problem in New York. You were starting to think he might never arrive and it seemed like Jessica felt the same way. You weren't just eager to see him because you wanted him here for the party, either, you were worried about him. You had no way of knowing whether or not Peter was okay. He wasn’t the best texter in the world, especially not when it came to his Spider-Man business. You loved him, but God, you hated how often you were kept in the dark.
“Sure…well, if you ever get lonely, David’s single.” She points to a guy in the corner who’s been staring at you all night. You give her an unimpressed look.
“Peter, my boyfriend, is just running a little late, Jessica. Why don’t you go find your boytoy? I thought I saw him with Leighanne by the coats.” She has the audacity to gasp as if she didn’t just suggest you cheat on your boyfriend with a guy who can’t seem to even have the maturity to look at your face and not your tits.
You take a long drink and sigh, “Please be okay, Peter…” You whisper it underneath your breath, fingers tapping anxiously against your glass.
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───
“Finally, y’know, I'm getting too old for this. I have a girlfriend, okay? and she’s waiting for me to go to a party. You need to keep your crazy antics during work hours and week days, y’get me? Sheesh…” The group of weird goons dressed ready to perform the Wizard of Oz are all webbed up to the same lamppost, so tightly jammed together that they groan from behind the webs across their mouths. Peter is thoroughly fed up, running so incredibly late for the party and knowing that you are probably having a crappy time waiting for him. That’s if you’re still even there.
On top of that is the deep desperation to see what you look like, what dress you chose and how well it fits your body. To run his burning gaze across your skin and take you in. There’s never a moment that Peter doesn’t truly want you, you’re the most breathtaking person in his life, but god, he loves it when you have an excuse to get dressed up and wear something fancy. You always pick something that shows off your hips, always, a little tease to him. You know how much he loves your hips, the shape of them, the curve, the dips, the divots.
Peter’s drawn out of his thoughts of you to the sounds of sirens and the sight of police cars, they stop and he recognises Detective Morris as he steps out of his squad car. By this point Peter’s familiar with quite a few of the local police officers and they’ve long since stopped calling him a criminal, he’s now just some guy in a mask who helps them out and makes their job a million times easier than it was before.
“Hey, thanks, Spider-Man!”
“No problem, guys! Just make sure those kids get back safe?” Peter waves them towards the van, where a bunch of kids are sitting at the opening, waiting to be taken back to the Orphanage they came from. Kids are always a hard one, he still remembers Jack on the bridge, the fear that he might not be able to save him. It always makes him work that little bit harder, that little bit more determined to make sure they’re okay.
“That’s our job.” Peter’s phone goes off in his backpack and he’s quick to fish it out, your text lighting up his screen. “You got somewhere you need to be?” Detective Morris asks him, pointing to Peter’s phone.
“Yeah, yeah I do. My girl’s waiting on me. I hope she’s not too pissed with me…” Your text just reads ‘Where are you?’, no kisses at the end, no smiley faces or hearts. It’s hard to tell with such a simple message whether you’re going to be upset with him for taking almost two hours to get this done.
“She hot?” Peter can’t help but let out the loud and sudden laugh at the question, yeah. Yeah, you’re definitely hot. It’s the thought of you at the party, all pretty and dressed up and probably fending off all the men and women around that has him shoving his phone back in his backpack without even replying to your text.
“Detective Morris, she’s the most beautiful woman you will ever lay your eyes on. Not quite sure why she picked me, but hey! I’m not gonna look a gift horse in the mouth!” He’s already walking towards the nearest building, backpack swung over his shoulders, knowing full well that the police can handle the weirdos now they’re subdued.
“Have fun! Hope you’re not in the dog house, Spidey!”
“Thanks, Morris!” It’s with that, that Peter swings away from the crime scene. Dropping down into an alleyway near the bar where the party is held he’s quick to change into the suit he’d packed in his backpack. Spidey Suit thrown in the bag haphazardly.
The suit is a little rumpled and the creases aren’t going to come out anytime soon, but he’s not got any new bruises or any new cuts this time and his hair is…somewhat manageable he thinks as uses the reflection in a dark shop window as a mirror. He even ties his tie properly, neat and proper, the way it’s supposed to be, a stark contrast to his usually more relaxed appearance. He’s quick to rub away a patch of dirt from his cheek and after a second glance, he’s pretty sure he looks presentable for once. He, at least, won’t completely embarrass you in front of your work colleagues, not that you’d ever call him embarrassing anyway.
Peter stops in a shop on the corner, picking out the last bouquet of roses they have. They’re a little wilted, but a beautiful red almost the same colour as his Spidey Suit. It’s better than showing up empty handed and late.
Now he just needs to walk to the bar, find you and sweep you off your feet. He’s not figured out if it’ll be figuratively or literally yet, maybe both. Both seems like a good idea to him.
There’s a new found pep in his step this time, knowing he’s about to see you and he’s not breaking his promise to turn up. He’ll be there, like he said he would and with flowers in hand. God, he can’t wait to see you.
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───
Two hours in and you’re still not quite sure why you’re waiting for Peter. The lack of response to your text message convinces you that he’s still in the middle of whatever mess he left you for. Yet, still you wait. You’ll probably wait until the party ends because he promised he’d make it, he promised he’d be here and Jess is still giving you that look of pity and mocking that makes you want to see her proven wrong so desperately. You can’t wait to see her face drop when she sees Peter, your boyfriend. Your boyfriend who’s hotter than her fiance, nicer than her fiance, smarter than her fiance, all around better than her fiance. Her fiance who’s spent half the night chasing other womens’ skirts and pretending he hasn’t been. It’s petty, but it’s hard not to be when she’s spent the evening stirring the pot and convincing David that you’re unhappy in your relationship and looking for a bit of fun. Something that is most definitely not the case and any man with half a brain cell might have noticed. Not David though. He had one eighth of a brain cell at best.
David had made his way over five minutes previous and couldn’t quite seem to take a hint. It was starting to grate on your nerves, even more so as he took another step towards you, invading your already limited personal space like he belonged there.
“Have I told you you look beautiful tonight?” He thinks he’s charming, you can see that. The smile he puts on is overconfident and cocky, but not in the way that Peter’s can be. When Peter teases you, when he’s a little arrogant, it makes your cunt throb and your mind spin. Peter would have had you whining for him by now. David wasn’t Peter, he wasn’t even comparable. Maybe had you never met Peter Parker he might have been of interest to you, but Peter had ruined every single man for you. It was simple. Peter was your end game, your ride or die. You had no intention of being with another person for the rest of your life and David needed to get the hint.
“Yes. Multiple times. Have I told you about my boyfriend, Peter?” You stress the word through gritted teeth, pulling back from his hand reaching for your bare shoulder, his fingertips just grazing your skin.
“Where is he?” The disbelief is starting to really wear you down. Do people think you’re sad enough to lie about your boyfriend? As if that was something people regularly did!
“There was an emergency.” Your tone is clipped, gritted teeth and a solid glare at him that should have put him off continuing to pursue you. It didn’t. You were starting to think he was either completely idiotic, oblivious or so arrogant that he couldn’t comprehend the idea that a woman wouldn’t be interested in him and his gelled back hair. Who even uses that much gel in their hair anymore? It made him look like a boy band reject from 2002.
Peter had spotted you before anyone or anything else, it was his goal after all, to find you amongst the crowd. The first thing he noticed about you wasn’t how you were dressed or how gorgeous you looked at that moment, but the look of disdain on your face and the man leering towards you like some sort of creep, his eyes staring down the top of your dress.
The man’s words travelled easily to Peter’s ears, enhanced hearing a handy talent, his voice grated on Peter, his clear interest in you an annoyance even more so with how uncomfortable you clearly were. He wasn’t exactly happy to find another man trying to make a move on his girlfriend. Peter set his jaw, and set his sights on you. His strides were confident as he dodged around each guest at the party.
David huffs out a laugh, “Not a very good boyfriend if he leaves a beautiful woman to attend a party alone, I’d never do that to you, sweetcheeks.” The leer has you stepping back and into a warm chest behind you.
“You’d never have a chance.” A familiar and most welcome voice causing your shoulders to relax. It’s sarcastic and unfriendly, the latter rather unusual for your boyfriend. You turn to see him behind you, glare centred on David.
“Pete!” You’re so excited to see him that you throw your arms around his neck and pull him down to you by the back of the neck. His lips press against yours roughly, more so than normal and you melt into his kiss. Opening your mouth to the coaxing of his tongue without protest, one of his hands falling on your arse in a way you would normally be self-conscious of and tell him off for. But, given there’s an unwanted man attempting to get in your panties, you’re not going to dissuade the possessive hand across your arse or the way he seems to want to suffocate you with his kiss. Peter’s teeth bite your lip and you moan into his mouth before he pulls back with that little half grin of this, the one that’s near enough a smirk, where his brown eyes look at you half-shut and tempting.
