#tasm!peter

You rouse enough to hiss when Peter brings a wet washcloth between your thighs. 

“Hey,” you say, almost scolding. It makes a laugh bubble up in Peter’s chest, which he generously swallows. 

“Sorry.” He tucks his grin inside your knee, kissing softly. “I’ll be quick.” 

He sweeps the cloth through your folds, and you hiss again, one leg coming up protectively as though you can’t help it. Now, Peter frowns. 

“Is it really that sensitive?” he asks you. 

He guesses he couldn’t blame you. You and Peter spent more time teasing each other tonight than you have in a while, and you weren’t exactly begging him to go easy on you. Your labia are as kiss-swollen as your mouth, maybe more.

The look you give him says you know he knows. “Yeah.” You heave a sigh, like speech is exhausting, your eyes drifting shut again. “I’m sore all over. Aren't you?” 

Peter is, but he also spends his free time doing acrobatics and heaving himself around by his arms. If he twinged a bit walking to the bathroom and back, he bets you’re feeling worse. 

He rubs over your hip consolingly. “Wanna take a bath?” 

You think on it for a while. You’re tempted, Peter can tell. “I don’t feel like getting up.” 

“I’ll carry you.” 

You hum somnolently. “Thanks, but you…” You fumble for Peter’s hand. When you find it, you squeeze his fingers, his sweetheart. Peter squeezes back. “You have to get up early for work.” 

“Yeah, but I don’t mind.” He catches his voice softening, as if he’s trying not to disturb your sleep when really he’s trying to keep you awake. He doesn’t do anything to correct it. “I’ll have coffee either way. Let me give you a bath, pretty girl.” 

It’s a visible effort to open your eyes. You look at Peter like he hung the moon. “Sure?” 

He grins. “Yeah, I’m sure.” 

“You’d do that?” 

Peter groans, his head dropping to your leg. He lets his voice buzz against your skin. “Are you serious? God, I know you’re tired, but let’s use our brains for a second.” 

He picks his head up to take yours between his hands. You look slightly more awake than you were a moment ago. 

“I would do anything for you,” he says. “Got it?” 

Peter watches your surprise meld into a more startled kind of pleasure. He kisses it right off your lips. 

“Dramatic,” you accuse, settling back into your pillow as Peter stands to start your bath. 

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.

despite peter's warning, you aim your arm to throw.

"you're playing with fire, you know that?"

"no, i’m playing with snow."

"oh, that's cute. really cute."

you promptly hit peter with the snowball. he raises a challenging eyebrow, and you know you're in for it. you start to run away, giggling, peter chasing after you. he's quick to catch up. he grabs your waist and pins you against a streetlight, breathing out smoke into the cold air through laughter.

"you wanna try that again?"

peter's gaze darts between your eyes and lips. you bite back a grin.

"kind of."

"what a shame. it'd be strike three."

"what happens after strike three?"

"you wouldn't get this."

peter leans in and kisses you. you loop your arms around his neck, deepening the kiss. he hums in content, hands squeezing your waist and lips trailing over to your cheek. he pecks both your cheeks, your nose, just above your lips, peppering kisses all over your face until you're giggling and trying to push him away.

"no, no, no, stop! that tickles!"

peter kisses down your chin and back up, across your forehead, over to your temple. you grin despite yourself, tugging at his locks that are damp with snow.

"i’m serious, pete! stop it!"

"no can do, babe. can't help myself, you're just too damn cute."

peter pecks your cheek a few times, earning a noise of protest.

"so cute i could eat you up."

"nuh uh."

you pull the zipper of your jacket all the way up so it's covering the lower half of your face.

"yeah huh."

peter leaves big, lingering kisses on your forehead, each one punctuated with a mwah. when you realize he's not going to let up, you finally concede. you uncover your face and capture his lips with yours, the only way to make him stop. your nose nudges his, head tilting to look at him.

"are you done?"

"not even close."

peter kisses you again. you kiss him back, smiling into it. he moves your jacket out of the way and continues his kiss attack, this time on your neck. you let him have his fun, enjoying the feeling of his lips on your skin. you squeal when he finds one particular spot and nips at it.

"pete! what're you doing?"

"i told you, eating you up."

he playfully bites at your neck between a series of kisses, arms locked around your waist, drawing the most adorable sounds out of you that he can't get enough of. you thread your fingers through his hair.

"don't forget we're in public, mister."

your tone doesn't match your words, unconvincing, and you're resting your head on the lamp pole so peter has more access. he smirks.

