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
summary: you’re an insomniac, and you can’t help but notice your new roommate's comings and goings at odd hours. Peter’s a not-very-good liar that gets worse as he falls in love
tasm!Peter x fem!reader ♡ 14k words
You hear the first stirrings when sunlight is already spilling warm and bright through your apartment. The groan of bedsprings, followed by a more human groan, followed by feet hitting the floor. The floor groans too, old wood with old water bubbles trapped beneath.
It’s a short time later that Peter trudges out from his room, going immediately to the kitchen and the pot of coffee you started early this morning. The pajama bottoms he puts on for your benefit are on backwards.
“Good morning.” You stop looking at him as soon as he looks at you, peering intently at the textbook in your lap. You’ve been on the couch since before the sun rose. The fall semester only began yesterday, and already you’re bogged down with readings and the early stages of projects. This couch is new—or new to you, you found it on a curb last week—but soon you suspect the cushion you’re sitting on will have an indent just about where you’re sitting now.
“Morning,” Peter mumbles, tired but not unfriendly. “You’ve got homework already too, huh?”
You give him a rueful smile over your shoulder. “I don’t think it ever stops.”
Peter makes a noise somewhere between humorous and sorrowful and pulls a mug down from the cupboard. One of yours, but you don’t care.
You think that if he’s this tired on the second day of classes, you’re going to hate to see him during finals. You’re tired too, but at least you have a reason. Though, you allow, you don’t know for sure that Peter’s reason might not be the same as yours.
This is the problem with random roommates. You don’t know if it’s more likely that the person sleeping across the hall from you is a nocturnal studier or has a drug problem.
“Did you go out last night?” you ask.
Peter’s brows jump together. He watches his mug as he fills it up. “No. Why?”
You feel immediately stupid. You’ve overstepped. You’re nosy. You don’t mean to be.
“I heard the door open.”
No way to say that without sounding like a paranoid freak. You have a quiet door in a loud city. At nearly midnight, with sirens wailing and your neighbor singing in the shower on the other side of your wall, you shouldn’t have heard it. But you did.
If Peter finds this odd, he doesn’t mention it. “Oh,” he says, dragging the word out long and slow. “Out as in out of the apartment. I thought you meant out out, like to the club or something. No, I just…I had a late night craving. Went down to the bodega to grab some chips.”
You feel yourself frown. You hadn’t heard the door open again until a couple hours later, far longer than a trip to the bodega would take. But to ask more questions would be to admit you’d still been listening, so you don’t. Maybe Peter has some emotional attachment to a bodega in Queens. He said he was from Queens, right?
Peter joins you in the living room. You’ve opened a window to let the air in, still warmish but getting cool enough that you can get away with running the fans and not the air conditioning, and Peter turns his face into the light as he settles in on the opposite side of the couch. You wonder if he’ll have his own dent in time, too. He doesn’t strike you as the type.
“You were up late, too, huh?” he asks. The smell of his coffee mingles with the smells of wet pavement and car exhaust coming in through your window.
“Sorry,” you say, before you can stop yourself, “I didn’t mean to pry.”
“It’s cool. It’s not prying to make sure the door to your apartment isn’t left unlocked in the middle of the night.” Peter grins. Two dimples dive into his cheeks. “Were you doing homework then, too?”
“No.” You don’t consider lying. It’s not something you feel the need to be private about, even with virtual strangers. “I just don’t sleep much.”
Your roommate’s head tilts. The movement reminds you of a cocker spaniel. “Like, you can’t?”
“I can’t,” you confirm. “Not usually, at least.”
“Ouch. That sucks.”
Peter’s sympathetic bemusement confirms for you that his reasons for being tired are not, in fact, the same as yours. Whatever they might be, you file it away as None of Your Business. You’ve asked, he’s told, that’s the end of it. You sleep not twenty feet apart, but Peter is a near stranger to you. You don’t have any right to his mysteries.
“So,” he says into the silence that follows, “any classes today?”
“Yeah.” You check the time on your laptop. Corner the page of your textbook. “Actually, I’d better go. It starts in twenty minutes. Do you care if I leave my mess on the coffee table?”
Peter glances at your collection of pens and highlighters with a look that makes you think his version of mess might be different to yours.
“Go ahead,” he says. “So long as you don’t mind my mess joining it.”
“Of course not.” You zip up your backpack, relieved.
“You coming back for lunch? I think I’m gonna go grab a bagel in a sec, I can bring you back one.”
“Oh, that’s…” That’s too much. That’s more than roommate duties, and more than you want to return. “That’s okay,” you say, moving towards the door. “I packed a sandwich, I’ll probably camp out on campus between classes.”
Peter raises his hand in a lazy salute. “Let me know if you change your mind.”
“Uh, yeah. Thanks.” You try to mirror him. It feels weird; you let your hand drop halfway through. The door shuts nearly silently behind you.
—
Peter plies you with meatloaf when you return. He’s been to his aunt’s in Queens and brought back enough to feed a family of four.
“It’s not…I’m not gonna lie to you, it’s a not world-renowned meatloaf,” he says, bringing a forkful to his mouth. “But it’s food and it’s free and I can’t eat it all by myself, so.”
You’re not in any position to turn down free food. You sit on the couch next to him. Peter’s left the cushion by the window open, and you wonder if already you each have your own spot. The meatloaf isn’t bad.
You talk about your classes. Peter’s studying biophysics and biochemistry, two words which mean nothing to you but apparently require lots of time spent at the labs on campus. He congratulates you on the achievement of getting matched with a roommate who will make you feel like you live by yourself; his classes are only getting started, but soon he’ll be in the lab most of the time. Though your own classes are far from easy, you don’t envy him.
Peter doesn’t need any help from you; he finishes the rest of the meatloaf in that one sitting.
—
You get into a rhythm quickly. On campus from your first class in the morning until your assignments (or at least the ones due the next day) are finished usually sometime in the evening, cooking at home, eating on the run, plasma donation on Thursdays at seven to make some extra cash, four scoops of coffee grounds in the machine because both you and Peter need it strong. Peter brings home more meals from his aunt. Her name is May, you learn, and after the third free dinner you write her a thank-you note for Peter to bring back to her.
Your hot water goes out. Peter sweet-talks the landlord while you send stern emails to the leasing company until it gets fixed. You bring his laptop instead of yours to campus by mistake and have to meet up at a library to swap. Peter comes from the lab, half-jogging with plastic goggles pushed up into his hair and making it stick out in every direction. It’s endearing beyond reason. You make him a sandwich to take to class when he oversleeps. He comes to pick you up from the plasma donation clinic when you forget to eat beforehand. You develop inside jokes about the flickering light above your stove, and the erratic banging you think is your upstairs neighbors having sex, and the too-good-for-this-world cashier at the bodega on your corner. No matter how Peter tries to get you in on it, you refuse to develop inside jokes about his Aunt May’s cooking.
It’s in the dull blue of a sleepless night in September, Aunt May’s pasta pomodoro still heavy in your stomach, when you hear the lock on your front door click. It’s a quiet sound, but you’re too antsy to miss it in your otherwise silent apartment. The door opens with a shush of air.
You wonder if Peter is going out or coming in. It’s late, but not so late for the overworked grad student population. He warned you that he’d eventually be spending long nights at the lab.
You don’t get up with any suspicions. You only want to make sure the door gets re-locked, and you haven’t heard the second click.
There’s an odd sound as your bedroom door opens. Like plastic ripping or cast fishing line, blink-and-it’s-over. You step out to find Peter wrapped up in your largest blanket and absolutely covered in filth.
You blink.
Peter blinks back at you.
“Jesus,” you say.
“Nope, just me.” Peter grins, but it falls short of his usual. “Sorry, lame joke. My uncle used to make it. It was lame then, too, I guess.”
“What happened to you?”
“Uh, there was a small accident at the lab. You should be asleep.”
“Small? Is that soot?”
“It’s…it’s soot, yeah.”
You’re reeling. You turn the kitchen light on to see him better. Peter’s left footprints in from your front door. There’s soot even in his hair, tinging it a darker color. “Was there an explosion?”
He grimaces. “It was a super small explosion. Very contained. But, you know, chemicals. Volatile stuff.” You shake your head, baffled, and his expression softens. “It was freaky, but everything’s fine now. It’s late, you should go back to sleep.”
“I wasn’t sleeping.”
Peter’s brow furrows; the lines are more pronounced with soot etched into them. “You weren’t? It’s almost three,” he says, as if to himself.
“What’s with the blanket?”
“The…oh.” He looks down. “Right, yeah. The lab actually took my clothes. They’re probably not contaminated or anything, but they’re being disposed of for liability reasons.”
You look down at your blanket, covering him toe-to-chin, and back up at Peter. “They made you walk home naked?”
Peter blinks. “Uh. No, no, not…totally naked.”
You raise your eyebrows at him.
“They gave us…lab coats?” His voice tips up at the end like a question and the corners of his mouth tip up with it, sheepish. He gives a little shrug. “It’s not super modest, but it’s what they had on hand. Sort of like a slutty nurse costume situation? I didn’t want to, uh, you know, scar you as you were coming out of your room.”
“Right.” You frown, embarrassed of the heat you can feel coming to your face. “I…appreciate that.”
“Anytime. But you can go to bed now, seriously.” Peter starts edging towards the bathroom. “Don’t let me keep you up, I know you have that nine a.m. tomorrow.”
