Tasm Peter X Reader - Blog Posts

HIII!! I saw that you requests are open so here is mine :D What if reader got Peter flowers? <333

A/N: I love this! lets pretend I posted this yesterday on Valentine's day lol

Love, Sunshine, and Beauty

Peter was a really kind and thoughtful boyfriend. He always did like things for y/n like leaving little notes for her to find while he was on patrol and she had just gotten home from work. One time he left a small flower that he must have picked from the bush outside on the soap holder in the shower. He was always doing things to make her smile and know that he thought about her and wanted to make her smile, even if he wasn't there to see it. Being Spider-Man made him miss out on some things that he wished he could be there for like the birthday party she had last year that her best friend threw her at a bar in Brooklyn. It being at night, Peter wasn't able to make it and she understood but it bothered him a lot that he wasn't there for his girlfriends birthday party. That was when the little things had started and y/n adored them more than Peter knew. So when Valentine's day came around, she realized that this was her chance to do something sweet for Peter like he often did for her.

She'd never bought flowers before, especially not for a man so she wasn't sure what to get. She wandered around the grocery store looking at the tons of different arrangements they had but none of them stood out to her until she came across a bouquet of sunflowers, red roses, and daisies. They all meant something that was so true to Peter. It was perfect.

Their shared apartment was empty when she got home and she knew Peter was most likely at the lab still. They had early dinner plans for Valentine's day so he would be home shortly.

After putting the bouquet in a vase with some water, she left it on the counter that faced the front door with a card that she propped up to stand and a small box of chocolates before getting in the shower.

Peter closed the front door behind him, hearing the shower and knowing y/n was in it. They had dinner plans shortly and he couldn't wait to take her to the restaurant. It was where they had their first date two years ago and also the same place she had told him she loved him for the first time just a few months later.

He looked up and stopped in his tracks.

On the kitchen counter was a vase with different flowers. At first, he immediately thought that someone else had given them to her before he had a chance to give her the roses he had in had in his hand, but then he saw the propped card with his name on it.

He dropped his backpack on the empty counter space and picked up the card and opened it.

Peter, Happy Valentines day, my love. I know men don't usually receive flowers, even on v-day but I wanted to give you back some of the beauty you give to me every day. The roses are for how much I love you, the sunflowers are for the sunshine you bring into my life, and the daisies are for the beauty that is you. I love you endlessly.

                                                                  -love, y/n

Peter smiled wide and kissed the card before setting it down and taking in the flowers, seeing her meaning in each type. He knew how lucky he was to be love by her and he felt her love with the gesture and with the beautiful flowers. He was saddened that he wouldn't be able to keep them forever. Maybe he could have one of each pressed and framed. He would have to look into that before they died.

The sound of the shower stopping had him moving and he was coming into the bedroom at the same time y/n was getting out with a towel around her.

"Hey, babe." She beamed. "Happy Valentine's."

He pulled the bouquet of roses out from behind his back, his face partially hidden by them and a smile a mile wide pulling his at his lips.

"Peter." She cooed, taking them. "These are gorgeous."

"Happy Valentine's day, baby."

"Did you see yours?" She asked hopefully.

"No one's ever gotten me flowers before and I love them." He kissed her cheek, thinking back to the arrangement that was sitting on the kitchen counter fondly.

A year later, y/n walked down the aisle with a bouquet of red roses, sunflowers, and daisies.

The Adventures of Spider-Man and Moonlight

A/N: okay so I know I said that chapter 4 would up today but chapter 4 is incredibly long but this chapter is very important to Luna’s character so I decided to do a 3.5 so that chapter 4 isn’t quite as long. I promise it will be worth it! Enjoy this short one to tide you over for 4!

Summary: In which Spider-Man learns more about Moonlight than anyone else

Word count: 1.2k

Warnings: none

Chapter 3.5: Too Cool to Be From the Moon

Moonlight stared at the masked man twenty feet away from her and wondered what his life was like. He had to have a job like she did but what did he do? He was really smart so he had to do something like engineering or maybe he was in business and was one of those people who didn’t actually work and got to take a hundred vacation days in the year. It would make sense on how he had the time to be Spider-Man because he was out way more than her. Luna could only come out as Moonlight during the night for the most part because she was at work during the day time. She of course got her days off but she tried to pick up shifts whenever she could to make rent. What did Spider-Man do that allowed him so much time to be Spider-Man?

“I can feel your stare.” He called just loud enough. 

Instead of looking away, she got up and made her way over to him, plopping down bedside his crouched position. “You know I don’t know anything about you. Not what you look like, not your favorite movie, not if you think pineapple belongs on pizza-”

“It does.”

“Heathen.”

“See that right there. You just told me something about yourself.” Her eyebrow arched. “Any native New Yorker knows that pineapple belongs on pizza. You’re not from New York.”

“Incorrect.” She hummed in a sing-song tone. “I was indeed born in New York. But you’re right. I’m not actually from New York.”

“You don’t have to tell me anything about you like I don’t have to tell you anything about me.”

“What if I wanna know something about you?” She breathed. 

He finally looked her way and they stared at each other for a minute, Spider-Man debating on what he wanted to do. “I will answer three indirect identity questions.”

Luna squealed. “Goodie! Okay, so first, what’s your favorite song?”

Thinking for a second, he nodded. “Have You Ever Seen the Rain by CCR.”

“I see that. That song fits you. Okay next-”

Spider-Man interrupted. “What do you mean it fits me?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. Just does. But to my next question: Tequila or Vodka?”

“What does that have to do with anything?” He mused with a chortle. 

“Just answer the question, Spidey.”

“Tequila.”

“Were you born with your powers or did someone give them to you?”

The silence that filled the space between them was thick but Luna stared, waiting for his answer. 

“I um wasn’t born with them. A spider bit me.”

“You’re actually joking right?”

He was confused. “Why would I be joking?” 

“Because that’s just so…funny. Like you got bit by a spider and turned into a spider human. Like what the fuck ya know?”

“Fine. How did you get your powers huh? Did some mad scientist give you your powers Ms. I’m too cool to be from the moon or something?” He teased, being sarcastic. 

“Yeah.”

Spider-Man froze, mouth open with the next word he had been planning on saying. “Wait, really?”

She shrugged a single shoulder, trying to play it off. “Yeah. Gregory Manheim. My foster parents sold me to him when I was seven and then he turned me into this. But I did have my healing abilities before that so I guess I was also born with them.”

He swallowed, the mental image of a young Moonlight in his head. Then the mental image of her as a young child scared and alone took over and he wanted it gone. He didn’t think Moonlight knew what scared meant because she faced everything head on and never showed any type of fear but he was so wrong. She faced everything head on without fear because whatever she was facing at the time wasn’t the scariest thing she had been through.

“That’s really terrible, Moonlight. I’m sorry.”

Moonlight stared off at the city. “Florida.”

“What?”

“I’m from Florida. I was born here but Manheim’s lab was in Florida. You know I didn’t even know I wasn’t in New York anymore until I was nine? He never let me go outside so I didn’t know I’d left the state. I was so young I thought it was a different country.” She chuckled dryly. “The energy…that didn’t come until I was fourteen. I’ll never forget the first time I was able to externalize it.” The way she stared off was as if she was back there. “He put a bite guard in my mouth and I just knew whatever it was it was gonna hurt. Then he hooked up the particle accelerator and…I felt like I was an exploding ball of fire.”

Spider-Man stared at her, heartbroken and horrified behind his mask. A particle accelerator was what gave Moonlight her powers and it made so much sense. They were made to propel particles to high speeds…and energies. That was where she got her speed from and the light beams that came out of her hands were exactly the purpose of them. In summary, she was a human particle accelerator.

“You know you’re the first person I've ever told that to?”

“That you’re from Florida? Yeah I wouldn’t go sharing that with everyone.” He chuckled before his smile fell and he became serious. “Thank you for trusting me.”

“I don’t know how you do it. You just make me- people feel safe…and other things: irritation, rage, annoyance.” she listed off before letting out a soft laugh, Spider-Man joining in. “So now you know where I come from.”

“Jesus. You were just a baby.” He shook his head.

She hummed, eyes on the city she vowed to protect. “I was. But he never realized something very crucial.”

“What?”

Moonlight looked back at him. “That he was creating the very weapon that would eventually kill him. Last year I tracked him down to Russia and I made sure he would never do to another person what he did to me. I made sure I get to sleep at night knowing he’ll never come for me and ya know what?”

“What?”

“I sleep like a baby.”

Spider-Man was a very morally inclined person but he didn’t blame Moonlight for a second. This one he could excuse and wouldn’t think or look at her differently. Who knows what all had been to her in the ten years that she had been a human lab rat. He didn’t want to think about them. It put him in a rage to just think about and there was no one he could direct that at because the person responsible was already dead. 

It was obvious to him that she was making herself incredibly vulnerable to him in that moment. It then all became clear to him that the sarcasm, the jokes, the dicking around was some sort of defense mechanism or coping mechanism.

The police scanner beside them burbled to life with some key words that had their attention and the two were off to save the city from whatever villain of the week decided it was their turn. One thing for certain that they both knew was that Peter now knew more about Moonlight than anyone else and he was the closest thing she had to a best friend. 

That night, all Luna had been able to think about as she laid in bed trying to fall asleep was that she was getting dangerously close to Spider-Man and it terrified her but at the same time she wanted it. She wanted a friend, she wanted someone to know her and care about her. She just didn’t know if it was what was best for him- or her.

The Adventures of Spider-Man and Moonlight

A/N: this is arguably my favorite chapter so I hope you like it!

