em .ᐟ

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.

please do not repost, copy, or claim my work as your own.

• tag list: open!

if you want to be tagged in my future posts, comment or message me! i’m happy to do it! :) just let me know if you want all works or just for specific characters <3

• links: masterlist | wattpad | kinktober ✦ 2025 (requests are open!)

He noticed everything.

The way you sometimes straightened your hair on Mondays, sleek and glossy, tucking it behind your ear as you focused on your notes. The way, on other days, it fell naturally around your shoulders, slightly messy like you hadn’t tried too hard-but he knew you had, because you always looked just a little too put together for it to be accidental.

He noticed your makeup too-not in a weird way, he swore to himself, just… observant. Like when you wore a soft pink gloss instead of your usual clear one, or when there was a faint shimmer on your eyelids that caught when you blinked. Once, you showed up with a slightly darker eyeliner, and Peter spent the entire day trying to figure out what was different before realizing it. It drove him insane-in the best, worst way.

“Dude,” Ned had whispered once, following Peter’s line of sight as you laughed with your friends across the cafeteria. “You are down astronomically bad.”

“I’m not-” Peter had started, then stopped, because you’d pushed a strand of hair behind your ear and smiled again, and suddenly he forgot what he was saying.

Ned snorted. “You literally noticed when she switched coffee cups last week.”

Peter flushed. “It was a different color-”

“It was beige.”

“It was a different beige.”

Ned just shook his head, grinning. “You’re a simp.”

And maybe he was. Because he noticed the way you held your coffee with both hands when it was cold outside, fingers wrapped around the cup like you were trying to keep the warmth from escaping. He noticed how you sometimes paused before taking a sip, tilting it slightly to take a picture-just a quick one, nothing dramatic-if the foam art was cute or the lighting hit just right.

He noticed your outfits too. Not in a shallow way-at least, he hoped not-but because they always felt like an extension of you. Soft sweaters in the fall, sleeves just a little too long so you could tug them over your hands. Light, flowy tops in the spring that moved when you walked. Once, you wore a jacket that made you look like you belonged in a movie, and Peter spent the entire day wondering what kind of movie it would be.

The problem was… he’d never talked to you.

Not really. Not beyond a passing “sorry” in the hallway or a mumbled “thanks” when you handed him a worksheet once. Every time he thought about saying something more, his brain short-circuited. Words got tangled, confidence vanished, and suddenly he was hyper-aware of everything-his hands, his voice, the fact that he might say something stupid.

So he stayed quiet. Watched from a distance. Memorized.

Until one afternoon, everything changed.

It wasn’t dramatic. There were no slow-motion moments or cinematic music swelling in the background. It was just the hallway after school, crowded and noisy, lockers slamming, people talking over each other. Peter was distracted, trying to shove his notebook into his already overstuffed backpack, when he turned too quickly-

-and walked straight into you.

“Whoa-!”

You stumbled slightly, your coffee tilting dangerously in your hand. Peter’s reflexes kicked in before his brain did, and he reached out, steadying the cup before it could spill.

“I’m so sorry!” he blurted immediately, stepping back like he’d just touched something fragile. “I didn’t-I mean, I wasn’t looking-are you okay?”

You blinked at him, surprised, then smiled.

And Peter’s brain completely, utterly stopped working.

“It’s okay,” you said, your voice soft but clear. “You actually saved my coffee, so… thank you.”

“Oh-yeah-no problem-I mean, it’s just-coffee-so-” He winced internally. Smooth. So smooth.

But you laughed. Not in a mean way-just a small, genuine laugh that made his chest feel weirdly light.

“I’m glad,” you said, glancing down at the cup before looking back at him. “It was really cute. I was about to take a picture of it.”

Of course you were. Of course you were, and of course he noticed.

“It is cute,” he said, a little more steady this time, nodding toward the foam art. “It looks like… a heart? Kind of?”

