𝐏𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐞𝐫 𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐭 𝐁𝐨𝐨𝐤

Wake Up, It's Your Birthday

Parings → Peter Parker x Reader

Warnings → fluff, domestic, early morning wake-up, playful banter, bribery.

Summary → It's Peter Parker's birthday!!

｡･:*:･ﾟ★｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★

It's still dark out when you step onto Peter's street, the streetlights casting long shadows over the quiet block. The air is cool enough to make you pull your hoodie tighter, your breath puffing into the early morning air. It's only a short walk from your place-close enough that you didn't even need gloves-but the world feels hushed at this hour, like it's just you and the sleeping city.

In your hands are two very important things: a lidded container wrapped in a tea towel, holding still-warm muffins fresh from your oven, and a thermos of coffee-because waking Peter Parker up at 6:00 a.m. without bribery would be suicidal.

When you reach his apartment door, you knock lightly, almost guiltily. You don't want to wake the whole building. After a few seconds, the door swings open to reveal Aunt May, still in her robe, hair a little messy, but her eyes lighting up instantly.

"(Y/N)," she whispers, pulling you into a quick hug. "You're really doing this, huh?"

"Of course," you whisper back with a grin. "It's not every day Spider-Boy becomes Spider-Man."

She chuckles under her breath, stepping aside so you can slip in. "He's still asleep. And probably drooling. Good luck."

You tiptoe past the kitchen and down the short hallway. You opened his bedroom door and pause for a moment at the doorway, just... watching him. The dim light from the street spilling in just enough for you to see the lump under the blankets. His hair is sticking out in about seven different directions, and his arm is flopped over his face, like he's trying to block out the world. You swear you hear a tiny snore.

You push the door open and pad inside, setting your bag on his desk before crawling onto the bed. The mattress dips under your weight, but he doesn't even stir. You swing one leg over him, straddling his middle, and plop down with zero grace.

"Wake up, birthday boy," you sing softly, grinning down at him. "We have a lot to do today. You're eighteen!!"

He makes a low, muffled sound from under his arm.

"What's your first wish, huh?" You prod.

After a long, dramatic pause, his voice-low, gravelly with sleep-finally emerges.

"Mhmn... my first wish... is let me sleep."

You scoff. "Seriously? Not... I don't know, win a lottery? Or be king of the world? Or-"

"Shut up," he mutters, cutting you off without opening his eyes.

You poke his chest. "Peter Benjamin Parker, it is your eighteenth birthday. You can't just-"

Suddenly, without warning, he rolls onto his back, grabs you around the waist, and rolls again so you're flat on your back, squeaking in surprise, with him sprawled across you. His arms and legs wrap around you completely, like he's afraid you might escape. His face finds the crook of your neck, his hair tickling your jaw.

"Peter-!" You gasp, half-laughing. "You're squishing me!"

"Mhm." His voice is a rumble against your skin. "You're soft."

"Peter, I can't breathe."

"You're fine," he mumbles, already sounding like he's drifting off again. "Just... five more minutes."

"Five minutes my butt," you huff, trying to wriggle out from under him, but he tightens his hold like a stubborn toddler.

"Stop moving," he mutters. "You're warm."

You groan, but your hand instinctively goes to his hair, brushing through the soft, messy strands. His breathing evens out again, and for a second, you forget your plan entirely. Maybe letting him sleep a little longer wouldn't be the worst thing.

But then you remember the muffins. And the coffee. And the fact that you didn't drag yourself across Queens at dawn just to be used as a human pillow.

"Peter," you whisper, wiggling just enough to make him grunt in protest. "You're not allowed to be a grumpy old man yet. You're officially an adult today. Adults get up at... well... not 6 a.m., but still."

"Mhm. Adults also know how to ignore chaos," he mumbles into your neck.

You roll your eyes, your hand still in his hair. "Okay... fine. Guess I'll just have to eat your birthday muffins all by myself."

His brow twitches, but he doesn't move.

"Chocolate chip muffins," you add casually, like you're just making small talk. "Still warm. I made them at, like, five in the morning. For... no one in particular."

You feel him sigh against you. "You're lying."

"Oh, am I?" You tilt your head toward the desk, where the little paper bag waits. "And I guess that's not a thermos of your favorite coffee over there either. Definitely not brewed perfectly so it's still hot."

There's a pause. Then, muffled into your neck, "...That's cruel."

You grin. "Not cruel. Motivational."

Finally, his head lifts just enough for him to peek one bleary brown eye at you. His hair is an unholy mess, his cheek has a crease from the pillow, and his voice is raspy when he says, "You woke me up at six in the morning... just to bribe me with baked goods?"

"Yes," you say sweetly. "Because I love you, and because if we start your birthday early, we get more birthday."

Peter groans like you've asked him to run a marathon, but he rolls off you and flops onto his back, rubbing his face with both hands. "You're insane."

"And yet," you sing-song, swinging a leg off the bed to grab the bag, "you're still gonna eat the muffins."

You hand him one, still warm through the paper wrapper, and watch as he takes a bite big enough to prove you were right. His eyes flutter closed, a tiny hum of satisfaction escaping.

"Mm," he admits around a mouthful. "Okay... this is worth getting up for."

You hold out the thermos. "And the coffee?"

He takes it, sipping without hesitation, and groans in that way that makes your stomach flip-except, unfortunately, it's about caffeine this time. "I'd marry you just for this," he says, leaning back against the headboard.

"Good to know," you tease, climbing back onto the bed beside him. "Now finish up, birthday boy. We've got a whole day to conquer."

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