obsessed peter! who, whenever he has a chance, sneaks you into every conversation because he can barely go an hour without talking about you
obsessed peter! whose lockscreen is a picture of you from your first date because you just have to be the first thing he sees when he wakes up in the morning
obsessed peter! who absolutely hates whenever you complain about a pimple or a nonexistent flaw about yourself because he thinks you’re an angel that’s descended from heaven
obsessed peter! who doesn’t care if he cooked something the night before, will order whatever you want
obsessed peter! who coordinates his outfits to what you’re wearing because you’re the main attraction and he’s the accessory
obsessed peter! who insists you have a fashion show whenever you go shopping without him, so he can judge your outfits and watch you change
obsessed peter! whose social media is basically a fan page for you
shy!reader who thanks to peter has come more out of her shell since they started dating
shy!reader who depends on peter a lot in social situations since they’re stressful for her
obsessed peter! who carefully plans their dates so that you can be comfortable
obsessed peter! who stopped going out every weekend so he could spend time with you
obsessed peter! who spends weeks apologizing when he upsets you accidentally or not
shy!reader who forgave him two days after the argument, but lets him grovel because she likes it
shy!reader who loves how obsessed peter is with her because it’s not that creepy obsession that borders on dangerous
would love to see some aftercare w tasm!peter where reader is just soo sleepy and he is so tender <3 i adore the way you write him
Thank you for requesting!
cw: mature themes (mdni please), afab reader
tasm!Peter Parker x fem!reader ♡ 551 words
Peter might be a pervert for thinking you’re most beautiful like this, but he’s not that worried about it.
Maybe he is a pervert. It’s only for you, specifically, so whatever. He has a feeling you’ll forgive him.
You’re lying on the bed, your limbs lax now, like the last hour or so has taken it out of you so completely that you can’t move a muscle. Peter loves that he gets you like this. Completely unselfconscious. Your lips are kissed swollen, and there are little love marks on your chest to match the ones on Peter’s neck and shoulders, and your eyelids are as droopy as if they have weights sewn into them. He loves to get you like this too; completely tuckered out.
You rouse enough to hiss when Peter brings a wet washcloth between your thighs.
“Hey,” you say, almost scolding. It makes a laugh bubble up in Peter’s chest, which he generously swallows.
“Sorry.” He tucks his grin inside your knee, kissing softly. “I’ll be quick.”
He sweeps the cloth through your folds, and you hiss again, one leg coming up protectively as though you can’t help it. Now, Peter frowns.
“Is it really that sensitive?” he asks you.
He guesses he couldn’t blame you. You and Peter spent more time teasing each other tonight than you have in a while, and you weren’t exactly begging him to go easy on you. Your labia are as kiss-swollen as your mouth, maybe more.
The look you give him says you know he knows. “Yeah.” You heave a sigh, like speech is exhausting, your eyes drifting shut again. “I’m sore all over. Aren't you?”
Peter is, but he also spends his free time doing acrobatics and heaving himself around by his arms. If he twinged a bit walking to the bathroom and back, he bets you’re feeling worse.
He rubs over your hip consolingly. “Wanna take a bath?”
You think on it for a while. You’re tempted, Peter can tell. “I don’t feel like getting up.”
“I’ll carry you.”
You hum somnolently. “Thanks, but you…” You fumble for Peter’s hand. When you find it, you squeeze his fingers, his sweetheart. Peter squeezes back. “You have to get up early for work.”
“Yeah, but I don’t mind.” He catches his voice softening, as if he’s trying not to disturb your sleep when really he’s trying to keep you awake. He doesn’t do anything to correct it. “I’ll have coffee either way. Let me give you a bath, pretty girl.”
It’s a visible effort to open your eyes. You look at Peter like he hung the moon. “Sure?”
He grins. “Yeah, I’m sure.”
“You’d do that?”
Peter groans, his head dropping to your leg. He lets his voice buzz against your skin. “Are you serious? God, I know you’re tired, but let’s use our brains for a second.”
He picks his head up to take yours between his hands. You look slightly more awake than you were a moment ago.
“I would do anything for you,” he says. “Got it?”
Peter watches your surprise meld into a more startled kind of pleasure. He kisses it right off your lips.
“Dramatic,” you accuse, settling back into your pillow as Peter stands to start your bath.
peter came in through the window last night ; cw. fluff , established relationship , rom-com cliché's , prompt inspired by the song of the title ; words. 0,6k
author's note ⌇ with the brand new day trailer out i feel like the best thing i could do is comeback with a peter parker blurb even though its tasm!peter lololl anyways feel free to send in some of ur thoughts and requests for himmm
dating new york's infamous spider-man was far from normal. even before that, who knew you would have a spark with the boy you barely acknowledged in high-school? never mind that, who knew he'd be your boyfriend let alone the blue and red vigilante crossing the busy streets? it's a bizarre scenario your thirteen year-old self would've imagined. but hey, you're living it now.
somehow, you'd have to smuggle late night emergencies and early morning absences within your routine. peter would crash by during the most painful hours and yet you showed no complaints, patching him up as you listen to his recent encounters with all kinds of villains, and finishing up with kisses plus takeaway pizza from the shop nearby.
you were used to him entering your room via window all bruised up and muddy, with puppy dog eyes you couldn't imagine saying no to. but of course, being peter parker's girlfriend you wouldn't expect anything less. not when your bed-rotting, music-listening, session was interrupted by obnoxious knocking. peter parker smiled obliviously through your window, mouthing a 'please let me in' whilst giggling internally.
the skies were melting into a dark orange and purple tint, you got up to open the locked latch as peter struggled to find balance. greeted with a kiss on the nose, peter clumsily fell onto the carpet— all existence of his spider-senses seem to vanish into thin air when he's around you. you scoff in disbelief whilst he fixed his hair, peter finally spoke, "don't look at me like that, at least i'm not bleeding onto your carpet like the last four times,"
"five times, actually," you correct him.
he scratches his head, he asked, "you keep count?" in which you nodded. you took the time to study peter, it was a refreshing sight to see as he's correct on one thing, he isn't all bloody. he was wearing the shirt you bought him months ago, layered on top of a long white sleeve top, and it complimented the jeans he was wearing too. you were undeniably in love with him at this moment— peter looked as if he just came out of your favorite 2000s rom-com.
"if you're not all beaten up, why come so suddenly through my window?" you furrowed your brows, peter shrugs ultimately, "i dunno? it's a nice change, and i don't think your doorman likes me anyways," the room lights up alongside his dimples. you gesture peter to join you on the carpet, "mr. stevie? he's the sweetest, what could you possibly do for him not to like you?" he leans onto your head.
"remember when you were sick and i had to buy two huge tubs of soup and deliver it to you personally?" peter questions, you nod slowly, as if you were unsure— "yeah, well, i only gave you one tub, because guess what happened to the other one..."
"oh peter, don't tell me you spilt it—"
"all over his attire, fully coaxed in warm soup."
you slapped the palm of your hand onto your forehead, peter laughed as he fixed the crook of his glasses. the laughter slowly fades into one with the light of the sun setting, the hues mixing harmoniously with you and peter's features. he took a moment to fully embrace your beauty. you did as well— peter's glasses were slightly crooked from all the falling and tripping throughout the months, his hair messy from either the wind outside or his sudden entrance, the shirt hugged him so well you knew the second you gave it it's as if it was made for him.
peter's gaze was locked onto yours, "if you wanted to kiss me, you know you can, right? i didn't come through your window for nothing." his teasing tone made you snap back to reality. the stupid grin on his face grew as you became embarrassingly red.
summary: peter is still trying to win you back, but this time instead of breaking in through your window and tearfully begging to be held by you, he tries a more... respectable approach.
wc: 4k
cw: exes to lovers, SMUTTT dry humping no p in v, they're both kind of pathetic
read as a standalone or as pt 2 to just the tip
The day had been quiet for Peter, as they always seem to be recently. There was barely anyone to see since he’d built his life back brick by brick. It had been difficult for him to meet new people since he’d been wiped out of everyone in the universe’s memory, but he’d managed. He had made a few friends, but only one meant the world to him.
You, who he now lost.
It had started sweet and exciting, just like most things in life did. You were kind to Peter, unlike so many of his peers who didn’t even look his way when he spoke to them. His feelings for you had hit him like a truck despite knowing he probably shouldn’t fall for someone like you.
A civilian, but more importantly, someone kind hearted and protected.
He knew it was selfish, but it was impossible for Peter to suppress his feelings for you when you stayed by his side at parties and introduced him to people because he didn’t know anyone. It was impossible because you always checked in on him and asked what he needed of you without taking nothing for an answer. It was impossible because when Peter hugged you goodbye, you didn’t let go of him until he was ready to.
However, like all good things, your relationship fell apart.
After months of building up your friendship and then your relationship, Peter had gone and screwed it all up. He didn’t show up for you like you did for him. He was so concerned about being there for the people of New York that he forgot to be there for you when he took the mask off. It wasn’t something Peter even noticed until he came over to find you with tear-rimmed eyes and trembling breaths.
By then it was too late. Too late to solve everything with a hug and whispered promises, with poor attempts to resolve the relationship because by that time your trust had already been broken. When Peter held you in his arms while you slept, you lay as still as possible, revelling in his warmth because it might not be there the next morning.
So when he disappointed you one more time and left you secretly crying in your apartment, you knew it was over between you. You knew you deserved better and set some firm boundaries even though you knew your boyfriend was Spider-man and had people to see other than you.
The breakup had Peter rethinking his entire existence. Was he just not meant to love? Not meant to be loved?
He had already lost everyone in his life — May, Tony, Ned, MJ, and only everyone on the planet who even knew his name or face — and after finally resting his grieving heart by getting a place of his own and making new friendships, he had ruined everything for himself again. And worse, he had hurt you.
All the people Peter knew had been introduced to him by you aside from his coworkers at the fancy restaurant he worked at downtown and the lab he interned at. Once the doors to the lab opened and he entered the hallway to be exposed to the rest of the building — let alone the real world — everyone knew him as Peter, your friend.
Not Peter Parker, the talkative nerd who did a stark internship or Peter Parker, who sits at the front of every class. Because none of the people who were in his life during those eras knew him anymore.
Peter sighed, rubbing his eyes tiredly before glancing towards the clock. 1:28pm. His shift was almost over. Peter stood up, gathering the papers on his desk and sliding them into a file. He still had to submit something to his supervisor before his shift ended, and Peter hoped to be home early to get some rest before heading off to work again. He always had the morning shift at the lab for his internship, working from 8 to 2, but then his evenings were always spent in tailored trousers and an uncomfortable waistcoat, wearing a perfect black bow tie as he waited tables for a ridiculously expensive restaurant.
Peter left all of his belongings at his desk (he’d be back for them later), and trudged over to the door of the lab he was appointed to. He rubbed at his eye again, pushing the metal door open with his shoulder.
Luckily for him, there was no one waiting at the elevator, so he didn’t have to make awkward small talk with people who didn’t care for it. He tapped his identity card to the sensor by the elevator and chewed the inside of his check as he watched the numbers above the elevator change. The elevator doors opened with a quiet ding, and Peter dragged his feet across the floor to reach it, leaning his back against the mirror as the doors closed again.
Why was he so tired? It was barely midday and he had an entire shift to complete that night. At least it’s a part time job, Peter repeated in his head. I’m grateful for this job, he tried convincing himself.
Peter heard the gears turn in the elevator doors as they opened, and he lifted his head up, rolling his shoulders back before walking out. He had the perfect air of confidence as he walked towards his supervisor’s office, but he wasn’t even halfway across the hallway before he was coming to an abrupt halt.
Peter’s mouth went dry, fingers loosening slightly around the file he carried, his eyes settling on your figure across the hallway. You had just closed a door behind you, a proud smile on your face. Unlike Peter, the clothes you wore were strictly professional because you were interning in the law sector of the company.
You’d met Peter for the very first time in a similar situation. Your mentor had been talking to you in the kitchenette, wildly gesturing with his hands about something, and you were smiling politely and nodding until he’d walked away, returning to his office. And Peter, just leaving his mentor’s office, has spotted you and smiled awkwardly.
You had walked with him back to the elevator, introducing yourself, a passionate smile on your face as you asked about what he did and invited him to a party hosted by some interns. It took a couple more conversation before you exchanged numbers and socials, but then you were locked in.
Now, you were just a stranger standing across the room from him, kicking your tall heels on the floor as you spoke to your supervisor from the doorway. Your back was turned to your ex boyfriend, but Peter could hear the smile in your voice as you laughed politely. You disappeared into his office for a moment, picking up some papers from him before you reappeared into Peter’s line of sight.