Your eyes lit up slightly. “Yeah! That’s what I thought too.”

There was a pause-not awkward, just… open. Like something could happen in it, if he let it.

Peter swallowed, heart pounding in his ears. Ned’s voice echoed faintly in his head-You’re a simp-and for once, he didn’t try to argue with it.

“Um,” he started, then pushed through before he could stop himself. “I was actually-there’s a movie playing this weekend, at the theater on 5th, and I-”

He almost backed out. Almost laughed it off, pretended he hadn’t meant it. But then you tilted your head slightly, listening, waiting, and suddenly he couldn’t not say it.

“-I was wondering if you’d maybe want to go? With me. As, like… a date.”

The word hung there, fragile but real.

For a second, he thought he’d messed everything up. That he’d rushed it, that it was too much, too sudden-

But then you smiled again. Not the polite kind. Not the quick, automatic one.

A real one.

“I’d like that,” you said.

And just like that, everything shifted.

Peter nodded, trying very hard not to look like he might pass out. “Cool. Cool, yeah. That’s-great. I’ll text you? Or-do you-have-”

You laughed softly and pulled out your phone. “Here,” you said, handing it to him.

His hands were slightly shaky as he took it, typing in his number, painfully aware of how surreal this felt. Like one of those moments he’d replay later just to make sure it actually happened.

When he handed it back, your fingers brushed his for just a second-barely anything-but it sent a spark up his arm anyway.

“I’ll text you,” you said.

“Yeah,” he replied, smiling a little helplessly. “Yeah, okay.”

And as you walked away, coffee still safe in your hands, Peter stood there for a moment, heart still racing, mind buzzing-not with distant observations this time, not with quiet, one-sided details-

But with something new.

you tried not to smile at the thought, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear as you turned another page without really reading it.

you’d been looking forward to this all day, telling yourself it was just a normal hangout, nothing special but the quiet would feel different without Ned there filling every silence.

your eyes drifted around peter’s room, the scattered school books, the cluttered desk, the half finished projects and you couldn’t help but feel a little fondness bloom in your chest. It all felt so… him.

and maybe just maybe you liked him a little more than you should.

okay, a lot more.

but it wasn’t like it was one sided… right?

you bit your lip, staring down at the comic in your hands, though your mind had completely wandered.

the way he looked at you sometimes, the way his voice softened just a bit when he said your name…

or how he’d glance at you first when something funny happened, like your reaction mattered more than anyone else’s.

or the way he’d get just a little flustered when you stood too close, like he didn’t quite know what to do with his hands, or his words, or himself... it had to mean something.

a small smile tugged at your lips as you hugged the comic a little closer to your chest.

yeah… you were pretty sure peter liked you too.

a sudden thwip at the window made you jump.

the comic in your hands slipped slightly as your grip tightened, eyes snapping toward the sound.

the window.

something had hit it.

another faint creak followed, the soft rattle of glass shifting in its frame, like something or someone was right outside.

for a split second, everything stilled, your heart kicked hard against your ribs.

peter wasn’t home yet.

and may was downstairs.

so… who?

you slowly sat up straighter on the bed, pulse thudding in your ears, every instinct suddenly on edge as you turned your head and stared at the window, waiting for something, anything to move.

a small tug, so quiet you almost thought you imagined it but no, the bottom edge of the window shifted, just barely, like something was pulling at it from the outside.

the latch gave with a soft click, your fingers curled more on the comic book, gripping harder while your eyes stayed locked on the window as it began to slide open a few inches on its own.

cool air slipped into the room first, brushing against your skin, lifting the curtains just enough to make them sway.

your heart was pounding so loud you were sure may could hear it from downstairs.

the window opened wider.

the outside noise crept in, distant traffic, a horn somewhere far off, the hum of the city.

a slow, creeping chill ran down your spine as something moved around outside of the window.

you couldn't move or speak, it was like you were frozen in place.