You wave him off. “I’ll be fine, we don’t have any explosions in my class. Are you okay? Is there anything I can help with?”
“Nope! No help.” Peter’s voice pitches slightly when you step towards him. He draws the blanket tighter, walking backwards until his back bumps the wall and feeling his way into the bathroom. “It’s just that I’m really basically naked. Like, so, so naked, and it’s embarrassing, so you should just go to your room and I’ll shower and then we can, uh, probably just not talk about this, if you’re alright with that. Because I’m embarrassed. Okay?”
“Okay.” You hold your hands up peaceably. “If you’re sure.”
“Super sure.” Peter flashes you a smile before shutting the bathroom door. “Goodnight!”
You go back to your room and sit with your head laid flat in the middle of your pillow, your bent knees making a tent of your covers. You listen to the shower running until it squeaks off at three-thirty.
—
Your backpack feels heavier leaving the library than it did on the way to campus this morning. Your train runs less frequently after midnight, so walking is nearly just as efficient. It’s a long, slow trudge up the hill that leads from campus to your neighborhood, past empty university buildings and through dapples of pale streetlights. A raccoon stops riffling through a trash can to look at you as you pass. You raise a hand to let him know you’re a kindred spirit.
It’s cliché, but you sort of love the city after dark. It’s less glitzy than people think. The city may not sleep, and neither do you, and apparently neither does Peter, but some people have to. The streets are relatively quiet, technicolor dulled into grays and blues that blur together as you pass them by. Somewhere out of view, a siren wails like a ghost’s cry.
It’s the quiet that allows you to hear the schwick and rush of air that comes before feet hit the sidewalk beside you.
You flinch hard. Nearly send yourself tumbling into the street, but a hand whips out to catch you before you can slip off the curb. Slippery red fabric with black latticework spanning up the wrist.
“It’s okay.” Spider-Man steps back as soon as you’re steady. He holds his hands up. “It’s okay.”
You put a hand to your heart, feeling it beating beneath your palm. “Jesus. Don’t you know not to sneak up on girls walking by themselves?”
“Don’t you know girls shouldn’t walk by themselves?” Spider-Man counters lightly.
You suppose you’re meant to feel chastened, except you are a girl, and you have to get places, you can’t have a chaperone at all times. Also, this superhero speaks in a deep, rough voice that makes you think of teenage boys trying to sound tough.
“Is this really the most pressing thing you have to deal with?” you ask him. Spider-Man’s head tilts, and you gesture around you at the empty street. “Aren’t there any bank robberies happening? Or, like, serial killers on the loose?”
He’s wearing a mask, and yet you could swear it’s like his eyebrows raise. “How common do you think those are?”
You shrug and keep walking, though you’re careful not to put your back fully to him. Even Spider-Man could turn out to be a bad guy to be stuck alone with. “I don’t need any help,” you say. “Thanks for the tip, though.”
He keeps pace with you. “Are you a student?”
You look at him sideways. “Maybe. What makes you ask?”
He taps the pin on your backpack. “The university has a walking buddy program, you know. So students don’t have to walk home alone after long nights at the library.”
“How long have you been following me for?”
“What?”
You narrow your eyes at him. You don’t like that he guessed you were coming home from the library; however, on the chance that it is a guess you’re not about to tell him he was right.
“I’m just saying.” Spider-Man’s hands are up again, in a gesture of peace. “You should think about calling a walking buddy next time.”
“Maybe I’d rather be alone than alone with someone who’s volunteered to learn the routes to people’s homes.” You throw him a pointed look.
Spider-Man’s casual gait doesn’t falter, but he lets out something that sounds almost like a laugh. “Are you always this suspicious of people trying to help you?”
“John Wayne Gacy was known to lure victims by promising help.”
“But I’m…” The voice behind the mask changes, turning younger and less polished. He lifts his gloved hands haplessly. “...Spider-Man.”
You shrug, not allowing yourself to feel bad. “I’m suspicious of people in general. And I don’t need help.”
“Noted. Listen, can I just walk you to your building to make sure you get in safe? I won’t know your apartment number or anything.”
You give him an appraising look. Spider-Man walks with a respectable distance between you, his hands swinging at his sides. It’s not like you could actually make him go away even if you wanted to, but you do think he would fuck off if you said no. Ultimately, that’s what makes the decision for you.
“Okay,” you say, tacking on reluctantly, “thanks.”
“Hey, all in a day’s work. Until there’s another bank robbery or serial killer, obviously.”
Spider-Man turns out to be a half-decent walking companion. He offers to give you a lift instead—but once he clarifies what he means by lift and you swiftly decline, he only continues walking beside you at a New Yorker’s amble. He asks you about your classes. You admit to having fallen asleep earlier at the library, and then staying late to make up for the study time you’d missed. He tells you about how it feels to swing through the city at night; how there are some neighborhoods he likes better than others for their calmness, but of course by the nature of what he does he tends to stick to the noisier ones. Times Square isn’t only a hotspot for crime during the day, as it turns out. He says, in a light, kind voice, that he’s glad to have the break of walking you home. He enjoys the quiet of your little neighborhood, too.
True to his word, Spider-Man lets you go at your building. He watches you walk up the front steps, waving when you turn around briefly before buzzing yourself in. You hear the schwick of his webbing shooting out just before the door closes behind you.
You slog up the flights of stairs to your apartment, letting your backpack drop by the door and sending a silent apology to your downstairs neighbors right after. You feel lighter without it, but still your body all but drags you to the floor when you sit to take off your shoes. You turn at the sound of a door creaking open.
Light spills out into the hall as Peter emerges in his plaid pajama bottoms. You wince.
“Hey,” you say softly. “Sorry, did I wake you up?”
“No.” He shakes his head, though you obviously did. His hair is all messy from sleep, sticking out in every direction. “Did you just get back?”
“Mhm.”
Peter makes a face highly reminiscent of a sad puppy. “You were on campus all day?”
You shrug, like what can you do? Peter’s a grad student, too; he’ll get it.
But your roommate looks troubled. “Did you eat?”
“I…” You blink, realizing why, besides the late hour, you might have felt so tired on your walk home. “I guess I forgot about dinner. I fell asleep for a while in the library.”
“Yeah?” Peter’s already moving towards the kitchen. “Sit down, I’ll make you something.”
“Peter, that’s okay.”
“I’m not gonna have you passing out waiting for the microwave or whatever. Just sit down.”
You find you don’t have much argument left in you. You’re dead tired, and the couch does look like a nice place to rest. “I thought we ran out of May’s lasagna.”
“We did. I can’t cook as good as her, but I can whip up a half decent quesadilla.”
You fall silent, resting your cheek on the back cushion of the couch and watching as Peter puts a thin slice of butter into a pan on your stove. Your teeth worry into your lower lip.
“Doesn’t the library close at midnight?” he asks.
“Two,” you correct him. “It’s open twenty-four hours during midterms and finals week, though.”
Peter glances at you out of the corner of his eye. “It’s not midterms or finals.”
“Hence why I got kicked out.”
He makes a chuffing sound like laughter, familiar in a way you can’t place. “Can’t believe you stayed late enough to get kicked out.”
“I know, right? It’s like bar close for students.”
“Are you really comparing yourself to people who get kicked out of bars?”
“Hey, we’re both committed, just to different pursuits.”
Peter hums, ceding the point. “I guess the only difference is that you got kicked out on a Tuesday.”
“You think the barflies aren’t there on Tuesdays?” You give him a droll look. “Wisen up, Parker.”
Your roommate casts you a glance paired with a half-smile. “You know productivity decreases with exhaustion, right?”
You scoff. “You don’t get to talk about healthy sleeping habits. I know you work just as hard.” He brings you a plate with a neatly folded quesadilla on it, and you soften your tone as you take it. “Thank you.”
Peter settles into his side of the couch, putting his feet up on the coffee table. He watches you take your first couple of bites. “I just think,” he says, “that if you pass out somewhere from sleep deprivation or low blood sugar or whatever, there might be some part of our lease agreement that says I’m responsible for that.”
You raise your eyebrows at him. “Did you read that whole thing?”
“Oh, hell no.”
“Me neither.”
“I’m only saying that it’s possible. Landlords love weird clauses.”
You hum as you chew, playing along. “Okay. That’s fair. What if I kept a note constantly on my person that said this isn’t Peter’s fault, so that if someone finds me passed out you can avoid culpability? Would that make you feel better?”
Peter’s lips twitch. He shrugs. “A little.”
“Perfect. That’s what I’ll do, then.”
“You could also just come home before some poor librarian has to kick you out. Or,” he goes on, “call me to walk you home if it’s late.”
You give him a look. “I’m not going to call and wake you up so you can come get me every time I stay late on campus.”
“I wouldn’t mind being woken up. I might be on campus too, and anyway I’d want to help.”
“I don’t need help.”
Peter frowns. “If you say so.”
You nod, trying to smile to soften the rejection. You hold up what remains of your quesadilla. “This is really good, by the way.”
Peter mirrors your half-hearted smile. “I learned from the best.”
“Yeah, you did. I really owe May another card.”
“You don’t owe May anything, and if she were here she’d tell you that herself.”
—
You feel like something is amiss. It’s not a new feeling. Some nights, you can’t stop going over things you’ve done wrong. Times you said something you shouldn’t have, acted without thinking, didn’t act and regretted it, going back as long as you can remember. It’s enough to make you hate yourself.