“Alright, I’ll have the case file with you before I leave.” Peter heard you say, and his eyes widened, looking away from you and speeding up towards his own supervisor’s office. His breath hitched in his throat, catching you turning around from his peripheral vision. Peter ignored the instinct to look at you, instead continuing to beeline to his mentor’s office.
He was barely able to listen to what his mentor had to say, spider-man abilities haunting him by zoning in on your voice at the end of the corridor, now accompanied by a deep male voice.
“You going to the party tomorrow tonight?”
“Yeah - I mean, probably. It depends on how much work I get done tonight.”
“Well, lock in, I’d really like to see you tomorrow.”
The only response the man got was a half-hearted laugh, and Peter shut his eyes tightly, imagining him looming over you, a cocky smile on his face as he runs a hand through his probably dirty blonde hair.
Peter let out a sigh of relief when he was dismissed, zooming over to the elevator. He caught sight of the doors closing and despite himself, called out “Hold the door!”
You quickly pressed the open button, not realising who you were letting back into your life with that single movement. Peter muttered a quiet ‘thanks’ as he slipped through the doors, putting on a face of mock surprise when he looked up at you.
“Oh. Hey.” You smiled awkwardly at Peter, nodding at him before stepping back into the elevator. The man next to you raised his eyebrows, bumping your shoulder with yours. He lowered his voice, mumbling “So can I count on seeing you tomorrow?”
“No promises.”
“Alright. This is my floor, I’ll see you around.”
You swallowed thickly, glancing towards Peter when you were finally left alone, finding his eyes already on you. He quickly tore his gaze away from you, licking his lips nervously.
“How are you doing, Pete?”
Peter’s head snapped up, his eyes wide with surprise at the fact that you actually acknowledged him. He opened his mouth, spluttering quietly, but he was interrupted by the elevator doors opening again, having travelled down just one floor. You nodded, laughing quietly before stepping out.
The elevator doors began closing, but you stuck your hand in between at the last moment, opening your mouth for a moment before finally asking “Are you coming to Sam’s party tomorrow? It’s mostly people in your department going but some people on the marketing and law teams will be there.”
“I can’t, I work evening shifts until 10 at the restaurant and by then I’ll probably be too tired.” You nodded at Peter’s words, eyes softening and he smiled gently at you. God, he is such a hard worker, you thought.
“Right, okay, yeah. Uh, yeah, okay.”
“Uh, have fun though.”
You shrugged at Peter’s words, looking at your reflection in the elevator’s mirror. “I’m probably not gonna go.”
Peter straightened up, pushing his back off the wall. He pointed towards you, then upwards, saying “Oh, I thought were going with-”
“No. God, no. He’s been flirting for weeks and I don’t even know his name.” Peter laughed with you, but his eyes quickly clouded with worry. “Uh, is he bothering you though? Do you want me to do something about him?”
“No, it’s okay. Thanks, Pete.” Peter nodded. He didn’t know you were back to calling him Pete. God, he didn’t even know you were on speaking terms. After all, the last time he’d seen you, he had begged you for one last night together and that was it. You’d been stern with him, assuring him that you wouldn’t have sex ever again. Oh well, maybe this was just the healing phase, Peter told himself, smiling as you waved at him then stepped back, finally letting the elevator doors close in front of you.
You stared at them for a moment before shaking your head, clearing the lump in your throat with a desperate cough. You had broken up with him, so why did it hurt so much? You deserved more than the attention and love he wasn’t giving you, so why did you miss the feeling of his arms wrapped around you? You’re the one who stopped him from reconnecting with you but let him back in your bed for the few nights he came crying to you. So why were you the one facing consequences now?
The same train of thought made it difficult for you to focus when you got home, already dressed in your pyjamas and sitting on the floor between your couch and coffee table, writing up a first draft of a contract for a new employee. It was quiet and dimly lit in your small living room, the light of your computer reflecting on your face. You switched tabs on your laptop, clicking on the sidebar to open your to do list. You definitely wouldn’t be able to make it to that party tomorrow if you wanted to have all your deadlines met. Maybe that was a good thing.
Despite yourself, you had done a fair share of procrastination, picking up your phone and going through undeleted photos of Peter from your relationship. Some brought a pang of regret to your chest, others made you unwillingly giggle to yourself.
Now, your fingers twitched to pick up your phone again, which you had thrown to the end of the couch in frustration with yourself. A scroll through his instagram wouldn’t hurt, right?
But before you could even stretch across the cold wooden floor to reach for your phone, the doorbell rang, echoing across your entire apartment. You froze for a long moment, thinking of whether you had accidentally forgotten about plans or any orders you had placed. Scrambling up, you tugged at your sleep shorts to make them longer, but it only revealed a sliver of your midriff, your tank top sticking to your skin.
You tip toed across your entryway, holding your breath as you peeked through the peephole. You gasped quietly, something the boy on the other side of the door definitely heard, because he lifted his head from the floor to look straight ahead at the wooden door. You mentally cursed both yourself and him because fuck, he caught you at the worst time and fuck, you shouldn’t be caring about your looks around your ex.
Pushing away the need to impress him deep in your mind, you swung the door open, chewing on your bottom lip as you took in his appearance. He was so handsome in his waitering uniform, the vest clinging to his chest so deliciously and the fabric of his button up struggling to hug his biceps.
“You really shouldn’t be here.”
“I know. Just - tell me you don’t want me here and I’ll leave.” You tilted your head to the side, inhaling deeply before stepping to the side and making space for Peter in the doorway. He walked past you, his crinkled uniform brushing against your arm.
“You came through the front door.”
Peter turned around, smiling melancholically. “Yeah, you deserve more than me breaking in through your window.” You scoffed in amusement, rolling your eyes before your face turned into something more understanding. Something softer. You knew what he was hinting to - he wasn’t your boyfriend anymore to get to come over through your window at night.
“How was your shift?” You asked, leading Peter into your living room. He nodded, scanning the room. It was practically identical to what he was used to, but usually there was a bigger mess on your coffee table.
“It was good. It was okay. Got some good tips so…” You both chuckled awkwardly and you gestured for the couch, shifting your weight from foot to foot as you watching him. Peter swung his backpack off his shoulder, placing it in his lap and opening the zipper as you closed your laptop and stacked it above a few papers.
You joined Peter on the couch, sitting whatever distance was acceptable from your ex. But you honestly didn’t know why you cared so much because you’d already fucked too many times after the breakup to be considered acceptable.
Peter extracted two drink cans from his bag, offering you one of them. You smiled as you took it from him; of course Peter wouldn’t forget your favourite drink. Staring at the can for a second, you couldn’t help but laugh as you popped it open.
“Peter what are we doing?” Peter exhaled deeply, eyes landing on the confused smile you offered him. He didn’t answer, just collected his thoughts as he took a sip of his own drink.
“Every time we see each other things - things go wrong.”
Peter leaned forward so he could place his drink on the coffee table, then placed both hands on his thighs, twisting his body to face you. “Or maybe things go perfectly. Maybe we’re just meant to - we’re not meant to stay apart from each other.”
You blinked at Peter’s words, quickly putting your drink on the table before getting to accidentally spill it. When you returned your gaze to your ex boyfriend, he was sitting closer to you than before, fingers twitching as they met your leg, setting a soothing hand on your skin. You whispered his name, subconsciously leaning into his body.
All noise had tuned out in the apartment, but of course that didn’t stop Peter from hearing the rapid racing of your beating heart. With some newfound confidence, Peter licked his chapped lips and continued to lean in until the side of his nose nudged yours. Your breath hit Peter’s lips as you parted your lips, one hand coming up to rest on his chest.
It wasn’t Peter who closed the distance but you, moving to gently press your lips. Peter melted against your touch, hands passionately moving to settle on your waist, pulling your body closer to his with a swift tug before he let his arms wrap you in a hug. He tilted his head to the side, deepening the kiss so he could taste the tangy flavour of your drink on your lips and tongue. You made a quiet noise, one hand curling around the fabric of his shirt to pull him impossibly closer to you, desperately tangling your tongue with his.
Peter couldn’t help but grow eager as saliva dribbled between your lips, kissing each other with a fervour neither of you expected. A sound broke out of his chest, a whimper so needy that it had your thighs clenching together. Peter broke the kiss for a few seconds, hands sliding under each of your thighs so he could lift you onto his lap, leaning back on the thick cushions.
You gasped when you settled on Pete’s lap in a straddle, immediately feeling his throbbing erection under you. You were sure that if you slipped a hand into his boxers to wrap your fingers around his cock, he’d be all leaking from the tip. God, he’d probably come in two seconds if you got your hands on him.
Peter’s hands began roaming your body as you pressed your open mouth to his again, rubbing yourself on the bulge in his trousers. Peter slipped his hands under the hem of your sleep shorts, both hands gripping your bare ass and helping your movements on top of him. You swallowed another loud moan that Peter cried out before promptly deciding you wanted to hear all his sounds.
You tore your face away from his, instead opting to assault Peter’s neck with all lips and tongue and teeth, surely leaving hickeys in your wake. Peter was shameless with his noises, bucking his hips up to meet every hump of your pelvis so you could grind against each other in the most delicious way.
Peter gasped as you panted heavily in his ear, a hand curling behind your neck to guide your lips back onto his. Still attempting to catch your breath, the kiss somehow became more filthy, both of you gasping for air before diving in for more in a clash of tongues and teeth. You whined, hands slipping down so you could unbutton Peter’s trousers, opening them just enough so that the chub of his swollen cock was exposed, a dark patch on his grey boxers with just how much he was leaking.
Peter glanced between your bodies, cursing loudly as he watched how desperately you rubbed your cunt onto him. He let out a choked sound, mouth dropping open as his own hips bucked up, causing you to moaned loudly in his ear. Peter shuddered, dick twitching beneath the fabric of his boxers at the sound you made.
Hands gripped at the hem of your sleep shorts, desperately dragging them down your legs in a movement so quick you barely realised that Peter had left you on top of him in only your soaked panties.
With a newfound vigour, you began rocking your hips on Peter’s erection even harder, putting ore pressure on it with each grind. Peter tightly gripped your hips, sure to leave bruises in the shapes of his fingers, but he couldn’t be made to care when you felt so good on his cock.
“Oh fuck, Pete.”
Peter gasped loudly at the way you said his nickname, not having heard the word leave your mouth like that since you’d broken up. Your fingers slid beneath you again, fishing for the hem of Peter’s boxers under the fabric of his uniform. Your manicured nails grazed the bottom of Peter’s abs and he trembled as you yanked down his boxers, revealing the bare tip of his cock. It was red and wet and you moaned when you saw it, angling your hips just right that it would catch on your clit when you rocked on him again.
Then, you tilted Peter’s head up and slammed your lips back on his, moaning loudly into the kiss when your clit met the tip of his cock with the most perfect friction you’d known. Peter’s mouth opened wider in the kiss as he cried out, trembling as he came, but you were too busy blacking out to even realise, nails digging crescents into Peter’s shoulders.
When you came back to your senses, you blinked a few times, gasping quietly as you took in the mess you and Peter had made between your bodies. There was cum covering the bottom of Peter’s button up and your colourful cotton panties, which were soaked with your arousal anyway. Peter’s trousers definitely needed a wash as soon as possible, but there as almost no hope for his boxers.
“Hey, hey,” You glanced up to look at Peter, whose entire face was still flushed red. “You okay?” You leaned forward to kiss him softly, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “I’m okay, are you okay?”
Peter broke out into a wide smile, nodding. “Yeah, yeah I’m okay. I’m, uh, sorry about your panties.” Peter hooked a finger into your panties and you jerked away from his touch, still sensitive. He chuckled, smearing his own cum into the fabric. “It’s okay. I’m sure they’ll disappear when you leave anyway.”
Peter’s face — which had only just calmed down — immediately turned pink again, and his shoulders stiffened up even as you laughed his reaction off. You both went silent for a short moment, just holding each other on your couch.
“Pete?”
“Mhm?”
“Take me back?” Peter grinned, nodding even as you continued speaking, eyes turning glassy with tears. “I know I was terrible to you but I shouldn’t have broken up with -”
“No, you had every right to.” You paused, staring a Peter with utter confusion. “You broke up with me for a reason, right? I was, fuck babe, I was neglecting you. And it hurts for me to even say that because I love you so much.”
You inhaled sharply, wiping away a tear as it fell down your cheek. “I love you too.”
Peter smiled, kissing you softly and lifting you in his arms as he stood from the couch. You wrapped your arms around him, chewing on your bottom lip and watching his face fondly as he walked you both into our bathroom.
“Hey, how about I find someone to cover my shift tomorrow night, and I take you out?”
“You’re not going to take me to that party, are you?