Summary: In which we see just how much tension is between Spider-Man and Moonlight and how their new partnership is going

Word count: 3.1k

Warnings: violence, injury, sexual innuendos 

Chapter 3: Hot Dogs and Quesadillas

Moonlight stared at Spider-Man from the roof she was on and wondered what he looked like under his mask. She had no idea what he looked like at all. He had some semblance of her face since her mask only covered the upper portion of her face and he knew her hair color, though she wore a brown wig anytime she wasn’t home or running around New York as Moonlight, so he a pretty good idea of what she looked like but Luna knew nothing about his face. Did his face match his voice? Was he as good looking as she pictured in her head? She pictured him with a wide set, strong jaw and blue eyes, she loved blue eyes, with pitch black hair that was a little lengthy, maybe grazing the bottom portion of his neck but as she got to know him her image of his face evolved. At first she thought he might have blue eyes but then as she got to know him she decided he was a brown eye kind of guy because of the way he loved cats and dogs equally and didn’t prefer one over the other. She had wanted to think he had black hair but she was starting to lean toward blonde lately because of the way the sun always seemed to bathe him so beautifully.

Of course, this was a fantasy based on his voice and it took her back to the point of: she had no idea what he looked like. They’d been working together for six entire weeks now and she knew as much about him as the people of New York did. 

Luna smirked as she floated down onto the roof of the Vanderbilt, being as silent as she possibly could. Spidey was overlooking the city with his arms crossed, a slow night hitting them for the first time since Moonlight had fought with Spider-Man the night she got shot. It had been a whirlwind ever since.

Moonlight was on the front page of every paper and magazine in New York City and the people loved her. Little girls everywhere were wearing crescent moons on their chests and masks just like hers, claiming that they wanted to be a superhero just like Moonlight. It was something she hadn’t anticipated and it made her strangely emotional- in a good way. She’d gone her whole life without very much attention, save for one crazed scientist from Florida, so to be the current topic was a lot. There were, of course, some people who thought she was a menace just like Spider-Man, but for the most part the public loved her. The one thing she could go without was the catcalls from men she got when she was Moonlight and the vulgar comments and propositions made to her. It really bothered her and she tried to ignore it and she would never let it show just how it made her want to shrink away but it always put something in the pit of her stomach. 

So things were going well. For the first time in her life Luna felt like she knew what she was created for and what her purpose was and why she was given her powers. It was to help people. 

Having a purpose had changed her. She was happier and lighter and she was starting to actually make friends with the people at work. She laughed more and there was a perk in her step. She’d started singing in the shower and genuinely meaning it when she told people to have a nice day. She didn't know she could ever feel so good. She’d never felt that way before and it made her just know that she was doing what she was meant to be doing. 

As Luna floated over to Spider-Man she held her breath, really wanting to catch him off guard and maybe even scare him a little. He was always prepared and she wanted to catch him unprepared for once. 

Right when she was about to put her hands to tickle his sides, he spun around and captured her wrists in his hands tight, almost a little too tightly, making her gasp. He was so close to her that she could almost see through the tinted eyes of his mask and feel his breath on her lips. 

They stood there for a second, staring at each other with Spider-Man holding her wrists. Luna was almost wondering if he was going to kiss her. She wanted him to. She hated how she couldn’t read a thing about him. Did he feel the same tension she did? The only thing that told her maybe he did was the rise and fall of his chest being just a little faster than normal.

“S-Sorry.” He exhaled. “I didn’t know that-that uhm it was you.”

He dropped her wrists and turned back to the city. 

“It’s okay.” She shook her head, trying to get the feelings to go away. “How did you know I was there? I made like no noise.”

“Spider sense.”

Luna was quiet for a second. “Come again?”

“You know how spiders don’t have to see you to know you're coming? It’s kind of like that but it’s this feeling kind of like anxiety. I felt you coming. I knew you were right there.”

“Maybe Manheim should have invested in spiders.” Luna mumbled before plopping down to the edge of the building, feet swinging off the side. “So Spidey what does your sixth sense tell us about tonight?”

“That it’s gonna be a slow night.”

“Oh good.” She groaned. “You know when I decided to get into the hero business I didn’t realize how exhausting it was going to be. It’s like I went to sleep for ten hours straight the other night as soon as I got home. I just crashed as soon as my head hit the pillow which is nice because I kind of have trouble sleeping but I don’t know if I like sleeping that much because when I woke up it was already like one and the day was mostly gone. And you know what sucks?” She looked up to him but spoke before he could answer. “We don’t even get paid for this. Like I knew that going into this and it’s not why I’m doing it but the city could at least offer to pay our medical bills or something.”

“You don’t have medical bills.” He snorted, arms still crossed.

“Well no, but the government doesn’t know that! For all they know we could be spending thousands a year on ibuprofen!”

Peter stared down at the small ball of energy who was talking his ear off and he was smiling so hard behind his mask that his cheeks hurt. She was so damn adorable and he thought the way she rambled was cute. So cute that it made his stomach flutter. 

He had to admit that when Moonlight first came on the scene he was very hesitant and unsure but as they worked together over the last handful of weeks he found he not only wasn’t bothered by her but he actually liked her. She was a strong fighter and actually really helped him. They worked well together. Plus, when he found out she had the power to heal people he hadn’t gone home beat to hell anymore which let him sleep a lot better which gave him more energy for patrol the next night. It was a new rhythm that he welcomed. 

Moonlight’s company was something he welcomed as well. He was a little lonely before she came along but now he looked forward to going on patrol at night. He would be counting down the hours until every single sun ray was gone and he could go meet his new partner in fighting crime who would talk his ear off all night and refused to let him go home without knowing he was pain free. 

Luna’s chatter was interrupted by the sound of sirens. They looked at each before nodding and heading in that direction, Luna running at comet speed and Spider-Man swinging on his web. 

It hadn’t been anything too crazy- only a grocery store robbery that ended with the robbers putting their hands up and dropping the gun as soon as they saw Spider-Man and Moonlight show up. 

“Hey are you hungry? I know a guy who knows a guy who knows a guy who makes the best hot dogs in the city.” Spider-Man suggested as they left the crime scene parking lot. 

“Street meat? No thanks, I actually really enjoy keeping my intestines in my stomach.”

“I’m serious!”

“No.”

“Come on!”

“No way, Jose.”

“Just try it!”

“Spider-Man, for the last time I don’t want your meat in my mouth.”

Spider-Man inhaled, ready to argue only to process what she had said and he clamped his mouth shut, Luna throwing her head back in laughter. “Now I know how to make Spider-Man speechless.”

Under his mask, he was blushing furiously, trying to fight back a smile. She was good, he had to give her that. 

After a second, he felt like he could speak properly. He would have to get her back some other way later.  “Just trust me.” He mused. “I’ll let you pick the next place.”

Luna pushed back a smile at the idea of a next place.

“Fine but if I get food poisoning and die I’m getting “Spidey did it” on my headstone.”

“I’ll even autograph it.”

True to his word, the hot dog stand was just around the corner and Luna had to admit she was starving so everything smelled extra good. She got one with mustard and relish and one with just mustard while Spider-Man got four with quite literally every condiment known to man on his. 

“Are you really going to eat all of those?” She asked as they found a roof to sit on.

“Nah ones for Herman.”

“Who’s Herman?”

“My pet spider.”

Luna bit back her laughter. “Well tell him to stay away from my hot dog.”

He nodded. “Got it.” Then he looked down to the ground beside them and whispered so softly Luna couldn’t hear before he looked back up to her. “He says he doesn’t like relish anyway.”

This time Luna chuckled, biting into her hot dog. 

She watched as he started to lift his mask and for a second she wondered if she was about to see his face but he stopped at his upper lip, resting his mask there. The mental image of his face that she had in her head matched at least his jaw. It was a strong jaw that looked like it could cut glass and had the start of a five o’clock shadow, something she adored on a man. His lips were a soft pink and slightly chapped, the upper lip deep set but his bottom plush. 

Seeing part of his face fueled her theories that behind the rest of that mask was a strikingly beautiful face. 

They ate in silence, Spider-Man somehow finishing all four of his hot dogs in the same time Luna spent on hers. It was…disturbing to witness to say the least. 

She put her hand on his stomach, swallowing when she felt the rock hard abs. “Spidey, I got some bad news. I think you might have a black hole in there.”

“A curse of being Spider-Man. You should see the size of my grocery bill.”

“I have a feeling it might scare me.”

Spider-Man’s mind went right into the gutter and he knew what he wanted to say but he hesitated for a second before deciding that he felt like he could.

“Do big things scare you?” He asked, teasing in his tone.

“Not really…?”

“Good to know.” He hummed with a light chuckle. 

Luna put it together and she dropped her jaw with a gasped chuckle. “You sicko!”

“You started it!”

Luna fell into hysterical laughter and Spider-Man joined, falling back to lay down. Luna mirrored him and they fell quiet. 

“You know Moonlight I think this is the start of a beautiful friendship.” Spider-Man mused. 