Other nights, like this one, you become convinced there’s something still yet to be done. You didn’t actually hit submit on that assignment. You’ve left the stove on. Your water bottle is sitting abandoned on your table in the library, begging to be stolen. Someone’s trying desperately to call you, but you clicked your phone to silent without realizing.
The anxieties worm their way into your weary bones until the only option is to drag yourself out of bed and quiet them. It’s not like you were going to fall asleep anyway.
Your building is old and creaky. You take care to walk on light footsteps into the kitchen, reassuring yourself forcefully as you go. The stove is off. The freezer is shut. The heater is not turned up so high that you’re going to be surprised by a heart-stopping electrical bill. The kitchen sink isn’t leaking. Your school things are just where you left them, heaped together in your backpack beside the door. The front door is…
The front door is unlocked.
You know you locked it when you came in. You’re sure you did, because you don’t allow yourself to put your keys on the hook unless you have and there they are. You look towards Peter’s room.
When you text him, there’s no chime you can hear.
YOU: Hey, are you home?
PETER: Just left, forgot my laptop on campus! Everything ok?
YOU: Yeah, it’s fine. The door was unlocked.
PETER: Shit. SO SORRY!!!
PETER: U can lock it, I have my key.
YOU: It’s fine. Locked now.
PETER: Won’t happen again. Promise!
You double-check that Peter’s key is missing from his hook before actually locking the door. You think wryly that you and Peter may have synced in your sleeping habits; you always seem to be awake at the same times. Or maybe you were simply both such terrible sleepers to begin with that the comings and goings of the other don’t make much difference.
You run through a few more checks before going to bed. The window that goes to the fire escape is latched. The oven is off. Your laptop is charging.
Right next to Peter’s.
—
The next night, you’re not woken by worries but by cold. You rouse from a fitful hibernation to find yourself coiled tight like a crab within its shell, knees pressed together and chilled nose hidden beneath your covers. Early winter seeps through your apartment like a frozen kiss.
You take your blankets with you as you stumble out of bed, bleary-eyed. You feel the chill more when you leave your room, though less in the living room. The heat is supposedly on. Peter’s door is closed, but you knock to see if it’s woken him, too. There’s no answer.
“Peter,” you whisper.
Still nothing, and you knock again.
“Pete, are you up?”
When another minute of this produces no response, you turn the door knob tentatively. You know it’s a massive invasion of privacy. You know that. But your apartment feels like it’s teleported to the Arctic, and for all you know Peter could be comatose with hypothermia right now.
It feels all the more plausible when you open the door and the air that meets you is cool enough to make your skin pebble under your blankets. Peter really might have hypothermia. If he was here.
But Peter’s bed is empty, and his window is open.
You decide to leave it that way in case it’s how he needs to get back in. You take more blankets with you to go back to bed.
—
There are few things you can think of which require someone to be out in the darkest hours of the night. None of them are reassuring. Things too illicit to be exposed to daylight, risky things, illegal things.
If you’re being honest with yourself, you probably should have realized sooner. New York is expensive, and Peter doesn’t seem much better off than you are. You’re both full-time students without jobs; everyone has to supplement their income somehow. He probably makes more doing whatever he’s doing than you do pimping out your plasma once a week.
Peter may not seem like the type, but you don’t have to be the type to do drastic things when you’re broke. Anybody could be doing anything. Some people do yard work, some people babysit, some people buy cheap shit and resell it on ebay; you donate plasma; Peter deals drugs, probably. It’s fine. It’s…well, it’s not fine, it’s dangerous, but you can understand it. He has access to a lab and pays for school with government grants. He had to be paying for your rent somehow.
“Hey.” Peter returns to your table with a mug in each hand. “You good?”
You let out a little hum. “Yeah, why?”
“You just looked kinda spacey.” He sets your coffee in front of you. You pick it up, gratified by the way it sears your tongue and seeps sweetness into your tastebuds.
You’ve taken to spending your Saturdays together at this coffee shop, The Daily Bean. It’s big enough in size that you can always find a table in some hidden corner if you look hard enough, small enough in popularity that regulars can still stare-shame anyone who talks too loudly when everyone else is trying to work. You and Peter like that it’s walkable from your apartment, and that the chairs are comfortable, and that every mug is unique so you can debate who got the better one when your drinks come out. The icing on the cake is that if you order a simple drink, refills are free so long as you bring back your mug. You keep asking Peter to go up to the counter because you’re worried the employees are going to get angry with you for abusing their policy by camping out all day, and no one can get angry with Peter.
And that’s sort of the sticking point, isn’t it?
Peter is a good guy. He’s nice, he works hard in school, he pays rent on time. Obviously he has this other thing going on on the side, but that doesn’t make you like him any less. It’s not fair that he should have to give up sleep and put himself in god-knows-what dangerous situations just to live. Lately, the crescents under his eyes are nearly as bad as yours. You’re worried about him.
“You do photography, right?”
Peter looks up, blinking, from where his attention had gone back to his laptop. He’s working on something he told you about during the walk over, some report of some sciency thing. You think he could tell you weren’t grasping it even as he explained it to you.
“I take pictures sometimes,” he says, doing a side-to-side sort of nod. “Not really the same thing.”
“But you’re good.”
It’s not a question. You’ve seen the photos all over Peter’s room. They’re stuck to the walls with scotch tape like he’s not even proud of them, but they’re incredible. Candids of a graying woman you imagine to be Aunt May in different locations of the same lovingly cluttered home. Stills of people in the motions of their day, on the subway and lounging on front steps and smiling at dogs. Angles of the city that make you feel like you’re flying.
Peter makes a face. “Eh…”
You huff a laugh at his humility. “I’m just saying, have you ever thought of charging people for that?”
“For…”
“To take pictures of them. Or to buy your pictures, either way.”
“I don’t know.” Peter shrugs. He looks almost like he might be blushing. “I can’t think of anyone who would want to pay for that, and anyway I’m not sure I have the time to, like, monetize it or whatever.”
“I could probably help,” you say casually. Take a sip of your coffee to sell it.
Peter watches you, unabashed in his staring even when you won’t look back at him. “Yeah? You’d do that?”
You lift your shoulders. “Sure.”
“How come?”
You meet his gaze, though it sends tingles from your ears all the way down your spine to do it. The brown eyes waiting for you are just as warm and thrice as sweet as the drink in your hand. “Because I want to,” you say.
Peter’s mouth kicks up in the corner. “Noted,” he replies. “Thanks.”
You make a mumbly sound of acknowledgement, going for your coffee again. Your roommate’s grin worsens.
“Hey.” He bumps your ankle lightly with his under the table. “You want to learn something about protein misfolding and Alzheimer’s?”
“No.”
“Yeah, you do.” Peter shuts his laptop, setting his elbows on it to lean closer to you. “So, when proteins lose their functional shape…”
—
Lately, the only place you can find sleep is in places it shouldn’t be. Slumped over the table of a study room, in the chair of the plasma donation clinic, in your sunlit living room between classes. When Peter finds you, you’ve started a small puddle of drool on your textbook. The fluorescent lights of the library press at your eyelids, obscuring any awareness of time in a distant outside world.
Peter says your name with something soft curled around the syllables.
Your eyes burn as you open them to find him crouched by your chair, one hand on your textbook and the other floating a few inches above his knee like he’d been thinking of reaching for you. His hair is sticking up the way it does when he’s run his fingers through it.
“Peter?”
“Hey. Hi.” He clears his throat, blinking something away from his expression. “Glad you still know my name. Since, you know, you seem to have forgotten where we live.”
“What’re you doing here?”
“I’m hoping to save the librarians some hassle.” His mouth curves, pink and lovely, into a little smile. “Ready to go?”
You peel yourself off of your textbook, allowing Peter to close a pencil in it to mark your page before dropping it into your backpack. You feel like you’re moving through molasses, back clicking as you stretch; you must have been sleeping deeply.
“What time is it?” you yawn as Peter helps you into your coat. He shoulders your backpack without saying anything.
“One-thirty.” When you blink blearily at the near-desolate library, he touches your shoulder gently to direct you toward the elevators. You try to take your backpack from him, and Peter only hikes it up further on his shoulder. “They’re gonna put posters of you up at some point. I think you’re here more than anybody else on campus.”
You send him a droll, sleep-addled look out of the corner of your eye. “I don’t think you get to talk about staying out late.”
He doesn’t look at you. “No? Why not?”
“Because you’re always at the—” You yawn hugely. “At the lab.”
Peter huffs a laugh. If it sounds a bit relieved, you’re perhaps too tired to judge. As you step into the elevator, he hits the button for the ground floor and steps back beside you to put an arm over your shoulders. “Touché.”
You stand still in silent uncertainty as the elevator descends. This is closer than you and Peter have been before. It feels a slight shift from bumping elbows in the kitchen or accidentally brushing each other’s knees under your table at The Daily Bean, though maybe that’s just you. Regardless, it’s going to be a cold walk home; Peter’s body is emanating an enviable warmth through his coat, and you’re just sleepy enough to consider leaning a bit on him as you walk. You stay where you are.
“How’d you know where I was?” you ask as the elevator doors open. Peter steps out with you tucked under his arm as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“It’s almost two in the morning on a Thursday.” He waves to the librarian at the desk, pushing the front door open for the both of you. “Where else would you be?”