“What, where that retired jock will spend all night flirting with you? Absolutely not.”
synopsis: Peter really likes your Spiderman pajama pants
warnings: kinda suggestive
Peter Parker swung into your apartment window mid-sentence, mask pulled halfway up his face as he rambled about patrol. “And, seriously, who even owns a unicycle anymore? Like, that’s gotta be—”
He stopped abruptly, mid-step, when his eyes landed on you.
You were sitting at your vanity, totally unaware of the effect you were having on him. Your head was tilted slightly as you concentrated on whatever you were holding—maybe a bottle of lotion, maybe a tube of lip balm, he couldn’t even tell because his attention had zeroed in on something else entirely.
It was the pants.
The red and blue Spider-Man pajama pants that hung low on your hips, decorated with tiny web patterns and logos. His logo. Paired with your black tank top, the whole look made him forget how to breathe for a second.
“Are you—” His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat, his mask now forgotten in his hand. “Are those... Spider-Man pajamas?”
You glanced up, catching his reflection in the mirror. The corner of your mouth quirked into a grin, like you’d been waiting for him to notice. “Uh-huh,” you said casually, like it wasn’t a big deal. “Cute, right?”
Peter blinked, still standing near the window like his feet had been glued to the floor. “Cute?” He let out a short laugh, dragging a hand down his face. “No, no. You don’t get to call that cute. That’s—damn, baby. That’s a problem.”
Turning in your chair, you swiveled to face him, laughing softly at the look on his face. “Oh! I almost forgot to show you the full effect.”
You stood up, giving a playful little spin that made the fabric swish around your legs. When you stopped, your hands went to your hips, and you grinned at him like you knew exactly what you were doing.
Peter groaned, running his hand through his hair as he finally pushed away from the window and crossed the room in three long strides. His hands found your waist as he pulled you against him, his thumbs brushing along the waistband of the pants.
“I can’t even be mad about this,” he murmured, his voice low and teasing. “You look so good with me all over you. Pun very much intended.”
Your grin turned mischievous as you leaned closer, your breath warm against his skin. “Well, I can’t wait for you to see what I’ve got on underneath.”
Peter blinked, his grip on your waist tightening slightly as his brain tried to catch up. “Underneath?”
With a sly smile, you stepped back just enough to hook your thumbs into the waistband of the pants, pulling them down just enough to reveal a peek of red and blue. The Spider-Man bra and panties were unmistakable—the webbed details, the tiny logos, the way they hugged your skin perfectly.
Peter stared, his mouth falling open slightly as his eyes darted between your face and the glimpse of fabric. For a moment, it seemed like he couldn’t even speak, his brain short-circuiting entirely.
“Oh no,” you teased, crossing your arms and tilting your head. “Did I break Spider-Man?”
He let out a breathless laugh, his hands running through his hair as he closed the space between you again. “You’re insane,” he muttered, his hands sliding back to your waist as he leaned down, his lips hovering just above yours. “And I am obsessed with you.”
A Spider-Man Fanfiction 🕷️ | Peter Parker x Reader
Summary: He spent three weeks pretending he didn't need her. She spent three weeks wondering what she'd done wrong.
Warnings: Graphic descriptions of blood and injury, medical procedures performed in a non-medical setting (wound cleaning, resetting a dislocated shoulder), intense emotional arguments and verbal conflict, themes of emotional neglect and abandonment, mild language throughout, depictions of anxiety and guilt, brief non-explicit nudity in a non-sexual context
Word Count: 8k
You can imagine any Peter you want, I just wrote this keeping Andrew in mind <3
You're already walking.
The November air bites at your face, cold and damp, carrying the promise of rain that hasn't decided whether to fall. Your breath plumes white. Your hands are shoved deep in your coat pockets, fingers curled around the spare key Aunt May gave you three years ago. You pass the deli on 23rd where you and Peter used to split sandwiches after chemistry club—he'd always steal your pickles, and you'd always let him, rolling your eyes while your heart did stupid things in your chest. The lights are off now. The metal grate is pulled down over the window.
Three weeks.
You pass the bus stop on 20th where Peter once told you he wanted to study Biochemistry. Not because he loved it—Peter loved physics, loved quantum mechanics, loved anything that let him trace the universe back to its smallest parts—but because he wanted to understand his own body now. How the spider bite had changed him at a molecular level. What it meant to be strong in ways that terrified him. He'd talked for twenty minutes, gesturing wildly, nearly hitting a streetlamp, and you'd listened and nodded and fallen a little more in love with him with every word.
Three weeks since he stopped sitting next to you in lecture. Three weeks since he stopped coming to your apartment after patrol, bleeding and apologetic, waiting for you to patch him up on your bathroom floor. Three weeks since he stopped answering your texts—not all at once, but slowly, like a faucet dripping dry. Can't make lunch. Rain check. Maybe next week. Then nothing.
You pass the tailor shop on 19th. The one with the old Italian man who always waves at you through the window. You remember the first time you walked past it with Peter, years ago, and you'd stopped to look at the sewing machines in the window. "I could do that," you'd said, meaning the careful stitching, the steady hands. And then, months later, you did—sitting on your bedroom floor at three in the morning, sewing his first Spider-Man suit by hand because he'd shown up at your window with a sketch on notebook paper and a desperate look in his eyes. Your fingers had bled from the needle. He'd apologized a hundred times. You'd told him to shut up and hold the fabric steady.
The Parker house appears at the end of the block. Porch light on. Garden overgrown the way it's been since Uncle Ben died—the rose bushes still blooming every summer even though no one tends them anymore. Flowers in the window boxes. Purple mums that refuse to die even as November closes in.
You stop at the bottom of the porch steps. Your hand goes to your pocket.
Family doesn't have to knock.
May had pressed the key into your palm with both hands, her fingers warm and dry. You'd cried. Peter had found you in the kitchen afterward and pulled you into a hug without saying anything. Held on until you stopped shaking.
The key turns in the lock.
The house is dark. May's knitting on the armchair—a half-finished scarf in deep blue wool. Peter's textbooks on the coffee table. A mug of cold coffee on the side table, half-drunk, abandoned. He always does that. Makes coffee, drinks half, gets distracted by something—a news alert, a text from Ned, an idea for a web fluid improvement—and forgets to finish it.
"Peter?"
Nothing.
You climb the stairs. The fourth step creaks—it's always creaked. You remember the first time you stayed over, years ago, and Peter warned you about it so you wouldn't wake May. You'd stepped on it anyway. May had called out, "Is that you, Y/N?" and you'd frozen like a deer in headlights, and Peter had laughed so hard he nearly fell down the stairs.
Photographs on the wall. Peter as a baby, gap-toothed and grinning. Peter and Uncle Ben on a fishing trip, both sunburned and happy. Peter at graduation, cap slightly askew, May beaming beside him with tears in her eyes.
There's a photo of you, too. Sixteen years old, at the science fair, holding the second-place trophy. His arm around your shoulders. Your arm around his waist. You look happy. You were happy.
His door is closed. You push it open.
The room is exactly the same. Textbooks piled on the desk. Periodic Table poster slightly crooked—it fell down last year and neither of you could find the tape. The science fair trophy still dusty on the bookshelf. You keep meaning to dust it. You keep not doing it.
The photo on his nightstand: you and him, sixteen, grinning.
You sit on the edge of his bed. The mattress dips under your weight, familiar and creaking.
You've sat here a hundred times. While he ranted about exams—gesturing wildly, nearly knocking over his lamp. While he stressed about patrol—some new villain, some close call, some innocent person he couldn't save. While he grieved Uncle Ben, and you held his hand in the dark, and you didn't say anything because there was nothing to say.
While he talked about Gwen—nervous at first, fumbling over his words, asking you if you thought she might like him back. Then later, excited, telling you about their first date, their first kiss. You'd smiled. You'd been supportive. You'd pretended your heart wasn't breaking, because that's what best friends did. They showed up. They were happy for each other. Even when it hurt.
Now you sit here alone, in the dark, waiting for someone who might not want to be found.
The anger rises. Hot and sharp. You've been carrying it for three weeks, letting it simmer, and now it's bubbling over.
You don't get to disappear. You don't get to decide I'm not worth an explanation. I've cleaned blood off your skin and sewn up your suits. I've lied for you. Covered for you. Stayed up until dawn waiting for you to come home.
I've earned more than your silence.
Peter is so fucked when he gets home.
And then the window explodes.
Glass shattering. Wood splintering. The heavy, sickening thud of a body hitting the floor—books rattling on the shelves, trophy wobbling, the photo on his nightstand toppling over.
You're on your feet before you can think.
His suit is shredded. Not torn—shredded. Red and blue fabric hanging in ribbons, soaked through with blood that looks black in the dim light. The spider emblem on his chest barely visible anymore. His mask is gone. His face is a mess of bruises—one eye swollen nearly shut, skin purple and black. A gash across his forehead still bleeding, blood dripping into his eye. His lip split and swollen. Blood dripping off his chin onto the floor, mixing with shattered glass.
His ribs are exposed where the suit has been ripped away—dark purple bruises spreading like spilled wine. His chest is a mess of cuts and scrapes and deeper wounds. One shoulder sits wrong. Dislocated. The joint angled in a way that makes your stomach turn. His hands are scraped raw, knuckles bloody and swollen, fingers trembling.
He tries to stand. Gets to his knees. Collapses. Catches himself on the edge of his desk, knocking over textbooks. The half-empty mug shatters on the floor.
He looks up. Sees you.
His face drops.
"What are you—you shouldn't be here."
You don't answer. Every rehearsed speech—gone. Nothing in your head but static.
You grab the first aid kit from under his bed.
You put it there years ago. After the third time he showed up at your window with injuries he'd tried to hide. A black eye from "falling down the stairs." A knife wound from "a broken bottle." You'd seen through every lie. Stocked the kit yourself—gauze, medical tape, antiseptic, sutures, painkillers, bandages in three sizes. Made him promise to use it.
The kit is still full. He hasn't touched it. He is an idiot who hasn't taken any care of himself.
Your hands shake. You don't let them stop.
"Y/N, stop. You need to leave. You shouldn't be here—"
You ignore him. Antiseptic. Gauze. Tape. Lined up on his nightstand with the precision of someone who's done this a hundred times.
"—it's not safe, if someone saw you come here, if they followed you—"
You haul him up. He's heavier than he looks—all that muscle and spider-strength, and he can barely support his own weight. You get him to the edge of the bed. Push him down.
"—please, I can handle this myself—"
"You can't even fucking stand."
You cut away what's left of his suit. The fabric comes away in strips, stiff with dried blood. His chest is a mess—fresh bruises, a gash along his side still bleeding, older scars you've memorized over years of patching him up. The one on his ribs you stitched two years ago. The burn on his shoulder. The thin white line on his forearm from his first year as Spider-Man.
There's too much blood. Too much dirt. You can't see what you're doing.
"You need a bath." you mumble.
"What?"
"You're covered in blood. I can't see the wounds. You need to get in the bath."
"I'm fine—"
"You're not fine. You're the opposite of fine." You grab his good arm and sling it over your shoulder. He's heavier than he looks—all that muscle and spider-strength, and he can barely support his own weight. His skin is slick with blood and sweat, and his fingers grip your shoulder with a desperation that tells you he's in more pain than he's letting on. "Can you walk?"
"...Maybe."
"That's not a yes."
"It's not a no either."
"Peter."
"I can walk. Just—just go slow."
You guide him down the hall. It's slow going—his legs are unsteady, and every few steps he falters, his weight pressing into your side. You can feel the heat of his body through your clothes, the damp of blood soaking into your sleeve. You don't care. You've had his blood on you before. You'll have it on you again.
The bathroom is small—pink tile from the 1950s, a clawfoot tub that's probably older than Aunt May, lavender soap on the sink that she buys from the organic market on 19th. You lower him onto the closed toilet seat. He sits heavily, his head drooping, his breath coming in shallow gasps.
"You with me?"
"...Yeah. Yeah, I'm—I'm here."
"Don't pass out."
"Wasn't planning on it."
"mhm I doubt it."
You turn on the tap. The pipes groan—they always groan, this old house, nothing works the way it should—and then water thunders into the tub. Steam rises, fogging the mirror, filling the small room with warmth. You test the temperature with your wrist the way May taught you years ago. Not too hot. Not too cold. Just right for damaged skin.
"Arms up."
He obeys, wincing as he lifts his good arm. His bad arm doesn't move at all—the dislocated shoulder keeps it pinned to his side. You peel the rest of the ruined suit off him. The fabric sticks to his skin, glued there by dried blood, and you have to work it loose with careful fingers. Down his arms. Over his chest. You have to kneel to get it past his hips, down his legs, over his feet. The suit comes away in pieces, leaving dark red stains on your hands.
He's in nothing but his boxers now.