“We’ll see how the hot dog sits and then we can talk about friendship.”

~~~~~~~

Moonlight dodged the punch thrown by Kraven. “Listen dude! Why can’t you just chill out!” She dodged another punch and hit him with an energy blast. “Why can’t we be friends? Kumbaya and all that shit!”

“Kumbaya my lord!” Spider-Man sang from a few feet away where he was fighting with one of Kraven’s men. “Kumbaya!”

“See!” 

Letting out a loud grunt or irritation, Kraven pulled a machete from the straps on his back. It was sharp and big. 

“Okay fine! I was just trying to make friends!”

The knife had made things harder and Luna was very narrowly missing blows as she tried to subdue the man three times her size. Her size was an advantage and a disadvantage. She was small and fast so she avoided a lot of hits but that also meant her enemies were usually big enough to crush her and once they had her would really do some damage. Like right then the Hunter grabbed her by the throat.

“You are a little pest.” He hissed, lifting her up, making her kick her legs as her hands clawed at his. She wasn’t getting any air because his grip was so tight. 

“But I’m the spider!” Spider-Man whined, shooting web onto Kraven's eyes, forcing him to drop Luna who was gasping for air as she hit the ground. 

Spider-Man took the advantage to knock Kraven out by shooting a line onto his head and pulling it down to bash it into a pipe. 

Luna got back on her feet, hands at her throbbing throat and pulling down the neck of her suit.

“You okay?” Spider-Man asked, trying not to seem too concerned as he jogged over. 

“I think so.”

She pulled her hands away and Spider-Man could see the red marks in the shape of Kraven's fingers. It rubbed him wrong and bothered him to see. 

“Lemme see.” He reached up, tilting her chin back so he could inspect her neck. His hands were on each side of her neck and his fingers brushed gently. “That’s going to bruise.”

“Not with my…super powers of healing!” She boisterously said with a chuckle.

He dropped his hands and watched as she healed her neck. When she pulled her hands away the redness was gone and Spider-Man was put at ease as she fixed the neck of her suit. 

The clean up was easy and soon all the suspects were in squad cars and headed for the station. 

“Where to?” Spider-Man asked. “We’ve still got time to kill.”

“Okay so just hear me out.”

Spider-Man groaned. “Hell no.”

“Why?!”

“Because I know I’m gonna hate it.”

“No you won’t! You’re gonna love it!”

“I think it’s time I go solo.”

“Let’s go.”

“Yeah, I’m gonna regret this.”

Ten minutes later and Spider-Man was absolutely regretting every choice he’d ever made that led up to that moment in his life.

He was sitting in a Mexican restaurant wearing a sombrero that Luna had put on him the moment they walked in the door and wouldn’t let him take it off. 

“I look ridiculous.”

“I know.” She gushed. “It’s great.”

“You’re the worst partner in fighting crime ever.”

“You love me.”

“I really don’.”

“You do. Couldn't live without me.”

He shook his head but didn't argue further because really he knew she was right. He couldn't imagine going back to being a lone wolf.

“So I’m thinking of the arroz con pollo but I don’t know if you know this but rice does not sit well with me but I really do love it and the chicken. Maybe they can change it out for beans or something but not all places will do that. I once asked them to do that on this place on seventh and they just really didn’t take that question well so you never really know ya know?”

Peter, grinning behind his mask, hummed as he looked over the menu. 

“Buuuut there’s also the chicken burrito which sounds so good. Four types of cheese? Sign me up. What are you gonna get? You’re a quesadilla guy aren’t you? No shame in it.”

“I am indeed a quesadilla guy.”

“Knew it.” She triumphed under her breath.

They ordered once Luna finally decided what she wanted and Peter slid the hat off his head, Luna not noticing. 

“Okay I gotta pee I’ll be back.” She announced before jumping up and heading for the restroom. Peter definitely did not watch as she went and he definitely did not love the way the suit hugged her figure. He was a gentleman and definitely did not let his eyes glance as she walked away.

When she came back he almost choked on air. The zipper that was always right up the collar on her suit was so far down her chest was visible and her cleavage was very out in the open. He couldn’t look away for a solid five seconds before forcing his head down to the chips he was eating, his mask resting on his top lip. 

Moonlight acted as if nothing had changed and chatted about whatever. Peter couldn’t focus because all he could do was make sure he wasn’t looking at her chest. He tried not to speak too much, knowing his current mental state would make him sound like an idiot. 

Except that he wasn’t an idiot. He knew that Moonlight was insanely beautiful. Only half her face was visible but it was plain as day that she was stunning. It was something that anyone with eyes could see so of course he was attracted to her but he couldn’t be attracted to her. For one thing, he promised himself he would never put another person in danger because of who he was, not after what happened to Gwen. He wouldn’t do that to someone else. Another thing, they were partners in fighting crime and mixing business with pleasure never ended well. They were strictly co-workers and co-workers didn’t look at other co-workers' boobs. 

“You okay, Spidey?” Moonlight asked, sipping from her drink. The condensation of the cold glass dripped down the side of the glass and into her chest, making it glisten. Peter gripped the table. 

“Y-Yeah yep yeah. Just got a um a headache coming on I think. I’ll be right back.”

He jumped up from the table and made his way to the bathroom, ignoring the looks he was getting as he went. He knew someone had tried to ask for a picture but he couldn’t let anyone see the state he was in. 

It had never happened before but he had a hard on in his suit; his very thin, revealing suit. 

At their table, Luna was laughing silently, shoulders shaking as she dipped a chip in some salsa. She knew what she was doing the whole time. She had been wanting to know if Spider-Man would be affected by her in that way. They were so flirty at times and she didn’t know if he was just messing around or not but if they were going to play games she needed to know what kind of hand she had. 

The Adventures of Spider-Man and Moonlight

A/N: so here’s chapter two! I cannot wait to have three out because there is just so much banter between Luna and Peter in three. If you liked this a like would just make my day!

Summary: In which we see Moonlight and Spider-Man growing closer and forming a friendship as well as a partnership 

Word count: 2.4k

Warnings: violence, injury, blood

Chapter 2 - Partners in Fighting Crime

“So did the bad guy you talked to give you any idea of what time this mega size drug deal was about to go down?” Spider-Man as he and Moonlight sat waiting behind a bunch of wooden crates in a warehouse on the docs. 

Moonlight had aided in an arrest earlier in the night in a separate part of town than Spider-Man had been in. She’d overheard two of the suspects talking about how they were going to be dead for missing the deal that was going down at the “fun house”. After doing a little googling she found out that the fun house was a nickname for a warehouse called Jimmy’s Supplies where party supplies was made and shipped. 

“Nope.” Luna said, popping the p. 

“Did you get any names?”

“Nope.”

“Do you know anything else?”

“Nope.”

Spider-Man threw his arms up in exasperation. “Of course not.”

“All I know is it’s happening.” She shrugged, looking at her long black nails. She’d cut slits the glove of her suit for stiletto nails to go through since she’d got her nails done a couple days ago. She had to admit that she was obsessed with them. 

Spider-Man looked at the woman he had only recently started teaming up with some nights and shook his head. The guys she overheard were probably talking about another night or maybe even giving Moonlight false information to throw them off so they would miss something that was actually going to happen. His senses weren’t going off and nothing seemed amiss. This was why he worked alone. 

“Look, I appreciate you sharing information with me but I don’t think anything is going to happen tonight- at least not here.” Spider-Man stated, hands on his hips. 

Luna’s eyes flashed up but she didn’t move from her seat on a crate where her feet were propped up on another, legs crossed. “You wanna go that’s fine, I just figured we could work together. I’m not going anywhere, though.”

He stared at her for a second before nodding. “I’ll see you around.”

Moonlight gave a two fingered salute. “Later, buggy.”

Spider-Man took off from the warehouse and left the docs, heading back into the city. He quickly found a massive hostage situation going down at a gala at the MET. This was probably what those two guys had been talking about. They’d probably used code words so no one would know what they were actually talking about. Moonlight still had a lot to learn.

“Have any demands been made?” Peter asked as he jumped down from his web, walking up to the police chief. 

“None. My guess is they’re robbing the actual museums. Lotta art in there worth millions.”

Peter nodded before swinging his web up so that he could come in from the way they would least expect it: the ceiling. 

The glass ceiling gave him a perfect view as to what was going on inside. There were maybe fifteen masked guys, all armed and pointing their guns at the nicely dressed guests who were all terrified and cooperating. He tried to come up with a plan but none of them had good odds.

“Fuck it.” He mumbled before webbing up one of the window panes and then pressing down hard on it to shatter it. The web muffled the sound and held the glass so none of it fell below. He webbed it into a ball that he cast below, he would come back for it later, and started to lower himself down by his web. He was only a few feet down before he realized there was a couple of the armed men in a corner, talking among themselves and not paying attention. He quickly shot his web at them to cover their mouths and stick them to the wall, their guns falling but Peter grabbed them with his web and back to him, bringing them back up to the roof before going back down. Two down and thirteen to go.

He repeated this three more times, taking out the ones he could before knowing it was time to switch tactics. He was going to start pulling out the hostages. 

He crawled down the corner of the wall where there were large drapes so no one would see him. When he was down he looked up and took out the window directly above him like he had the one. He then got the attention of two women who were just a few feet from him, both shaking and crying. 

“Quietly.” He whispered.

They came over and he directed the first one to hold onto him. She gripped tight and he was shooting a web up and climbing it as fast as he could. One the roof, he jumped down it and set her on the ground. 

“Thank you, Spider-Man.” She cried, hugging him. “Please you have to save, Hannah too. She’s my sister.”

“I’m getting everyone out. I’ll be right back.”

Peter did the same with Hannah and two more guests and then another guest and so on. He knew he could only get so many people out before the hostage-takers noticed but he wanted as many people out as he could before any gunfire started.

There were two hundred people and he knew he had gotten around fifty around by the time the room was noticeably emptier. 

He’d only saved five more people before he heard the yell when he was just going back inside. 

“Oi! Greg! We got company.”

Peter knew he’d been spotted and dropped down from the ceiling, landing on his feet in the middle of the room. “Mind if I drop in?”