“Hey there, my pretty lady…” He nuzzles his nose against yours, eyes flicking briefly towards the other man with a hint of a smirk, before pulling back from you just enough to offer you the red roses, “These are for you, sweetheart, sorry I’m late, I got held up.”
“Oh, baby! You didn’t have to!” You take the flowers from him and press a kiss to his lips, it was supposed to be a chaste one, but Peter presses back against you roughly, pulling your bottom lip between his teeth before letting you go.
“Of course I did, I’ve gotta make sure my baby feels loved, don’t I? Now, let me have a look at my baby, mmm?” You feel warm under his attention, he’s not behaving as sweetly as you expect. This is the sort of Peter you usually get in the bedroom, the sort of Peter who convinces you to try and see how many times he can make you cum in one night, the sort of Peter who wraps his hand around your throat and squeezes till the blood rushes in your ears and you can’t form words.
Still despite the warmth in your face and the heat in your cunt you step back from him, David barely a thought as Peter’s eyes look you up and down slowly from head to toe. His eyes trail from your face and the lipstick you only ever wear because you know it drives him crazy to see it smudged, to see it mark his skin, down to your bare shoulders. He follows the line of your body, the dress…the dress, that dress, it’s his favourite one. The red one, that pops out at him whenever you wear it. The red one that shows off your shoulders and sticks tight to the curves and dips of your body. The red one that shows off your hips, the hips that you know he loves so goddamn much. Fuck, he loves your hips, how they curve, how he can dig his fingers into the meat of them, the way bruises look against your skin there, how they sway when you walk.
His eyes are anything but soft and gentle when he scans you. This is not the Peter who tells you he loves you sweetly and washes your hair and you’re not mad about it. You’re not mad about the heat behind his eyes, the way he watches you with hooded eyes and licks his lips like he might just devour you.
It takes everything within him to acknowledge the man who had tried so desperately to flirt with you. He doesn’t want to, but still his eyes flick towards him, the fire stays but shifts from lustful to possessive, assessing the other man as if he’d ever be competition.
Peter wraps his arm around your hips and pulls you tight against his side, pressing the whole length of his body against your own as he turns to David. His smile is tight and forced, his usually friendly demeanour definitely not reserved for the man trying to flirt with his girl. You relax into Peter, just happy for him to be with you, for there to be a deterrent. You watch him more than David, taking in the way the suit fits Peter, tight across his shoulders, a few wrinkles he clearly hadn’t been able to get out by smoothing them with his hands. His jaw is tight and it only exaggerates the cut of it, he’s so beautiful and you don’t even want to stay at the party anymore. You just want him to drag you home already.
“Who’s this?”
“Oh, one of Jessica’s friends, Daryl was it?” You know his name’s David really, but it’s a petty little attempt to remind him that you’re not interested in him and that he should find another pretty girl to try his moves on.
“David.” He corrects tersely, Peter shouldn’t find it enjoyable, the way the other man seems to deflate. He knows his uncle Ben would have told him off for it, for the way he was behaving, but for once he didn’t care. You were his, he was yours. David was an unnecessary and unwanted tag along. He also had way too much gel in his hair.
There’s an uncomfortable tense silence as Peter and David stare each other down before Peter turns with you still wrapped up in his arms. He doesn’t even say goodbye to David, just turns, openly dismissive of him as he ushers you towards a quiet corridor leading to the bathrooms. He urges you to shove the roses into his backpack as you walk, once a sweet gesture, now an inconvenience to his plans.
His grip is tight on your hip as you walk, and it only grows more forceful as he presses you against a nearby wall, hands landing on either side of your head, caging you in. Nothing about it is aggressive or nasty, just lacking in his usual softness and control. You know you’re not getting the overly sweet and tender Peter tonight, it’s exciting to see this side of him.
“Did you like him flirting with you, baby? Did it make you feel special?” His voice is rough and low in your ear, warm breath tickling over the shell of your ear. His thigh makes its way between your own, pressing firm against your cunt and you can’t help but roll your hips against the intrusion. Dragging yourself across his leg in an effort to find some sort of friction, some sort of relief from the beginning desire that burns in your stomach like white phosphorus..
“No, no, Pete. Only you, only want you, baby…” Your breath stutters at the feeling of your clit dragging across his thigh, wetness pooling in your panties as Peter trails kisses down your neck, teeth nipping and biting at the skin as he goes. He’s rough enough that you know there will be bruises across your neck, clearly placed hickeys that show you’re taken. You think that’s the point, something about David’s attention has set Peter off and you’re not complaining.
“Mmm, I’m the only one that can make you feel like this, baby girl?” Peter kisses along your cheek, lips hovering over your own as his hand reaches for your neck. He squeezes just so, thumb pressing into the underside of your jaw, tilting your head for him and you can’t help the whine that falls from your throat as you press your hips against his thigh. The fact you’re in an open corridor is a distant worry, barely a thought as your eyes flutter closed.
“Answer me, sweet girl.” His voice is firm, you force your eyes open to look at him, the way his brown eyes stare into yours as his lips brush against your own, nose nuzzling against yours. Even like this he has this gentleness, a tenderness that reminds you that you are in safe hands. Peter has you and nothing bad will happen, not even with your co-workers just down the corridor.
“Only you…only you make me feel like this, not him, no one else.” It’s a babbling mess that causes Peter to smirk because you’re so pretty like this, rutting against his thigh, skin warm and neck littered with small bruises that you won’t be able to hide tonight. He’s barely started and you’re desperate for him, and fuck, if he doesn’t love seeing you like this for him. Like he’s the only man in the world that can make you lose your sharp wits and ability to speak.
“There’s my good girl, my sweet girl…” Peter’s hands slide to your thighs gripping them tight and pulling them from the floor, wrapping them around his hips for you as he presses you into the wall. Your arms wrap around his neck instinctively, this scene having played out time and time again as Peter often takes advantage of his superhuman strength.
He moves you while you lazily press kisses across his jaw, what little skin on his neck is exposed is sucked and nipped as you occupy yourself with him. He thanks whatever deity looked kindly upon him, for this bar to have those individual unisex toilets, lockable and with such heavy doors that the sound is muffled and almost non-existant from outside.
Peter lets one arm drop from underneath your arse as he closes and locks the heavy door behind him, you’re placed roughly on top of a cold marble sink countertop, your thighs resting just on the edge of it. It’s so cold against your heated skin that it causes you to shiver. Peter, despite the mood he’s in, rubs your legs instinctively to warm you up.
“Pete…baby…”
“What do you want, sweet girl? Y’gotta tell me so I can help you out, you gotta use your words for me, sweetheart.” His smirk is teasing and teethy, eyes dark, practically black as his pupils take over most of his iris. Peter knows you can barely form a coherent sentence right now, and can very rarely ever form a coherent sentence when you’re fooling around together. Peter enjoys teasing you, enjoys seeing you struggling to form words, your lips moving as if sound will come out a few times before you finally manage it. He loves that he can do this to you, completely pull you apart without really even touching you.
“Need you, baby…” It’s pleading and sweet, your eyes half lidded as you try to tug him closer to you and he resists your pulling, his own hands grazing lightly at the skin of your thighs sending shivers over your spine. You shift your hips forward, but Peter just pulls his hands back a couple of inches, nearing your knees instead of following your silent urging.
“Where do you need me, sweetie, mmm?” His voice is so sweet compared to his actions, the voice he uses when he’ll do whatever you want, but he’s not doing what you want right now. It’s frustrating and delicious and you can’t help the shifting of your hips as if you’ll find relief from the empty air.
“Pete…” You whine bashful and embarrassed, knowing he wants vulgar and crass words to fall from your lips in an unfamiliar display of crudeness from you. A bluntness that you’re not used to around sex, you’re never the direct one, Peter is.
“C’mon, baby girl, where do you need me?” His voice is firmer, less soft and sweet, less pandering this time. It’s an order, a directive. If you want anything tonight you’re going to have to play by his rules. His rules are deliciously unfair, you think as your belly burns and your clit throbs unattended.
“I…” You toss your head to the side, face and ears so hot you feel feverish with delightful embarrassment, Peter is the only person you could ever feel so safe with like this, “I…want you to…want your lips on me, baby.” You know your words are too vague the moment his grin widens and he drops his lips to your shoulder, pressing an open mouthed kiss there, teeth grazing across your heated skin.
“Here?”
“Nooo…Pete!” You whine and throw your head back in frustration, hands reaching for his head as if to guide him, but he’s already moved onto the hollow at the base of your throat, pressing a kiss there as you squirm.