You don't look. You're not looking. You're focused on the wounds—the gash on his side that's still oozing blood, the way his breathing is too shallow, the way he's shivering even though the bathroom is warm with steam. You catalog each injury with clinical precision. The laceration on his ribs. The bruising across his abdomen. The swelling around his eye. The dislocated shoulder. You've done this a hundred times. You know how to shut off the part of your brain that sees Peter and turn on the part that sees a patient.
But it's harder tonight. It's always been hard, but tonight it's harder.
"Get in the tub."
He pushes himself up with his good arm. His legs shake. You take his elbow—steady him—and he steps into the water. One foot, then the other. Then he sinks down, slowly, painfully, his body disappearing beneath the surface. The water turns pink immediately, then red, then a deep, murky crimson. He hisses as the heat hits his wounds, his jaw clenching, his good hand gripping the edge of the tub.
"Breathe," you say.
"I'm breathing."
"Breathe slower."
"I'm—" He takes a shaky breath. Lets it out. "I'm trying."
His head falls back against the rim of the tub. His throat is exposed—long and pale and vulnerable. You can see his pulse beating there, too fast, a frantic rhythm under his skin. His eyes close. His chest rises and falls. The water ripples with each breath.
You kneel beside the tub. The tile is cold and hard against your knees. You grab a washcloth from the rack—one of the soft ones, the ones May keeps for guests—and dip it in the water.
Start with his face.
Gentle here. Gentler than you've been all night. You dab at the cut on his forehead, wiping away the dried blood, revealing the wound underneath. It's not as deep as it looked. Head wounds always bleed more than they should. You clean it carefully, your touch feather-light, and he doesn't open his eyes but his breathing steadies. His jaw unclenches. The tension in his shoulders—the good one, at least—starts to ease.
You move the washcloth down his cheek. Wipe away the blood that dripped from his forehead. Clean the swelling around his eye—careful, so careful, because the skin there is tender and purple and painful-looking. The washcloth comes away red. You rinse it in the water. The water swirls with color.
"How long," you ask quietly, "since you took care of yourself?"
He doesn't answer. You didn't expect him to.
You move to his chest. The washcloth trails over his collarbone, dipping into the hollow at the base of his throat where his pulse still flutters too fast. Over his shoulders—the good one, then the bad one, as gently as you can manage. Down the planes of his chest, through the smears of dried blood and dirt and sweat. You're thorough. Methodical. You've done this before.
But you've never done it like this. You've never done it in a clawfoot tub in the Parker house with steam fogging the mirror and his breath the only sound in the room. You've never done it after three weeks of silence. You've never done it with your heart in your throat and your hands trembling and his blood still drying under your fingernails.
You're not thinking about his body. You're not thinking about the way his muscles shift under your hands, the way his skin feels warm and slick and alive. You're not thinking about the trail of dark hair that disappears beneath the waterline, or the way his stomach tenses when your fingers brush a particularly sensitive bruise.
You're not.
"Sorry," you murmur, as he flinches.
"Don't—don't apologize." His voice is rough. "You shouldn't even be here."
"And you should be letting me help."
"I was trying—"
"Lean forward."
He hesitates. Then he obeys, shifting in the water, his back emerging from the pink-tinged surface. You move the washcloth across his shoulder blades, and your breath catches in your throat.
His back is worse than his chest. Deep purple bruises spread across his shoulder blades like spilled ink. A long scrape runs from his spine to his ribs—not deep enough for stitches, but painful-looking. The muscles are knotted with tension, even now, even when he's supposed to be relaxing. You've seen him shirtless before. You've seen him injured before. But you've never seen him like this—bared and vulnerable and completely, utterly still under your hands.
You clean the bruises gently. Your fingers trace the curve of his spine, checking for injuries you might have missed, feeling each vertebra, each rib, each shift of muscle under skin. The water laps against his waist. The steam curls around your face.
He shivers.
"Cold?" you ask.
"No."
"Then what?"
"...Nothing. I don't—nothing."
You don't push. You work your way down his back, then his arms—the good one first, then the bad one, as carefully as you can manage with the shoulder still out of place. The water has gone lukewarm now, the heat fading. The blood has washed away, revealing the full extent of the damage—bruises spreading like watercolor across his ribs, the edges already fading from purple to green as his accelerated healing kicks in. Cuts that are already starting to close. Scrapes that will be gone by morning.
He'll be fine. He's always fine. That's the problem.
"Time to get out."
He stands. Water sluices off his body, running in rivulets down his chest, his stomach, his thighs. His boxers cling to him, soaked through, leaving nothing to the imagination. You grab a towel from the rack—the biggest one you can find, soft and worn from years of use—and wrap it around his shoulders.
Your fingers brush his chest. Accidentally. Barely a graze of knuckles against damp skin.
His breath catches.
Your eyes meet. Just for a fraction of a second. Just long enough to see something flicker in his gaze—something raw and unguarded and terrified.
You look away first.
"Bedroom," you say. "Now."
He limps back, leaning on you, his good arm slung over your shoulders, his weight pressing into your side with every unsteady step. The hallway seems longer than it used to be—or maybe that's just the exhaustion, the adrenaline fading, the three weeks of silence and the past hour of chaos catching up with you both at once. His bare feet drag on the floor. His breath is warm against your hair. You can feel his pulse through his skin where his arm rests against your neck—still too fast, still racing from the fight and the pain and whatever he's not saying.
You lower him onto the mattress. He sinks into it with a grunt, his good hand gripping the edge of the bed, his bad arm hanging useless at his side. The sheets are still tangled from this morning—or yesterday morning, or whenever he last slept in this bed. You don't know. You weren't here. You haven't been here for three weeks.
The sheets will get bloody. You don't care. You've washed blood out of his sheets before—more times than you can count, actually. There's a bottle of hydrogen peroxide under the bathroom sink specifically for that purpose. You're the one who put it there.
You start wrapping his ribs.
Your arms reach around him, passing the bandage from hand to hand, your knuckles brushing his back with every rotation. The bandage is white against his skin, stark and clean, and you wrap it tight—tight enough to support, loose enough to let him breathe. You've done this before. You know the right tension by heart.
He's warm. He's solid. He's so close you can smell the lavender soap from the bath, the faint metallic tang of blood that still lingers, the something-else that's just him—the scent you've never been able to name but have always recognized. His breath is warm on your neck every time you lean close, and it hitches slightly every time your fingers brush bare skin. You can feel his eye on you, tracking your movements, watching your face. Neither of you speaks.
This is when you notice it.
Now that the blood is gone. Now that the dirt and grime have been washed away. Now that you know he's going to be okay—that the cuts are already closing, that the bruises are already fading at the edges, that he's not going to bleed out on his bedroom floor. Now that the fear has subsided and the adrenaline has faded and you're just a girl wrapping bandages around a boy she's known for seven years.
Now you notice.
The way his shoulders taper to his waist. The lean definition of muscle in his arms—even bruised, even battered, even with one shoulder still sitting wrong. The way his stomach tenses under your hands every time you tighten the bandage, the muscles shifting beneath his skin. The trail of dark hair that disappears beneath the towel still wrapped around his hips. The way his jaw looks in profile—sharp and strong and dusted with stubble he hasn't shaved in days.
You've seen him a thousand times. You've patched him up more times than you can count. You've seen him shirtless and bleeding and broken. But you've never let yourself really look before. You've never let yourself notice the way your pulse picks up when you're close to him. You've never let yourself acknowledge that the heat pooling in your stomach isn't just concern.
You look now.
You can't help it. After everything—the fight, the fear, the three weeks of silence, the confession that's still hanging in the air between you—you can't keep pretending you don't see him. All of him. The way you've always seen him.
He catches you.
His eye meets yours. His gaze is steady, unblinking, even with the other eye swollen nearly shut. There's something in his expression—something raw and unguarded and a little bit terrified. Like he's been caught doing something he shouldn't. Like he's seeing you see him, and he doesn't know what to do with it.
"...What?"
"Nothing."
"You're staring."
"I'm checking your bandages."
"You've been checking the same bandage for like a minute." His voice is rough, but there's something underneath it—something almost teasing, almost familiar. Almost like the Peter you knew before he disappeared.
"I'm being thorough."
"You're blushing."
"I'm not."
"You are. Your ears are doing that thing."
"My ears don't do a thing."
"They do. They always have." He shifts on the bed, wincing as the movement pulls at his ribs, but his eye doesn't leave your face. "They go all pink. First the tips, then the whole ear. It's how I know you're lying. They've done it since we were 17. Remember that time you told Smith you'd finished your essay on Shakespeare and your ears gave you away?"
"That was one time."
"It was at least four times. I kept count."
"Of course you did."
"I remember things." His voice softens. "About you. I always have."
The air between you shifts. Charged. Heavy. You're still holding the bandage. Your hands are still resting against his ribs. You can feel his heartbeat under your palm—steady now, no longer racing.
"Focus on your injuries," you say.
"I'd rather focus on—"
"Peter I will slap you."
"Sorry."
You finish wrapping his ribs in silence. Your movements are efficient, practiced, but your hands are trembling slightly. You hope he doesn't notice. He notices everything but maybe, for once, he'll pretend he doesn't.
The gash on his side is clean and closed. The bandages are secure. All that's left is the shoulder.
You step back. Take a breath. Look at him—really look at him—sitting on the edge of his bed with his ribs wrapped and his arm hanging useless and his one good eye fixed on your face.
"It's dislocated."
"...Yeah."
"I'm putting it back."
"...Do it."
"Just like that? Do it?"
"What do you want me to say?" His voice rises, frustration bleeding through. "What do you want? I'm trying—I've been trying all night—I don't know what you want from me."
"Anything! Something! You've been silent for three weeks, and now you're just—just sitting there like—"
"Like what?"
"Like this is normal! Like you crashing through windows and bleeding everywhere and pushing me away is just something I should accept!"
"I'm not asking you to accept it." He stands up—too fast, his ribs protesting, his face going pale. He sways on his feet but doesn't sit back down. "I'm asking you to reset my shoulder. That's all. Just—reset my shoulder, and then you can yell at me all you want."
"You think this is about yelling at you?"
"I think you're angry, and you have every right to be. So be angry. Shout. Throw things. I don't care." He gestures at his shoulder, frustration twisting his features. "But I can't—I can't think straight with this thing. I can't give you what you want when I can barely stand up."
"What I want is for you to stop running."
"I'm not running. I'm right here."
"For now. What about tomorrow? What about next week? What about the next time some villain decides to use me to get to you?"
"I don't—"
"You don't know. That's the problem. You don't know, and instead of figuring it out together, you just—you left. You decided for both of us."
"Because I was scared!"
"You keep saying that! You keep saying you were scared, like that makes it okay!"
"It doesn't make it okay! Nothing about this is okay!" He's shouting now, his voice cracking, his whole body trembling. "I know it's not okay. I've known it's not okay since the moment I stopped answering your texts. But I didn't know what else to do. I still don't know what else to do. Every time I try to—to let someone in—"
"You push them away first."
"...Yes."
"That's not protection. That's cowardice."
"I know." His voice drops. "I know what it is. I've always known."
"Then why do you keep doing it?"
"Because I don't know how to stop!" He turns away from you—stumbles, really, his bad shoulder throwing off his balance—and braces his good hand against the wall. His back is to you now. You can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his spine is rigid, the way his head is bowed. "I don't know how to stop being scared. I've been scared since the day I got bitten. Scared of what I can do. Scared of what I can't do. Scared of losing people. And you—you're the person I'm most scared of losing. So I thought—I thought if I pushed you away first, it would hurt less. If I was the one who left, I wouldn't have to watch you leave."
"I wasn't going to leave."
"You don't know that."
"Yes, I do." You step closer—close enough to touch him, but you don't. Not yet. "I've been here for years, Peter. Through everything. Through the bite, through Ben, through Gwen, through every disaster this city has thrown at you. I've never left. I've never even thought about leaving."
"That doesn't mean you won't."
"It does, actually. It means exactly that." Your voice softens. "I'm not going anywhere. I've never been going anywhere. But you have to let me stay. You have to stop making decisions for me. You have to trust me enough to let me choose."
He turns. His eye meets yours. His expression is cracked open, raw and vulnerable and terrified.
"How?" he whispers. "How do I do that?"
"I don't know. But we figure it out together. That's the point."
Silence.
"Your shoulder," you say. "Sit down. Let me fix it."
He hesitates. Then he nods—just once—and lowers himself back onto the bed. You move to stand in front of him, positioning your hands on his shoulder. The joint is swollen and wrong under your palms, the bones misaligned. You've read about how to do this. You've never actually done it before.
You pause. Look at him.
"I helped you sew your first suit."
He looks up, confused. "What?"
"We stayed up until four in the morning. My fingers were bleeding from the needle. You kept apologizing, and I kept telling you to shut up." You hold his gaze. "Did you really think I didn't know what I was choosing?"