"i know, they're just love bites."

he starts to suck at your neck. the pressure is light, but enough to leave a hickey. you play with his fluffy hair, letting out a noise between a sigh and a moan. you feel the vibrations from peter laughing. you feel something poking at your thigh, too.

"and you're telling me we're in public? whew, i think we'd better get you home."

"you'd like that, wouldn't you?"

peter answers by holding you in place and kissing down your neck, making you breathless from laughter.

tags (join my new taglist!)

The First Time (❤✘): Peter pulls out all the stops for the love of his life. (@mgparker)

Mattress Acting (✘): photography/sex tape. (@reysdriver)

Hold You Here, My Loveliest Friend (✘): there are protocols in place for a reason. (@p3mybeloved) (warning: sex pollen, i.e., dub-con)

Bondage (✘): the inappropriate use of Spiderman's webs. (@reysdriver)

Us Against The World (❤❅✘): “hey! why don’t you try picking on someone your own size!" (@flightlessangelwings)

Next Time (✘): you and peter have done everything under the sun except have sex. aka the three times you almost do the deed and the one time you finally get it right. (@foreverrogers)

Whatever You Want, I'll Let You Take (✘): Peter's got a girlfriend. Peter lives in a shitty apartment. His girlfriend buys him a lava lamp for said apartment. He’s gotta repay her somehow. (@ohcaptains)

Quiet My Fears With The Touch of Your Hand (✘): taking care of Peter's wounds always ends the same way. (@letterstotheflre)

Down Bad (✘): Peter Parker constantly nags you, and you hate his guts (naturally). So what better way to mellow the hate by being paired together for a class project? And why, if you hate his guts, do you want to touch him so bad? (@lanadelreyscokewhor3)

new! Harry's Girl (✘): you're dating Harry Osborne, Peter's best friend since kindergarten. And that should be totally fine... except Peter can't stop thinking about you. (@astxroiid)

Rules are rules for a reason, right?

They shouldn’t be that hard to obey… unless you willingly put yourself in a complicated situation with your best friend since high school.

The rule was simple, easy, as you’ve said when both of you agreed on it; no strings, no feelings, no promises.

Both you and Peter thought that it was a great idea. You knew each other very well, and wasn’t it easier to be involved with someone you already know and trust? There wasn’t a need for expectations or surprises—everything felt light and easy.

It was easy to fall into a routine that you’ve accustomed yourself to. Everything was the same, and that was the comfort of it.

Peter had stumbled into your room after a late night of patrolling. The sight of him breathing heavily, sweating, hair sticking to his forehead and sporting a tired, crooked grin was enough for your mind to drift away from the paper you were writing for a class and look at him unblinking.

“You smell like the city.” You said with a blank expression.

“Don’t act like you don’t like it,” he teases.

“What, you making my room reek of sweat, urine and traffic? Oh yeah, that turns me on.”

Peter smirks. “Well, I can get out of your hair if you can help me get out of my suit.”

It was easy, the way you talked. Both of you wouldn’t admit but, there’s always been hints of flirting between the two of you ever since. At first, both of you didn’t notice, until the playful flirting just became reflex and a part of your ‘friendship’.

“Why did you choose spandex again?”

He ignores you and wipes his face with a towel. You stare at him. His suit half off, exposing his arms and torso.

“Because it’s satisfying to see your face when you look at me.” There’s that smirk again.

It was easy to keep ending up with Peter. The warmth he radiates, the quiet hours where your giggles and soft moans are muffled against the pillows.

You pull his hair as he thrusts and breathes against your neck. His hand playing with your thighs, slowly working his way up to lift your shirt.

Peter licks and softly bites your neck, which makes you sigh. His big, warm hand finds your breast and squeezes it, just hard enough for you to bite your bottom lip to stifle a whine.

You know he’s close when his breathing starts to be more shallow, his hot breath warming up your neck and jaw. He kisses your collar bone to suppress a moan.

His hips start to move faster, hitting the right spot every time. You bite your lip harder as he lifts his head to look at you.

“Don’t hold back, I want to hear you.”

You release a shaky breath together and stare at each other’s eyes as you finish. Your grip on his shoulders loosen as he gives you a gentle peck on the forehead and falls next to you.

It’s the times like that when everything feels easy; but were they?

Your last class of the day has ended and you wanted to head to the library to get some work done before going home. Peter mentioned that he’d be working on his web shooters and you didn’t want to keep getting interrupted by his webs flying around your place, potentially breaking some things too. Why did you think it was a good idea to be roommates with Spider-Man?