a blur crossed your line of sight, and before your brain could catch up, a figure swung through the opening with impossible speed, landing inside peter’s room in one smooth motion.

a quiet thud against the floor, crouched perfectly, like they had done it a thousand times before.

you watched, breath trapped in your chest.

the figure stayed crouched for a second, one hand pressed flat against the wall, the other steadying them on the floor.

muscles coiled, alert, like they were listening for something outside.

oblivious to the fact that someone was already in the room.

then slowly, almost cautiously, they straightened. The light from the window caught the fabric of the suit, and suddenly the details came into focus.

your stomach dropped, 'No way.' you thought to yourself.

standing in the middle of peter’s room was spider-man.

the suit shimmered faintly under the sunlight, all red and blue. Then, almost hesitantly, they reached up and pulled at the mask.

your eyes widened, jaw slowly falling open as the mask came off.

peter parker’s face was revealed, messy hair falling across his forehead, eyes wide and frantic, cheeks already pink from exertion.

peter, unaware that you were already there, exhaled shakily and began loosening the suit.

first he tugged at the shoulders, peeling them down slowly, you stayed silent, captivated, every muscle of your body tense as you watched.

he slid the sleeves off one by one, then slowly reached for the zipper at the back of the suit, sliding it down just far enough to reveal the top of his chest.

then, sliding the arms down, revealing his pale, toned arms that flexed with each subtle movement.

his breath was heavy, his movements were careful, as if he could feel the tension in the empty room even though he thought he was alone.

your eyes, though you tried to look away, betrayed you.

they lingered, dragged along the lean lines of his arms, the curve of his shoulders, and then his back as he slid the suit down further.

and then, without warning, his eyes flicked to the bed.

you. sitting there. watching. silent. time seemed to freeze.

peter froze mid motion, hands clutching the suit at his waist, face flaming red. “y-y/n…” he stammered, voice breaking slightly.

“peter.” your voice came out breathless, barely a whisper at first, then louder as realization hit. “you… you’re… spider-man?!” eyes still tracing him, but now in full realization. “It’s you… the whole time… it was you?”

“how’d you get in here i-“ he spoke, tilting his head before you cut him off.

“may let me in..” “wait… wait… wait!” you shrieked, springing upright. “you’re spider-man?! are you kidding me?! that’s insane! that’s so cool! i can’t believe it’s you!"

peter froze, muscles tensing, eyes wide. “I… I didn’t.. uh…”

you stood up on the bed, jumping around, hands flailing, pacing in excitement.

“this is unbelievable! you’re swinging around the city, saving people, and i had no idea it was you! oh my gosh, peter, i can’t even.. ”

in his panic, flustered and overwhelmed by your energy, peter tugged at the suit’s zipper again. “I... I can’t… just...” he yanked the rest of the spider-man suit off in a desperate attempt to explain, revealing his bare chest and toned torso. by the time he realized it, he was down to nothing but his boxers.

you thought for a second, then pointed a finger at his chest, heart still racing from your excitement. “wait- why didn’t you tell me? why didn’t you tell me it was you this whole time?!”

peter’s mouth opened and closed, cheeks bright red. “I… I… I didn’t… I didn’t think… you’d.. uh…” he scrambled, trying to cover himself with his hands and the discarded suit.

and that’s when it happened, the door swung open.

“peter? Y/N? are you-”

it was May and both of you froze. Your finger was still pointed at his chest. Peter was frozen mid cover, boxers on, red-faced beyond belief. You were half standing on the bed, still vibrating with excitement.

may’s eyes went wide immediately. The image of you two looked… wrong. Very, very wrong.

peter groaned, pressing a hand to his face. “May! I… it’s not what it looks like!”

may blinked at the two of you, clearly mortified herself. “I… I’m going to… give you two a minute.”

and just like that, she spun on her heel and walked out, shutting the door behind her.

the sound of the click echoed in the room.

you blinked at Peter, who was still hunched over, trying desperately to cover himself with the suit. His ears were red, his chest rising and falling quickly.