His expression cracks. His hand comes up—hesitates for just a moment—then rests on your hip. His fingers are warm through the fabric of your jeans. "...No. I guess I didn't."
"On three. One—"
You do it on two.
The joint slides back into place with a sickening pop. He cries out—a raw, broken sound that tears from his throat before he can stop it—and his hand tightens on your hip, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. His forehead drops to your stomach. His whole body shakes. His breath comes in ragged gasps, hot through the fabric of your shirt.
"Fuck," he breathes.
"It's done."
"That—" He takes a shaky breath. Another. "That hurt more than the fight."
"Deserved."
He laughs—wet, broken, muffled against your shirt. It's not a happy sound. It's the sound of someone who's been holding everything in for too long and has finally run out of strength to keep doing it. His hand is still on your hip. His forehead is still pressed against your stomach. You can feel his breath through the fabric, warm and ragged, and the faint tremor that runs through his body every few seconds.
"You're still holding onto me," you say.
"...Yeah."
"Are you going to let go?"
"...I don't want to."
His hand tightens. His thumb traces a small circle on the fabric of your jeans—an absent, unconscious gesture, like he doesn't even realize he's doing it. Neither of you speaks. The silence is different now. Less angry. Less charged. Something softer.
"I love you," he says. His voice is muffled against your shirt, barely audible.
He lifts his head. His eye meets yours. And despite everything—the blood, the bruises, the broken window, the three weeks of silence, the argument that's still echoing off the walls—he smiles. A real smile. The one that crinkles the corners of his eyes and makes him look younger. The one you've loved since you were fifteen years old, even when you couldn't admit it to yourself.
He's still holding onto your hip. You're still standing between his legs, close enough to feel the heat of his body, close enough to count his eyelashes. The room is quiet. The broken window lets in the cold night air and the distant sounds of the city—a siren, a car horn, the rumble of the subway. The photo on his nightstand is still toppled over. The glass is still swept into a pile in the corner.
None of it matters.
"I love you too" you say. "In case that wasn't clear."
"It was clear. It was very clear."
He kisses you.
It's not gentle. It's not careful. It's not the kind of kiss you imagine when you let yourself imagine this—which you have, God, you have, more times than you'd ever admit. Those imaginary kisses were soft. Tentative. The kind of first kiss that happens after a confession, after years of waiting, after everything finally falls into place.
This is not that.
This is desperate. This is his good hand fisting in the fabric of your shirt, yanking you closer, like he's afraid you'll disappear if he doesn't hold on tight enough. This is his split lip catching on yours, rough and swollen, and the faint copper taste of blood on his mouth. This is his breath—ragged, uneven, half a sob caught in his throat—mixing with yours.
He kisses like he's drowning. Like you're air. Like he's been holding his breath for three weeks—for years—and he's finally, finally letting himself breathe.
His hand slides from your shirt to your jaw, his fingers trembling. They're cold. They're always cold after a fight, after the adrenaline fades and his body remembers it's supposed to be in shock. But his palm is warm against your cheek, and his thumb traces the line of your cheekbone like he's memorizing it, like he's been wanting to do this for so long he doesn't know where to start.
You lean into him, careful—so careful—of his ribs, his shoulder, the bruises spreading across his chest like spilled watercolor. Your hands find his face, your fingers brushing the edge of his swollen eye, the cut on his forehead, the stubble along his jaw. He flinches—not from pain, but from the gentleness. Like he doesn't know what to do with it. Like no one's ever touched him like this before.
His forehead presses against yours. His breath is warm on your lips. His hand is still on your jaw, still trembling.
"I'm sorry," he whispers. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm—"
"Stop."
"I can't—"
"Stop apologizing."
"I don't know how else to—"
"Then don't. Just—" You kiss him again. Softer this time. Slower. Your lips brush his, and you feel him exhale—a shaky, broken sound—and his hand slides into your hair, and he kisses you back like you're the only thing holding him together.
An hour has passed.
You've swept up the broken glass. Found an old board in the garage to cover the window—you'll fix it properly tomorrow. You've made tea, your hands moving on autopilot, reaching for the mugs you've always used. The blue one with the chip in the handle is yours. Peter's is the red one with Minnie Mouse on it.
Peter is in bed. His ribs are wrapped. His shoulder is back in place. The bruises are already fading to yellow-green. He's been watching you move around the room.
"You should sleep," he says.
"I'm not tired."
"You've been up all night."
"So have you."
"I have accelerated healing. What's your excuse?"
"Do I really need one?"
You set down your mug. Walk over to the bed. He shifts to make room for you, wincing, and you climb in beside him. His head finds the curve of your shoulder. His arm drapes across your waist. His fingers find the sleeve of your hoodie—the one he left at your apartment last year, the one you never gave back.
"You kept it," he murmurs.
"Of course I kept it."
"It's been like a year."
"It smells like you."
"...That's either really sweet or really creepy."
"Shut up."
"Much more creepy than it is sweet though"
You laugh, and he laughs with you, and the sound fills the quiet room. The sun is starting to rise outside the broken window—pale grey light creeping over the rooftops of Queens.
"I love you," he says, already half-asleep.
"I know."
"The fuck is 'I know'? you have to say it back."
"I love you too, maybe" you smirk
"...Good. I can work with a maybe temporarily."
His eyes close. His breathing evens out. His hand relaxes on your sleeve.
"Still here," you murmur. "Not going anywhere."
His brow smooths. His grip relaxes.
You stay exactly where you are.
A/N: Thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed this, feel free to drop a comment; I'd love to hear your thoughts. I'm currently open to requests for Harry Potter characters (especially Fred, George, Harry, Ron, Cedric, Hermione and Draco) and Spider-Man (Peter Parker). If you have a prompt or an idea you've been wanting to see written, send it my way.
summary: business is slow, you’re losing hope. so peter does what any reasonable guy would do—sends spider-man on a bakery rescue mission.
warnings: baker!reader, college!peter, mild angst/self-doubt, best friends pretending they’re not in love, spider-man chaos, FLUFF (like a lot of it!!)
- a/n: my first spidey/peter parker fic!! 🕷️❤️ hope you like it <3 (fun fact: i love baking but i haven’t had the time lately thanks to school, so this fic let me live out the dream for a bit lol.)
The shop smelled like vanilla and cinnamon, the kind of cozy sweetness that clung to the air and made you want to curl up in it. But despite the warmth, it was quiet—too quiet. The display case gleamed with neat rows of cookies and cupcakes, each one perfectly frosted, waiting for customers that never seemed to come. The only real noise was the steady tick of the clock above the door, its rhythm filling the stillness until you finally let out a sigh and dropped onto a stool behind the counter.
Peter was there, like always. Perched on the counter with his sneakers dangling, he looked perfectly at home in a place he definitely wasn’t supposed to be sitting. He was already halfway through the sample tray you had set out that morning, his fingers dusted with crumbs, a smudge of chocolate caught near his thumb.
“These are delicious,” he said around a mouthful of brownie, words muffled but full of conviction.
You lifted your head just enough to give him a look, part amusement, part exasperation. “Peter, you say that about everything.”
“Because it’s true!” His whole face brightened as he turned toward you, holding up the brownie like he was swearing it in as evidence. His grin was boyish, infectious, a little crooked in the way that made your chest ache if you looked too long.
“Then why hasn’t anyone stopped by?” The question slipped out quieter than you meant it to, fragile around the edges. You traced the worn grooves of the counter with your fingertip, the sugar in the air suddenly too heavy. “If they’re so good, why haven’t I sold a single thing?”
For once, Peter didn’t have a quick reply. He swallowed, and the teasing curve of his mouth eased into something quieter, his eyes softening in a way that made the moment feel suddenly still.
You turned away quickly, not wanting him to notice too much, but your thoughts had already begun their spiral. The silence pressed in, and in its weight, those old voices began to stir again.
A bakery? What about college? your parents had asked, the lines of worry etching deeper with every word. You need a degree. A steady path. School first, dreams later. Otherwise… it’s not going to last.
They hadn’t understood why the idea of classrooms and lecture halls felt so hollow compared to the warmth of a kitchen, the hum of ovens, the smell of sugar melting into butter. Why the thought of baking for people—of creating something sweet enough to carry them through the hardest days—felt more important than any syllabus ever could.
Still, their doubts lingered. They always came back when you locked up early, when trays of untouched pastries stared back at you like unfinished promises, when the bell above the door stayed silent no matter how long you waited.
Peter had been one of the few who never questioned you. He was there from the beginning—scribbling logo sketches on napkins at a crowded coffee shop, leaning over your notebook with a grin and far too many opinions. He taste-tested your recipes until he was practically living on sugar, and he never stopped telling you it wasn’t crazy to chase what you loved.
At the time, it had seemed like the right move.
But now?
You stared at the cupcakes behind the glass, the frosting catching the light in perfect little swirls. Then your gaze slid to the “OPEN” sign in the window, and for a moment, it almost felt like the quiet itself was taunting you.
“Maybe this was a mistake.” The words came out before you could pull them back, too quiet, too heavy.
“Hey. Don’t say that.”
Peter’s voice cut through immediately, low but certain. He pushed himself upright from where he’d been sitting on the counter, sneakers squeaking as he shifted to face you fully.
“You’ve worked too hard for this to be a mistake,” he said, and though his eyes were soft, there was something firm beneath them—like he needed you to believe it as much as he did. “It’s just… a rough patch. Everyone has those. Besides—” his lips tugged into that smile you knew too well, “—you make the best brownies in New York. I swear.”
Before you could argue, he snagged the last brownie square from the tray of samples and leaned across the counter, holding it out to you.
“I know what my brownies taste like, Peter,” you said, aiming for stern but the warmth in your voice gave you away
He didn’t back down. Instead, he leaned closer, nudging the bite toward you until it hovered just shy of your lips. His brows lifted, wordless challenge written across his face: go on, prove me wrong.
You caved with a roll of your eyes, a reluctant smile slipping through despite yourself. Your fingers grazed his as you took the brownie and popped it into your mouth. The rich chocolate melted across your tongue, and a quiet hum escaped before you could stop it.
Peter’s expression lit up like he’d just won the lottery. He leaned away, the corner of his mouth curving with a satisfied little smirk.
“Now tell me that isn’t the best brownie you’ve ever had,” he challenged, smugness woven into every word.
You tried to fight it, but laughter broke through, bubbling out of you until you had to press a hand against your mouth.
“Exactly.” Peter pointed at you with mock triumph, grinning wide. “Honestly, you could give any bakery in Queens a run for their money. Probably the whole East Coast.”
You shook your head, another laugh slipping free. “Okay. Now you’re pushing it.”
“Maybe. But I’m right.” His smirk softened into something steadier, a smile that felt quieter, almost like it was meant just for you.
He knew it wasn’t a cure-all, not yet. The doubts would circle back, maybe even tomorrow. But right now, you were laughing again—and for Peter, that was just step one.
The next morning unfolded in its usual routine. You flipped the sign to OPEN, set a plate of samples by the door, tied your apron, and settled behind the counter to wait.
Outside, the city flowed past in waves—people rushing with coffee cups, coats brushing against each other, not a glance spared for your window. You used to lift your head at every passing shadow, hopeful, but that habit had faded. You knew better now.
The clock ticked in steady rhythm, the sound stretching each second longer than the last. The hours crawled, weighed down by the same silence that had become a little too familiar for your liking.
And then—
The bells above the door rang out.
The chime shattered the stillness, sharp and bright. You nearly jumped, heart leaping so suddenly it left your hands trembling against the counter.
Someone had actually come in.
But it wasn’t the sound that stunned you.
Your gaze lifted, and the sight froze you where you stood.
Red and blue filled the doorway, sunlight glinting off web patterns stretched over broad shoulders.
Before you knew it, your mouth had parted, the word tumbling out in disbelief.
“…Spider-Man?”
He stood framed in the morning light, the suit impossibly bright against the muted colors of your shop. The door clicked shut behind him, and then—like this was the most natural thing in the world—he strolled up to the counter.
“Morning!” His voice was cheerful, muffled through the mask but somehow still carrying that unmistakable warmth. “So, uh, I’ll take… let’s see…” He tilted his head as if studying the display case with the same focus he gave the city. “A dozen cookies. A batch of brownies. Oh—and cupcakes. Gotta have cupcakes.”
You blinked at him. Once. Twice. “What?”
Leaning casually against the counter, he dropped his voice a notch, like he was letting you in on a secret. “Big day in the city. Lots of crime to fight. Figured I’d stock up.”
Your mind couldn’t catch up, but your hands didn’t seem to care—boxing baked goods, stacking cookies, moving on autopilot. Every time you looked up, it only got stranger: Spider-Man, in your bakery, debating cupcake flavors like this was a normal Saturday for him.
