#tobey!peter

Lunch that afternoon is even worse! Sitting diagonal across from Peter, you slide into the table next to an already frustrated looking Harry, whose kicking Pete's feet under the table and making incredibly unsubtle raised eyebrow points your way. He's so sick of the way his best friend will spend every minute of his time with you just staring: peering over his fruit pot, blabbering incoherently to himself with ruddy cheeks when he passes you the salt and your pinkie fingers brush, looking at your reflection in his spoon, pretending to stretch his arms and yawn just so he can 'look around the room', which also just so happens to be only the part that you're sitting in. He just wants his friend to be happy, and honestly, he's kind of dumbstruck that the two of you aren't together already, considering his eyes light up like gold-struck dawn every time he sees you.

It's only when Flash Thompson passes by and knocks Peter's elbow out from under him that he finally stops staring over at you. Mainly because his eyes are too busy slamming into his lunch tray, and breaking the bridge of his glasses down hard against his nose. The spell you wisp around his heart is finally broken when the blood starts gushing down his nose, and you have to half-carry him to the medical office. He spends 50% of the time walking there apologising to you, and the other 50% of the time is spent trying to stop his fingers from clenching into your arm. You've tucked him into your side, holding half his torso against you so he can spend most of his effort on pinching his nose, but he doesn't even care that he's swallowing blood anymore, he's so focused on how close he's pressed up against you. The feeling only grows more fervent, more needy, until he's twitching his thighs against the nurse's table to try and get himself to calm down, when you stay with him for the rest of the period to try and wipe some of the blood away. The way you're so close to his lips, the way that your gentle fingers are dabbing so close to his mouth that he can feel his rushing breath brush against your hairs is making him go cross-eyed with how much he's trying to focus on you.

'You know...', you start after a minute, biting your bottom lip nervously as you continued to dab at peter's nostril. 'I have eyes, Petey.'

'I-I know that, silly', he says, his breath coming out in a confused gasp. 'Me too!'

'I- I know you've been looking at me. Because I've been looking at you, too.'

His heart seems to be slamming into the caged cavity of his ribs, and yet everything seems to simultaneously be standing still: caught in a hazy, gliding, wavering dream as you slowly... ever so slowly drop the cloth into the sink, and break through the few inches between the two of you to press your lips against his top one.

For a moment, Peter is so shocked all he can do is widen his eyes, not even processing that the thing he's spent every moment of his waking and sleeping life wishing for ever since he was a child was happening right now. He tries really hard to stop his whole body from shaking, as his silky lashes finally falter shut against the top of your cheeks and he tries to focus his whole attention on the way your plush lip seems to press so perfectly against his own. After a few seconds though, when he hears the clattering of trays fall to the floor and the darkness he was letting himself fall willingly down into seems a little harder to blink out of, he realises the sound was him.

You're worried you've upset him, or stepped too far, or misconstrued his intentions when Peter falls backwards off you, but that's quickly replaced by frantic concern when he starts sliding to the floor. Thankfully, your reflexes are almost as good as his, and you're quick to wrap your arm around his back and cradle his head against your breastbone before he can slam his head against the floor again. He has to spend the rest of the day lying in the office's bed waiting until Uncle Ben can pick him up, but it was completely worth it. As he gazes up at the inane, plastered ceiling, suddenly everything else in life seemed so silly and pointless. All he cared about was rubbing his pointer finger over the wet patch of your saliva still dotted against his bottom lip, his eyes filled with a million bursting stars as he saw beyond the ceiling and into the skies, thanking it for making his birthday wish come true.

The two of you move into his crumby apartment after high school, and honestly? It's the happiest time in Peter's life. Sure, it may be small, and the walls may be flaky and they may shake every time a train rolls past the tracks outside, but every time he comes home to them he's greeted by the memories of the two of you laying against them like when you were kids, falling asleep against each other's heads as you read into the night. Sure, Ditkovich may hound the two of you constantly for rent, and the afternoons may be drowned out by the sound of his friends playing poker a couple of doors over, but they were so easy to forget in the evenings when you turned on your slightly dented radio and made a flustered Peter dance with you across the room, not stopping until you had him held tightly in your arms and he was so embarrassed with his two left feet that he was hiding his head in the curve of your luscious neck.

And sure, you may have picked up pretty quickly that Peter was Spiderman, considering he keeps hopping out the balcony at random hours and leaves his suit sometimes crumpled at the bottom of the closet, but you love him. And he adores you more than anything any universe could throw at him. So life, for the most part, is good.