“well… that was… something,” you said, a grin tugging at your lips, still vibrating from excitement.

peter groaned again, flopping onto his bed beside you, pulling the suit over his lap. “I… I hate you right now.”

you laughed, now sitting, eyes tracing his bare chest. “I love you right now. This is amazing.”

“okay… okay,” you said, leaning back on your hands, still grinning, heart racing. “Seriously… does anyone else know? Like… Ned? MJ? Anyone?”

peter’s eyes went wide. His cheeks flushed deeper, and he shook his head quickly. “N-No! Nobody knows. It’s just… you. You can’t tell anyone. Not Ned, not MJ, not anyone. Promise me.”

you nodded. “Don’t worry… your secret’s safe with me.

you sat up a little straighter, your eyes still on peter. “…What?” he asked cautiously, already suspicious.

you clasped your hands together, leaning forward. “Okay. Hear me out.”

“No.” “I didn’t even say anything yet!”

“I know that tone,” he said, pointing at you.

you grinned. “I just think… hypothetically… as your very trustworthy best friend…”

“Uh-huh.”

“…I should get to try the web shooters.”

peter laughed in disbelief. “…Absolutely not.”

your jaw dropped. “What?! Why not?!”

“Because they’re not toys!” he shot back. “You could, like.. stick your hand to the ceiling! Or your face! Or something worse!”

“That sounds awesome,” you said immediately.

“That sounds like a hospital visit,” he corrected.

you scooted closer, grabbing his arm lightly. “Peter, come on. Just once! I won’t even aim at anything important. I’ll aim at, like… your chair.”

“My chair is important!”

you groaned dramatically, flopping back onto the bed. “You’re no fun.”

“I am fun! I just don’t want you accidentally webbing May to the wall!”

you snorted. “Okay, first of all, I would never...” There was a pause. “…Okay, maybe a small chance, but still!”

peter shook his head, trying not to laugh. “No. Not happening.”

you sat up again, closer this time, closer than before.

"I’m getting dressed. This conversation is over.”

“Please?” you said, softer now.

he hesitated, big mistake because you noticed immediately.

“Oh my god, that almost worked,” you whispered, eyes lighting up. “Peter.. ”

“Nope,” he said quickly, standing up. Peter was shaking his head, pacing a little now, running a hand through his already messy hair.

“No. Nope. Bad idea. Terrible idea,” he muttered. “You with web shooters? That’s statistically a disaster.”

you followed him with your eyes, arms crossed, trying not to smile. “You’re being dramatic.”

“I am not being dramatic. I have experience with these. You don’t.”

you slid off the bed and stepped closer. “Then teach me.”

he stopped pacing. “…Teach you?”

“Yeah,” you said simply. “You said they’re not toys. Fine. Show me how to use them properly.”

he hesitated. you could see the argument forming, the refusal right there. Then he sighed, a long, defeated sigh.

“…One shot,” he said, pointing at you. “One. You aim at something harmless. You listen to everything I say. And the second it goes wrong, I take them back.”

your entire face lit up. “Wait... really?!”

“I’m already regretting this,” he mumbled.

“Peter!” You grabbed his arm, practically bouncing. “You’re the best!”

"Yeah yeah." He said, as he turned around, walking toward his closet where he tossed his suit in.

you watched, very much not looking away this time, as he hurriedly grabbed a pair of plaid pajama pants.

he glanced back at you, feeling your eyes on him. "Turn around!"

you didn’t.

you just raised an eyebrow.

“Y/N.”

“Peter.”

“…Please.”

you hum as if in thought, but finally turned around, holding your hands up. “Fine. I’m being respectful. Look at me, respecting your privacy.”

“I don’t believe you,” he muttered, scrambling behind you.

you could hear the quick shuffle of fabric, the thump of him nearly tripping, a quiet “ow.. ” under his breath.