By the time you rang him up, it still didn’t feel real. He stood there with cash in hand, tapping his gloved fingers lightly against the counter, calm as ever.
The bell chimed again when he left, the door shutting behind him as he disappeared into the rush of morning traffic, carrying the scent of sugar with him.
It hit you then, so fast you almost forgot to breathe.
Your first real customer—your first real sale—was Spider-Man.
You almost laughed out loud. Surely that would be the strangest thing to happen this week. Maybe this month.
But while you stood frozen behind the counter, still reeling from the sight of him walking out with pink boxes stacked in his arms, Spider-Man already had the rest of his plan in motion:
Step two.
The city roared beneath Peter as he swung high between skyscrapers, the boxes secured to his back with a neat band of webbing. He wasn’t chasing criminals today—not exactly. His mission was sweeter.
He landed on the edge of a crowded street, springing lightly to the pavement and pulling out one of the boxes with a flourish. “Fresh from the best bakery in Queens—actually, scratch that—the best in New York,” he said, tone teasing but proud.
Heads turned, phones lifted, but his grin was for the two wide-eyed kids nearest him. He pressed cookies into their small hands, crouching until he was eye level. Chocolate smeared instantly across their smiles, and Peter leaned in with a conspiratorial whisper.
“Be sure to stop in and tell her who sent you.”
Their eager nods made his chest ache in the best way.
The rest of the day unfolded like that. Spider-Man became less of a crime fighter and more of a one-man delivery service, swinging across blocks with boxes tucked under his arm. He handed cupcakes to a delivery guy juggling too many packages, slipped a cookie to a tired nurse waiting at the bus stop, and even traded a brownie for a balloon just to make a little girl laugh.
Each time, he said it like a promise:
“Go check out the bakery. Best in Queens. And don’t just eat—tell her.”
Word spread fast, faster than any sugar rush, but the city never stayed quiet for long. Peter was working through the last box when the wail of a store alarm cut through the street. His head snapped up just in time to see two men sprint past with bags banging against their legs. He sighed, set the box carefully on the curb, and vaulted upward.
Two web zips and a quick thwip later, the thieves were dangling upside down from a lamppost, muttering curses while a small crowd clapped. The cops arrived moments later, and Spider-Man snagged the waiting box before they could thank him.
“Donuts? Nah,” he said, pressing the brownies into one officer’s hands like it was standard procedure. “You need these. Trust me—way better.”
By late afternoon, only crumbs clung to his gloves. He stood on a fire escape above the street, the city humming beneath him, bathed in gold. He thought about how many smiles those boxes had sparked, how many strangers were walking away today with chocolate on their tongues and your bakery’s name on their lips.
A small group of teens spotted him from below, waving and shouting his name. He leaned against the railing, grinning behind the mask.
“Alright, guys,” he called, voice carrying over the traffic. “You know the drill. Tell your friends. Tell your family. Then go tell her. She’s the real hero.”
Their cheers followed him as he stepped onto the railing, fired a webline, and launched himself back into the city, the last light of day trailing after him.
Step two was done. Now all he had to do was wait.
Back at the bakery, the evening crept in as you stood to close up. The silence after Spider-Man left pressed in on you like nothing had even happened. No new customers. No rush. Just you behind the counter, the quiet hum of the fridge, and the too-neat rows of untouched sweets still gleaming beneath the glass.
You reached for the sign on the door, fingers brushing the cool edge as you flipped it to CLOSED.
A laugh slipped out, thinner than you intended, echoing in the empty shop. “Of course my only customer today was Spider-Man. Figures.”
You tried to play it off with a shrug, but the sting was still there, sharp beneath the joke.
The next morning, you unlocked the shop with a sigh, already bracing for another long, empty day. The bell jingled dully as you stepped inside. You flicked on the TV for background noise, tied your apron with slow, practiced movements, and began arranging the day’s samples.
Your phone buzzed.
Then buzzed again.
And again.
You frowned, wiping your hands before pulling it from your pocket. The screen lit up in a storm of notifications. Mentions. Tags. DMs piling so fast you couldn’t keep up. Videos and photos filled your feed, all of one subject.
Spider-Man.
Your breath caught as you scrolled.
There he was, swinging through Queens with your bakery boxes strapped to his back, sunlight glinting off the webbing that held them secure. Another clip showed him crouched low, handing out cookies to a pair of kids who clutched them like prized trophies. The comments rolled in beneath, relentless and dizzying:
“Is THIS the shop Spider-Man was talking about???”
“Going here today. Who’s coming with me?”
“Spider-Man approved!!”
Your hands trembled as you kept scrolling, pulse racing faster with every new post. The flood of comments blurred before your eyes, excitement bubbling off the screen so quickly you could hardly breathe.
Was this real? Was this actually happening?
And then—
The Bugle Segment.
The TV screen cut sharply to J. Jonah Jameson, already mid-rant on the Daily Bugle's live broadcast. His face was a blotchy shade of red, mustache bristling like it might leap off his lip at any second.
“Spider-Man—menace, criminal, sugar dealer apparently—was spotted yesterday handing out baked goods across the city like some kind of Willy Wonka in spandex!”
He punctuated the words by slamming a fist down on the desk, papers jumping with the impact. In his other hand, though—completely undermining the tirade—was one of your cupcakes, the wrapper peeled back to the base.
He took a massive bite, frosting smearing across his lip, and barreled on without pausing to swallow.
“Disgusting PR stunt—mmph—he’s corrupting the youth with sugar highs—” another furious chomp, crumbs scattering down his tie “—what kind of vigilante bribes cops with brownies?! Criminal, I tell you!”
The chyron blazed across the bottom of the screen, impossible to miss:
“Spider-Man Promotes Local Business.”
And beneath it, bold and clear, was your bakery’s name.
The chime above the door was the only thing that tore your eyes from the TV—and it didn’t stop. Another followed, then another. People were actually lining up.
Before you knew it, the shop was alive in a way you’d only ever imagined. People filled every inch of space, laughter and chatter bouncing off the walls as you scrambled to keep up. Cupcakes vanished from trays faster than you could frost them, cookie boxes stacked high behind the counter, the register dinging over and over.
You rushed between shelves, apron dusted in flour and sugar, trying to keep pace with the flood of orders. A dozen cookies here, brownies there, three cupcakes with sprinkles—it was hectic, exhausting, and yet your cheeks ached from smiling.
You barely noticed the bell this time, too caught up in the rhythm of it all—until a familiar voice cut through the chaos, warm and teasing.
“Busy day?”
Your head snapped up so quickly you nearly dropped the box in your hands.
Peter stood just inside the doorway, hair mussed, backpack slung over one shoulder. He looked completely casual, like he hadn’t just missed an entire day of classes, like he hadn’t been suspiciously absent through all the madness.
“Peter.” His name left your lips on a breath, equal parts relief and confusion.
He glanced at the crowded shop, then back at you, a faint smile forming. “Guess I picked the wrong day to skip the free samples, huh?”
You laughed, soft and incredulous, the sound catching in your throat as you filled another box with cupcakes. He grinned wider at that, but there was something softer beneath it—something steady and quiet, like he knew exactly what this moment meant to you.
“Want an extra hand?”
“Yeah. Please.” It came out breathless, caught somewhere between helpless and thankful.
He didn’t hesitate. Tossing his bag into the corner, he slipped behind the counter like he belonged there, rolling up his sleeves and reaching for the first box without a second thought.
Even with Peter at your side, the rush didn’t slow. The bell above the door rang endlessly. Orders piled high on the counter. Voices overlapped in waves, the shop buzzing with more life than you’d ever seen.
Between two orders, you darted toward the back to grab more boxes, squeezing past a group of teenagers debating whether to get one cupcake or six.
Just as your hand reached for the swinging door, you felt a small tug on your sleeve.
You turned, blinking.
A little boy, no older than six, stood in front of you with a brownie clutched tight in one hand. Chocolate smudged the corner of his mouth, his other hand still loosely holding onto your sleeve like he didn’t want you to miss what he had to say.
“Spider-Man said you make the best brownies in New York, so it has to be true!” he declared proudly, voice piping above the chatter.
Everything around you softened.
The laughter. The lines. The constant ding of the register. For a moment, it all blurred at the edges. All you could see was him, and the chocolate on his smile, and the way your heart gave a quiet, aching twist at his words.
You smiled down at him, warm and full and maybe a little glassy-eyed. “He said that?”
The boy nodded, like there was never any doubt.
And for the first time, you let yourself believe it could actually be true.
By the next hour, you were completely sold out. Every brownie, every cookie, every cupcake—gone. Only a few stray crumbs lingered in the trays, quiet proof that something sweet had been there at all. The last customer waved on their way out, calling over their shoulder with a cheerful promise to return tomorrow.
You crossed to the door, flipped the sign to CLOSED, and this time the motion came with a smile, wide and certain, stretching all the way to your eyes.
When you turned, Peter was there, leaning against the counter, peeling the wrapper from a cupcake he’d clearly saved for himself. He caught your stare and smirked, lifting the cupcake like he was toasting the end of a long shift.
“Well, I’d say that was a pretty successful day,” he said, voice warm with amusement.
Your laugh came quick, loud and full, echoing across the now-empty shop. “Yeah. It was.”
The laughter faded, your smile faltering just a little.
“What?” Peter asked, pausing mid-bite, his brow creasing.
You shook your head, brushing your hands on your apron. “Nothing. I just…” You hesitated, glancing toward the window as if you might catch a glimpse of red and blue swinging by. “I wish I could thank him. Spider-Man.”
For a moment, Peter’s posture stilled. His thumb pressed a little too hard into the edge of the wrapper, the paper crinkling softly between his fingers. When he finally spoke, his voice came low, almost hesitant.
“I’m sure…” he said, barely above a whisper. “I’m sure he knows.”
You turned toward him, the warmth in his voice tugging something loose in your chest. “I hope so,” you murmured, stepping closer. “But even if I can’t thank Spider-Man…”
Your voice gentled as you came to stand in front of him, the distance between you shrinking to nothing. “I can thank you. You’re kind of a lifesaver, you know.”
Peter blinked, looking momentarily lost, like he didn’t quite know where to put that kind of praise.
“You’ve been here through all of it,” you said, the beginnings of a quiet smile touching your face. “You’ve listened to me stress about the shop, tested every recipe, eaten more frosting than anyone should. You’re a lifesaver.”
Your voice dropped, the words falling softer, closer to something unspoken.
“Thank you, Peter.”
He hadn’t expected that. He thought the gratitude in your voice would only belong to someone else—to Spider-Man, not him.
It caught him off guard.
Still, the response came easily, like it lived somewhere deep in him.
“Of course.”
Then, before he could stop himself, something else slipped out—words that felt too natural, too true to hold back.
“I’m just… happy that you’re happy.”
The air shifted, warm and still, like even the world had paused to listen.
It wasn’t teasing. There was no deflection or joke to hide behind. Just something real, something simple.
And somehow, that made it hit even harder.
Peter cleared his throat, small but telling—like he’d only just realized how that last line had sounded.
“Uh…” His voice came out deeper than before, a little rougher around the edges as he focused on splitting the cupcake in two.
He lifted one half, offering it to you with a crooked smile that didn’t quite mask the warmth behind it.
“Victory bite?”
You smiled despite the flutter in your chest, taking the piece from his hand without saying a word.
The cupcake was soft against your fingers as you bit into your half, the flavor rich and warm, sugar and vanilla melting on your tongue. Peter did the same, though he took his half in one bite—because of course he did—and then wiped a bit of frosting from his thumb, pretending not to notice the way you were watching him.
Then—
He leaned back, that effortless ease finding its way to his face again. “Alright,” he said, tone low but playful. “Tell me again about the Bugle segment. Word for word.”
You tried, but laughter hit before you even got a full sentence out. The memory of Jameson ranting on-air, frosting still on his face, was too much.
“He called Spider-Man—” you started, breath catching as you fought another laugh, “—a menace, a criminal, and a sugar dealer. All while eating one of my cupcakes.”
Peter’s lips curved, but he didn’t interrupt. He just watched you, quiet amusement softening into something else.
His gaze lingered on the way your shoulders shook, the sound of your laughter spilling into the shop, your voice hitching on the edges of words you could barely get through.
And that was the point of all of it. The swinging, the deliveries, the whole crazy plan.
For this.
You, standing here, happy and glowing and alive in a way you hadn’t been in weeks.
Which meant one thing.
Mission accomplished.
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Summary: His problem was this—that stupidly impossible and funny mouth of his. Peter Parker and his witty responses. Peter Parker and his clever quips. Peter and that mouth you'd love to shut so much. So you do.
OR; At a bar, you finally snap and give Peter Parker something better to do with those gorgeous lips than running it.