“Here then?”
“Pete!” Your hands shove his shoulders down, trying to urge him between your thighs like you want but he just smirks up at you all teeth and sin and control.
“Y’gotta tell me, baby, I'm Spider-Man, not a mind reader.” His lips continue to trail over your exposed skin; your collar bone, your throat, your arms and shoulders. Each time he kisses and licks and bites and you know you are going to walk out of this bathroom littered with love bites that your coworkers will see, that Jessica will see, that David will see.
The idea of everyone knowing you’re Peter’s, and he’s yours, that he looks after you so well, takes care of you properly, that’s what spurs you to say the words you’ve been so reluctant to.
“On my…on my cunt. I want your lips on my cunt.” You close your eyes and tilt your head back. Peter can’t resist the length of your neck and one last kiss to it before he gives you a sweet reward for your obedience.
“There, that wasn’t so difficult was it, sweet girl?” It was, you think. It was so difficult and yet his attention makes you want to squirm, making it worth the difficulty.
Fuck, you’re so pretty like this he think as he rucks up your skirt around your hips and slides your panties down your trembling legs and into his pocket. Your lips parting as you gasp and whine for him to just touch you while you tremble and shake for him. Your perfectly done hair is already a mess from being pressed against a wall, and your skin is littered with love bites from his mouth. A monet painting across your skin of various shades of purple and red. He can’t wait for David to see you like this, on his arm, can’t wait for everyone to know you’re his.
He takes a step back for a moment just to admire you and the distance has your head snapping up to look at him with a frowny little pout on your face. He’s scanning you again, head to toe, a slow trail of his gaze burning across your skin as Peter licks his lips and grins at your frustration.
You contain your desire to tell him you hate him, knowing he’s in the mood to stop and draw this out. That saying it will only result in him torturing you for longer and you’re much too riled up already for that. There’s a distant thought that you can’t believe Peter’s about to eat you out in a bar bathroom with your co-workers a few meters away. Another part knows he’s the only person who could ever convince you to do this.
“Pete, baby, touch me, please”
“Well, since you asked so nicely, honey.”
He drops to his knees so roughly that you wince at the sound of the impact as his knees meet the tiled floor of the bathroom. His hands slide up your ankles, a delicate little touch that has your skin twitching as he reaches the backs of your knees and drags you forward on the countertop until your arse is on the edge. His hands slide up to your hips to hold you securely in place, flexing fingers digging into the flesh there tightly enough to leave bruises, a reminder that he has you and a reminder of what sort of night you’re in for.
He presses close between your legs, throwing them over his shoulders as he holds you close and for all his teasing there is no preamble here. You whine as Peter licks from your slit to your clit in one fell swoop. Your hands slide into the dark brown strands of his hair and tug harshly, getting a groan from him at the pain. Shit, he loves pleasing you, could probably do this all night if you wanted. He pulls back just enough to look at you.
“You taste so good, baby, my sweet baby, is this all for me?” Peter’s hands tighten on your hips as you squirm, wetness pooling between your thighs and coating the inside of them with slick. You’re so wet that he has half a mind to ask if you’ve been thinking about him all night, if you were thinking of him when David tried his moves on you.
“All for you…all for you, baby.” Your legs twitch over his shoulders, a pathetic little attempt at urging him forward again, never able to win a battle of physical strength with Peter, no matter how hard you try. He’s steady as a rock, only moving when he wants and how he wants.
“Who does this cunt belong to, sweetheart, mmm?” His voice is so goddamn low and gravelly at this point that it goes straight between your legs.
You’re pretty sure your brain short circuits, Peter’s words combined with his mouth dipping back between your legs and his lips wrapping around your clit and sucking has you throwing your head back so hard that Peter’s quick to reach a hand up and place it between the back of your skull and the bathroom mirror. He saves you from cracking your head as casually as he licks at your cunt and shit, Peter still having that much awareness and control causes more slick to gather underneath his tongue. He’s so goddamn competent and you love it.
“I asked you a question, baby.” His lips turn to the inside of your thigh, licking up your tangy wetness that has dripped there, biting into the meat of your thigh and laving it with his tongue while he waits for an answer. He’s being cruel and he knows it, normally he’d give you everything you want without question or much teasing, but tonight is different. It doesn’t matter that he’s rock hard in his dress pants, all that matters is reminding you that you belong to him and showing you no one else could love you this good. As if that was ever in doubt.
“Yours, baby, it’s your cunt, yours.”
He rewards you by diving back into you, tasting you on his tongue as he presses into you and surrounds himself with you, nose nudging at your clit as he licks into you and allows your hips to buck against his face. He can tell you’re close from the way you thrash, how your legs tense over his shoulders, but he knows you well enough to know you need more than just his lips on you.
Peter wraps his lips back around your clit and sucks at the same time as he presses a thick, long finger into you. You moan and twist, but it’s not enough, you feel so decidedly empty. Peter watches you from between your thighs, eyes looking up at you, at the puff of your cheeks as you hunt for a breath of air. Your hands tug at his hair with each suck and lick of his mouth.
Peter’s quick to press a second finger into you, curling the two of them just so against that spongy little spot inside you that has you crying out his name and gasping for air. His hand is still the only thing saving you from giving yourself a concussion. He’s downright relentless as he thrusts his fingers into you, curling against that spot each time, lips sucking and licking around your clit like a lollipop.
It’s a third finger stretching you open, eased by the sheer amount of wetness that you drip with, and the subtlest graze of his teeth against your clit that has you cumming. Your legs wrapping so tight around Peter’s head he worries he might suffocate, at the same time as thinking that would be the best way for him to go out. Dying between your thighs seems like a pretty good way to go.
You whine his name so loud that he’s not even sure the heavy door can muffle it. Your body tensing and relaxing with the waves of your orgasm as Peter works you through it, lips pulling away from you, but fingers still pressing into you, more gently this time. “There you go, baby, look at you…so pretty for me. Prettiest woman I’ve ever seen…look at you…”
He lets you push his hand away when it’s too much and pulls himself to his full height, slipping his fingers into his mouth and sucking you from his skin. You lean into him, pressing your cheek into his shoulder as Peter rubs circles into the back of your neck. Still soft, still tender as he waits for you to catch your breath and come back down from it all.
“You okay, baby?”
“Mmm, more than okay, Pete…fuck, you trying to ruin me?” You lean back and finally look at him. Your lipstick is smudged, eyeliner running, hair an absolute mess. You look wrecked in the best sort of way and he knows it’ll be obvious what you’ve just done when you walk out into the bar on the way back to your apartment, but that’s what he wants. Wants them to look at you and him and know.
“You just look so good like that, baby.” Peter’s hand wraps around your throat and your eyes roll back, already finding yourself getting worked back up again. He’s still so pristine looking, tie still in place, the only things rumpled are his hair and the lipstick marks across his lips and jaw. Compared to you he looks barely touched.
Peter’s lips press against your jaw, kissing up to your ear, “think it’s time we went home now, don’t you, baby girl?”
You nod rapidly, unable to find the words as Peter helps you slip off the counter and pull your dress down. He never returns your panties and you know he’s not in the mood to give them back. Asking would be pointless. You look wrecked but don’t even care as Peter slips his arm around your waist and walks you back out to the party.
You have to walk through the other guests to reach the exit, before Peter can swing you home and fuck you into the mattress. You smirk at Jessica as you pass by, her annoying face the picture of shock at the love bites and mussed hair you sport, at the specimen of a man wrapped around you in a black tie.
Peter does much the same to David, a challenging lift of his brow, a reminder he never had a chance with a woman like you. It’s petty on both your ends, possessive and silly, especially considering you should be embarrassed about being eaten out in a bar bathroom, but it fills you with a sort of confidence that sways your hips more.
He doesn’t really waste time; Once you’re out of the building and into an alleyway Peter’s tugging his mask in place and lifting you into his arms, eager to get you back to your shared apartment and out of your dress. He loves that dress on you, but right now, it’d look better on the floor.
There’s no faffing about as you land on the fire escape and Peter urges you inside, backpack and mask thrown on couch as he presses into you, lips smothering your own in a heated kiss. You move backwards with him, trusting him to guide you through the apartment and not lead you into a wall. His kisses twist from your lips to your jaw as you make it into the bedroom, nipping down your neck and over your sternum.
There’s very little talking as Peter turns you around and unzips your dress, pulling the red fabric from your body and letting it pool to the floor at your feet. Your strapless bra is next, unclipped and thrown to the side until all you are wearing are your shoes. You stand as patiently as you can, squirming on the spot as you wait for Peter’s next move.
“Fuck, baby, you’re so hot and all mine, right?” His fingertips skim over your shoulders, down your bare arms to twist with your own as he presses his front to your back. His excitement, hard and solid against you, as he presses kisses over your spine.