Gunshots rang out at the same time Peter started shooting his webs to take their guns. He dodged bullets and grabbed guns, trying to grab them as they came flying to him. He disarmed them all and threw the guns to nearby guests. “Can you hold these for a second please!”

It was Spider-Man against ten guys, hand to hand. Peter even made it easier for them by not using his web shooters. 

“You could try harder! Come on! I could do this blindfolded!” He egged. 

Just a few minutes later he was looking at ten guys on the ground who were either unconscious, surrendering, or too in pain to stand. “That was just sad. You guys really need to train more.”

He jogged over to where the giant doors were and opened them up, dozens of SWAT behind the door. “You’re welcome.” He stated. 

He walked out and noticed that police cars were taking off with their sirens on.

“What’s going on?” Peter asked an officer walking past him. 

“Some kind of huge drug deal going down at the docs. Looks like it’s Kingpin and his guys.”

Peter froze, only able to think one thing: Moonlight. He’d left her there all alone.

Shooting a web out, he took off and started swinging as fast as he could for the docks. Kingpin was no one to mess with. He’d been seriously injured by him on several occasions and always worried when they had any kind of encounter. His men were all incredibly trained and skilled. He had a hard time himself when it came to that organization. Moonlight was still finding her footing as a fighter and wasn’t as skilled of one as he was. She did have her powers as an advantage but it would be her against dozens of highly lethal men.

He felt like such an ass and so stupid. He should have listened to her. He assumed because she was new at this she didn’t know what she was doing and he may be the reason she gets seriously hurt or worse. 

He arrived before the cops and went right to the warehouse Moonlight had been in. He could hear voices when he was close enough but it didn’t sound like any kind of a fight was happening. That wasn’t good news. Either Moonlight left or…or she was down. The thought put a knot in his stomach.

He slipped in through a broken window in the back, looking for her. He was panicking a little and he tried to rationalize that she would be okay. She could simply be out cold somewhere. 

The area that they had been in before was now swarmed with Kingpins men, all armed and all very dangerous. The guys he had just taken out at the MET were nothing compared to these guys. These guys would actually be a challenge for him. 

He scanned the room and gripped the edge of the crate he was hiding before when he saw a head of long white hair on the ground behind some oil barrels. She wasn’t moving and he couldn’t separate her heartbeat from everyone else’s to know if she was alive or not. He needed to find a way to get to her. 

It was easier thought than done. He was nearly spotted several times but managed to get over to where she was. She was in a pool of her own blood with her hands on her stomach and eyes shut, skin pale. But her chest was rising and falling. She was still alive. The relief that washed over him made him dizzy.

He crawled over to her and put his hand on her cheek, patting gently. “Moonlight.” He whispered. “Wake up.”

Her eyes flashed open and she put her hand right to his throat. “It’s me!” He whisper screamed. 

Her hand dropped at the recognition. “W-What are you doing here?”

“Saving you, obviously.” He looked down to the wound in her stomach. It looked like she’d been shot. “I gotta get you out of here.”

She shook her head. “Hold on. I’m okay.”

He looked at her like she’d grown a third head. “In case you didn’t notice you’ve been shot like a thanksgiving turkey!” He hissed in a whisper. 

“Really?” She huffed with a roll of her eyes. “I thought they’d missed. Look, I need you to take it out.”

“Take what out?”

“The bullet.”

His eyes widened behind his mask. “What? You mean like reach in and pull it out?!”

“Yes.”

“Are you crazy?!”

“Just do it!”

“No! I’m not putting my fingers in you like some war medic on the battlefield! I’m taking you to a hospital!”

“It’s not that big of a deal! Just reach in and get it out!”

He huffed through his nose before looking down to the bullet wound in her stomach that was still bleeding. “I have no idea how this is going to do any good. You’re still going to have a freaking hole in you.”

Out of the corner of his eye he could see her brace herself, one hand gripping the edge of an oil barrel they were behind. 

Moonlight made no noise as Peter dug around for the bullet but he could tell she was in agony, a sweat breaking out on her forehead and her heart racing, body rigid and tense. She looked like she was in a lot less pain than was actually in. He knew how excruciating it was to dig a bullet out of your body.

When he pulled it out he watched as she panted for a second.

“Now what?”

“Just be quiet.” She snapped.

He bit back a huff and watched as her hands went to her stomach and they started glowing. 

“What are you doing?”

Moonlight didn’t answer and her hands continued to glow on her stomach. When she pulled away, he could see clean, closed flesh where the bullet hold had been.

He gasped, speaking through it. “What the fuck?”

“I can heal myself and others.”

“And you didn’t mention this earlier?!”

“It never came up!” She whisper screamed back. “We can talk about it later!”

The two were a great team. On their own they struggled to take on Kingpin’s men but together they were able to not only take them all down, but stop the drug deal from taking place. They recovered millions in drugs and illegal weapons. And they were both still alive as they walked out of the warehouse, beaten to hell but still alive. Kingpin had slipped away in the chaos, but Peter was just glad they had stopped the entire thing altogether and were both still alive.

Red and blue lights flashed around them as they walked off after giving their statements,, exhausted and ready to call it a night. 

“Thanks.” Moonlight spoke, breaking the silence. “I uh probably would have died if you hadn’t found me and woken me up. I was out cold.”

Spider-Man shook his head. “I owe you an apology. I shouldn’t have doubted you like that. I left you by yourself and…well I’m  really sorry.”

Luna smiled at him. “All good.”

Silence took over as they walked. 

“Hey, you think you can heal this black eye? It’s making my head throb.”

“Oh yeah totally.”

Peter stopped and faced her. Luna reached up and cradled his masked head, letting her hands glow to heal. When she pulled away he felt better than he had in years. She might have healed wounds he didn’t even know he had yet. 

“Wow that’s good stuff.”

“I know right?”

“I feel like a brand new human being.”

“Yeah.” She nodded, grinning wide. 

“If you could find a way to bottle this and sell it you’d be rich.”

She shrugged. “Nah. I like being a masked vigilante too much. Well I gotta get going. Work tomorrow and all.”

She turned to go and Peter wet his lips before jogging over to her. “Hey so maybe we could kind of team up.”

“What like work together?”

“Yeah. I mean, look at how awesome we were back there. And I could really use your help and I think maybe you could use mine.”

“You dig one bullet out of a girl and automatically think she needs your help.” She rolled her eyes but then smiled. “But okay fine. Partners in fighting crime it is.”

“Partners in fighting crime it is.” He agreed.

She gasped. “You know what they could call us? Spider-Moon!” 

“Nope. I’ve changed my mind.”

“Yes! It’s great!”

He turned and walked off. “Not calling us that!”

Two days later when Peter was walking to work he passed a news stand and stopped before backtracking. On the cover of the New York Times in bold black letters was “SPIDER-MOON: NY’S HEROES TEAM UP.”

“Moonlight.” He concluded with a shake of his head before walking off. 

He got maybe ten feet before he turned back around, pulling out his wallet with a sigh. He grabbed one off the rack and paid before stuffing it in his back with a grumble. 

The Adventures of Spider-Man and Moonlight

A/N: Hi! This is my first posted Peter fic so I’m very excited about it. I haven’t consistently written in a couple of years so I am a little rusty. If you liked this I would appreciate a like and a reblog or message about it would send me over the moon! Thank you for reading if you decide to take the time to do so!

Summary: Luna is trying to master the new life of being a superhero and the best thing for her would be some kind of partner in fighting crime like Spider-Man right? Not like their banter and shameless flirting had anything to do with it of course.

Word count: 2.9k

Warnings: violence, brief mentions of sexual assault

Chapter 1 - No Going Back Now

New York had been home to Luna Carter for almost three years. Three years of feeling like she could blend in. Three years of feeling like she was free. Three years of finding herself. 

When she had first gotten to New York she was beyond lost and scared; she was terrified and on another planet. Now she felt like she had a good head on her shoulders and wasn’t afraid of herself. She was a strong woman who didn’t fear herself anymore. She hated when people talked on the phone so loud the entire block knew their business and she loved when people were so clearly in their own world and couldn’t be bothered to pay attention to what was around them. She loved the show Golden Girls, Blanche was her favorite, and hated jelly filled donuts. The last year of her life had been the best because that was when the living had really started and she had felt safe for the first time in her life. She was truly free and had stopped looking over her shoulder and double checking her front door lock and waking up at all hours of the night to look out her window to make sure she wasn’t being watched. She was free.

New York was home and she was happy.

“Five bucks says he pukes.”

Luna looked to Cassidy who was looking at the kid at table four who was scarfing down ice cream after already having had more food than she herself could eat. His parents paid no mind and continued on with their conversation with their friends. It was some dinner to celebrate some business deal. Her restaurant was a five star restaurant in Brooklyn where the cheapest item on the menu was a bowl of tomato soup at 37 dollars- made with organic sundried tomatoes from the garden out back and fresh cream that came from a fairy upstate of course. 

“Glad that’s not my table.” Luna chuckled as she proceeded to clock out on the screen in front of her. “In fact, none of these are my tables. You wanna know why?”

Cassidy groaned. “Cause Robbie cut you?”

“You know it.” Luna snickered. “After that table with the football guy left me a three hundred dollar tip I have been so ready to go. I’ve never wanted to be cut so bad in my life. And you wanna know what I’m gonna do when I get home?”

“What’s that?” Cassidy was amused.

“I’m gonna get into a very hot bath with a glass of rose and watch Mr. Darcy tell Elizabeth Bennet that she has bewitched him body and soul.”

“You bitch. I wanna be you so bad right now.”

Luna couldn’t keep the grin off her face and did a shoulder shake. “I would wanna be me too.”

The sound of a child retching followed by screams had Cassidy groaning. 

“Good luck with that, girl. I hope they tip you good.”

Cassidy rolled her eyes before heading to table four. “Not likely.”

Walking out the back door of Vetro’s, Luna headed home. She worked in Brooklyn but lived in Queens and took the subway every day. She didn’t mind it very much except when it snowed but that night wasn’t one of those nights and she was in a good mood as she headed for the subway. 

It was already dark out and she hugged her thrifted wool coat closer, missing the long summer days when there would still be some form of light out when she got off of work.