“Ha ha,” you mutter. “But, like, how’d you find me?” It’s a big library. Five floors, dozens of tables, and you’d been hidden away in your own private corner chosen specifically for how rare it is for any other student to stumble across. You suppose someone outside might have seen you through the window by your table, but even that seems unlikely. It’s higher up than most people think to look.
“I’m an efficient search committee,” says Peter. He adjusts his hold on you when the wind picks up and you step closer unconsciously, hand slipping down your arm to encourage further sharing of his warmth. “Cold?”
“Yeah. It wasn’t this bad when I left.”
He makes a half-smug humming noise; you feel its vibrations kiss the top of your head. “That’s what happens when you stay out this late, I guess. My Uncle Ben used to say nothing good happens after midnight.”
“Have I called you a hypocrite yet?”
“Only in implication.”
“Well, you are.”
Peter laughs, the sound wonderfully crisp. “Did you at least eat?”
“It’s not your job to feed me, you know.”
“Seems like someone’s gotta do it.”
“Well, for the record, I did.”
“Glad to hear it.”
Peter seems to gather that if you walk all the way home he’s going to end up carrying you for at least part of it, so you go down into the subway to wait for the next train. You fall briefly asleep on his shoulder waiting, and again in your seats once you get on. It’s a feat, considering you’re only a stop away on this line, but both times Peter rests his chin on the top of your head like he’s surrendered to the idea of keeping you there.
It’s only after he’s half-dragged you up the stairs to your apartment and is digging your key out of your backpack (why he doesn’t seem to have his, you don’t bother asking) that you say, “I’m sorry you had to come all the way to campus to get me.”
Peter makes a quiet scoffing sound, jiggling the handle until the door gives way. “I didn’t have to. I don’t mind, I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“You’re always doing things for me, though.” You shuck off your coat, tossing it over the back of the couch as he does the same with his. “You’re either making me food or picking me up from places or bringing me my stuff…”
Peter’s eyebrow twitches, a teasing curve to his mouth that fits his voice to its shape. “So what, I’m not allowed to do things for you? You’re gonna rob me of that?”
“Do you have a hero complex or something?”
You think it’s obvious you’re teasing him back, but Peter’s expression flickers with something that makes you wonder if he didn’t catch the levity in your tone. He recovers fast. “Maybe.”
“I’m just saying,” you try on a bit of sincerity, “you don’t have to.”
“Hey, I know.” He moves closer, eyes dark in the low light. Neither of you have moved for a light switch, your apartment cast in the cool blue tones of the moonlight coming in the window. “I really don’t mind. I like doing things for you.”
“But,” you ask, hesitating, “who does things for you?”
Peter’s eyebrows lift slightly, as though he’s surprised you’d ask. When his voice lowers, there’s something about the roughness of it which tugs at a memory. “You do.”
You feel yourself frown. Yes, you try to do things to make Peter’s life a bit easier, but that’s half out of a sense of gratitude for all he already does for you and they’re never really sizable things. A few extra pancakes left in the fridge when you know he won’t wake with enough time to make breakfast before class, a pack of twizzlers snagged from the bodega when you notice he’s running low. Is that as much care as Peter gets? It can’t be.
You’re about to tell him that he deserves better, but when you open your mouth you realize he’s right there, and letting yourself list forward is just as easy.
Peter kisses you like he’s breathing you in. Slow at first, the beginnings of an inhale, and then in great pulls. He cups the side of your face, stepping forward, crowding you, his other arm winding around your waist to keep you from falling when you move backwards into the couch and nearly tip yourself over the edge. A few seconds later and he’s changed his mind, sending you both over so you collapse down onto the cushions in a heap, him all on your side and you all on his. One sleepy, confusing tangle.
“I thought you wanted me to go to bed,” you mumble against his lips.
“Who said that?” Peter rolls you sideways, putting you to the inside of the couch so he can push your hair away from your face. “Tomorrow’s Friday. It’s basically the weekend already.”
“Could’ve probably stayed at the library then.”
“Too cliché.”
His hand coasts up your back, and you find you’re out of cleverness. “Yeah?”
“Mhm. Plus, what would the librarians think of you? You’re a big name over there.”
“You’re such a hypocrite.”
Peter sighs into your mouth. “Tell me about it.”
—
Maybe it should be awkward, but it’s not. You and Peter already live together, already have your routines and your in-jokes and an ease of moving about each other in a small space, so adding kissing to the mix really doesn’t feel like so far of a leap.
It’s not fireworks. Or butterflies or cartwheels or any of that. It’s…easy. Like slipping into a warm bath. You feel yourself unspool one inch at a time, until coming home from class to lay yourself down in Peter’s lap and go over flashcards with him is as natural as breathing.
“It’d be over in Chelsea, so I could stay here and take the bus.” Peter’s got his glasses on, which always make you want to kiss him hard enough to get them all askew, and his hands are wandering your legs and waist as he talks, not helping matters. “And they’re doing this really cool stuff with ion channels that I could get involved in…”
He’s telling you about an internship he’s applying to for the summer. You’re sitting in his lap trying to look engaged and not humiliatingly wanton. Really, you like the sound of this internship. It would mean you’d both get to stay in the apartment for the summer, since you’re returning to a previous internship in the city, too, and of the options Peter’s told you about this one offers the best pay. You may not understand ion channels or space radiation or half of what he talks about, but you love the idea of anything that might supplement his supplemental income.
“Didn’t you say your internship’s in Greenwich?” Peter asks, touch coasting up your back.
You hum in the affirmative.
He grins, flashing a dimple you want to poke your tongue into (because you’re a nonsensical, depraved thing). “We could meet in the middle for lunch.”
“That would be nice.” You give into your baser urges and lay a soft kiss on the side of Peter’s nose. The frames of his glasses dent into your cheek. “Where would we go?”
“I know a good sandwich place on Eighth and Hudson,” he murmurs, pushing his glasses up into his hair to kiss you properly. Damn him. His voice hums against your lips. “Maybe lunches there sometimes, dinners at Chelsea Market.”
“Chelsea Market?” You smile, and Peter’s quick to kiss the corner. “Are we made of money in this fantasy?”
“Duh. We’ll have high-roller internships—”
“Speak for yourself.”
“—and those of us who are possibly being taken advantage of for their cheap labor and wonderful, perfect—” He mushes his lips to your face with each word. “—really very valuable brain will luckily have a lovesick biophysics intern to sponsor them.”
You hum, sliding your finger along the curve of his glasses behind his ear. “Where am I gonna find one of those, you think? Should I start loitering on park benches reading genetics books and looking confused?”
For someone so gentle and who spends so much of his time in labs, Peter is surprisingly strong. You’ve discovered this several times over now, enough to want to goad it out of him when you can, and still it surprises you to find yourself flat on your back against the couch cushions less than a second later. You’re giggling breathlessly before Peter even gets to you.
“You think you’re so funny,” he mutters, a far cry from menacing as he smooshes wet kisses into the underside of your jaw.
“Or I—I could try hanging around the three-in-one shampoo at the discount store—” Peter squeezes your waist, and you gasp out a laugh. “—or hoard all the city’s ramen so they come to me.”
“Okay, you know I eat better than that, you traitor. Are you trying to get yourself cut off from my culinary resources?”
You squirm, pushing at Peter’s hands and enjoying how useless it is. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Also” —he breezes right past the threat, because you both know he wouldn’t— “if you have a problem with my hair, all you’ve gotta do is say something. Does it smell bad?”
He sticks the top of his head in your face, the soft ends of his hair tickling your nose. You stick your face in dutifully to take in a pull. You know the scent of Peter’s three-in-one (you live together, you’ve read the bottle), but somehow his hair always manages to smell like fresh laundry, too. You have every intention of feigning shock and disgust, except you’re overtaken by a rush of affection and the teasing mood leaves you.
You press your lips to his forehead. “It’s perfect.”
“Wow. Even with three-in-one in there?”
“I’m surprised, too.”
Peter tilts his head up, bumping your noses together. “Guess you don’t have to go on the search for some other biophysics guy to fawn over you, then.”
Fawn. That’s exactly what Peter does, fawn over you, but it’s somehow worse that he does it knowingly.
“Maybe not,” you say, “but you know I’m not just going to let you get my lunch every time.”
“Oh, yeah? How are you gonna stop me?”
“I don’t know.” You heave a long, thoughtful sigh. “I guess probably start selling your photos to make my own way in the world.”
Peter laughs. “I think probably one of the most adorable things about you,” he says, lips to your cheek, “is that you think those are worth something. They’re all yours, pretty girl.”
“They’re definitely worth something. I’m going to make millions.”
“Sure you are.”
“You’ll see, when I move out of this place into a penthouse and you’re still just scraping by on your measly STEM salary.”
Peter watches you with an analytical gaze. You’re playing at levity, but he knows by now when you’re hiding your sincerity away, and he also knows what you’ve been pushing for for weeks now.
“Why do you want me to sell them so badly?” he asks.
You shrug. “Because,” you say, “I’ve never seen the city the way I do when I look at them. I think other people would like that, too.”
He mushes your hip in his hand affectionately. “They’re not that original. I’d be one of a thousand people trying to sell pictures of New York.”
“Yeah, but yours are good.”
“You’re so stubborn,” he mumbles, pushing his face into yours to kiss you with a vengeance, “and cute. I just don’t have the time, sweetheart.”
“I can set you up a website.” It’s not said in haste. You’ve been trying to think up ways to get this idea off the ground for a while now. “That way you don’t have to do anything, I’ll just list them for you and handle the shipping when people buy them.”