“All yours, Pete.” You sigh it out, head dropping back against his chest behind you as he nips across your skin.
“Promise?”
“Promise, only ever yours, I don’t want anyone else.” You’re pretty sure Peter Parker has ruined you for other people at this point. You’re pretty sure you’d only spend your life comparing them to him, if you can’t have Peter you might as well not have anyone.
“Mmm, me neither, baby…you’re my baby, I don’t need anyone else” It thrills you to hear it from him, that it’s just you. That other women, other men, other people don’t interest him. Peter’s all yours and it’s all you want and all you need.
He twists you in front of him, lips pressing down your chest and capturing a nipple between his teeth. The harsh tug causes a shaky breath to leave your throat as his fingers reach for your other breast.
You’re urged backwards towards the bed, stepping out of your dress and heels as he licks, bites and sucks at your chest, leaving an innumerable number of love bites over your body, to the point you’re sure someone might start worrying about you. You love it though, the purpling evidence across your body of his devotion to you, evidence of his hunger for your skin.
You gasp as he pushes you back to land on the bed with a bounce, before Peter covers you with his own body. He is warm and broad over you, all encompassing as he lifts one of your legs up to his hip. Still fully clothed you whine against him as he rocks into you, far too many layers separating the two of you.
“Pete, too many clothes!”
He tuts at you, “Oh no, you’re going to cum on my fingers before I get out of this suit, baby, think you can do that for me?” He wants to push you tonight, see how many orgasms he can wring from you before you’re tapped out and exhausted, till your cock drunk and unable to speak. Needs to make it up to you for that two hour wait, needs to make up for the fact he dragged you from the party after barely being there twenty minutes and the embarrassment you’re likely to feel later when you realise everyone at work saw you post-orgasm.
You shake your head no, but your lips form the word ‘yes’ over and over. Peter urges your hips up as he slides a pillow underneath them to prop them up. His fingers trail down your stomach, before his hand cups your cunt and two fingers press into you without hesitation. You’re still so wet and warm from before that he has no problem sliding them inside you as you grind against his palm. Heat wells in your belly and twists itself in delicious knots. Your skin feels hot again, like you’ve caught the worst sort of fever and there’s a corny joke somewhere in the back of your mind that just about avoids your lips.
“Baby…”
“I’ve got you, you know I've got you, sweet girl. Always got you.” He croons to you, lips hovering over your own, watching the way your eyes flutter shut as he presses into you and seeks out that spot again, thumb coming to circle your clit. Your hands grip his shoulders tight, without the layers of clothing your nails would be digging into his skin and he wishes he could feel it, the lash of pain across his back as you dig crescent moons into him, mark him as your own.
You twist in his arms when he finds it, that spongy spot that makes you keen and throw your head back into the mattress. Peter sits up on his knees to find his balance, fingers still pushing in and out of your cunt, thumb still pressing circles across your clit, just up and to the left where you’re most sensitive. His free hand wraps around your neck, finding its home there like so many times before. It’s careful, but firm as he presses onto the sides of your throat and feels you moan under his palm, the light pressure causing blood to rush to your ears, intensifying the feeling building in your belly and the slick against Peter’s fingers.
“There we go, baby. Look at you…so pretty, my pretty pretty baby.” He’s always like this, even when he’s teasing and rougher, Peter always croons praise at you like a song, a mantra. His words are sweet even as he pulls you apart from the inside out, a reminder that there is love and trust between you, that he loves you.
“Pete…” You’re not sure what you want to say, eyes opening halfway to watch him as he grins down at you, dimples pushing against his cheeks. He looks so hot like this, hand around your neck, still dressed to the nines, your lipstick smudged across his mouth like some sort of abstract painting.
“C’mon, baby girl, I know you can do it, cum for me, c’mon…I got’chu.” Peter increases the pace of his fingers, rougher, harder, faster, as he tightens his hand around your throat and watches as your eyes roll back into your head, body shaking as you cum for him. Your toes always curl when you cum, and your legs kick out, one knocking into his side roughly.
You shove his hands away from you for a moment, too sensitive for him to continue right away and watch as Peter brings his fingers to his mouth and sucks you from his fingers like his favourite dessert.
“Mmm, you always taste so good, baby, don’t you agree?” His mouth presses to yours soon after the question is posed, your mouth prised open by his tongue as you taste yourself on his lips. You moan into his mouth and chase his lips when he pulls back.
It doesn’t matter that you’ve cum twice tonight, you’re not satisfied, eyes trailing over his fully clothed form to stop on the bulge in his pants. Fuck, you want him inside you so bad, he’s drawn it out tonight, a tease.
“You want something, sweetheart?”
You nod your head vigorously, leaning up onto your elbows as he steps back from the bed, smirking at you. “You. Want you, Pete…”
“Want me where?” You watch as he grabs his tie in one hand, loosening it from his neck. You’re not sure when removing a tie became so attractive, but Peter makes it so. Even more so as buttons begin to be opened and his freckled skin begins to be revealed with each of them.
“In me. Want you in me, Pete.” Whatever embarrassment and bashfulness you had earlier has wilted and died along the way, two orgasms in and all you really want right now is his cock in your cunt as he leans over you with a hand around your throat.
“Mmm, think you got one more in you, baby?”
“Yes, yes…”
“Good girl, just be patient for me, mmm?” You nod your head and watch, squirming in place but patient as you watch Peter shrug his jacket from his shoulders and toss it unceremoniously across the room.
He’s slow as he unbuttons the cuffs of his shirt sleeves and finishes opening the buttons of his shirt. The white cotton slides from his shoulders like silk as it flutters to the ground. Your eyes follow the breadth of his shoulders, the lines of his torso, catching on familiar scars and freckles that you’ve kissed time and time again.
“You’re so handsome, baby.” You watch the warmth reach his face, red shadows across his cheeks and ears, always unused to a compliment, but that’s why you always took the time to make them. “You’re so hot, Peter…fuck…” Your voice breathy and in awe of this man, this man who loves you and fucks you and needs you, wants you.
“You that needy for me, sweet baby?” He’s tugging at his belt buckle, sliding the leather through the loops even with his dark eyes focused on you and he knows what you’re doing. You’re pushing back just a little bit. He’s teased you this entire time and now you’re trying to push back with your own, to get him to move quicker, it’s cute that you think you have any control here.
“Mmm, always needy for you, Pete.” You wriggle a little in place, the movement of your hips catching his eye and stopping his hands in their tracks as they reach for the fly of his pants. He takes a moment, letting you stew in the realisation that he's only slowed down and not sped up.
Your comments stop then, breath held as you return to patient silence, stilling your body even as your toes curl in anticipation. He begins again once you’re settled, trouser button popped and fly pulled down. Shoes kicked off before Peter steps out of his dress pants and boxers, bare before you.
He lets you get a good look in, your eyes trailing over his tall form, the slimness of his waist, his cock weeping against his stomach, hard and wanting. He’s been hard since the bathroom at the bar, Peter’s patience and self-restraint always astounding to you. You don’t have it in you, you’re always needy and impatient when it comes to him and your desires.
“You sure you’re up for one more, baby?” He asks as he makes his way to settle over you, arms on either side of your head, muscles bulging deliciously. He’s giving you an out, not that he’d ever continue anything without your permission. You know that about Peter intimately, he could be a second away from cumming and still he would pull out of you if you no longer wanted to keep going. It was that ability to trust in him that made it all so easy.
“Mmm, yeah, Pete, need you,”
“You got me, you got me, sweet girl.” Peter urges your legs up and around his hips, cock dragging through the slickness of your cunt, once again glad you're on the pill and the lack of barrier between the two of you. You’re so warm and wet that it takes him a moment to compose himself, the head of his cock teasing your clit as your fingers dig into his back. Your body burns in the best sort of way, the slide of him against you sending tingles up your spine, so sensitive at this point that even just the touch of him to your clit has you contorting.
Then he slides home, an easy slow thrust that has your hips lifting and nails carving crescent moons into his skin. Peter hisses at the tight clutch you have around his cock and the slight pain in his back, delicious and brilliant. He knows this is the last one, his restraint at the end of its tether.
“Fuckkk…you’re so wet, baby…” His forehead drops to your shoulder, hips beginning to rock into your own, the slow drag of his cock against your walls drawing a long moan from your throat. “This all for me?”
“Mmmhmmm, all for you…” You’re not sure your brain works anymore, if you’re being honest. You feel like you’re swimming in sensation, your brain a little hazy, senses only focused on Peter. The drag of him through your walls, the touch of his lips to your neck, the smell of his shampoo in your nose.