“…You okay?” you asked, trying not to laugh.

“I’m great,” he said, very obviously not great.

a few seconds later, “Okay. You can turn around.”

you did, he was in plaid pajama pants, a lightly wrinkled t-shirt and his hair was even messier.

“…Wow,” you said, looking at him like you were seeing him for the first time. “You clean up nice, Spider-Man.”

he groaned. “Please don’t call me that.”

“No promises.”

he moved to his desk, grabbing one of the web shooters. When he came back, his expression was serious, focused in a way you hadn’t seen before.

“Okay,” he said, gently taking your wrist. “Hand out.”

you obeyed immediately, he slid the web shooter onto your wrist, his fingers brushing your skin as he adjusted it. “It fits… okay, I think.”

your breath hitched just a little. “Feels… cool.”

“Don’t get used to it,” he said quickly, he lifted your hand slightly, guiding your fingers into position. “Alright. You press here, but only when you’re aiming. And you have to flick your wrist like this...”

his hand wrapped around yours to demonstrate, for a second, neither of you spoke. Then you whispered, “You’re, like… really good at this.”

he huffed softly. “I’d hope so.”

you glanced up at him, your faces closer than you realized.

“…Okay,” he said, clearing his throat. “Target. Uh.. chair. You said chair.”

you nodded, forcing yourself to drag your eyes away from him.

“On three,” he continued. “One… two…”

you didn’t wait for three.

thwip!

the web shot out, sticking perfectly to the chair across the room.

both of you froze, then your eyes went wide. “I DID IT?!”

peter stared at the web, then back at you. “…You actually did it.”

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

you were still buzzing.

like, actually buzzing, pacing a little, shaking out your hands like you’d just had ten cups of coffee.

“I can’t believe that worked,” you said for what had to be the fifth time, staring at the web still stuck to the chair. “I mean.. I can, because I did it but also, I can’t.”

peter leaned against his desk, arms crossed, trying very hard to look unimpressed.

“Beginner’s luck,” he said.

you spun toward him immediately. “Excuse me?!”

“I’m just saying,” he shrugged, failing to hide a small smile, “first try? Suspicious.”

you narrowed your eyes. “You’re jealous.”

“I am not jealous.”

“You are. You’ve been doing this for, what, months? Years? And I nailed it in one shot.”

“I was bitten by a radioactive spider,” he shot back. “You had a tutorial.”

“Still counts.”

he huffed out a laugh, shaking his head. “Okay, well, tutorial’s over. Hand it back.”

you immediately clasped your hands behind your back. “No.”

peter blinked. “No?”

“One more.” “No.” “Peter.” “Y/N.”

“One more,” you repeated, stepping closer, your voice dropping just slightly.

he shook his head, but he didn’t step away. “I said one shot.”

“And I listened. I did everything right.”

“That doesn’t mean you get unlimited turns!”

“Not unlimited,” you said quickly. “Just… one more.”

“No.”

you tilted your head, studying him, before you stepped even closer, close enough that he had to look down just slightly to meet your eyes.

“…Are you really gonna take it away after I was that good?” you asked, softer now.

he hesitated again and you saw it again.

“Oh my god, you’re thinking about it,” you whispered, a grin tugging at your lips.

“I’m not...” “You are.” “I’m really not...”

“You are,” you insisted, gently catching his wrist. “Come on. I won’t mess it up. I promise.”

his gaze flicked down to where your hand was touching him, then back up to your face. “…One more,” he said finally, like it physically pained him. “And that’s it. Seriously.”

your face lit up instantly. “Yes!”

“I mean it.”

“I know, I know,” you said, already holding your arm out again.

he sighed, but stepped in, adjusting the web shooter back into place on your wrist. “Okay, same rules.”

“Same rules,” you echoed.

his fingers were slower this time, more careful, like he was suddenly very aware of every point of contact.