The ride home felt longer than normal, her excitement to get there making it feel like she would never make it. Eventually her stop came and she walked off eagerly and headed up, already thinking of what kind of bath bomb she was going to use and dying to get her brown wig off.

She was only two blocks away from her building when something caught her eye. It was a scuffle in an alleyway on the other side of the street. It took her a second to realize a man was being mugged. 

Frozen in place, she watched as she tried to figure out what to do. She knew she could easily help the man but at what cost to herself? She didn’t know if she could keep watching and do nothing but she didn’t know if she was willing to expose herself. 

Before she could figure out her decision, a flash of red and blue appeared and the two men were broken apart. She could only just hear what was said. 

“Didn’t your mother teach you it’s not nice to take things that aren’t yours?”

She watched as Spider-Man webbed the mugger to a wall. She’d never seen him in person before and had only seen him in photos and in the news but she had a coworker who had and Luna now understood what she had meant when she said he was tall looking even if he wasn’t barely six foot.

Not wanting to be noticed and her concerns for the man who was being attacked qualmed, she walked the two blocks briskly. The entire time she kept replaying the moment she did nothing but stand there when the man had been attacked. What would have happened if Spider-Man hadn’t showed up? Would she have witnessed a murder? No. She wouldn’t have let that happen. She wouldn’t have been able to stand by as someone’s life was taken.

As she sat in the bubble bath with a glass of rose, she felt guilty and regretful for not helping the man. She could have stopped it with ease but she hadn’t because she was worried about herself. She wished she had stopped to thank Spider-Man for doing what he did. She never really thought much about it before but he was an extremely selfless person. He gave up his time every day to keep the city safe and put himself in danger to protect others. She hoped he got some kind of compensation for it. 

What she had thought about was where he’d gotten his powers from. Had he been born with them or were they given to him like her? How much did they have in common? He was clearly better than her because he, at least, was using his powers to help people.

But why couldn’t she? Why couldn’t she put on a mask and use her powers to help people? To help keep the city safe? She had weapons built into her hands and she was doing nothing to use them for the greater good. Maybe she could take the curse that had been forced upon her and find a way to turn it into something good. She had had her curse for six years and she hated it every second and wished she could find a way to get rid of it every second. But maybe she didn’t need to get rid of them. Maybe she just needed to do something with them.

It wasn’t like anyone could hurt her. There had only been one person who had ever physically hurt her before and he was a special case and was long gone. The safety thing wasn’t an issue. She truly didn’t believe anyone could not only best her in a fight but kill her. 

As she laid in bed she couldn’t calm her thoughts. All she could think about was if she was going to actually do it; become a superhero. She knew that it wasn’t something she should jump right into but she also couldn’t stop thinking about it and the more she thought about it the more she wanted to get out of bed to make a trip to wherever she could find fabric and sewing kit. Maybe she could track down Spider-Man and ask him what he used to make his. 

Over the next few days Luna crafted her suit. She had quite a few errors and had to start from scratch at one point when she realized she’d mixed up two measurements and had more band aids on her fingers than she could count from the needle pricking her finger. She had hand sewn the entire thing since she didn’t have a sewing machine but by the end of it it fit her like a glove and felt like a second skin.

It was made of black spandex and covered nearly her entire body. She’d given it a collar that wrapped around her neck as well as gloves that she could take off if she wanted, the seem at her wrists nearly invisible, and a zipper that went from her belly button to her collared neck that only she could open from the inside. For her feet she’d had to copy Spider-Man and tried to mirror the way he’d put built in shoes in his suit, which had been the hardest part of all. On her chest was a silver crescent moon. But her favorite part was the cape she had made. It was made of black pleather and had small silver stars on it. She had seen the fabric when she was on her way to check on and just knew she had to have it. She didn’t think of the cape until much later. It had been a last minute decision but she loved it.

Looking at herself in the mirror, she picked up the black mask she’d made. It was in the shape of cat eyes with sharp ends that flicked off and rested on the bridge of her nose. It was without a band and had eyelash glue on the inside. She tested it out and she was able to jump up and down and move around without it budging and felt confident it wouldn’t fall off. She would have to change out the glue every day but she liked the way the mask looked without a band better. 

Wearing the mask and in her suit, her stark white natural hair down and free and brushing her ribs, she felt like she was a real superhero. 

She was Moonlight. 

Her hand reached the front door knob when she froze. She couldn’t go out like this. Someone might see her coming out and know instantly she was Moonlight. How was she going to get out of her apartment? How the hell did Spider-Man get out of his?

Looking to her window, she sighed before walking across the room and opening the window. The cold air hit the exposed parts of her face and she was glad with her decision to line the inside of her suit with fleece. Very, very thick fleece. She would have to make a new suit for the summer but for now this would be perfect. 

Making sure none of the windows that were in the building across from her had their blinds open, she jumped out of her window and onto the fire escape. Maybe she would be able to drop a backpack down into the alleyway of her building and change there. She would have to start doing that in the future when it didn’t take her ten minutes to get her suit on.

Her first night as Moonlight was…disappointing to say the least. Quite literally nothing happened. She hadn’t been able to find any crime or any attacks or anything like that. She had no idea how Spider-Man did any of this and she had even tried to find him to ask him but that had also not panned out. 

It was when she was walking to work the next day that she passed a police officer and his radio was on, allowing her to overhear a call about a breaking and entering. Her head had whipped up when she realized she needed a police radio. She didn’t know if that’s how Spider-Man did it but this would be how she did it. 

That night she sat and waited until she got the call about a bank robbery by a “bird man” only seven blocks from her apartment and she was jumping out of her window and letting her magic do half the work of her run. It wasn’t that she could fly exactly but she could exert the power to carry her body partially. 

When she got there, she halted upon seeing that Spider-Man was already there. She didn’t know what to do. Was there some kind of rule where if one hero was there it was their save? Should she wait on the sidelines and see if he needed help? Or should she just join in on the fight? 

She didn’t have time to decide because bird guy clocked her and headed right for her with his very large wings that looked like they were part of an attachment on his back. 

“Okay I guess here we go.” She mumbled to herself, raising her hands and putting out the energy to entrap the villain. It worked and he was suspended in her magic. Luna had two different parts to her power. There was her energy which she had been given unwillingly and then there was her magic that she believed was an evolved part of her energy. The energy was dangerous and deadly but the magic was good and quite literally magic.

She felt so exposed and like she was naked. She had never used her powers out in public before, let alone in front of anyone that hadn’t been in Manheim’s lab. But she needed to get used to it. 

“What the fuck is this?!” He screamed. 

Spider-Man landed beside her, ignoring bird mans profanities. “Whoa! How are you doing that?” He was in awe but she didn’t have time to explain. She’d never held that much weight in her magic before.

Her arms started to shake as her muscles struggled with the weight. “Magic. I’m going to lose him so do whatever you gotta and do it quickly. He’s like really heavy!”

Just as Spider-Man was about to web him up, he flapped his wings hard enough to break free of Luna’s magic. She felt fear for the first time and for a brief second wondered if she was in way over her head.

A wing shot out at her but she dodged it, letting out a shaky exhale.

The two of them took him on in a fight, Luna learning his name was Vulture and not bird guy. It was intense and they ended up on the freeway where Luna ended up doing a lot of saving rather than fighting which was good because her fighting skills were limited. She had some experience, Manheim having intended on making her powerful in every way but she hadn’t done hand to hand in years.

He was beginning to piss her off. Vulture would knock a car over and Luna would pull the people inside of it out. Vulture would pick up a running civilian fleeing for their life and let them drop as a way to distract Luna and she would end up having to use her magic to catch them so his method was working. It did make it easier for Spider-Man who didn’t have as many people to save and was able to get more punches in. 

The two fought together as a team like they always had been one. There was an unspoken way they could tell what the other was going to do next and Luna was kind of freaked out by it. She’d never really had that with someone before. The closest thing she had to a best friend was her coworker Cassidy. 

Soon Vulture was webbed up, screaming his head off albeit, and Spider-Man was taking the bag full of money from him before making his way over to Luna.

“That was so cool!”

Finally able to take him in, she noted that he seemed much taller in person, his frame easily towering over hers- not that she was by any means tall at five foot three. His voice also took her by surprise. It was...somehow attractive.

Luna chuckled, legs starting to shake as she was feeling the come down from the adrenaline. “Thanks. You were pretty cool too.”

“What’s your name?”

“Moonlight.” She replied, the name flowing out of her mouth as if that had always been her name.

“Well thanks, Moonlight. I don’t ever have help and you were really helpful. I mean your powers are sick! When that stuff came out of your hands I was kind of freaked out at first.”

“Yeah it tends to do that to people. You were pretty great too. I’ve never seen you up close before.” She looked him up and down again and it made the energy shift.

“Oh w-well I’m always around. Friendly neighborhood Spider-Man.” He chuckled nervously. “But I mean seriously what even is that stuff that comes out of your hands? Is it telekinetic?”

She smirked. “A lady never tells.”

Turning to go, she made sure to look back and wink at the masked man before zooming off like the comet she was, her magic carrying her shaking legs.

Ending up on the top of a building, she swallowed down the vomit and breathed through her nose, eyes shut and trying to calm down. It was her first real superhero fight and she was freaking out a little bit. She felt like you were allowed to freak out your first time fighting as a superhero right? 

“No going back now.” She mumbled to herself. 