“You okay?” He chuckles at the way you look up at him a little dumb smile on your face, eyes half-lidded and hazy. He’d be worried if I hadn’t seen that look on your face before. This is definitely the last orgasm he’ll wring out of you tonight, anymore and it’d be pushing you past your breaking point. He can tell already.
“Mmm?”
“Just a little cockdumb, huh, baby? You like me filling you up?” You know he’s laughing at you, but you can’t really complain as he thrusts harder and surer with each rocking of his hips, can’t really complain when his hand is at your throat again, thumb pressing underneath your jaw and tilting your head to look at him. His eyes are so goddamn soft and warm, and fuck, he’s so handsome above you.
“Mmm, so good, Pete…not…”
“Not what, baby? Mmm, use your words for me.” You rock back into him, legs hiking further up his hips, dragging him deeper into you. The head of his cock hitting that spot in you as his hand slides down your body to your clit.
“Not gonna last, so close, baby.” You jerk in his arms, feeling overwhelmed, so sensitive and so, so warm as you clench around him at his fingertips circling your clit.
“You gonna cum for me? Where do you want me, sweet girl? Mmm? Where do you want me?” He’s close too, can feel the tightness in his stomach, but needs to know where you want him. Sometimes you don’t want the sticky feeling between your legs and sometimes you want him deep inside you. He has thoughts on it tonight too. Wants to cum in you and claim you, the only one to ever get to do it again. Not stupid men like David, they’ll never get the privilege, because it is a privilege to have you like this, to have your trust and submission to him.
Your gasping for air, body burning so bright that you can barely keep your eyes open and on his own. “Cum in me, please, please Pete, fill me up…baby…”
Thank fuck, Peter thinks, thank fuck you’re on the same page. His hand tightens around your throat, the other pressing roughly into your clit and rocking as deep as he can, barely pulling out of you, not wanting to miss this, miss cumming in you like you want, like he wants. “Mmm, want me to fill you up? Want me to fuck a baby into you? Our baby, huh?” Fuck, it’s a way off, he knows that. Knows you can’t get pregnant, knows that you need to get married first, get a bigger place, but shit if the idea doesn’t appeal to him. Taking you, filling you up with him, making a baby with you, your stomach round, tits growing. Fuck…He should be ashamed, but you’ve never let him feel bad about any impulse of his.
“Yes, fuck, yes, Pete..” It doesn’t matter that you’re on the pill, that you’re not going to get pregnant, it’s the thought that counts, the idea of him claiming you, being yours totally and wholly. Having a piece of him with you. Of a family with him, a baby with his eyes and that impossible ability to get in trouble.
“Gonna fill you up, baby, mark you up, make you mine, mmm? Wanna be mine?”
“Yours, only yours, Pete…” You kiss over his neck, sucking a mark, deep and purple into his skin. A little sad knowing it’ll disappear within a few hours, healing before you can truly enjoy the sight of it on his skin.
“Then cum for me, sweet girl” He lowers his mouth to your ear, whispers it low and sweet so close that it feels like you’re the only two people in the world, his hand around your throat tightens and you’re falling, tumbling, diving over your third end of the night. Cumming around him, you grip him so tight that it doesn’t take long for him to follow, stilling as he cums in you, filling you up like you both wanted.
The two of you gasp for breath, heaving chests as Peter lowers himself down onto you for a moment. The weight of him is a comfort as he softens inside you. Your hands trail over his back in soothing circles, the two of you just taking a moment to come down from it all.
“Need to get you cleaned up, baby…” Peter speaks first, pulling out of you, the discomfort of his spend slipping from your body made obvious by your grimace. He gets off of you and tucks his arms underneath you, lifting your body from the bed and making his way to the bathroom.
You’re both quiet as you stand under the warmth of the shower, taking turns to wash the other, soothing hands over bruise marks and broken skin. Hands washing the spend from your thighs and pressing soothing kisses to the marks on your hips, even as he smirks up at you, proud of himself, too proud.
You’re warm and lax when you finally curl up in bed with Peter, the covers cool against your skin, and Peter’s heartbeat solid beneath your ear.
“Sorry I was late…you did look beautiful tonight though.” You cuddle deeper into him. Not the least bit concerned about his lateness. You knew he’d be late, but he’d made it and in the end the look on Jessica’s face was worth the two hours waiting…so were the three orgasms.
“Think you more than made up for it, Pete…” You laugh at him, pressing a kiss to his chest and closing your eyes.
“Yeah?”“Mmm, I think I might not be able to walk tomorrow…”
“Good thing it’s a Sunday.” Good thing it’s Sunday indeed.
You find the roses he brought you two days later in Peter’s backpack, wilted and crumpled, neglected in favour of his lips on your cunt and hand around your throat like an obscene necklace.
Warnings: Reader menstruates, use of she/her/feminine identifers, periods suck okay? but Peter’s pretty great.
Summary: Periods, as natural as they are, suck and Peter being the wonderful boyfriend that he is, only wants you to feel good, safe, and comfortable. You’re his number one priority.
Notes: I’m coming up for my period and like always I just wish I had someone to hold me tight and give me love and affection, something I think Peter would be very good at. This ended up double the length I thought it would...
It’s not the way that you want to wake up on a Saturday morning at…You squint at your phone screen in the dark, the bright light temporarily blinding you…three in the morning. Waking up to a pain in your stomach reminiscent of being drop kicked was never fun and you groan as you sit yourself up, holding a hand to your stomach as if that was some miraculous cure for cramping.
Your back twinges with the movement and there’s a gush of wet discomfort between your thighs as it becomes very clear to you that your period has decided to make an appearance. You’re emotional at the best of times, but this really takes the cake, you can already feel frustrated tears welling in your eyes at the prospect of peeling back the covers and seeing some sort of crime scene exposed.
Because when you do, you see the one thing you don’t want to deal with at three in the morning. You’ve bled through your clothing, all the way to your sheets, a pool of bright red fresh blood welling underneath your legs and staining the white fabric. The only relief you have is that Peter hasn’t managed to turn over in his sleep and roll into it, you’re not sure you’d be able to cope with that right now. You can’t help it, things have been kind of shitty lately and it’s just another thing added to the bundle, so you really can’t help it when you start to cry.
You pull your knees to your chest, pressing your face into your legs and just let it out. It’s not pretty and you try to keep it down, to not wake your boyfriend who had a rough night dealing with an oversized slime roaming down the streets of New York. He didn’t need to be bothered by you, not when he was always so tired after patrolling the city.
You’re clearly not quiet enough because before you know it Peter’s up and wrapping his arms around you. A big frown furrowing his brow and causing the corners of his lips to turn down.
“Hey…what’s wrong? Hey, it’s okay…it’s okay” His cheek pressed into the top of your head as he shushed you, rocking you back and forth in his arms. You feel gross and it makes you cry harder and the knowledge that he’s seeing you like this, touching you when you feel this gross.
It’s not something he expects to be woken up by, the sound of you crying, but he’s glad he woke up. He never wants you to cry alone, to deal with things by yourself if you don’t have to. He catalogues the scene as he wraps his arms around you, the metallic smell of blood in the air, the pool of it beneath your legs, the way you flinch and twinge as if a muscle is spasming in your back. It’s clear you’ve started your period and that it’s decided to make a shock appearance when you least expected it.
“I’m sorry, you can go back to sleep! I’m sorry.” You sound hysterical and his heart breaks a little for you because it’s no big deal, it really isn’t. He doesn’t mind waking up for you. He doesn’t mind helping you out. He certainly doesn’t think you have anything to apologise for when you can’t help your body doing something so entirely natural and fundamental. He wasn’t an idiot, he knew about periods and menstruation and it really didn’t bother him. He was twenty five years old, for fucks sake. What twenty five year old couldn’t deal with his girlfriend having her period?
He doesn’t even care that he’s going to get blood on his boxers as he pulls you firmly into his lap and cups your cheeks, forcing you to look up at him. Your eyes are bloodshot and puffy but you still manage to be so utterly beautiful that he momentarily forgets what he was going to say. “Hey….it’s okay. Please…please don’t apologise, it’s okay, baby.”
“I’m going to get blood on you…” You’re sniffling and trying to get off his lap, as lovely as it is to be held by him, the thought of getting blood on him makes you want to cry even harder. But, Peter just holds tight, rubbing the back of your neck and your lower back in small circles, shushing you as he does so. It calms you down somewhat and you press your face into the crook of his neck, taking in that familiar smell of his, the deodorant he uses and the cologne you brought him for Christmas mixing together in a way that is distinctly Peter.
Whatever buzzing exists in your chest, begins to calm at the comfort of him and you start to take big, deeper breaths as you get ahold of your emotions. Peter has alway had a calming effect on you, a safe person to cling to when things get rough. This morning is no different.