WC: 5,7k
A/n: I missed writing about my boyfriend, so here I am. Spidey enthusiasts, gather around, please! I love this Peter Parker playlist to set the mood. / read on ao3
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
"Oh my goddess in fucking heaven, do you ever shut your goddamn mouth, Parker?!"
The whole bar goes quiet, and as soon as his name is out of your lips, it's a heartbeat too late.
The drink in your hand feels like a bomb as Peter turns around, a stupid smile already plastered on his stupidly gorgeous face.
Everything about him is so—so stupid. He said so himself in class once. "I'm the world's stupidest genius, professor," with a laugh, that smile, that easy shrugging shoulder.
His eyes are fixed on you, as chocolate as ever, as bright and sparkling as they were when you first met him, but with a glint of something unrecognizable. When he opens his mouth, your chest tightens and your breath stills, waiting for it, knowing something clever and smart will come out of it, dreading whatever it is.
"You said you want to shut my mouth, did I hear that correctly?"
There's sweat somewhere in the back of your neck, you're sure of it. "I didn't say that."
"No?" He props his chin on the backrest of his chair, eyes now fixed in your direction and glinting with something you have never seen before. "I could've sworn I heard you saying you wanna shut my mouth."
"Nope. Hearing things once again, Parker. All I did was question whether you have the capacity to ever shut that trap of yours."
The image is born without your permission at his words, though. You wanna shut my mouth.
They echo.
You wanna shut my mouth.
How would you go about that?
You shiver.
He pouts. Sometimes, Peter does that—one of his annoying habits that drives you up the wall, or simply drives you to stand up as you are right now. Standing up in the middle of your table because that boy can get under your skin, no matter where you are, no matter how sober or not, apparently.
"That's mean. Why are you so mean to me?" The question is delivered with a smile.
You roll your eyes and bat away the hand of your friend who's pulling on your jacket in a silent request for you to sit back down. "I don't know. You awaken that part of me like very few people do." It was the truth, and it also wasn't.
The truth—the embarrassing and mortifying truth came with a weight you had no desire to even think about right now, in the middle of the bar while surrounded by your friends and once again arguing you Peter. The overlying excuse, on the other hand, had its own truth—even before The Incident, Peter already got under your skin.
His existence meant danger before you knew about his stupidly witty mouth and his clever brain. Before you shared classes with him, only to discover how funny he was underneath all those clapbacks.
"How can I put it back to sleep, then?" He lifts both arms in mock surrender, dropping a bit of his drink on the friend next to him. "I didn't even—oh, shit, my bad Lia, wasn't paying attention. I didn't even do anything to you this time!" He redirects his attention to you after his apology, and there it is—the sweet, and yet cocky smile that drives you up the walls. "I was here, talking to my friends, having a nice time, and you decided to meddle in our conversation. What did I say this time that pissed you off so much?"
This time, the clapback belongs to you and it's at the tip of your tongue. "Ah, so you're the only one who can meddle in other people's businesses, is that it?" Even his friends laugh at it.
Peter winces a little through his smile, and there you are, smiling as you bicker with him once again.
How many times have you ended up here? Wanting his clever mouth to be shut while talking to him at the same time? Prodding and poking whenever you get the chance.
"Fine. I'm a meddler. I can admit to that, but can you admit that so are you?"
"I don't have to admit anything to you," you replied just for the sake and pleasure of being difficult.
Peter was still smiling. He did the nose scrunch thing once again, and you hated how your entire chest responded to that stupid habit of his. "You like being difficult."
"And you like being mouthy and loud about it."
"I'm seriously wondering what I said this time that was so wrong that it earned your rage." He gestures with the empty hand this time. "We're at a bar, milady! And although it seems our old married couple bickering seems to entertain the masses even here, I'm pretty sure you're as tipsy as me. You were supposed to be having fun."
I am right now. "Who said I'm not?" It was harder to keep your smile and facial features organized into something neutral or sarcastic with alcohol in your system.
Peter's smile widened. "I'm taking that as the admission, then."
"Admission to what?"
"How much you adore pulling my pigtails." As if the words were not enough, Peter pretends to tug a chunk of his hair and feigns wincing in pain. Somehow, the smile's still there, in his eyes, in the corner of his mouth.
This time, you roll your eyes and sit back down, too bothered by how much his glee affects you. "You wish, Parker. Just—you could try keeping your shitty and wrong opinions to a low volume, at least."
From this distance — there are two tables filled with people between you and the object of your conversation — it's a bit hard to tell, but you're sure his friend makes a comment about you two under his breath.
Peter either misses it or chooses to ignore it. "I'm gonna have to insist, then. What was it that I said so wrong this time, milady, hm? Maybe I'll even apologize."
"Why don't you two stop half-screaming from across the bar and go talk somewhere else? Jesus fucking Christ, every Monday and Wednesday this shit." It's someone from one of the tables between you both.
The guy's friend says loud enough for you to listen. "Leave them to it. You know how they are."
And he replies with, "Of course I do! Everybody fucking does. Every week. Just fuck already, for fuck's sake. And stop talking over fifteen thousand other people!" He adds that last bit with a directed look at both of you.
Just fuck already.
It mixes in your brain with you wanna shut my mouth and suddenly—yeah. "I'm going outside," you announce to your friends.
"What?! Babe, no. We were in the middle of our ratings," she gives you puppy eyes, but you're already coming around the table.
Rating every Tolkien character from least to most fuckable would have to wait until after your freak out.
"I know. I'll be back. Keep on without me," you need air. Also water.
In the back of your neck, there's the prickly and distinct feeling of being observed as you wander to the bar and order a bottle of water. "Actually, make it two, please?"
He's observing you as you walk out of the bar to the back alley where all the smokers gather. Without a glance in his direction, you can confirm that Peter Parker has observed every step you take before you are out of his sight.
The air does you good, though.
It's chilly, and it smells like cigarettes instead of back alleys, and it's a trade you'd make any day.
None of the people smoking bother you.
Drinking the water does wonders for calming your nervous system down on any given day, but today, words are rolling around your head, and they are enough to turn your brain hostage.
You wanna shut my mouth.
Yes. Groaning, sipping bigger gulps from your bottle, you can admit to yourself, under the blanket of darkness and surrounded by complete strangers, you would love to shut Peter Parker's mouth.
Maybe the confession is too much for a brain without its usual filters because it breaks a dam.
It's a domino effect: one image of you shutting his mouth inside the bar created directly by his own words, melts and gets mixed, shuffling into another image.
In this one, both of you are in the classroom you share, and yet there you are, still shutting his mouth.
Suddenly, all the instances where you and Peter have ever shared the same place are flooded by those: shutting him up, quieting him, making him lose words, making Peter unlearn all the clever things he knows until he has nothing but blabber to say or whimpers to release, noises, gasps, your name, your name—
The prickly sensation on your nape returns, and you react as if being stung.
Tense. Waiting for it, knowing it's coming, there he is, your brain offers, but you're too much of a coward now to look.
He approaches anyway.
"Permission to come closer?" He asks.
What a fucking nerd. Not that you are far from one, but you snicker at the comment, curse yourself mentally and maybe under your breath, but allow it anyway. The side eye you give him tells him just as much.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
She's loud, mouthy, insanely clever, beautiful, and all the things Peter keeps telling himself he only observes.
It's easier said than done.
Easier in class when it can be pivoted towards something purely academical, or at work when he can pretend it's harmeless due to the distance, or at night as he swings from building to building and she's only in his mind, and not his life.
It's harder when he's been drinking with his friends and she looks even prettier without all the walls so hung up tight.
Alcohol makes people's filters go down.
Not his—Peter doesn't have a filter, never did, and ever since the bite his body responds to very little things, at the same time as it responds to absolutely everything.
His body responds to her.
Gods, if only bickering with her weren't so damned adictive.
When their little scene causes other people to complain and she leaves, Peter curses under his breath, leaves his glass on the table and gets up before he can even think about what he's doing.
His hearing picks up on Lia's 'oh, fucking finally' and the way Jorge responds with 'I know, if they don't get it out of their system I'm doing something insane like locking them inside a cupboard, I don't fucking know' and he thinks oh...
Maybe it's not 'easy', then.
Maybe it's been only 'obvious' and 'ridiculous' so far.
Too bad—Peter's got no other way of flirting. He can admit it as he navigates the sea of bodies to make his way outside now; they have been flirting.
He's been, at least. Despite his promises to himself that Peter Parker had no right to flirt with anybody, that he had no right to make anyone his anything ever again, that's what he's been doing — they've been doing? — and everyone's been watching, annoyed or amused, entirely aware of what's going on.
The alley is filled with smoke that come out of the three groups standing in their little circles, but his gaze fixes on a very specific body standing alone against the wall, chugging a half emtpy bottle of water.
Fuck it.
He approaches, shoving both hands inside his hoodie in hopes of maybe not being so flamboyant and expressive. Not flirting too much.
(Who is he still trying to fool?)
"Permission to approach?"
Her response is a snicker, and Peter notices her body language switches to straight up shoulders without even glancing in his direction.
"Hi, Parker."
"Hello, milady."
"What can I do for you?"
Shut my mouth, apparently. Peter holds the teasing for now and his eyes wide in surprise when he sees a bottle of water being lifted in his direction. He takes it. "Thank you." Does she think he's tipsy? Probably. "Sorry if I annoyed you in there."
"No, you're not."
He smiles before he takes the first sip. "Eh," he is sorry... a little bit. "I kinda am."
Another snicker. She finishes her bottle of water. "Hard to believe ya."
"Why is that?"
"I think you love pissing me the fuck off."
Peter laughs. He hasn't gotten used to how foul mouthed she is just yet. It's been more than a year but it still makes him laugh and think about what his uncle would've said if he heard how much such a pretty lady can curse.
Probably something old fashioned enough to make her say even more curse words.
"I..." he thinks carefully of his next words and feels the entirety of his neck tingling, then warming when her eyes set on his face. "... like how passionate you can get while arguing."
At that, she takes a second. Then, she answers with, "What the fuck does that mean?"
"Means that you get involved in arguments and discussions in nice ways."
"Nice ways? What we've been doing is nice?"
"It hasn't been?"
She stops, and Peter's seen enough to recognize when a smile is being held back. "You're crazy."
He smiles. "So are you."
"It seems that way." A sigh. "Peter..."
"Yeah?" His heart speeds up. She never says his name. That is the distance—his delusion about all of your exchanges being nothing... and the way you never say his name. He wants to hear it again. Desperately. One single time of his name out of your lips, and he already wants to hear it again.
God, what are you doing to him?
"I'm sorry," you say.
Peter stops in his tracks, his entire body still. "I—what?"
"You heard me, don't make me say it again."
"I know I did, I just—why? I don't get it. You've got nothing to apologize for."
Your eyes are not as glassy as they were inside the pub, and when you look at him, Peter feels something pull him a step closer.
There's a distinct vulnerability in the way you're staring that he's never seen before, or maybe never saw from this proximity to be able to identify.
"Don't I?" your voice is low and he misses the way you were speaking to him in there. He shakes his head, and takes one more step. He ignores the way this is the closest you two have ever been, and tells his speeding heart to shut the fuck up because it's too loud. You lick your lips and—fuck, maybe it's kind of impossible to tell his heart to do anything in your presence other than react to every miniscule action of yours. "I've been told I'm a... what's the term? Raging bitch, I believe, a few times."
His laughter is loud and honest, and it makes him happy when his eyes open and he sees that it pulled a smile out of you. "Oh—fuck, I'm sorry. That was hilarious."
"You think me being a raging bitch is hilarious?"
"No!" He's still laughing, but he's also warm enough to feel it in his face from the way you're staring at him from under your lasher. He mentally takes note that you made no comment on the proximity. He relishes in that fact. "No—I just think it's funny how much men are fucking crybabies nowadays." He chuckles when your eyes widen in surprise and your smile does too.
"Who said it was only men who called me that?"
He says your name in a tone that says 'please'. "I don't go to the same course as you but we do share two classes, remember?"
"Yup. We bicker in them every time."
"Exactly. I might've heard it once or twice when someone said something about people I know. About you." He might've also told them off every single time, but he keeps that part to himself—for now, at least. "They're raging bitches if you ask me."
The way you laugh should be printed and bottled. "They really are."
"Not me, though?" He's fishing, and from the way you look at him, you call it immediately.
"Parker."
"Oh, no!" He groans, hands flying out of his pockets straight to his face. "Back to Parker, fuck me!"
You laugh again, and Peter cannot get drunk, but he is. All your little 'fights' and arguments have never been real—you two enjoy playing the devil's advocate when in each other's presence but you've always been aware the other one is a decent person, he's aware of that. He knows you don't actually hate him because Peter's seen how you react around people you hate. Around men you hate, especifically.
"I can't call you by your name?" You ask, being difficult.