~~~~~~~~~

“Really? You knocked down an old lady for nine dollars and a fifteen dollar Starbucks gift card?” Luna scoffed as she put the money and gift card back into the small brown shoulder bag, the purse snatcher on the ground in front of her groaning in pain. Luna had just given him a solid gut punch moments ago that knocked him to the ground. Her new self defense classes were really starting to show their value.

“Fuck you, bitch.” He whined. 

“Oh how you’ve wounded my feelings.” Luna stated dryly. “How will I ever get over this?”

The sound of sirens came and Luna crossed her arms, waiting for the cops to show. She was standing in the middle of the sidewalk so they wouldn’t have to look for them. 

The one thing she hated about this new side gig she’d recently taken on was the police. Apparently a couple years back Spider-Man made a deal with the police department that he would stick around to at least give a statement on what had happened whenever he caught a thief or attacker so that they could actually put charges on the guys that were apprehended by him. By vigilante default that same rule applied to Luna which she had to learn on her fifth day by way of the police chief tracking her down and personally giving Moonlight the message. So now she had to stick around and wait for the cops to actually show up. 

Giving her statement as Moonlight was quick since it was a quick incident. Some nights it wasn’t so easy and she would have to go down to the station and fill out a signed statement, especially if it was something like an attempted murder or sexual assault- but with those two she didn’t really mind and was willing to do whatever it took to make sure they faced their consequences. 

Something she hadn’t seen coming with the job was the toll it took on a person. 

Luna was struggling immensely with the things she saw every night for the last two weeks. She would go home at the end of the night, sometimes beat to hell and the energy feeling like it had fully drained from her body, and feel unable to get the horrific things she had seen out of her head. She knew the worst of humanity, she had seen it up close and personal, but this was different somehow. 

When she was in Manheim’s lab she hadn’t been the only one there. She had seen dozens go through experiments that might be different or similar to her. Manheim had other visions and desires other than the one he had for her. She had watched a boy only a couple years older than her use his vision to burn a hole in the floor. There had been a girl who had been born with the ability to touch something and either kill it or make it die but she hadn’t been able to control it until Manheim got to her. She had seen them all be experimented on and tortured like she had. Most of them died, a couple escaped and she could only hope they were okay, but some of them had been freed by Luna herself the day she took down the entire building. So she was used to seeing horrible things done to people. She had laid in her bed while she heard the screams from those who were imprisoned alongside her. But this was somehow different. 

Maybe it was because it was happening to her too or because everyone expected that stuff to happen to them but she had never been affected by any of that like the current stuff was affecting her. 

Last week she had pulled a man off a woman in central park who was screaming. He had his pants down and she was crying. Luna knew instantly what had happened and wanted nothing more than to kill the man then and there. She knew she could and she wanted to so badly. No one who sexually assaulted another person deserved to live. But she also knew that she couldn’t do it. She had promised herself she would never use her powers to harm someone, even if that someone deserved it. She didn’t get to play god.

She hadn’t slept that night. The sound of the woman's screams replayed over and over again. 

Then there was two nights ago when she had found a body. That had shaken her too. He was a well dressed man with a grocery bag that had milk, cookies, and a new barbie. It had taken Luna a second to realize that he had had a family. He was on his way home to his family and someone murdered him. She had to call into work the next day because she kept vomiting every time she thought about him.

How had Spider-Man been doing this for years? She didn’t know how she was going to do it another night let alone years like he had. She couldn’t imagine the things he had seen in all the time he had been doing it and yet he was still doing it. 

Maybe she just wasn’t cut out for the hero business. 

It was late in the night by the time she caught a break, it being a busy one after the purse snatcher. But when it was finally quiet she floated her way up to a skyscraper where she could take a second to sit and breathe and have a moment. 

As soon as she sat down on the ledge, she felt the tears prick her eyes and she let them flow out of her and past her mask. Thank god for waterproof eyelash glue.

The city below was quiet and she wished for once that it was loud so that she could let out the cry she wanted to. 

The sound of feet hitting the ground made her freeze for a second before she realized it could only be one person. 

Wordlessly, he walked over and sat down next to her. 

“How do you do it?” Luna choked out, continuing to look ahead. 

Spider-Man sighed, knowing exactly what she was talking about. “I don’t know. It gets less…shocking with time but it doesn’t get easier.”

“I saw someone getting raped.” She sniffed. “She was screaming and he just…didn’t stop.”

“I know. I can’t even count how many…those are really hard. And anything with kids.”

Dropping her head, she bit her lip and tried to keep herself together. She knew what it was like to be a scared child being harmed; she didn’t know how she would be able to handle it when she did eventually see it.

“I don’t know if I can do this.”

“You can. I’ve been paying attention to you and I see something there.”

Finally looking at him, her glistening eyes showed how vulnerable she was. She felt like she could trust Spider-Man. He was a good person, maybe the only truly good person she had ever met. 

Spider-Man continued. “I see the way you talk to someone when they're in crisis. It’s like you know exactly what they need to hear. You genuinely care about people. You want to help. I know you can do it because your will to do good is bigger than what you think about when you’re laying in bed at night.”

“You do that too?”

“You learn how to deal with it. Doesn’t get easier to see that kinda stuff but…you learn how to handle it.”

“Thank you.” Luna exhaled shakily. “I really needed to hear that.”

“I could tell.”

It was silent for a while, a breeze picking up and Luna’s hair flowing gently in the wind. Sitting up there in the breeze with the view of New York next to Spider-Man felt so peaceful. They were just two vigilantes who were trying to do their best and no one else could understand that life better than the other. 

“I kind of have a question for you.” Spider-Man spoke, breaking the silence. 

“I mean as long as you’re not asking me to flash you sure.”

“W-What?! Why would I ask that?!”

“You would not believe how many guys have asked me to flash them this week alone.”

“I-I would never!”

Luna started laughing as his panicked tone, his hands up in defense. She could only imagine how he looked under his mask. “I’m messing with you. I know you wouldn’t ask that.”

He groaned. “Sorry that men are pigs.”

“I know you’re not one and I think it gives me hope that there are more out there like you. But what’s your question?”

“How does your mask stay on?”

Luna had several questions in mind that he might ask her like how did he magic and energy work or why her eyes turned black when she used said magic or energy but she hadn’t been prepared for that to be the question. It was the least invasive of them all. 

She couldn’t help but smile. “Oh. It’s eyelash glue. Waterproof of course.”

“Huh. Never would have thought of that. Your mask just stays on so perfect and never looks like it’s going to fall or even move at all. I was so sure it was some kind of high tech adhesive.”

She shrugged. “Just lash glue. It’s specifically the Duo brand. Sometimes I have a hard time getting my mask off at the end of the night because it’s so strong.”

A horn was honked and Luna swung her feet, content with where she was. If Spider-Man wanted to talk they could but if he didn’t want to she didn’t mind either. 

“Can I ask another question?”

“Go for it, handsome.”

Spider-Man let out a stammer that seemed like he had started to speak but he wanted to but was so taken off guard by her calling him handsome that his brain malfunctioned. Luna couldn’t help but let a small smirk grace her lips. She was a huge flirt and had a feeling that Spider-Man was a very good looking man underneath the mask. She was also sure he had an amazing body underneath the red and blue.

He shook his head. “Um I um was going to ask uh why your eyes turn black sometimes but then sometimes they’re a normal brown like right now.”

“I was waiting for that one.” She hummed. “Side effect of the energy is the theory. Not totally sure though. My hair is also a side effect. It was brown before and then one day when…it just kind of turned white. Something about the energy just drains color.”

“Ever researched into it?”

“Nope and I don’t plan too. There’s more research on why I am the way I am than I care for there to be.”

Spider-Man took the hint and nodded, dropping it.

“Can I ask a question?”

“I mean I guess it’s only fair.” He teased, sounding like a smile was behind his mask.

Her eyes scanned him up and down, tongue wetting her lips. “Do you ever get bored on nights like this? Seems a little lonely.”

She heard his intake of breath and decided that if didn’t reciprocate her flirting that she would drop it. 

He leaned in, humming. “I used to but you make things very not boring.”

Luna beamed, letting out an amused hum.

The silence fell upon them again and Spider-Man stood up. “Well I’m gonna make another round of the city and then call it a night.”

“I think I’m gonna do the same.”

Spider-Man was about to swing away when Moonlight called his name, making him look back at her. She walked up to him, feet lithe on the rooftop and hair flowing in the wind. She was right in front of him when she stopped, making him stop breathing but heart pounding in his chest. She took his hand and he watched as she put a small folded up piece of paper in his palm and then closed it for him. 

"For when you might need me to help beat up a bad guy.” She gave him a wink and then turned to go, floating down the side of the building. 

Opening up his hand, he unfolded the piece of paper and felt his stomach fill with flutters at what was on the piece of paper. 

𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐨𝐫 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐧

Things between you and Peter change with the seasons. [17k] 

c: friends-to-lovers, hurt/comfort, loneliness, peter parker isn’t good at hiding his alter ego, fluff, first kisses, mutual pining, loved-up epilogue, mention of self-harm with no graphic imagery

｡𖦹°‧⭑.ᐟ

Fall 

Peter Parker is a resting place for overworked eyes, like warm topaz nestled against a blue-cold city. He waits on you with his eyes to the screen of his phone, clicking the power button repetitively. A nervous tic. 

You close the heavy door of your apartment building. His head stays still, yet he’s heard the sound of it settling, evidence in his calmed hand. 

“Good morning!” You pull your coat on quickly. “Sorry.” 