Peter blinks at you. It’s clear he’s caught offguard, and it aches a bit that you offering to help him out is still so unexpected. You’ve been trying to do it more—though it’s near impossible to keep up with how often Peter helps you, and it seems like he ups the ante with every attempt you make—but you wonder if Peter will ever get used to the feeling of someone wanting to do things for him. You can relate to that particular discomfort.
“Would that make you happy?” he asks after a moment.
“It would,” you reply honestly.
He hesitates. “I would want to choose which ones you put up. And I don’t want you to be disappointed if they don’t sell…”
“I won’t be disappointed.” You wave him off, already reaching for your laptop despite still being trapped underneath him. “They’ll sell like hotcakes.”
“What even is a hotcake?” Peter muses, though he moves when you nudge at him, allowing you to sit up and open your laptop.
“Pretty sure it’s an old-timey word for pancakes.”
“Do pancakes sell famously well?”
You cut him a dry look. “Then they’ll sell like Mets merch, Peter. Is that better?”
The distracted look in Peter’s eyes diminishes, replaced by a more familiar one. “I think you’re the hotcake they were talking about,” he says, smarmy.
“Are you saying I sell?”
“No! No. You know that’s not what I meant.”
“Yeah, walk that one back, Parker.”
—
You’re halfway to a dream about holiday break and Peter’s fresh-laundry smell when the fire alarm goes off. It knocks you out of your study fugue state and knocks your coffee clean over, making you gasp and fumble for your laptop. It’s gotten all over your lap, too, but you don’t have time to think about that, ignoring the burn and the shrill wailing in favor of wiping your keyboard off on your shirt.
A moment later, and the coffee is no longer your laptop’s paramount threat. The sprinklers go off. You stow your laptop in your bag, hugging the whole thing to your chest like you can shield it with your body. It’s then that you remember what a fire alarm means.
You’re not the only brain dead, half asleep straggler in the library who hasn’t been quick to action. There are other students just now making their way to the stairwell door; you grab your notes and follow suit.
The alarm is deafening in the stairwell. It bounces off the walls in a painful, ceaseless screech, punctuated by flashes of bright white light. Coming down from the top floor, you’re joined by a throng of others as you descend. People shove; a girl shouts her friend’s name; someone else stops by the railing, halting the flow around them as they try to make their way back up to some forgotten item. Most heads are ducked, the sprinklers still raining down and water dripping from chins and noses. You say an apology that gets swallowed up by the cacophony when you step on someone’s foot. You wince when someone else steps on yours. You curl around your backpack and keep going.
You’re near the back of the push down the stairs, so when Spider-Man arrives your only indication is the change in tone of the shouting below you. Cheers go up with the siren’s shriek, and you peer over the railing just as a stream of webbing shoots past you, sticking to the ceiling. The spandex-clad vigilante follows it up. He goes slowly, scanning faces as he goes by.
“All good? Everybody okay? Let’s make our way down in a neat and orderly fashion, folks. No need to push. Where’s the fire, am I right?”
If he wanted to go put out the fire, or even to sweep from the top floor down to make sure no one’s still not evacuating, there are surely quicker ways, but you’re a bit warmed that Spider-Man is taking the slower route to check that you’re all okay. He’s risen nearly to you now, and while some of the students around you have stopped or taken out phones, you’re still trying to get out of here. Of course, now that you’re looking at Spider-Man and not your feet, you fall straightaway onto your ass.
It’s embarrassing. You narrowly avoid hitting your chin on the stair railing; someone near you gasps. Your tailbone and your pride both feel terribly bruised.
“Oh, shit. Hey. You okay?”
It doesn't help matters that you’ve pulled Spider-Man’s attention, too.
He swings neatly over the very railing that nearly concussed you a moment earlier, reaching down to pull you upright.
“Yeah, you’re okay. Nothing feels broken, right?” He skims touches over your elbows, your waist. It’s all too much at once, an overwhelm, but you step away quickly when he lays a probing hand at the small of your back.
“What?” Spider-Man’s voice rings with concern just loud enough to be heard over the alarm. “That hurt?”
You’re shocked speechless. Does he just go around touching everyone like that? It feels intimate to you.
“Oh.” He seems to get it. His demeanor changes, a few more inches of space appearing between you. “Sorry. Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine,” you say.
“Can I, uh.” He looks up in the direction he was heading, then back to you. “Can I give you a lift down?”
You feel yourself frown. “I can make it on my own.”
Spider-Man breathes out a dry chuckle. “I forgot how suspicious you are of people who want to help you.”
You blink, biting your tongue against the question that rises to it. You remember me? It’s difficult not to feel flattered, but you’re also just baffled. Spider-Man saves dozens of people every day, and yet he remembers a conversation with a girl he only walked home on an uneventful night?
“Just let me take you to the ground floor,” he asks. “I won’t be able to relax if I think there’s some injured bootstrapper hobbling their way down the stairs.”
You don’t remember deciding to agree, and you certainly think you’re going to argue his bootstrapper label more than comes out, but you find yourself clinging to spandex-clad and surprisingly warm shoulders a minute later, Spider-Man’s hold far from unwelcome now as he lowers you gently to the ground.
“Come on,” he says, ignoring the people who stop and stare in favor of guiding you outside.
You think it’s probably a good sign that there isn’t smoke visibly pouring out of any windows you can see. The library’s fire suppression system may have worked fast enough to put the fire out before it grew too large. Spider-Man keeps you close, maneuvering you both through the gathering crowd and past the arriving firefighters to the curb across the street.
“What happened here?” he asks you, something achingly familiar about the gentleness of his tone as he looks down at your lap. Whereas most of your clothes are speckled with dampness from the sprinklers, across your thighs is a dark, prominent splotch.
“Coffee,” you answer resignedly.
He hisses. “Hot?”
“Not cold.”
“Does it hurt?”
“No, not really. I think the sprinklers cooled me off.”
You try on a smile there. You think maybe Spider-Man mirrors it, his tone lightening some.
“Is your butt okay, too?”
“My butt’s none of your concern.”
“Hey, I concern myself with every butt in this city. You’re all under my care.”
It feels ridiculous, laughing while your university library is still being evacuated and alarms are still going off. It’s also nice. The laughter gathers like bubbles in your chest, fizzing and popping and disrupting the tension in there. You wonder if this is how Spider-Man does what he does, if it’s what makes him so good at it.
“I’m fine,” you tell him.
“Promise?”
“Yeah. Don’t you need to…” You look at where the firefighters are running into the building.
Spider-Man follows your gaze. “Yeah,” he says, though he doesn’t move. He glances between you and the building a few more times, fingers twitching at his sides. “I, uh.”
“Thanks for your help.”
The dismissal is clear, and it seems to snap him out of it.
“Right. Okay.” He finally takes a step back. “Stay put, okay? Don’t go anywhere. I’m serious. Just, I have to—you stay here.”
“Okay,” you say. He’s already shot away on a web, and with the sirens and the shouting, you aren’t sure if he hears you.
You aren’t sure why Spider-Man would ask you to wait. Does he plan to come back? He seemed flustered; he might not have meant it. You’re resting your head on your knees with eyelids growing heavier, but it seems rude to leave when someone rescues you and then asks you to wait up.
“Hey.” You jolt when a hand lands on the back of your neck. “Hey, hey. It’s just me.”
Peter’s a sight for sore eyes. His grin is tentative as he sits on the curb beside you, all soft brown eyes and hooked brows. The apprehension goes out of you in an instant.
“Hi,” you say, warmth filling your chest.
“Hi, sweetheart.” Peter rubs between your shoulder blades, looking you over. “What happened?”
“There’s a fire in the library.”
“Yeah, I think they put that out.” He offers you a small smile. “I mean what happened to you? What’s this?” He sets a hand to your thigh, over the wet spot on your jeans. His brows rise. “It’s warm.”
“Yeah, I…” You shake your head, breathing out a sigh. “I knocked over my coffee when the alarm went off.”
Peter frowns. “Ouch.”
“How’d you even know about the fire? I thought you were at the lab tonight.”
“I, uh.” He seems distracted, still looking concernedly at your burnt jeans. “I saw it on the news.”
“Already?”
“Yeah, the school sent out a text alert. Hey, don’t you want to get those pants off?” Peter gives you a look in exchange for the one you give him. “Not like that, you delinquent. Get your mind out of the gutter. I mean let’s go home and put some ice packs on your or something, okay? Are you good to walk?”
You’re shaking your head before he’s finished talking. “Pete, I’m fine. But I have to…” The words shrivel up, humiliated with themselves, before leaving your mouth.
Can you really tell Peter that Spider-Man asked you to wait here for him? Peter might like you well enough to make out from time to time, but you can’t imagine they make rose-tinted glasses thick enough to look past anything that sounds so pathetically made up as that. Why would the city’s favorite vigilante, with his very busy schedule, want you to stay put so he could come back for you after saving the day? It’s a good question. Peter said the fire is out; if Spider-Man was coming back, surely he would have already?
“What’s up?” Peter asks you. His voice is gentle. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” You shake your head to clear a nagging thought. “Let’s go home.”
You stand on your own, though Peter’s hands hover while you do and he gets an arm around you as soon as he’s allowed. You walk tucked close to his side, his thumb rubbing absently over your hip.
“How’d you know I was gonna be here?”
“Well, it’s quarter to midnight on a Friday. I was gonna go around checking the clubs first, but…”
“Asshole.”
