Parings → Peter Parker x Reader
Warnings → Domestic fluff, period talk, period blood, golden retriever boyfriend being the best
Summary →Peter wakes up in a bloody mess from your period, handles laundry like a champ, and rants adorably to May.
｡･:*:･ﾟ★｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★
You woke up sticky.
Not the sexy kind of sticky. Not the “Peter was feeling needy last night” sticky. Nope. This was the “crime scene in my pants” kind of sticky.
You groaned and sat up too quickly, already knowing.
“Damn it,” you muttered under your breath, peeling the comforter back and confirming the horror.
Peter stirred behind you, blinking through his lashes. “Mm—babe? What’s wrong? You okay?”
You flopped onto your back dramatically. “No, my uterus betrayed me again.”
He sat up a little, squinting at you—then at the bed.
“Oh,” he said softly. Then again, with a wince: “Ohhh.”
“Yup.”
“Wait… you didn’t wake up last night to change?”
“Nope.”
“We both passed out, huh.”
“Yup.”
Peter rubbed his eyes and sat all the way up, catching sight of the big, dark-red splotch on the sheets and the matching one on your pajama shorts. A smear ran onto his thigh too.
He glanced down at his boxers. “Wow. This looks like a horror movie.”
You huffed and stood up. “Well, guess who gets to play crime scene cleanup crew this morning?”
Peter yawned, standing up too, rubbing a hand through his mess of bedhead. “Babe, go shower. I’ll take care of the bed.”
“Put on clean pants first,” you said, pointing at his very bloodstained boxers. “You look like you committed murder.”
He glanced down. “Fair. I’m totally gonna stain the washer.”
You smiled, annoyed but still touched by his nonchalance. “Thanks, love.”
As you padded to the bathroom, Peter started peeling off the sheets with all the grace of a hungover raccoon. The fitted sheet was stubborn, the bloodstains were evil, and he gagged dramatically more than once—because Peter Parker may be a superhero, but he was still, very much, a dramatic little shit before 10am.
---
By the time you were freshly showered and dressed in clean clothes, Peter had bundled the mess of red-splotched sheets, blanket, and his own boxer into the laundry. He stood in front of the washer, reading the settings like they were written in Greek.
“Okay,” he muttered to himself. “Cold water. Gentle cycle. Pre-soak. Do I add the detergent now? Or later? And how much counts as a little cap?”
You walked in just in time to see him pour way too much Tide into the tray.
“Peter, that’s not a cup, that’s a soup bowl.”
“Okay but—I’m washing your blood, babe. That feels like it requires extra power.”
You rolled your eyes, but you smiled. “Fine. Just don’t blow up the washer.”
As Peter slammed the washer door shut and hit the start button with the enthusiasm of a man launching a rocket, his phone started ringing on the counter.
May.
He grinned and answered on speaker. “Hey May!”
“Hi sweetheart,” came her bright, chipper voice. “Just checking in. You two alive? Eating? Doing laundry without catching the house on fire?”
“Funny you should ask,” Peter said, rubbing the back of his neck. “So uh. This morning was… dramatic.”
“Oh no. Did one of you get food poisoning? You ate street hot dogs again, didn’t you?”
“No! No, it’s not that—it’s Y/n’s period.”
From the bathroom, you groaned. “Peter!”
He turned toward the phone. “What? She’s not embarrassed. Right, babe?”
“No,” you called back. “I’m just not sure your aunt needs the details of my uterus’s wrath.”
Peter ignored you, already in full rant mode. “So listen, she usually wakes up in the middle of the night to change her pad. But last night we were both super wiped, and she didn’t wake up, and I didn’t either, and we just—boom! Blood. Everywhere. The bed looked like a murder scene. I had it on my leg. My boxers.”
May was quiet for half a second. Then:
“Oh, honey. That poor girl. And you? Did you faint?”
“I handled it like a champ!” Peter puffed out his chest. “Told her to go shower and let me clean the bed. I’m doing laundry right now.”
“Wow,” May said, sounding amused. “Laundry without me having to lecture you? Love truly changes a man.”
“I care, May. And also—pads are insane, by the way. I don’t know who designed them, but they clearly never thought, ‘Hey, what if someone has a tsunami flowing out of them at 3am?’ They need built-in alarms. Like, ‘Beep beep, it’s your blood o’clock.’ Or vibrating pads! Not in a weird way, just—functional!”
You were howling by now, peeking out from the bathroom with a towel over your shoulders. “Peter, stop giving May your period TED Talk!”
May laughed. “Let him go, sweetie. This is the most passionate I’ve heard him since he discovered high-protein pancakes.”
Peter nodded seriously. “No, like—how are women just expected to handle this? And bleed silently? Y/n deals with this monthly, still goes to class, works, smiles. She even makes pancakes for me while she's bleeding! She's a champion. An underpaid, under-appreciated blood warrior.”
You turned beet red, but your heart melted. “Peter—”
“Blood. Warrior,” May repeated. “Put that on a t-shirt.”
Peter pointed at the phone like she could see him. “EXACTLY.”
The washer beeped softly, reminding him the world was still spinning despite his soapbox. He snapped back to reality.
“Okay, I gotta switch to rinse. I think I used too much detergent. If it explodes, we died heroically.”
May chuckled. “Alright, blood warrior’s boyfriend. Call me later. And give Y/n my love. Also, maybe sleep on a towel tonight?”
“I’ll make a whole pad fort,” Peter said proudly.
You grinned. “Put that on a t-shirt.”
∗ ࣪ ˖༺ 𓆩☆𓆪 ༻˖ ࣪ ∗
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