“Good morning,” he says, offering a sleep-logged smile. “Should we go?” 

You follow Peter out of the cul-de-sac and into the street as he drops his phone into a deep pocket. To his credit, he doesn’t check it while you walk, and only glances at it when you’re taking your coat off in the heat of your favourite cafe: The Moroccan Mode glows around you, fog kissing the windows, condensation running down the inner lengths of it in beads. You murmur something to do with the odd fog and Peter tells you about water vapour. When it rains tonight, he says it’ll be warm water that falls. 

He spreads his textbook, notebook, and rinky-dink laptop out across the table while you order drinks. Peter has the same thing every visit, a decaf americano, in a wide brim mug with the pink-petal saucer. You put it down on his textbook only because that’s where he would put it himself, and you both get to work. 

As Peter helps you study, you note the simplicity of another normal day, and can’t help wondering what it is that’s missing. Something is, something Peter won’t tell you, the absence of a truth hanging over your heads. You ask him if he wants to get dinner and he says no, he’s busy. You ask him to see a movie on Friday night and he wishes he could. 

Peter misses you. When he tells you, you believe him. “I wish I had more time,” he says. 

“It’s fine,” you say, “you can’t help it.”

“We’ll do something next weekend,” he says. The lie slips out easily. 

To Peter it isn’t a lie. In his head, he’ll find the time for you again, and you’ll be friends like you used to be. 

You press the end of your pencil into your cheek, the dark roast, white paper and condensation like grey noise. This time last year, the air had been thick for days with fog you could cut. He took you on a trip to Manhattan, less than an hour from your red-brick neighbourhood, and you spent the day in a hotel pool throwing great cupfuls of water at each other. The fog was gone just fifteen miles away from home but the warm air stayed. When it rained it was sudden, strange, spit-warm splashes of it hammering the tops of your heads, your cheeks as you tipped your faces back to spy the dark clouds. 

Peter had swam the short distance to you and held your shoulders. You remember feeling like your whole life was there, somewhere you’d never been before, the sharp edges of cracked pool tile just under your feet. 

You peek over the top of your laptop screen and wonder if Peter ever thinks of that trip. 

He feels you watching and meets your eyes. “I have to tell you something,” he says, smiling shyly. 

“Sure.” 

“I signed us up for that club.” 

“Epigenetics?” 

“Molecular medicine,” he says. 

The nice thing about fog is that it gives a feeling of lateness. It’s still morning, barely ten, but it feels like the early evening. It’s gentle on the eyes, colouring the whole room with a sconced shine. You reach for Peter’s bag and sort through his jumble of possessions —stick deodorant, loose-leaf paper, a bodega’s worth of protein bars— and grab his camera. 

“What are you doing?” 

“I’m cataloguing the moment you ruined our lives,” you say, aiming the camera at his chin, squinting through the viewfinder. 

“Technically, I signed us up a few days ago,” he says. 

You snap his photo as his mouth closes around ‘ago’, keeping his half-laugh stuck on his lips. “Semantics,” you murmur. “And molecular medicine club, this has nothing to do with the estranged Gwen Stacy?”

“It has nothing to do with her. And you like molecular medicine.”

“I like oncology,” you correct, which is a sub-genre at best, “and I have enough work without joining another club. Go by yourself.” 

“I can’t go without you,” he says. Simple as that. 

He knew you’d say yes when he signed you up. It’s why he didn’t ask. You’re already forgiven him for the slight of assumption. 

“When is it?” you ask, smiling. 

—

Molecular medicine club is fun. You and a handful of ESU nerds gather around a big table in a private study room for a few hours and read about the newer discoveries and top research, like regenerative science and now taboo Oscorp research. It’s boring, sometimes, but then Peter will lean into your side and make a joke to keep you going. 

He looks at Gwen Stacy a lot. Slender, pale and freckled, with blonde hair framing a sweet face. Only when he thinks you’re not looking. Only when she isn’t either. 

—

“Good morning,” you say. 

Peter holds an umbrella over his head that he’s quick to share with you, and together you walk with heads craned down, the umbrella angled forward to fight the wind. Your outermost shoulder is wet when you reach the café, your other warm from being pressed against him. You shake the umbrella off outside the door and step onto a cushy, amber doormat to dry your sneakers. Peter stalks ahead and order the drinks, eager to get warm, so you look for a table. Your usual is full of businessmen drinking flat whites with briefcases at their legs. They laugh. You try to picture Peter in a suit: you’re still laughing when he finds you in the booth at the back. 

“Tell the joke,” he says, slamming his coffee down. He’s careful with yours. He’s given you the pink petal saucer from the side next to the straws and wooden stirrers. 

“I was thinking about you as a businessman.” 

“And that’s funny?” 

“When was the last time you wore a suit?” 

Peter shakes his head. Claims he doesn’t know. Later, you’ll remember his Uncle Ben’s funeral and feel queasy with guilt, but you don’t remember yet. “When was the last time you wore one?” he asks. “I don’t laugh at you.” 

“You’re always laughing at me, Parker.” 

The cafe isn’t as warm today. It’s wet, grimy water footsteps tracking across the terracotta tile, streaks of grey water especially heavy near the counter, around it to the bathroom. There’s no fog but a sad rattle of rain, not enough to make noise against the windows, but enough to watch as it falls in lazy rivulets down the lengths of them.

Your face is chapped with the cold, cheeks quickly come to heat as your fingers curl around your mug. They tingle with newfound warmth. When you raise your mug to your lips, your hand hardly shakes.

“You okay?” Peter asks. 

“Fine. Are you gonna help me with the math today?” 

“Don’t think so. Did you ask nicely?” 

“I did.” You’d called him last night. You would’ve just as happily submitted your homework poorly solved with the grade to prove it —you don’t want Peter’s help, you just wanted to see him. 

Looking at him now, you remember why his distance had felt a little easier. The rain tangles in his hair, damp strands curling across his forehead, his eyes dark and outfitted by darker eyelashes. Peter has the looks of someone you’ve seen before, a classical set to his nose and eyes reminiscent of that fallen angel weeping behind his arm, his russet hair in fiery disarray. There was an anger to Peter after Ben died that you didn’t recognise, until it was Peter, changed forever and for the worse and it didn’t matter —he was grieving, he was terrified, who were you to tell him to be nice again— until it started to get better. You see less of your fallen, angry angel, no harsh brush strokes, no tears. 

His eyes are still dark. Bruised often underneath, like he’s up late. If he is, it isn’t to talk to you. 

You spend an afternoon working through your equations, pretending to understand until Peter explains them to death. His earphones fall out of his pocket and he says, “Here, I’ll show you a song.” 

He walks you home. The song is dreary and sad. The man who sings is good. Lover, You Should’ve Come Over. It feels like Peter’s trying to tell you something —he isn’t, but it feels like wishing he would. 

“You okay?” you ask before you can get to your street. A minute away, less. 

“I’m fine, why?” 

You let the uncomfortable shape of his earbud fall out of your ear, the climax of the song a rattle on his chest. “You look tired, that’s all. Are you sleeping?” 

“I have too much to do.” 

You just don’t get it. “Make sure you’re eating properly. Okay?” 

His smile squeezes your heart. Soft, the closest you’ll ever get. “You know May,” he says, wrapping his arm around your shoulders to give you a short hug, “she wouldn’t let me go hungry. Don’t worry about me.” 

—

The dip into depression you take is predictable. You can’t help it. Peter being gone makes it worse. 

You listen to love songs and take long walks through the city, even when it’s dark and you know it’s a bad idea. If anything bad happens Spider-Man could probably save me, you think. New York’s not-so-new vigilante keeps a close eye on things, especially the women. You can’t count how many times you’ve heard the same story. A man followed me home, saw me across the street, tried to get into my apartment, but Spider-Man saved me. 

You’re not naive, you realise the danger of walking around without protection assuming some stranger in a mask will save you, but you need to get out of the house. It goes on for weeks. 

You walk under streetlights and past stores with CCTV, but honestly you don’t really care. You’re not thinking. You feel sick and heavy and it’s fine, really, it’s okay, everything works out eventually. It’s not like it’s all because you miss Peter, it’s just a feeling. It’ll go away. 

“You’re in deep thought,” a voice says, garnering a huge flinch from the depths of your stomach.

You turn around, turn back, and flinch again at the sight of a man a few paces ahead. Red shoulders and legs, black shining in a webbed lattice across his chest. “Oh,” you say, your heartbeat an uncomfortable plodding under your hand, “sorry.” 

“Why are you sorry? I scared you.”

“I didn’t realise you were there.” 

Spider-Man doesn’t come any closer. You take a few steps in his direction. You’ve never met before but you’d like to see him up close, and you aren’t scared. Not beyond the shock of his arrival. 

“Can I walk you to where you’re going?” Spider-Man asks you. He’s humming energy, fidgeting and shifting from foot to foot. 

“How do I know you’re the real Spider-Man?” 

After all, there are high definition videos of his suit on the news sometimes. You wouldn’t want to find out someone was capable of making a replica in the worst way possible. 

You can’t be sure, but you think he might be smiling behind the mask, his arms moving back as though impressed at your questioning. “What do you need me to do to prove it?” he asks. 

He speaks hushed. Rough and deep. “I don’t know. What’s Spider-Man exclusive?” 

“I can show you the webs?” 

You pull your handbag further up your arm. “Okay, sure. Shoot something.” 

Spider-Man aims his hand at the streetlight across the way and shoots it. He makes a severing motion with his wrist to stop from getting pulled along by it, letting the web fall like an alien tendril from the bulb. The light it produces dims slightly. A chill rides your spine. 