“Nerd.”
“...Did you really come looking for me?”
“Duh. And it’s not like I was far, the lab’s just across campus. Hey, did you hurt your butt somehow?”
“What?”
“You’re walking funny.”
“I am not.”
“Yeah you are, it’s like…it’s sort of a hobble. Did you?”
“You’re making this up.”
“I’m not! What happened to your butt?”
“I am not hobbling.”
—
You find out the next day that the fire was started by some idiots who tried to smoke and then freaked and tossed their still-lit blunt when they heard someone coming. If it had fallen onto the carpet or a table it might have gone out, but of course it landed right on the corner of a bookshelf, seemingly endless kindling spread out in front of it like the promised land. The fire was put out quickly, but not before most of that shelf went up and not without incurring water damage on everything else in the library.
You read the news article and seethe while Peter applies burn cream to your legs, doing it for you because he claims you’re neither gentle nor patient enough with yourself to do it nicely. His touch is featherlight.
It’s Saturday, and so Peter succeeds in cajoling you into spending the day in bed, napping and touching and musing in whisper-soft voices about what you might order for dinner, but Sunday you heed the university’s call for help.
The library is all but destroyed. The carpet needs to be ripped out, some of the furniture needs to be recovered or replaced, hundreds of books need to be inspected and salvaged. The librarians and janitorial staff can’t do it all themselves.
You may be selfish (Peter calls it single-minded), but this isn’t something you’d normally concern yourself with; you’ve got your own shit to deal with, impending exams and a now-glitchy laptop that could use some attention. It bothers you that this was your library, though. You’ve spent a lot of time tucked away in its stacks, Peter’s spent nearly as much navigating them to come drag you home, and if the fire had been more serious you could’ve been in real trouble. You feel like you owe it something, a little bit. At least a few hours of your time.
Peter comes to help, because Peter doesn’t need a sense of obligation to step up. He’s made of better stuff.
You go through the shelves with other volunteers, sorting books into bins based on how damaged they are. Peter gets tasked with bringing old furniture out into the sun, stuff that should have been replaced decades ago but the school is still going to try to save, even if it’ll probably smell like mildew forever. You get periodically distracted when he walks by with some musty armchair and you can see the shapes of his biceps through his shirt. At lunchtime you run home to make sandwiches, and you and Peter eat them on the same curb he found you sitting on two nights prior, the sun on your faces and breaths clouding in front of your mouths.
You call it quits when it gets dark, though some of the volunteers switch the lights on and stay. Peter buys you both hot chocolate on the way home. He waves you off when you try to pay and teases you about being extra careful because you’ve already had enough hot drink incidents for one week.
Despite knowing you have heaps of studying left to get through, you feel strangely energized. Peter sits down in his couch dent when you get home and pulls up his notes, and you can’t stop thinking about the library. There’s got to be a more efficient way to dry the books. Who’s making sure the staff gets meals, when they’re there supervising all day? And surely there’s a more durable flooring than carpet to put in a library. If they take it down to the hardwood, and then people donate old rugs to help swallow sound…
You go back. It becomes a part of your routine. You go to class, you study, you help at the library, you bring Peter something to eat at the lab, you study some more. Peter goes for dinners at his Aunt May’s and comes home with tupperware intended specifically for you. At night, he tries to help you fall asleep, experimenting with different things he’s read to see what works. On some of those nights you end up faking it so that he feels accomplished. Most nights, you don’t, so that he’ll stay with you for longer before eventually saying he has to go to the lab or to the bodega or to wherever before slinking off. Those nights you think you sleep the least, though it’s hard to be sure.
You and two other students haul a donated couch up the library stairs. You learn how to wedge paper towels between the pages of the most waterlogged books, a tedious but rewarding process. You get friendlier with the librarians than you ever have been, which Peter finds ironic considering you spend half the time you used to there. One of them is married to one of your professors, and your efforts earn you a bit of extra credit, a small miracle you’d never have dared to hope for.
“What’s this?” Peter asks one afternoon at The Daily Bean. You’re meeting between classes for a quick study session; you haven’t seen him since you left him sleeping early this morning to go to the library. Rain falls in gentle patterings outside the window, fog clinging to the panes. Autumn is having its last hurrah. Thanksgiving is next week, and the city tends to grant everyone’s wishes for snow soon after that. The last of the leaves have been shaken from the trees, and now they squelch rather than crunch under your feet.
You look at where Peter’s turned your hand to the side. “Oh.” You roll your eyes, rubbing at the white so that it flakes off. “It’s paint.”
“They’re making you paint now?”
“Yeah. I guess they figure if they’re already gutting so much of the building, may as well do a full remodel.”
“Is it starting to feel like they’re just using you for free labor?”
“Oh, definitely,” you laugh.
Peter’s dimples frame his smile in parenthesis. “You don’t seem mad about it,” he says.
“No, I’m resentful.”
“You are?”
“I am.”
“Yeah?”
“Yup.”
“You seem resentful.” Peter’s grinning for real now, his eyes warm. Sometimes you think you’d say anything to get him looking at you like this. It’s addicting. “You seem ready to revolt.”
“I might.” You take a sip of your coffee. “No, I don’t know. I don’t mind it.”
“Aw,” he says. “You’ve gone soft.”
“I have not. Don’t think I’ve abandoned my get-rich-quick scheme. The website is up.”
Peter blinks. “My website?”
“My website,” you correct him, teasing, “since you won’t sell your own photos yourself. I’m just waiting for the go-ahead from you on which ones to put up.”
“Yeah,” he says, quieting. “We can do that.”
“Soon?”
“Tell you what, pretty girl.” Peter takes your hand, kissing the side of your pinkie just before the paint starts. It sends goosebumps all the way up your arm. “You find some time to pencil me in between your studying and being the school’s go-to laborer, and we’ll do it.”
You have to look away from your roommate’s sweetheart brown eyes. He’s still holding your hand. “I’d probably have less studying to do later if we actually did some now.”
“You can’t study now. This is a date.”
“It is?”
“Yeah, duh. Did you think we were actually going to study? That’s just how I get you to come to these things, loser.”
—
“Is it, like, the suit and tie kind of dinner or the nice sweater kind?” you ask.
Peter’s exhale suggests he’s trying to be quiet about his amusement, but not very hard. “You could show up in yoga pants and my sweaty t-shirt, and she’d still think you were gorgeous.”
“Could you try to be a little less biased?”
“If I was being biased, I’d tell you to wear my sweaty t-shirt and forget the pants.”
“Peter, I’m serious.” You step out of your room and into the hall where he can see you. “Is this going to be okay, or should I pick something nicer?”
Peter turns around from where he’s standing in front of his own mirror trying to subdue a cowlick. He’s wearing a sweater and jeans, which is reassuring. It’s also new. You’re used to seeing Peter in his pajamas, or in rumpled sweatshirts he threw on in a rush to get to class, but this is…well, your roommate cleans up nice. His handsomeness is no surprise, but the new effect on you is. The green of his sweater somehow makes his eyes look an even softer color as they take you in.
“You look beautiful,” Peter says.
Your cheeks tingle at the bald reverence in his tone. You finger the hem of your dress. “It’s okay?”
“Come on.” He huffs a laugh. “Are you kidding me?”
“No.” But Peter looks like he wants to eat you, and he’s dressed more casually than you are, so you think you have your answer. You move on before he gets any ideas. “I’m thinking of trying to throw together a pumpkin pie,” you say, going to check on your rolls in the oven. Peter tails you. “I’d have to run to the bodega, though. Do you think we have time?”
Peter leans against the counter. “What would you have to get?”
“A pie tin, crust, pumpkin puree, eggs, and…um, I think there might be milk…” You take out your phone to check.
Peter steals it from your hand, kissing the frown that comes to your lips. “Don’t sweat it. Your rolls are going to be more than enough.”
Your frown persists. “It feels rude to only bring one thing and let her do everything else.”
“It’s not rude. Are you kidding? Aunt May’s had me mooching off her since forever, she’ll be psyched that you brought anything at all.”
“I already owe her for probably a dozen meals.”
“Sweetheart.” Peter puts his arms around your shoulders, drawing you into a lazy hug. “You’re freaking out.”
“I’m not freaking out.”
“You are. And it’s sweet,” he allows, kissing your temple, “but you don’t have to. May’s already obsessed with you. She’s asked me, like, six times this week if you like green bean casserole.”
“I like anything she makes,” you mumble.
“I know. Kiss-ass.”
You can’t deny it. You want Peter’s aunt May, this woman who’s fed you for the better part of a semester and now invited you to Thanksgiving at her home, to like you, obviously. And part of you suspects that Peter’s reassurances aren’t entirely empty. It’s hard to imagine anyone who raised a boy this kind being anything but loving and generous. You’ve seen pictures of Aunt May in Peter’s room; she has eyes remarkably like his, considering they’re related by marriage, and smile lines etched onto her face the way only genuine warmth can scar. It’s not so much that you’re worried she’ll dislike you for wearing the wrong thing or using the wrong fork, but she’s something to Peter and it’s becoming harder to deny that Peter’s something to you now, so you can’t help but want to make a good impression.
“Not trying to be a kiss-ass,” you murmur, circling your arms around Peter’s waist, “but you look really nice.”
Peter smiles. “See, that’s exactly the kind of thing a kiss-ass would say.”
“I know. It was a risk I had to take, because I needed to tell you.”