“That’s okay, I don’t mind, you can get blood on me any time, pretty lady. Besides, how many times have I gotten blood on you, huh?”
“...a lot.” You admit, thinking back to how many times you’d had to scrub blood from underneath your nails or that time your favourite white shirt was ruined because you’d had to help carry him into your apartment. It seemed so silly now, that you’d worry about a little bit of blood when your boyfriend was Spider-Man. Was there ever a week when he didn’t come in bleeding?
“Exactly. It’s okay, beautiful. It’s okay.” He chucks you under the chin with a sweet smile, glad to see the tears drying up, “Why don’t we get you cleaned up, baby? Does that sound good?”
“Yeah…yeah, I feel…I feel gross.” The thought of a warm shower really does sound amazing, especially given how icky you feel at that moment. Not only are you covered in blood, but you feel sweaty and just disgusting as well.
“Well, luckily for you, even if you're covered in blood and tears, you’re still the most beautiful woman I've ever seen.” He means, it’s ridiculous, that he sees you looking your worst and still has to catch his breath even after all this time. You’re so beautiful even when you don’t feel it.
“You are a liar, Peter Parker.” There is absolutely no way he could find you beautiful right now, no matter what those big doe eyes of his try to say. You’re gross and you know it. You glance away from him, focusing on a point across the room, at the stupid little Spider-Man figurine you brought him as a joke gift that he ended up loving.
“I am not, hey, look at me.” He’s cupping the back of your neck in one hand, thumb stretched across your jaw as he gently turns your face to look at him, that thumb brushes back and forth across your skin. “I would pick you, covered head to toe in blood, out of every other person on this planet. In a heartbeat.”
There’s a pause, you almost aww-ing at how sweet he can be, when he has to come in for the punchline because if he didn’t he wouldn’t be Peter Parker. “Then I'd hose you down outside, but still!” You wack him across the top of his arm, rolling your eyes but not being able to help the little smile that’s wormed its way onto your face.
“You’re the worst.”
“And you’re simply the best, better than all the rest.” Despite appearances Peter’s singing is actually really good, and despite your groaning and grumbling as he teases you, you do love it and you do love him. You love that he always tries to put a smile on your face.
After he’s done, he wraps an arm underneath your legs and another behind your back lifting you with ease (that super strength really comes in handy sometimes). The walk to the bathroom is short, but Peter doesn’t put you down until he has the water for the shower running to get hot.
There’s a comfortable silence that falls between the two of you as he helps you strip from your clothes and you do the same for him and his boxers, before you’re both piling into the shower. It’s something you adore about Peter, about your relationship with him. He revels in non-sexual intimacy, he doesn’t make crude jokes or touch you inappropriately, instead he’s careful as he helps you wash. Just because you're naked doesn’t mean he tries to start anything, he knows now is not the time and he just wants to make you feel better.
His hands lather your shampoo through your hair, taking his time to massage away the tension in your scalp, before running your conditioner back through it. He’s careful of how sensitive you are as he helps wash blood and sweat from your skin.
“Jesus, your back’s tight…” It feels like a firm mattress, so taught he’s not surprised you’re in pain right now.
“Mmm, it hurts…” Your muscles always seized up every time your period hit and it never failed to be a literal pain. You lean your forehead against the shower wall, taking a couple of deep breaths.
“Mmm, I think I can help with that.” Peter Parker has magic fingers, that’s decided the moment he places his hands on the back of your neck and rubs firm circles into the tight muscles there.
You can’t help the moan that leaves you because there is nothing more relieving in that moment than the feeling of that tension drifting away, your neck feeling boneless as his warm hands move down your back. He manages to pin point every little tight spot and ache within your muscles and relieve them. You’re not sure where he learnt it, but you don’t care at that moment because his fingers just seem to know what spots to press on and which to leave.
Peter can’t help but smile as you go a bit boneless, each relieved sigh and groan of gratitude puffs his chest up with pride at helping his girlfriend, making her feel better. You hold so much tension in your body and it's a privilege that he gets to relieve it, that you trust him to be here, completely naked with you, and just look after you. There’s so much trust and it reminds him of how deeply he loves you.
He presses a kiss to your shoulder, leading a line of kisses over and up your neck, behind your ear. Soft, sweet, there’s no heat there, no expectation. “Wait here. I’ll go get you some clothes and a pad.” He presses one last kiss to your temple before leaving you under the warm water.
The next minutes go by in a quiet sort of intimacy. Peter doesn’t let you lift a finger as he dries you with a towel and helps slide your underwear up your legs, a pad already there to keep you from getting messy again. He’s careful as he helps you step into your pajama bottoms, pressing a kiss to your knees as he slides the trousers up and over your hips, another kiss placed there too, just so, soft and lingering. He helps you slide one of his larger, oversized t-shirts over your head. The one he brought solely so you could steal it once he wore it once, stolen clothes always felt better after all. If it was suspiciously in the right size to fit you comfortably then you never questioned him on it and he never mentioned it.
“I’ve got to strip the bed off, c’mere,” Peter pats his thighs and you know by now to jump up and wrap your legs around his hips. He holds you so carefully as he carries you out to the living room, pressing kisses to your cheeks, nose, forehead, lips before laying you down on the sofa. He’s not gone for long before he’s grabbing your stash of blankets and wrapping them around you.
You feel sleepy and warm, your eyes half shut as you watch Peter come and go from the bedroom to the washing machine, then to the linen closet to grab the spare sheets. He doesn’t complain not once. He doesn’t complain that you’ve woken him up at three in the morning, or that you’ve got blood on the sheets or that he had to help you clean up. He just does it, and every time he spots you on the sofa, he smiles and tells you you look beautiful.
You want to marry him. You know you do. It doesn’t matter that he comes back covered in cuts and bruises more often than not, or that he’s often late to things because of the latest threat to the city. He’s not perfect, but he’s perfect for you and to you and that…that’s what matters. He cares so much, he treats you right and you’d marry him even if he turned up late to your wedding.
“I love you,” You croak it out across the apartment from where you’re curled up. Your voice is soft and tender and god, you’re such a simp for this man. He looks at you, stain remover in one hand, a measuring cup for detergent in the other and a pair of heart boxers low on his hips, and grins.
“I love you too, baby.” He does this voice, you don’t ever point it out afraid that he’ll stop, but whenever he tells you he loves you or how amazing he thinks you are, whenever he’s being soft, he has a voice he uses. It’s sweet, and low and takes on this almost airly soft quality that makes shivers run up your spine. It's so, so affectionate that it makes your chest ache and you never want him to stop talking to you like that, ever.
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───
“Okay, washing is on. Stain remover is in, check…bed’s made, check…” Peter goes through the list of to do’s before he’s content that at the lovely time of nearly five in the morning it’s all sorted. When he walks back to the sofa you’re asleep, wrapped in all the blankets, mouth half open, the tiniest bit of drool running out the corner. He wipes it away gently with a quiet chuckle.
He’s careful not to wake you as he lifts you back into his arms and carries you to bed, pulling back the covers he joins you, turning out the light and pulling you close to him. His face presses into your hair, it’s still wet but he doesn’t mind so much. You’re warm and soft and you twist in your sleep to face him, snuggling deeper into him.
Peter knows that Spider-Man is needed, he knows the city needs that side of him, but you make him feel needed. Peter Parker. Not Spider-Man. You want him, you need him, just as he is and none of the superhuman stuff really matters because it’s just that, just stuff. He loves you and he’s not good at hiding it.
He presses a kiss to your temple and closes his eyes. In a few hours he’ll be awake again, off to take photographs for some company so they can advertise some irrelevant product, but until then he just breathes you in and enjoys feeling needed. Important.
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───
Peter leaves that morning with a long kiss and reminder not to push yourself too hard. There are painkillers on the table laid out for you and a stack of pancakes that you know he made in a rush because they’re haphazardly stacked and the smiley face he made in fruit is a little bit wonky.
Still it makes you smile through the cramps and you do as he suggests, spending the day catching up on the show you've been watching wrapped in blankets on the sofa. He comes home around five and you know he’ll stay just long enough to eat something with you for dinner and ask about your day before he leaves to patrol the city for a few hours.
“Hi, baby.” He kisses your forehead where he finds you in the kitchen. The cramps are under control right now, painkillers working miracles, although you’ve taken the last of the ones you have in the apartment. “Is that your famous mac n’ cheese?” He knows the answer already, but you smile and hum at him as you make dinner. It’s not anything too hard or time consuming, but Peter loves your mac n’ cheese.
You feel his hands on your hips as he siddles up behind you, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, watching you work. You hate most people watching you cook, hate them even being in the room, but it’s different with Peter. He never questions you or tells you to do it differently or makes weird noises or faces. He’s just content to be there with you.