You decided to just get food from a place in campus for lunch too before heading to the library. As you enter the place, your eyes meet someone’s.

This guy from your Creative Writing class. You’ve never really talked to anyone from that class, including him, so you just nod politely.

“Hey, uh, Y/N right?”

You nod. “I really liked your last presentation, it was very thought out.”

“Oh, thanks,” you gave a small smile. “Yeah, it seems like not a lot of people took that seriously so, I kind of remembered the few people who actually did the presentation properly.” He laughs

You smile and nod, “Honestly I think many other students don’t take these classes seriously because they’re electives, but they’re very helpful because they can help boost your GPA,”

“…boost your GPA!” He says with you in unison. You laugh together.

He looks at you, “So where are you headed?”

“Oh, to the library actually,”

He nods carefully, “Um, do you want to hangout sometime? Maybe after class or something? I know a ton of different spots outside but really close to campus.”

You pause for a second, “Okay, sure,” you smiled at him. To be completely honest, you didn’t really think it through when you said yes. Next thing you know, you both have exchanged numbers and you were walking to the library.

Coming home to Peter making marry me chicken pasta for dinner felt like you were right where you’re supposed to be. Helping him in the kitchen while Gilmore Girls plays in the background just felt right and easy.

The way your fingers lightly graze each other’s, Peter standing behind you to grab a pot from the cupboard as you mice garlic on the countertop, serving each other’s plates, resting your legs on his lap as you sit together to eat and binge watch. Everything felt so… domestic. Once again, you ignored that feeling and think about the rule.

*ding*

Your phone chimes. A text from the guy from your class.

Both you and Peter instinctively look at your phone. His eyebrows scrunched, “Who’s that?”

Grabbing your phone, you replied, “Oh um, this guy from my class kind of asked me out? I don’t know. He said we should hangout,”

“Like a date?” At first you thought he would tease you, but as you met his eyes and saw his face, jaw tightened, smile faltered, you pursued your lips and blinked.

“Uh, I’m not really sure. I just thought he was nice and figured I would give it a shot, you know? Wouldn’t hurt,” you said slowly. Peter just nodded as the silence stretched, getting heavier as each second passed.

He fiddled with his fork. “So, you’ll go out with him, huh? Um…”

“Why do you sound like that?”

Still staring at his food, he says, “Like what?”

“Like you swallowed your whole plate?”

He chuckles dryly and says in a low voice, “Whatever. I don’t care, do what you want.”

Peter walks to the sink and dumps his plate then walks to his room with the door slamming behind him.

And there, all of a sudden, deciphering him wasn’t so easy. Surely he’s not… no. He set the rules. You didn’t want to be delusional. You didn’t want to think about how you feel.

You and your ‘date’ agreed to meet that night, as you walked out of your room to head to the bathroom, Peter was just walking out.

“You’re really going on that date?” He muttered quietly again, but it was still loud enough for you to hear.

You hold your breath and reply, “Yes, why does it matter?”

“It doesn’t,” he said quickly. “It shouldn’t.” He said, once more—softly, this time, as he retreats to his room.

You stared at his closed door, heart pounding. This wasn’t going to be easy.

You still went to meet the guy. The place was nice, it wasn’t too formal or date-y, but it also wasn’t boring. He was also nice, funny and showed interest. You tried to keep up, tried to match his energy, yet something feels… off.

It wasn’t easy.

He laughed yet all you could see was Peter’s smile. He talked about himself yet all you could hear was Peter talking to you about his nerdy interests. He tried touching your hand but all you can think of is your hands touching Peter’s.

How easy everything was, how comfortable, how natural.

You had to excuse yourself from your ‘date’, quickly muttering something about a stomachache and hurried away too fast that he couldn’t even finish asking if he can drop you off.

None of it really mattered to you. All you could think about was how you feel. The feelings that you tried so hard to suppress; now, you can feel them all at once.

Your chest tight, your breathing shallow and your heart racing as you walked through the hallway to Peter’s room.

His door was slightly ajar, he was sitting on his desk, twirling a pencil in his hand but seemed to be staring in blank space.

His head turned when he heard the door creak. “You’re home early,”

You breathed. “Yeah. I think I just realized something important.”

His eyes gleamed, cautious but hopeful. “What’s that?”

You walked towards him, heart pounding.

“That it’s easy to disregard the rules when it comes to you.”

Silence stretched out between the two of you for what felt like ages, until Peter stood up and closed the gap between you.