You get squished to Peter’s chest. You suspect it’s so you won’t see him fluster.
“Don’t tell her the rolls were frozen, okay?” you plead. “The story is I made them from scratch.”
“Right. With, like, yeast and wheat?”
“And whatever else goes into bread, sure.” You squeeze him back, but your grip slackens when Peter hisses. “What?”
“Nothing.” His voice buoys with false levity. “Sorry.”
“Peter, what?” You retreat enough to see him, hand skimming up his side. “Are you hurt?”
“It’s nothing,” he says again. His hand comes up to cover yours when it lands on his ribs, and you know without asking that’s the sore spot. “I just, I fell yesterday. I’m a little bruised up.”
You look up at him. Your concern feels like a tender thing, like your guts are spilling out into the space between you. It makes you a bit sick. “What happened?”
“I was, uh, skateboarding.”
“You were skateboarding.”
“Yeah.” Peter’s shrug looks bashful. “I haven’t done it since high school. Turns out it’s not exactly like riding a bike.”
You don’t know if you believe him. You want to. You really want to, you want to think Peter would never lie to you, but you know already that he does. It used to be something you could ignore, but now it makes you too sad to bear thinking on.
“Please be careful with yourself,” you ask him.
Peter catches the sobriety in your tone. “I’m fine,” he says, more sincerely now, cupping your face. “I won’t do it again. Anyway, maybe I’m tougher than I look, did you ever think of that?”
You chuff a laugh. “You’re not.”
“Mean.” He kisses you. “You’re a meanie.”
“Kiss-ass, meanie. Pick something to call me and stick with it.”
When you arrive at Aunt May’s, she already knows who you are, but Peter introduces you anyway. This time, he calls you his girlfriend.
—
On occasion, when you know Peter’s gone on one of his late-night errands, you also take the opportunity to do away with the pretense of sleep. Finals are nearly done. There’s nothing you can do for the library at night, though repairs are nearly completed and the school expects for it to reopen at the start of the spring semester anyway. There’s really not much for you to do, but your head drives you out of bed with an itchy sense of urgency nonetheless.
This time of year, your apartment is well lit all through the night. The wattage of the city has increased tenfold, lights of white and red and gold twinkling at all hours to entice tourists and holiday shoppers into storefronts. Peter insisted on getting you a cheap tinsel tree, too. It glows warmly in the corner of your living room.
You hear Peter’s window slide open somewhere around two-thirty. It’s a bit earlier than he usually comes back, but you hope he’s in to stay. You know Peter knows that you wake up to find him gone at least some of the time; but you don’t ask, and so neither does he. It’s…an ache.
You imagine the silence sometimes like a physical thing, a weight balanced on a string that stretches between the two of you, pulled tight. You feel it some times more than others. You hear the slide of Peter’s window, and the string tugs at the center of your chest, impeding on your breathing room. A dull, familiar ache.
You know from experience what will happen now. Peter will sleep in his room for the rest of the night. You might hear another few sounds—a shoe being tossed into the closet, the groan of bedsprings. He’ll come out in the morning to find you—maybe asleep, maybe still awake—on the couch, and he’ll chide you between playful kisses so as not to seem too serious, and you’ll pretend not to resent his hypocrisy, though really it’s not the hypocrisy you resent.
You don’t expect him to come out of his room.
You almost wouldn’t know it was him if not for the way the figure steps carefully over the squeakiest of your floorboards. Peter is wearing sweatpants and a bulky hoodie, so rumpled you almost wonder if he threw them on just now. He cracks the door to your room, peering inside.
“Peter?”
Peter turns on his heel lightning-fast. “Hey,” he says. He looks flustered, face mostly in shadow but the whites of his eyes are lit in your tree’s glow. “Hey, hi. What’re you doing up?”
“I couldn’t sleep.” Your voice sounds shockingly normal for the tension crackling through the room. Peter shifts on his feet. “Are you okay?”
He shrugs, giving a quick shake of his head as though unsure why you’d ask. “Yeah, I’m just—I had a weird feeling, so I wanted to see if you were okay. Nightmare, I guess.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
“So you are?”
“Huh?”
“You’re okay?” Peter’s acting twitchy, and it’s making you nervous. Of the two of you, he definitely seems the least okay.
“Yeah, Pete,” you say gently. “I’m fine.” You open your arms in invitation, and Peter hesitates a moment before stepping forward. It’s a bit of an awkward hug, you half twisted to reach over the back of the couch and him bent over to get to you, but you make the most of it.
“What’s going on?” you murmur, raking your fingers through the hair at his nape. It’s sweaty, like he’s been running. You don’t really anticipate a genuine answer to your question, but it feels important for Peter to at least know you care enough to ask.
You feel his head shake. “Nothing,” he says. He gives you a squeeze, some other half of an excuse probably already on his tongue, but before he can get it out you both jerk apart.
“Ow.” Your skin burns where Peter’s wrist pressed to it.
“Shit. Sorry, baby, let me see.”
You turn around, allowing him to pull the collar of your sleep shirt down enough to look at it. “What was that?”
“I have, uh. I was just tinkering around with something in my room—you know me, tinkering—and this thing I was messing with sort of exploded. I didn’t realize it was still hot, I’m sorry.” He blows a bit of cool air on your skin. You turn to try and see for yourself. “Hold on, I think we still have some of that burn cream.”
But in turning, you can now see the light on his face. “Peter,” you breathe.
Peter must hear something in your voice, because he stops mid-pivot. The weight between you heavies. You feel the strain on your lungs.
“What happened to your face?”
His expression twinges. You wonder that it doesn’t reopen the cut on his lip, or if that slow seep of blood is all it can muster anymore. Your boyfriend’s jaw is marred with an ugly splotch of color, already darkening in the center. The cheery glow of your Christmas tree shows in unforgiving starkness the dried blood crusted around his nostrils and the bruise of his nose.
“This?” Peter smiles, and now his lip does reopen. He hardly seems to notice. “I, uh…well, it’s embarrassing, but I fell out of bed.”
“Peter.” Your voice thins.
“I know, it’s so stupid. Didn’t put my arms out to save myself or anything, just boom—face to floor.”
“Peter,” you say again. “Just tell me what happened. Please.”
“I’m telling you.” He’s smiling still, like you’re silly, his silly girl, but you can see the strain around his eyes. “Babe, I think you’re more tired than you notice. Let’s go to bed, okay? I actually have to go out and get a replacement part for the thing I exploded, but—”
“Don’t.” Your eyes are burning. You see Peter see them, his smile dissolving at the edges. “Please just tell me the truth. Who’s doing this to you?”
“Sweetheart—”
“No, I—I got it at first, because we’d just moved in and you had no reason to trust me. It wasn’t my business, and I got that. I didn’t—I was fine with letting you do whatever you wanted to.” Tears blaze hot paths down your cheeks, but you refuse to break Peter’s stare long enough to wipe them. “It just seems like it keeps getting worse, though, you know? Or maybe it was always this bad and I just didn’t know, but now—I don’t know, I don’t really know what this is, but it’s different than it was at first. We’re not strangers anymore, right? You can trust me. Please, I just—” Your voice splinters. “I just want to help.”
Peter’s looking at you with something desperate in his expression. You can see the whites of his eyes again, and his chest is moving like he’s breathing harder than he needs to. He takes a step back, and the string between you pulls taut. It feels sharper than an ache now.
“I have to—”
“Don’t go,” you cut him off.
Peter’s face pinches. “I have to. I have to, I’m sorry. Please go to bed.”
“Why?” Your shoulders jump, something in you crumpling as you realize there’s nothing you can do to make him stay. Your nose runs. “Just stay here.”
He glances toward his bedroom, then back at you. He must have left the window open; you can feel the night chill beginning to permeate your apartment. Peter’s fingers twitch at his sides.
“Please,” you try again.
Sirens wail outside, and Peter takes another step away from you. “Sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I have to go right now. I’ll be back, okay?”
You don’t reply, watching through blurred vision as he goes.
It takes you less than a minute to come to a decision after that. You’re still leaking from your eyes and nose, so you grab a wad of toilet paper from the bathroom, cramming it into your pocket before throwing on a sweatshirt over your sleep clothes and shoving your feet into shoes.
Peter’s not on the fire escape when you stick your head out his window. You have no clue how he climbed down so fast. You push the window closed and go out the front door.
Your neighborhood is less quiet tonight. The sirens that make up the city’s constant white noise are closer than usual, louder, echoing down alleyways to reach your peaceful cluster of buildings. You think half-humorously that they might create an opportunity for Spider-Man to pay a visit; maybe if he’s not too busy, you can get him to help track down your runaway boyfriend and scare some sense into him.
You hate to think of what could compel Peter to come back out here tonight, when he was already so beat up and he clearly didn’t want to. You don’t understand what role he could play. Is he making things for someone? Is that why he had that exploding thing on his wrist? Peter’s skilled, and smart, but you don’t think he’d get mixed up in anything that required him to pass off dangerous technology to anyone who wouldn’t be responsible with it. Unless he had to, at least.
You’re so furious with him. You tear off a square of toilet paper, blowing your nose. If he gets any more hurt than he already is, you’ll tell Aunt May on him, you swear to god.
It’s almost funny, considering how much better lit the streets are, that you don’t notice anyone around until the gun is at your back.
“Purse,” says a voice at your ear.
“I don’t have one.” Your voice wobbles, but mostly because of the whiplash. Christ, what a shitty day. “I don’t have anything on me.”