“Alright,” he said quietly. “Focus.”

you nodded, but your attention drifted the second he stepped in closer behind you, closer than before.

his arm came around yours again, guiding your aim.

“Target,” he murmured. “Desk.”

“Mhm.” “Wrist straight.” “Mhm.”

“Focus,” he murmured again.

you tried, you really did but it was a little hard when you could feel him this close.

“…Peter,” you said softly.

“Yeah?”

“I forgot what I was aiming at.”

he let out a quiet, breathy laugh. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Your fault,” you said. “You’re distracting.”

“I’m distracting?”

“You’re the one hovering.”

“I’m teaching!”

“Mhm.”

“…You gonna shoot?” he asked, voice quieter now.

“…Maybe,” you said, but you didn’t move your hand.

instead, you turned your head slightly.

he was right there.

close enough that your noses almost brushed.

his breath hitched and for a second, he didn’t move.

you glanced down at his lips before your eyes met his, watching him as he slowly leaned in, closing the gap.

the kiss was soft at first, a little tentative, like he was still catching up to what was happening but it didn’t stay that way for long.

his hand shifted slightly against your arm, steadying you as you kissed him back, the was kiss a little more sure this time, a little less hesitant.

the web shooter was completely forgotten.

when you finally pulled back, your lips still tingling, you smiled faintly. “…Okay,” you said softly.

he blinked. “Okay?”

you lifted your wrist up in front of you again, the web shooter still snug against your skin. “Now I can focus.”

it took him a second, then his eyes widened just a little. “Wait..”

thwip!

the web shot out clean and fast this time sticking to the edge of his desk with a soft tck.

you gasped, eyes lighting up all over again. “I DID IT AGAIN!” You laughed, pure excitement bubbling out of you as you grabbed his arm. “Twice! That’s not beginner’s luck anymore!”

“Okay, okay,” he laughed, shaking his head. “Maybe you’re a fast learner.”

“Maybe I’m just that good.”

the web hung forgotten across the room on the edge of his desk.

your hand slowly slipped from his arm to his hand instead, fingers brushing against his.

“…So,” you said, a small smile tugging at your lips, “does this mean I get promoted to… assistant Spider-Man?”

peter groaned, but didn’t let go of your hand. “Absolutely not.”

S/T= skin tone

H/C = Hair color

E/C = Eye color

You groaned when you tried to stand up. Your husband had left an hour ago to go to Scotland Yard to help L'estrada with some case they were incapable to solve.

You gave up on trying to stand up, deciding to call Mrs. Hudson.

"Mrs. Hudson!" No reply was heard from the flat. You called again, but there was only dead silence.

You heard how a key was inserted into the lock, and the door open.

"Come in, Enola. We will just wait for Sherlock." A man a bit older than Sherlock and a girl in her teenage years walked into the living room.

They stopped once they saw you, surprised to find someone when no one came to answer the door.

"Who are you?" You looked up at the man, fully aware of who he was. Sherlock would sometimes come home with a headache complaining about his brother.

"Y/N Holmes, Mycroft." The man laughed dryly at you, not believing a word.

"Right, and I'm the Queen of England." You shrugged, unintentionally showing your sarcasm to your brother in law.

"If you say so." The girl, Enola, laughed lightly at your reply.

"We were looking for Sherlock. Where is he?"

You looked at Mycroft again, not really enjoying the tone he was using to speak to you, as of you were some dog.

"He's in Scotland Yard." Mycroft scoffed.

"Impossible, we just came from there." You scrunched your eyebrows and looked at Enola.

"Clearly he didn't get the Holmes' intelligence." Enola giggled, enjoying the small jabs you sent her brother.

She wasn't very y comfortable with the fact that a very pregnant woman was sitting on her other brother's armchair claiming she was also a Holmes. But whoever makes fun of Mycroft must be a good person.

"What are you doing here?" You took a long deep breath and turned again to your brother by law.