“Ugh…” You stop temporarily, a wave of pain in your abdomen hitting you. You lean your head back on Peter’s shoulder and his fingers move towards your stomach, rubbing circles there to relieve the pain.
“You okay? I can take over if you want? Won’t be as good, but I don’t want you to push yourself, pretty lady.”
“Just..just hold me for a sec?” It’ll pass, it alway does, but Peter’s warm hands always make it a little easier.
“Always.” He rubs circles on your stomach and holds you close as you make dinner, every time you stop because of pains he gives you little kisses and tells you he loves you. He stays a little longer than he normally would that evening, making sure to put the dishes away for you and get you comfortable on the sofa.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to stay? I’m sure the city’ll be fine for one night.” He’s not so sure about leaving for patrol today, you’re in pain and he knows the first few days of your period are always the worst. He’d rather cuddle with you all night than go take down some amateur robber or idiot with a knife, but you shake your head at him with a smile.
“I’m fine, Pete! Really, go help keep the city safe, webhead.” Sure, your stomach hurts, the painkillers are wearing off, but you’ll be fine for a few hours. You know how important being Spider-Man is to him and you knew when you continued to date him that it’d always be a part of your life.
“You know you’re my priority, right?” He kneels down next to you, leaning his head on his arms which are crossed over the arm of the sofa. “I’d drop everything for you. You come first, so if…if at any point you need me to come home, just give me a call, okay?”
“Pete, it’s my period. I’m not dying.”
“I-I…I know that I…I just-” You cup his cheek in your palm and brush your nose against his. This close you can count the freckles across his skin, the ones you adore so much. God, your boyfriend is so handsome. You love his eyes the most, they’re big and brown and when he looks at you like that, like he currently is, all soft and loving, it melts you.
“I know…you worry about me and I love that about you. You care so much. But I'm okay. Go be my favourite friendly neighbourhood Spider-Man, okay?” You press a kiss to his lips, lingering just a little.
“I love you.” After Gwen…he makes sure he always says it. Every time he leaves he tells you he loves you. Without fail. Every day he phones his Aunt May even for a minute, just to tell her he loves her. He never wants to regret not saying it enough to the two people he truly, deeply cares about.
“I love you too.” He presses a kiss back to you, his is longer and there’s more passion hidden in it, to the point you start to giggle at how far he pushes you back against the sofa. You watch him go, tight spandex perfectly framing his arse and showing off his arms. You’re less of a fan of the mask, a necessity but you always miss his face when he hides it.
He clocks the empty packet of painkillers and the way you’re holding your stomach as he leaves. A mental note to stop by the corner shop on his way home after patrol.
Home…he loves calling it that. It’s not so much the apartment that’s home to him, as you. You could live anywhere and as long as you were there when he got back, he’d consider it home. He wouldn’t care for it if you weren’t there. It’d just a box, a place to rest his head.
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───
Patrol goes simple enough for Peter. A couple of small-time crooks, but nothing too serious. He doesn’t even have any cuts or bruises this time, all of the so-called ‘bad guys’ unable to land even a single hit in. He swings by the local corner shop in full Spider-Man getup. The guy behind the counter is used to him at this point and doesn’t really blink an eye as he wanders through the shelves with a basket. This has become a regular occurrence.
First on his mental list is painkillers, a couple packets land in the basket before he spots the heating pad on the shelf and grabs that too, one of those electric ones that he knows will do wonders for your cramps. Better than just waiting for the painkillers to kick in at any rate.
He picks up the pads you use, some tampons in case you decide you’d rather use those too, he’s dated you long enough to know the gist of what to buy…the first time you asked him, he was pretty clueless, he ended buying one of almost everything. You had claimed he was just too sweet and a little bit clueless and had promptly given him a lesson on sanitary products. It wasn’t his finest hour, but, hey, you said he was cute so that’s what mattered.
Then he looks for snacks. He knows your appetite fluctuates during your period, but usually the first few days you’re constantly craving something and so he grabs your favourites off the shelves. Your favourite potato crisps, your favourite chocolate bar, favourite sweets and even your favourite fizzy drink. Maybe it’s overkill, but he just wants you to be happy and spoiled and looked after.
“Sup, Spidey?”
“I’m good, how’re you, man?” They do this at least once a week. Peter never comes in the corner-shop out of the Spidey suite, he’s certain the guy would know his voice by now. So you go instead when he’s not coming back from dealing with something.
“Yeah, not so bad, business is good!” The cashier, he knows as Big Joe, starts ringing up his purchases and pauses on the sanitary products like it’s some sort of bizarre mystery. There’s a little grin on his face when he looks back up at him, “Yo, is there a Spider-Wife?”
Peter groans a little. It could be worse he guesses, he could be asked again if he’s secretly Spider-Woman, despite his title clearly being Spider-Man. But, ‘Spider-Wife’, is a little lame of a moniker, really…“Uh, she’s my girlfriend…S-spider-girlfriend…she’s not actually..um…y’know…a…yeah.” It’s awkward and weird and he knows without a shadow of a doubt that you would be laughing your arse off at him right now, full body laughing, doubled over at the fact he’s stood in a shop, buying period products, in spandex while being asked about his ‘spider-wife’. By Joe of all people…
“But, she’s wifey material, right man? I mean she’s gotta be, if she’s dating you, huh?” Your face pops into his head for a moment and…he can’t stop grinning underneath the mask. Yeah, you’re definitely wife material, he’d marry you in an instant. You’re…so good to him. You’re understanding, caring, kind, smart, funny. Even when you’re mad you’re reasonable and you just…you get him. And you get the otherside of him too. He even likes how stubborn you can be sometimes and how you drool in your sleep when you’re having a really good night's sleep.
“Yeah…yeah, she is. She’s pretty awesome.”
“Bet she’s smokin’ hot too, huh?” You are, Peter can’t deny that, he thinks you are the most beautiful, sexiest woman he’s met. Maybe others wouldn’t agree, maybe they’d not see it, but you’re his type and you stun him every day. He pities the fool who doesn’t see how beautiful you are. “Maybe, you should make like that Beyonce song and put a ring on it, Spidey, before someone else snatches her up.”
“Yeah…don’t worry, I will, but uh, probably not when she’s craving sugar, crying, in pain and bleeding from her uterus…but, yeah, some other time.” He’s not so sure you’d be happy if he proposed to you right now. You’d probably still say yes, but…he wants to do it right, take his time, make it romantic and when you’re not in pain.
“Oh, yeah, totally, choose your moment, dude. I mean, you’re Spider-Man, she’s not gonna say no, right?”
Big Joe finishes scanning his purchases and Peter hands over the cash, he always uses cash when he’s in his Spidey suite. Can’t have people seeing his legal name on a credit card, now that would be stupid.
He shoves the whole lot in his backpack and swings it over his shoulders, waving goodbye to Joe as he makes his way to the door. “Night, Joe. Stay safe.”
“You too! Tell the missus Big Joe said hi, will ya?”
“Sure thing, Joe!”
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───
You’re curled up on the sofa still when he gets in. It’s gone eleven o’clock but you’re still up, curled into a little ball underneath the blankets. He can hear your erratic breathing, pained and uncomfortable, the moment he gets to the fire escape and knows you’re not feeling your best. Definitely not the time to propose.
You don’t even look up when he comes in, just whimper a little bit. Peter removes his mask and backpack in quick succession. Hand brushing your hair from your face and rubbing circles into your cheek as he kneels down next to you. “Hey, baby…not feeling good?”
“No…painkillers have worn off.” It feels like you’re being punched in the gut, repeatedly. Maybe, it’s what Peter felt like some nights. You could sympathise a little.“Sit up for me, beautiful?” You do it with his help, despite the pain coursing through your body and nearly cry when he pulls out more painkillers from his back and hands you your favourite fizzy pop to wash them down with.
You know they won’t help immediately but even knowing that in the next half an hour you’ll feel better makes things seem brighter. Your favourite drink also helps to lighten your mood.
“Big Joe says hi.”
“Oh, did you stop in and see him?” You watch as Peter starts to rummage around in his backpack.
“Mmm, got you some things, nothing major.”
“Some things?” You raise an eyebrow at him as he empties the contents of his backpack on the coffee table. You can see all your favourite snacks laid out and it reminds you of Harry Potter buying the whole sweet trolly in his first year at Hogwarts . Peter grabs the heating pad from the pile and unboxes it, finding the nearest plug socket to plug it in.
“Figured this might help with cramps, stand up for me.” You do and he fiddles about with getting it in the right place for you, strapping it to your stomach and turning it on. The moment it begins to warm up you melt into him, arms wrapping around him with a relieved sigh. The warmth helps, so, so much.