Honestly, it's so cosy living with him?? Peter literally has spider strength, so he adores it when you lie on top of him in your bed. After a while of just nattering peacefully to each other about your days, winding down by playing with each other's fingers and sneaking kisses through the brackets of your arms, he feels so at peace to feel your weight familiarly resting on top of him. This need increases tenfold after he loses Ben, I think there's something so comforting to him, to know and feel that you're still so close to him, that he can synch the anxious patter of his heart against your own. He's so sweet bless him. he gets so sleepy that his head keeps falling down on top of your own, but he's so quick to lift it up again. He blinks languidly, that honey-sweet, silvery smile shadowed only by the tempered glow of the warm moonlight drifting through the balcony as he tries desperately to keep himself awake, giving his full attention to you.

There's just something about drifting off to the sound of your voice, knowing that for once, he's safe. That he's wrapped up, looked after, comforted by the love of his life. It just feels really nice to be the one coddled from time to time.

Sometimes, you'll jolt awake in the dead of night by the sound of some strange, wistful whispering echoing from somewhere in the near empty room. It takes your brain a little whirring time to realise it's coming from the hand that's spooning your waist, and the nose that's pressed tightly against the back of your thigh. Turns out Peter spends a lot of his sleepless nights tracing over your stretch marks, nestling down your back and reverently dancing his fingers up and down the tiger stipes on your waist. Every so often, he would rub his nose against their aureate lines in a fond kiss, gingerly resting his cheek against your bare skin again as he tried not to wake you up. What really made your heart melt, though, was the way an awe-struck 'wow' would slip from his lips in such a reverential tone, that Peter became so overwhelmed and could do nothing else but leave a small kiss against the side of your leg, dotted by slick tears.

This man picks you up on his scooter after your shift at work, mainly because 1) you are a much better driver than him, and it actually gets home in one piece rather than being tangled under a car wheel somewhere, and 2) when he's super stressed he finds it so comforting to wrap his arms around your side and press his forehead tightly into your back, letting the whole world melt away until nothing but whirling air and the scent of you is left. He always arrives outside your office building ten minutes early, making your secretary laugh when she spots him straightening his best flowery tie in the reflection of the waste bin by the bench outside. He has his best suit on, freshly pressed, and is nervously stepping from foot to foot with a crumpled bouquet of roses in his hand, like a teenager waiting to ask his crush to prom.

Every. Single. Day. You honestly just wait for the secretary to buzz you so you can grab your coat and run outside; you know far too well that Peter either dumps his Spidey suit through the window, or just wears his proper suit underneath so he isn't late. Doesn't matter if he has to catch five buses from the Daily Bugle, or has to 'borrow' his moped from 'Joe's Pizza' to get there on time, he's always there. And he always wants to look his best for you, even though he's still so surprised that someone as ethereal as you would even bother to look his way that he has to shuffle a handkerchief out of his trouser pocket and dab at the sweat beading on his forehead.

It's either that, or Peter scaring the bejesus out of you by picking you up with his webs. You'll just be minding your own business, walking down the sidewalk on your way back from your lunch break, only to be hoisted, screaming into the air and past an equally petrified looking pigeon. Peter does feel bad the first time he did this, since you were screaming the whole time he swung you, but you've settled into a better routine now. You've found it easier to watch the scattered tiles of churches and the blurred crests of building whiz by while you're holding on tightly to his waist, and your feet are firmly pressed on top of his own so he can keep you steady against him. I mean, you might still bury your head into his shoulder blade in absolute terror, but he makes it up to you by landing you down gracefully on top of your office a couple of minutes before you go back in.

The adrenaline from swinging about New York makes the kisses far more heated, and it's always helpful to have a little privacy when you pull the edge of his latex mask harshly up past the bridge of his nose and nearly knock him flying over the cornerstones with how fervidly you smash your lips against him. His arms instinctively come to wrap around you, and even he's grown a little more emboldened by the knowledge that you actually do love him and this isn't some cruel villain trick or high school prank, to open his mouth and press his tongue lovingly against yours. He never wants to let you go, so before he lets you go back to your job he gives you a tight hug, and presses a million warm little kisses in a treasure trail down the pulse point in your neck.

This man literally has like... two outfits, so he's constantly wearing your clothes! Surprise! You come home to find him sitting criss-cross on the bed, face bruised and tired worn from his latest clash with Doc Ock, but your sweatshirt tucked over him and lifted up against his cheeks like a little hidden koala bear. Surprise! You plan a surprise birthday party for him with Aunt May, only for him to turn up after work wearing one of your jumpers! It's just so snug, and homey, and it reminds Peter of when he was ten years old; when you came round to sleepover, and the two of you would crash on his mat after spending so long pouring through and excitedly talking about the new quantum theories in the science magazines he used to buy with his pocket money, Peter would shuffle up beside you. With a sharp breath, he would tentatively turn on his side and pray he wouldn't wake you up, curling into the foetal position. With a smile like dawn breaking through the soft tufts of a cloud, he would press his nose into your shoulder and just breathe you in, hoping he would never forget it as long as he lived.