"I live here." Enola decided to deduce of you really where telling the truth. Clearly, the decoration of the flat wasn't fully Sherlock's. There were some black and white pictures of a family of three on the chimney.

Two men were standing being a chair, their right hands placed on a chair where a woman was sitting. The woman was clearly the one on the armchair right now. Except for the swollen stomach of the one in front of them.

There was a camera on the table. Sherlock didn't enjoy taking pictures at all, and for all they knew, Mrs. Hudson wasn't interested in new technologies at all.

A small picture of her and Sherlock was on the wall behind the mysterious woman. She had a ring on her left hand that looked new, but worn.

What did make Enola regret her great deduction skills was the faint dark mark on her collarbone. It had clearly tried to be covered, but the dress had shifter a bit when she tried to stand up to get the door.

This woman was clearly married to her brother. The question was why had Sherlock never mentioned her.

"That's it, I'm calling Scotland Yard." Mycroft walked towards the rotary telephone on the desk. Enola and you didn't move to stop him. You turned your head toward your sister by law and scrunched your eyebrows.

She winked, wanting to indicate that she had figured it out. You nodded, happy to know she wasn't going to call the police on you like your other sibling.

"Yes, this is Mycroft Holmes. Les trade, I'm calling to tell you that there is this woman who claims to be married to my brother." There was some silence, probably Lestrade was asking some questions.

"She has (S/T) skin, (H/C) and (E/C) eyes." Some more silence. "She says her name is (Y/N)." Another pause. You could hear Lestrade's loud laughter coming from the phone. You could tell Mycroft was embarrassed by the red don't of his ears.

He hanged up and turned to the two of you. "Sherlock will be here in a few minutes. We will then discuss this.

...

Sherlock walked into the living room and kissed your cheek in greeting. He cupped you cheek and looked at you straight in the eye. "My perfect wife."

You cleared your throat and pointed with your head at the two people that were sitting on the couch. Sherlock turned to look at them and then looked at you again. "My perfect child." He leaned down to kiss your stomach, completely ignoring his siblings.

"Our." Sherlock looked up at you, a glint of mischievousness in his eyes.

"Our perfect child." He then stood up and turned to see his siblings. Mycroft had a shocked face, and Enola just looked amused.

"Mycroft, Enola." Mycroft stood up while Sherlock sat on the armrest of your seat.

"Why didn't you tell us you were married?" Sherlock scrunched his eyebrows, seemingly confused.

"Nonsense, I scant barely shut up about Y/N." Enola spoke up this time.

"Sherlock, you have never mentioned your wife in your life." Sherlock looked at Enola confused. You chuckled, finally understanding the problem. It happened often with Sherlock.

"Sherlock, maybe you just thought about me." It happened a lot. Sherlock would think so hard, that he would sometimes forget that he had to communicate with words.

"Oh, that makes sense." Mycroft's face turned red.

"What about the wedding?" You looked up at Sherlock. He looked down at smiled.

"We eloped." He brushed one of your stray hairs behind your ear. "We just couldn't wait."

Mycroft took a deep breath, finally understanding that trying to find his brother's reasoning was going to take longer.

"How come we never found out?" This time Enola was the one to speak. You smiled kindly at the young girl.

"Can't you see, Enola, our brother, didn't want us to be a part of this." Sherlock faltered. The bitterness in Mycroft's tone hurt him. Not too much, but you noticed.

"Enola, your brother is just jealous Sherlock married first." Enola laughed and Sherlock soon joined. "Probably because he isn't married to Miss Harrison." Mycroft got mysteriously red.

"I can tell we'll be great sisters. I need someone to help me with the oafs I call my brothers." You smiled at Sherlock, happy that Enola had accepted you. He, in response, placed a hand on your shoulder.

"Why don't you two go to the study to get to know each other and I'll speak with our dear brother?" Enola nodded eagerly and helped you stand up.

Once you left behind the door, Sherlock turned to his brother.