The two of you stand there for a moment, just holding each other as you feel your pain ease. He loves helping you like this, he feels good helping you and it’s a different sort of good from helping strangers. He feels like a better man, knowing he takes good care of his girlfriend.
He helps you lie back down, wedging himself between you and the sofa so that his warmth rests on your back, one arm firm around your waist, the other underneath your head to cushion it. The heating pad relieves the cramps in your stomach, while the weight of him helps with some of the pains in your back. You press back into him, lifting a leg back and over his hip, locking the two of you together. You lock your fingers with his hand that’s over your stomach and accept that you really did miss him this evening, as much as you love him being Spider-Man.
Peter presses his face into the crook of your neck and breathes you in, he’s exhausted and he knows you are too. Can tell by the way your head falls to the side, almost like you’ve lost the ability to lift it. “Mmmm, we should probably go to bed…” It’d be the smart thing to do, rather than sleeping on the sofa…
“Or we could sleep right here?”
“Sounds nice…mmm.” He presses a kiss to your neck, your shoulder, your cheek. It really would be nice, Peter thinks, as he pulls the blanket from the back of the sofa and over the top of both of you, wrapping you in a warm cocoon.
“Mmm, I love you.” You have just enough energy to bring the back of his hand to your lips and press a kiss over his knuckles, soft and sweet and it reminds him to start looking for a ring you might like.
“I love you too, baby.”
Sure periods suck, sure you’ve been in pain, but falling asleep with Peter Parker, like this? It kind of makes it worth it. Or at least less of a chore.
Warnings: Fluff, just so much fluff, little bit of making out
Summary: Peter always finds you beautiful, even when you’re exhausted, in your oldest, most stained pajamas, and grumpy. He can’t help it.
Requested by @the-jer-bear: Could you do this prompt: “Why are you looking at me like that...?” With TASM!Peter Parker? I love your writing so much and the way you write Peter is amazing!
Notes:
There are days when you get home from work absolutely frazzled and can barely find the energy to get out of your work clothes and throw on something more comfortable. Days like today, where the students you teach have rattled your brain, causing your head to pound and your eyes to hurt. You’d trailed into the apartment past six in the evening, feet aching after a ridiculously useless meeting about the kids having tongue piercings, and instantly thrown on your least flattering clothes. Your old pajamas are stained with paint and soy sauce but they’re worn in and comfortable, the sort of thing you need after a long day of teenagers making tiktok sounds and refusing to do the work you set. After useless meetings and ridiculous colleagues.
Peter’s not in yet, you can’t hear him pottering about, most likely he’s off looking for some sort of crime to stop as the evening starts to finally set in. You wish he was here, the first thing to greet you after a long day, but you settle for your cat, JimJams, hopping onto the couch and curling up next to you with a purr while you close your eyes and lean your head back.
You must be just sitting there a good half an hour before anything around you really changes. You’re head absolutely pounds and you’re sure you look a mess, quite a sight, when you hear the fire escape window slide open and the soft padding of Peter’s feet across the carpet. You don’t open your eyes, just stay there trying to will some energy back into your body. You’re not sure if anything can help but sleep right now, even the warm weight of JimJams on your lap doesn’t help much. You’re exhausted physically and emotionally.
It’s not until ten seconds of silence goes by that you finally open your eyes, head turning in Peter’s direction. He’s standing there, mask in his hands and that silly little half grin on his face. His brown eyes are soft, crinkled at the corners, hair standing on ends from the removal of the mask. You narrow your eyes at him, at the way he stares at you even as it brings a warmth to your body that only Peter seems to manage to do.
“Why are you looking at me like that...?” He just watches you, and doesn't really respond at first. Mostly because, if Peter’s perfectly honest, he’s missed you all day and just wants to take a moment to take you in. Peter finds you to be the most beautiful person he knows all the time, even now. You have a way of completely melting his brain.
Your hair is a mess, frizzy and sticking about in random directions, flyaways in abundance. You look tired, deep circles under your eyes, half lidded and barely open. You’re in those pajamas, the ones you wear when you don’t feel so good, the ones that are stained and worn in, the ones that he shouldn’t love on you but does. Your feet in fluffy socks and JimJams is purring on your lap. You’re absolutely beautiful.
“Peter!” You take that tone with him, the one that comes out when someone’s about to throw a pair of scissors across the classroom or do something equally inappropriate. It’s sharp and while you’re not angry at him, it does get his attention, shocks him out of his thoughts.
“S-sorry, what did you say?” He starts at your voice, physically jumping in space as he stumbles over his words. It brings a smile to your lips even after your rough day, to see the way his ears burn red and the way he rubs a hand across the back of his neck, embarrassed at being startled.
“I asked why you’re looking at me like that? You were staring, Pete.”
He looks down at his feet, smiling at the toes of his shoes before looking up at you underneath his lashes, the ones that are so impossible long, that you’re desperately jealous of. God, he’s so handsome like that, all big doe eyes and a soft smile that screams of affection.
“I was.” Peter bridges the gap between the two of you, standing between your knees, looking down at you. JimJams takes offence at the change and hops off your lap, tail up as she makes her way towards that one cardboard box you couldn't throw out now that she’d claimed it as her favourite sleeping spot.
“Because? Do I have something on my face?” You start to worry, wondering if you’d gone the whole day at work with pen on your face or something similarly embarrassing. Hands reaching up to rub at your cheeks as Peter smiles down at you, his own hands reaching forward to still yours, pulling them away from your face and twisting your fingers together.
“No, baby, you’re fine.”
“Fine?” You raise an eyebrow, suspicious of his teasing tone, the smirk that twists one side of his mouth enough to bring out his dimples.
“Mmhmmn, so fine like a vintage wine.” You pull away from Peter with a groan, lips pulling against your wishes into a smile at the terribly cheesy compliment. Peter doesn’t let go of your hands even as you attempt to pull back, instead he just steps closer to you, leaning forward over you.
“Ugh, don’t tease me, Pete. I’m a mess right now.” You pout up at him as he presses his forehead against yours, nose nuzzling against your own. So close he can see where the pores are on your skin and each of your spots and the subtle scars you try to hide. The little marks that make you so utterly you.
“‘M not teasing, baby. You’re always beautiful. That’s why I was staring, wondering how I got so lucky to have such a beautiful person to come home too.” It shouldn’t make your eyes watery, but your day has been really hard and his words are so sweet that you can’t help it. Can’t help the happy ache in your chest or the tears in your eyes as you close them tight.
“Pete…”
“I mean it. You’re always beautiful.” His fingers brush your cheeks, sweeping circles over the apples of them, wiping away a little tear that falls from your eyes. He can see it, how rough your day has been, how just this little truth is almost too much for your heart to handle.
“Even in my soy sauce pajamas?” You sniffle, pulling back to look up at him, eyes wet and sparkling like he’s hung the moon in the sky and he just wishes you could see it too. What he sees. The brightness behind your eyes. The infectious warmth you exude. The sense of home that helped him move past all the bullshit he's been through.
“Even in your soy sauce pajamas, baby. You’re everything, okay? You’re everything to me.” He doesn’t really expect it, maybe he should have, but you wrap your arms so tight around his neck as you pull down suddenly, so suddenly, that Peter lets out the most undignified noise that’s swallowed by your mouth against his own.
He forgets about the sudden movement as he settles over you on the couch. Your lips moving against each other in a familiar dance that seems so effortlessly fluid now. Once upon a time there’d have been bumping teeth and awkwardly knocking noses, that awkwardness has long since passed. Your noses brush against each other without hurting, your mouth opens under his without question, his hands fall to the back of your skull like a familiar handrest. For Peter, kissing you feels like breathing for the first time, like surfacing from a lake to glistening waters and a blinding sun. It’s silly maybe, that it feels like that, maybe he’s just a romantic, but he doesn’t think he’ll ever get over kissing you. He doesn’t want to get over kissing you.
He doesn’t want to find the little moans you make underneath his lips mundane, doesn’t want to ever feel neutral to the way you grip his hair in your hands or how you urge him to settle over you, press his weight against you. He hopes he always appreciates these simple things, small but powerful, enough to cause the love in his chest to bloom every time.
“Fuck, I love you.” You hold his face in your hands when you say it, eyes searching his as if you’ll find some sort of answer there, some answer to a question you’re not even aware of. Or maybe it’s just that you adore his eyes, so deep and full of words that spill from his lips so easily, his heart so big. “I love you too, baby. You don’t even know how much.”
“I think I have an idea…” Yeah, you think, yeah I have an idea because you love him so much it physically hurts. You love him so much that you’re not sure you could ever love anyone else after this, your heart so utterly bound to him that it feels like you’re soulmates, like you were supposed to find each other.