There it is. The thing you two do—be difficult with one another. "That's my surename."
"Which is part of your name."
"I know, but Peter sounds so much nicer."
"Hmmmm, I don't know. I'm quite fond of Parker."
His smile is wicked when hearing those words. "I'm printing that out and putting it on a T-shirt."
You try to fight a giggle and lose it. Peter had no clue what he was expecting out of tonight—frankly, he just wanted to please one of his friends by doing something he rarely does (or has the money to) and go out for a bit, and suddenly, there you were.
Suddenly, here he is. Laughing with you.
"You're actually ridiculous."
"But not a raging bitch?"
You punch his arm, laughing. "Stop!" Peter's heart spikes once again at the contact. "I hate it when you're funny."
"So what I'm hearing is that you hate me?"
Peter's cheeks hurt by now. He's been here for what? Two, three minutes tops, and his cheeks hurt because he's unable to stop smiling.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
It's the smile that's doing it—your heart is attempting to murder you, or maybe Parker is, because he's been smiling non-stop and it's doing things to your insides that you're unable to stop now.
This might be flirting.
A part of you — the insecure girl who still lives somewhere in your subconscious — tells you there's no way Peter Parker is flirting with you.
The women who grew to have at least some confidence in reading basic signs and body language says his tilted head and side smile are more than enough.
You test the waters.
"You're not that funny, Peter," and there it is—his squirming when you say his name in a low voice.
He groans again. "God, you're such a shitty liar."
"So you're back to insulting me now?"
His laughter is so nice it's unfair. "Fine. Fine!" He throws both hands up and bites his lip and your brain's sirens go off, spinning in red, blue, and screaming. "I'll just leave then. I'm not funny and I'm clearly bothering you..."
The bait is so ridiculous you're able to reel the laughter in this time, watching as he spins on his heels with the precise smoothness of his moves that always baffled you, and he starts walking away slowly with his head and eyes still on you.
You manage to hold back the desire to reach and hold him by his clothes, too terrified of what you'll end up doing if you touch him again.
You felt a jolt of electricity at the simple touch, and you keep your hands to yourself this time.
"You need a compliment from me this badly, huh?"
He stops pretending to walk away. "I would like at least the admission that I'm the funniest guy you've ever met. It's the least you could give me for making you laugh so much tonight. Plus all those times I made you laugh in class inside your head but you held it in because you gotta keep up your appearances, milady."
It's only one compliment he's fishing for, but you decide to throw everything up in the air and—well, fuck everything.
Peter is flirting with you, and maybe you've been stupid all along to think that the biggest crush you've ever had was once sided.
So you decide, for once in your life, to be brave.
He's waiting patiently, a small smile still in the corner of his mouth as he waits to see if you'll yield, and you dive into it.
"Well... you're not only the funniest guy I've ever met, but..." you speak slowly, watching as his shoulders straighten and his face sombers at the realization something else is happening here. "Also... the smartest."
And there it is.
You've done it. You managed to shut Peter Parker's mouth.
Matter of factly, his mouth opens up slightly, gaping at your words and his eyes widen at the sincerity in your voice.
Without waiting for his brain to catch up with what just happened, you decide that since you're wet already, might as well swim in this accomplishment.
I managed to shut up smarty pants Peter Parker.
"You're also sweet," you add, smiling in victory when his eyes widen even more. "I mean—walking with arms linked with your aunt in the market? That's—god, I wanted to jump into the river when I saw that, and we don't even have rivers here! That was so sweet. She looked adorable, by the way. You two laughing, talking. You're also quite talented. I noticed all your seminars have pictures that you took, and they're really fucking good, y'know that?" He has no answer to your question, but you're flying high on how stunned he is. Too stunned to speak. "You've got a great sense of morality from what I've heard around campus. That's hard to come around in guys these days. I know that's one of those 'bare minimum' requirements, but—still. Hmmm..." you wonder how much more you can make his jaw fall, and decide to end on a high note. Pretending to just remember something, you go. "Oh! And..."
This time, it's you who steps closer.
There are only a few inches separating you two now, and you get to see that he's blushing from this distance — or lack thereof.
Even in the darkness you can see it, and if your heart was beating fast before, it's beating hard enough for you to feel it in your ears now.
"It doesn't hurt that you're also the most handsome guy I've ever seen. I know beauty's subjective, or whatever, but... to me. You're really pretty to me. I like when you're wearing your glasses, too."
The world spins and halts then, because Peter huffs out a single breath and the next thing you know, both of his hands are on your neck.
Then, his lips are on yours.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Your skin is feverish under his touch.
Peter knew it must be just his imagination, but your words drowned every thought he's had tonight—fuck it, it drowned every thought he's ever had in his whole life it seemed.
One of his hands slides through your side feeling every inch ofyour arm and then wraps around your waist, pulling you closer. As close as you can get.
He's rewarded by a groan, muffled against his mouth. Swallowed by his tongue.
There's your tongue, sliding with his with the precision and tempo of someone who's been doing that for years, despite it being only the first time. Peter moans when your hands squeeze him right back. He loves how strong you hold on to him. He loves how you fit your body inside his hold, squeezing yourself to push against him, grind against him, and he's whining into the kiss.
"Fuck—I did, I fuckin' did—oh." Your words are muffled by your sigh when he sucks on your earlobe.
"Did what?"
"I shut you up," your giggle is a little bit of a moan, and Peter manages to chuckle as he assaults your neck. "That feels good."
"You feel good," he grabs your waist tighter, being extra careful with his strength there, and then someone in the alley wolf whistles, reminding the both of you how not alone you are in here.
The realization hits you both at the same time, stopping the kiss, but not the desire.
Ignoring the taunting that comes next, he focuses on the way you stare at him with expectation.
Peter smiles and you beat him to it. "Your place or mine?"
He winces a little at the question, but then he's hit by those words that tattooed themselves all over his brain once again, the part where you went 'I mean—walking with arms linked with your aunt in the market? That's—god, I wanted to jump into the river when I saw that, and we don't even have rivers here! That was so sweet. She looked adorable, by the way. You two laughing, talking' and he realizes how much you got under his skin by blurting out everything that you seemed to be thinking regarding him.
His face relaxes back into a smile and you're waiting for it, patiently. "Ah—I live with her."
"Oh! Your aunt."
"Yeah." He'd leave it at that, but he feels the need to add: "I did have my place for a while, but when she fell at work—didn't feel right. Didn't wanna leave her alone after that."
"Of course not." As simple as that, and said with a smile that makes him want to burn everything down, or maybe build a whole fortress around you. "Mine, then?"
Peter nods, then drags you away.
In the cab, Peter watches as you text your friends to let you know that you're alive and won't be coming back. He does the same, and feels with a jolt of electricity running through him the second your hand comes to rest on his thigh.
As a result, he's half-hard by the time the ride is finished and you two make it to your apartment.
"I have a roomate, but she's still at the pub," you lock the door behind you and he nods, understanding he can do as he pleases.
Peter sort of wants to make you scream.
There's a second of silence when you two are alone in the dark, and you throw your keys in the table next to the door.
Slower than the first time, he glues himself to you once again.
This time, there's nobody around to stop either of you.
First, he starts by undressing you.
Piece by piece of clothing, Peter unwraps you with the same care he unwrapped the first gift he got from uncle Ben that he knew was expensive. None of the harsh and rushed tearing—he removes the clothes, leaving kisses on every new inch of exposed skin.
A part of him wants to shy away when you decide to do the same with the exact same care, but your gaze pins him to his spot, unable to move or do anything to stop it.
He's burning.
Peter feels exposed—worse yet, he feels seen, and wanted, and where there usually would be jokes there's nothing but silence.
He enjoys how you drag both you to your room without detaching your bodies.
Then, something happens to break the silence—when the back of his knees hit the edge of your bed and he sort of stumbles into it, his hands fly to his sides, dropping the picture on your side table on the floor.
"Oh, shit! Sorry, I'm sorry," he mumbles.
You laugh at him, picking the frame up and putting it back on its place. "It's fine." You sit on his lap earning a groan from him—there are only a pair of briefs and panties separating your bodies, and the way you grind and wiggle to feel his hard cock makes him whine, too. "Hmmm."
"What?" you ask in a low voice. The silence spell was broken, and Peter's hands are all over you again.
His brain keeps screaming for him to be careful all the time, but that voice has to swim with all of the want and need he's feeling. "Such a baby."
Condescending tone—and he whines louder. Huh. "Shut up."
You chuckle, wiggling your hips slower, making a mess of his neck and chest with your mouth. "You want me to?"
"No."
"Thought so." The way you whine your hips makes your pussy fit along his cock and Peter hasn't felt this lightheaded in years. "Wanna ride you, Peter."
"Oh, fuck."
"You like it when I say your name, don't you?"
"I really do," and it sounds like a confession even to his ears.
"Hm. Maybe I'll have to make you earn that, then."
Peter refuses to admit he's a whining mess underneath you, but there's probably a stain in his briefs already and the desperate way he's bucking his hips into you while his hands grip your hips strong enough to maybe leave bruises says enough.
"You're mean," he sounds wrecked and you barely started.
Peter opens his eyes to see you smiling in delight.
"I think you like it," it might be the way your condescending tone is just right or maybe it's just you, but he does. Peter nods, defeated and desperate, and grinds harder. "Fuck."
"Yes, please."
"Patience."
"Okay," he yields in the same second. He'd allow you to hang him upside down right now. "Whatever you want."
"Oh, god." He's thankful for this, at least. He's not the only one wrecked in this room. "You're so good."
Peter has some objections to that, but they get lost when you get up for a second and then remove the last items of clothing separating both of you. He has to bite his lip when he sees you grabbing a condom because as much as his brain is screaming at him to fill you up until you're dripping down your thighs with his cum, there's no safe way to tell you he's unable to transmit any diseases.
"I wanted to give you a mindblowing blowjob, but I'll be honest—"
"Please sit on me," he begs.
The smile you offer him is the brightest thing he's seen in months. There's a laugh, too, and Peter's too high on your touch to even manage a smile.
The next two hours pass in a blur of limbs, sweat, tongue, slick, and muffled words tangled in moans, screams, whines.
Peter has to hold his strength and he loses that battle a few moments.
The second he snaps his hips up to meet your thrusts and is rewarded with a scream and a cry of his name, he moans even louder.
You moan so pretty, baby, you tell him.
That only makes him moan louder.
Don't do that, wanna hear you, you say when you catch him biting his lips, and he cries out at that.
"Oh god, god, please, Peter," you beg at one point, and that's when he first snaps.
He's been good—Peter's allowed you to sit on him at the speed you desire, torturing him by going as slow and as fast as you like, teasing him with smirks and playing with the head of his cock against your clit during a few moments, but when your thighs start to lose their strength and your knees weaken, you beg and that's all it takes before he flips you on your back and climbs on top of you.
Slides inside you again with so much ease.
Both of you are wet enough to make your whole sheets wet.
You're dripping enough to ruin every night of sleep he'll have for the following month, at least.
Then, there's the filth spilled back and forth between you two.
It turns out the sass and clever replies are worse in the dark and between four walls.
Peter whispers everything you seem to love hearing it, and it turns out, he does love being talked down by you—just a little.
You just do it so well.
"That's it—no. Slow down. That's it. Don't be greedy. Fuck—you wanted—oh, you want to please me so much, hm? So eager to obey. I like that. Don't go faster—don't cry, baby, I don't care—FUCK, just like that, Peter. Fuck me slow and I'll let you use me however you want, baby."
It gets to his head.
Peter's human — well, most of him is, anyway, and you seem to have the key to his guts.
All he can do is obey because he wants to obey.
Peter fits so well inside of you he grunts with the effort to not bury himself deep enough to live there.
Your voice whispering filthy, sweet nothings make a home in his brain, and he's almost crying by the time you grab his by the neck, strong enough to make him wonder if he will have bruises the next day, and say, "Fuck, I'm so close, let it go, Peter, fuck me, fuck me, it's okay."
He's almost sure he actually cries at that.
And then he does as he's told.
He lets go, and fucks you the way he secretly desired to every time you two exchanged looks. He fucks you while holding you by the neck, while holding onto your waist for dear life, while moaning and chanting your name over and over the same way you're screaming his.
Both of you get so lost in the pleasure that when you both cum, Peter thinks you two black out for a second.
He sort of wishes he could go to sleep inside of you, and that thought is the one that brings him back to life for long enough to eventually slip out and realize he'll have to be the one with the strength to clean you both up into enough shape that you can slide under a sheet and get some sleep, but he does all that on shaky legs and a foggy brain.
Peter's fucked.
Both of you are, and it goes beyond the mindblowing sex that just happened.
He pulls you into his arms and sleeps with that knowledge. That's a problem for when the sun is in the sky.