“Don’t fucking lie to me.” The gun presses harder into your back. “Phone, then.”
“I don’t have one.”
“Don’t lie.”
“I don’t! I left it at home.”
“You know what—”
“What?” Comes a voice from behind you both. A familiar voice.
For a millisecond, you could swear it’s Peter, your heart clenching, but you turn after the mugger does to find Spider-Man standing a few feet away. As soon as the gun is trained on him, white webbing jams the barrel and it’s cast harmlessly to the side.
“I don’t think she’s lying, man.” Spider-Man moves toward you, firing webs on the way that plaster the mugger’s feet to the concrete. “I think you just picked the wrong girl tonight.” He jerks his head at you, and you get his meaning instinctively, stepping out of the way as he moves close enough to give the mugger a shove. The other man goes careening backwards. As soon as his hands land on the ground, webs ensure that’s where they stay.
Spider-Man takes your elbow in hand, guiding you away. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m…” Something’s nettling you. You wish for Spider-Man and he appears, is that how it works now? You have the feeling like you’re forgetting something. “This is where I live.”
He laughs, but it doesn’t sound very amused. “I know, but why are you here? What’re you—” He pulls the waist of your pajama pants up from where they’ve started to slip. “Sweetheart, it’s freezing out. Couldn’t you at least have put on a real coat?”
Sweetheart.
Your voice sticks in your throat.
“Your fingernails are gonna fall off,” Spider-Man goes on in a familiarly chiding tone (playful, so as not to seem too serious). He walks you out of the alley, ignoring the calls of the man stuck to the pavement. “What do I have to say to get you back inside? I’ll come with you, how’s that?”
“Peter?”
Spider-Man looks over at you. Eyes of all white, and yet everything said in the tilt of his head. “I was going to tell you when I got back,” he says, still walking towards your building, “but of course you had to go out and find trouble. You probably think I’m full of shit now.”
“Peter,” you say. Not a question this time, but an exhalation. Something released.
“I’m not making it up, though, I really was going to tell you. I would have told you before I left, but there wasn’t really time, I could hear the cops having a shootout and I really felt like I had to go—I actually only came home because my web-shooter caught a stray, so I needed a backup…”
You’re reeling, you think. Or swooning. You’ve never figured out the difference. Spider-Man’s (Peter’s. Spider-Man’s?) hand has found its way around your waist, keeping you propped up against him. Silly, to be treated like you’re the delicate one when you know for a fact he’s all bruised and bleeding under that mask. There are probably other injuries you don’t know the half of.
When Peter stops, you don’t understand why until you realize you’re standing in back of your own building. You’ve crossed streets without noticing.
“I thought we’d take the fast way up,” he says.
You manage a “hm?” before he’s tightening his grip on you and you’re sling-shotting up six stories. Peter sets you down on the fire escape. You grip the railing when he lets you go, the cold metal digging into your palms as he jimmies open his bedroom window. He has to gently uncurl your fingers to usher you inside.
It’s clear one of you is more practiced at going in and out of windows than the other. You half-crawl onto Peter’s bed, stumbling a bit in an attempt to avoid getting your shoes on his pillow, whereas your boyfriend slips gracefully through and is laying down before you’ve managed to turn around. He pulls the window shut so that it hardly makes a sound. You wonder if it’s habit.
“You okay?” Peter asks as he pulls off his mask.
You stare. “Me?”
He looks chastened, but says anyway, “Yeah, sweetheart. You’re shaking a little.”
“I’m…” You reach for him. Your fingertips lay themselves over the bruised bridge of his nose. Peter’s eyes are sorry. “I’m surprised.”
“You also just had a gun pointed at you.”
“So did you. You probably have guns pointed at you all the time.”
He shrugs, as though this is more or less true. “Are you mad?”
“I don’t know what I am,” you admit. “Probably, a little.”
“Is it okay to ask for a hug?”
“Am I going to hurt you?”
“No,” he promises, reaching forward to bring you to him. His lips mush to your cheek. “It looks worse than it is. Perk of the spider mutant thing, I heal fast.”
You’re still careful with him. You hug him with your arms around his shoulders, feeling the strange texture of the webbing spread over his suit. There’s a strangeness to your senses; it feels like a tuning fork has been struck, everything reverberating and trembling its way into alignment. Your heart trembles with it.
“This isn’t what I was expecting,” you hear yourself say.
“It’s not? I sort of thought you had it all figured out.”
You shake your head.
“Well, you’re taking it a lot better than I expected. If that helps at all. I kind of thought you might freak out.”
“I don’t know how much freak out I have left.” You intend to stop there, but the next admission comes tumbling from your mouth unbidden. “I’ve been worrying for a long time.”
“Oh, yeah?” Peter sounds genuinely apologetic, and so doting it makes your chest tight. He rubs your back like he can feel it happening. “I’m sorry. Really. I didn’t want to drag you into this, but then it seemed like you were gonna find out no matter what, and…honestly, I just thought I’d get matched with a roommate who didn’t give a shit.”
“Bad luck.”
“Yeah, maybe. Not really.” He pulls back enough to kiss you, bumping his nose against yours affectionately. “Hey, maybe it’s too soon, but there might be a pro to the whole dating Spider-Man thing.”
You look at him. A face you know as well as anything, and from the neck down a suit you’ve seen mostly in news clips. He’s your boyfriend; he’s Spider-Man. He’s your boyfriend who’s Spider-Man.
“Yeah?” you ask.
“If you really like those pictures in my room, I can bring you to the places where I took them from. It’s not, ah, something most of the public can access. Special privilege only.”
“Oh.” You nod slowly. “Yeah, that’s cool.”
“Too soon?”
“Maybe. I’m still coming to terms with the fact that you work for the cops.”
“Uh, okay, I don’t work for the cops, I work with them. I’m not some narc.”
The incredulity in his tone is so distinctly Peter that you come back into yourself. All of the trembling pieces settle into alignment.
“Right, it’s just. I don’t know.” Your lips give a small tug. You see a familiar amused curiosity ignite in familiar warm brown eyes, and you press a quick kiss to his lips before delivering the news. “I’ve been picturing you more or less at odds with the law. I was pretty sure you were a drug dealer.”
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.”
roommate!peter who first catches your eye during a high-division lecture.
he ducks his head, secretively scribbling in the back of his notebook, flipping between the pages hastily when the professor calls his name.
roommate!peter who correctly answers every equation and every formula with flippant ease.
roommate!peter who you exchanged socials with after bumping into him at a star wars convention.
he cosplayed han solo. it was hot.
roommate!peter who was so mature and considerate during the leasing process and doesn't make a big deal of financials.
roommate!peter who lets you buy whatever trinkets or collectibles you please to fill the apartment with.
roommate!peter who lifts all your heavy bags and boxes up to the apartment without breaking a sweat.
while unpacking you notice that some of his junk looks rather unusual and inticing.
roommate!peter who gets awkward and shuts down when you bring it up. he somehow always finds a way to change the subject.
roommate!peter who's always in a rush. tripping over his shoes out the door with a poptart wedged between his lips, a stack of textbooks under his arm.
sometimes he gets home awfully late, looking miserable, beat up, and depleted.
roommate!peter who pulls all-nighters working tirelessly on his models and prototypes, humming to himself in the dark.
roommate!peter who's super grateful when you share a cup of coffee with him even though you both should be asleep.
roommate!peter who challenges your takes and theories during weekend binges.
he'll shovel handfuls of microwaved popcorn into his face, arguing his dorky little points through chewing.
roommate!peter whose laugh is so raw and vibrant like a melody to your ears.
roommate!peter who has the sexiest smile ever.
roommate!peter whose musky scent lingers in the bathroom after steamy showers.
he emerges from the bathroom in a tank and sweatshorts, the towel draped over his shoulders, his hair finger-tousled and glistening. his skin has a little peachy flush and his lashes look extra full.
roommate!peter who doesn't even need to look in your direction to sense you leering.
roommate!peter whose jaw clenches and fingers start to get tingly when another dude strikes up conversation with you at a party.
he's in the worst mood when you get home afterwards, huffing and brooding until your offer of a midnight super smash bros session coaxes a cheeky grin.
roommate!peter who's just as amazed are you are that it took him this long to get you in his lap, fingers scrunched up in his brown locks, smacking his lips against yours.
roommate!peter who doesn't rush you and doesn't pry. he's cherishing this moment just holding and kissing you.
roommate!peter who's the most respectful guy ever - with frequent verbal check ups, handling your body with his gentle, reverent touch.
little do you know that when you both retire to your individual rooms, he's palming himself to the thought of having you in his bed.
roommate!peter who reluctantly shares his location with you after your bond has been strengthened.
there must be something wrong with it. some nights you try to check on him and the little emblem just darts from block to block, traveling miles within seconds.
spider-man who crashes through your apartment window one fateful night, bloodied and wheezing.
you're frozen in shock as he stumbles toward you and collapses into your chest, dropping his masked head onto your shoulder.
spider-man whose embrace feels so strikingly familiar. the defined shapes of his arms and hands, his lithe, powerful frame etched into your memory.
spider-man whose low, unmistakable voice spills from the mask as he mutters into your ear.
"there's something you should know about me."
🜏 regards... guess who watched brand new day today lmaooo i missed him bad y'all i felt like 12 year old ruin again longing for that man in the theater... i am an mcu!peter truther but this is written for every version, tasm!peter and og!peter :)
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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