“Can I walk you now?” he asks. 

“You don’t have more important things to do?” If the bitterness you’re feeling creeps into your tone unbidden, he doesn’t react. 

“Nothing more important than you.” 

You laugh despite yourself. “I’m going to Trader Joe’s.” 

“Yellowstone Boulevard?” 

“That’s the one…” 

You fall into step beside him, and, awkwardly, begin to walk again. It’s a short walk. Trader Joe’s will still be open for hours despite the dark sky, and you’re in no hurry. “My friend, he likes the rolled tortilla chips they do, the chilli ones.” 

“And you’re going just for him?” Spider-Man asks. 

“Not really. I mean, yeah, but I was already going on a walk.” 

“Do you always walk around by yourself? It’s late. It’s dangerous, you know, a beautiful girl like you,” he says, descending into an odd mixture of seriousness and teasing. His voice jumps and swoons to match. 

“I like walking,” you say. 

Spider-Man walking is a weird thing to see. On the news, he’s running, swinging, or flying through the air untethered. You’re having trouble acquainting the media image of him with the quiet man you’re walking beside now.

”Is everything okay?” he asks. “You seem sad.” 

“Do I?” 

“Yeah, you do.” 

“Maybe I am sad,” you confess, looking forward, the bright sign of Trader Joe’s already in view. It really is a short walk. “Do you ever–” You swallow against a surprising tightness in your throat and try again, “Do you ever feel like you’re alone?” 

“I’m not alone,” he says carefully.

“Me neither, but sometimes I feel like I am.” 

He laughs quietly. You bristle thinking you’re being made fun of, but the laugh tapers into a sad one. “Sometimes I feel like I’m the only person in the world,” he says. “Even here. I forget that it’s not something I invented.” 

“Well, I guess being a hero would feel really lonely. Who else do we have like you?” You smile sympathetically. “It must be hard.” 

“Yeah.” His head tips to the side, and a crash of glass rings in the distance, crunching, and then there’s a squeal. It sounds like a car accident. Spider-Man goes tense. “I’ll come back,” he says. 

“That’s okay, Spider-Man, I can get home by myself. Thank you for the protection detail.” 

He sprints away. In half a second he’s up onto a short roof, then between buildings. It looks natural. It takes your breath away. 

You buy Peter’s chips at Trader Joe’s and wait for a few minutes at the door, but Spider-Man doesn’t come back. 

—

I don’t want to study today, Peter’s text says the next day. Come over and watch movies? 

The last handholds of your fugue are washed away in the shower. You dab moisturiser onto your face and neck and stand by the open window to help it dry faster, taking in the light drizzle of rain, the smell of it filling your room and your lungs in cold gales. You dress in sweatpants and a hoodie, throw on your coat, and stuff the rolled tortilla chips into a backpack to ferry across the neighbourhood. 

Peter still lives at home with his Aunt May. You’d been in awe of it when you were younger, Peter and his Aunt and Uncle, their home-cooked family dinners, nights spent on the roof trying to find constellations through light pollution, stretched out together while it was warm enough to soak in your small rebellion. Ben would call you both down eventually. When you’re older! he’d always promise. 

Peter’s waiting in the open door for you. He ushers you inside excitedly, stripping you out of your coat and forgetting your wet shoes as he drags you to the kitchen. “Look what I got,” he says. 

The Parker kitchen is a big, bright space with a chopping block island. The counters are crowded by pots, pans, spices, jams, coffee grounds, the impossible drying rack. There’s a cross-stitch about the home on the microwave Ben did to prove to May he could still see the holes in the aida. 

You follow Peter to the stove where he points at a ceramic Dutch oven you’ve eaten from a hundred times. “There,” he says. 

“Did you cook?” you ask. 

“Of course I didn’t cook, even if the way you said that is offensive. I could cook. I’m an excellent chef.” 

“The only thing May’s ever taught you is spaghetti and meatballs.” 

“Hope you like marinara,” he says, nudging you toward the stove. 

You take the lid off of the Dutch oven to unveil a huge cake. Dripping with frosting, only slightly squashed by the lid, obviously homemade. He’s dotted the top with swirls of frosting and deep red strawberries. 

“It’s for you,” he says casually. 

“It’s not my birthday.” 

“I know. You like cake though, don’t you?” 

You’d tell Peter you liked chunks of glass if that was what he unveiled. “Why’d you make me a cake?” 

“I felt like you deserved a cake. You don’t want it?” 

“No, I want it! I want the cake, let’s have cake, we can go to 91st and get some ice cream, it’ll be amazing.” You don’t bother trying to hide your beaming smile now, twisting on the spot to see him properly, your hands falling behind your back. “Thank you, Peter. It’s awesome. I had no idea you could even– that you’d even–” You press forward, smushing your face against his chest. “Wow.” 

“Wow,” he says, wrapping his arms around you. He angles his head to nose at your temple. “You’re welcome. I would’ve made you a cake years ago if I knew it was gonna make you this happy.” 

“It must’ve taken hours.” 

“May helped.” 

“That makes much more sense.” 

“Don’t be insolent.” Peter squeezes you tightly. He doesn’t let go for a really long time. 

He extracts the cake from the depths of the Dutch oven and cuts you both a slice. He already has ice cream, a Neapolitan box that he cuts into with a serrated knife so you can each have a slice of all three flavours. It’s good ice cream, fresh for what it is and melting in big drops of cream as he gets the couch ready.

“Sit down,” he says, shoving the plates with his strangely great balance onto the coffee table. “Remote’s by you. I’m gonna get drinks.” 

You take your plate, carving into the cake with the end of a warped spoon, its handle stamped PETE and burnished in your grasp. The crumb is soft but dense in the best way. The ganache between layers is loose, cake wet with it, and the frosting is perfect, just messy. You take another satisfied bite. You’re halfway through your slice before Peter makes it back. 

“I brought you something too, but it’s garbage compared to this,” you say through a mouthful, hand barely covering your mouth. 

Peter laughs at you. “Yeah, well, say it, don’t spray it.” 

“I guess I’ll keep it.” 

“Keep it, bub, I don’t need anything from you.” 

He doesn’t say it the way you’re expecting. “No,” you say, pleased when he sits knee to knee, “you can have it. S’just a bag of chips from Trader–”

“The rolled tortilla chips?” he asks. You nod, and his eyes light up. “You really are the best friend ever.” 

“Better than Harry?” 

“Harry’s rich,” Peter says, “so no. I’m kidding! Joking, come here, let me try some of that.” 

“Eat your own.” 

Peter plays a great host, letting you choose the movies, making lunch, ordering takeout in the evening and refusing to let you pay for it. This isn’t that out of character for Peter, but what shocks you is his complete unfiltered attention. He doesn’t check his phone, the tension you couldn’t name from these last few weeks nowhere to be felt. You’re flummoxed by the sudden change, but you missed him. You won’t look a gift horse in the mouth; you won’t question what it is that had Peter keeping you at arm’s length now it’s gone.

To your annoyance, you can’t stop thinking about Spider-Man. You keep opening your mouth to tell Peter you talked to him but biting your tongue. Why am I keeping it a secret? you wonder. 

“Have something to tell you.” 

“You do?” you ask, reluctant to sit properly, your feet tucked under his thigh and your body completely lax with the weight of the Parker throw. 

“Is that surprising?” 

“Is that a trick question?” 

“No. Just. I’ve been not telling you something.” 

“Okay, so tell me.” 

Peter goes pink, and stiff, a fake smile plastered over his lips. “Me and Gwen, we’re really done.” 

“I know, Pete. She broke up with you for reasons nobody felt I should be enlightened right after graduation.” Your stomach pangs painfully. “Unless you…”

“She’s going to England.” 

“She is?” 

“Oxford.” 

You struggle to sit up. “That sucks, Peter. I’m sorry.” 

“But?” 

You find your words carefully. “You and Gwen really liked each other, but I think that–” You grow in confidence, meeting his eyes firmly. “That there’s always been some part of you that couldn’t actually commit to her. So. I don’t know, maybe some distance will give you clarity. And maybe it’ll break your heart, but at least then you’ll know how you really feel, and you can move forward.” You avoid telling him to move on. 

“It wasn’t Gwen,” he says, which has a completely different meaning to the both of you. 

“Obviously, she’s the smartest girl I’ve ever met. She’s beautiful. Of course it’s not her fault,” you say, teasing.

“Really, that you ever met?” Peter asks. 

“She’s the best girl you were ever gonna land.“ 

He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I guess so.” After a few more minutes of quiet, he says, “I think we were done before. I just hadn’t figured it out yet. Something wasn’t right.” 

“You were so back and forth. You’re not mean, there must’ve been something stopping you from going steady,” you agree. “You were breaking up every other week.”

“I know,” he whispers, tipping his head against the back couch. 

“Which, it’s fine, you don’t–” You grimace. “I can’t talk today. Sorry. I just mean that it’s alright that you never made it work.” You worry that sounds plainly obvious and amend, “Doesn’t make you a bad person. You’re never a bad person, Peter.” 

“I know. Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome. You don’t need me to tell you.” 

“It’s nice, though. I like when you tell me stuff. I want all of your secrets.” 

You should say Good, because I have something unbelievable to tell you, and I should’ve said it the moment I got home. 

Good, because last night I met the bravest man in New York City, and he walked me to the store for your chips. 

Good, because I have so much I’m keeping to myself.

You ruffle his hair. Spider-Man goes unmentioned. 

— 

He visits with a whoop. You don’t flinch when he lands —you’d heard the strange whip and splat of his webs landing nearby. 

“Spider-Man,” you say. 

“What’s that about?” 

“What?” 

“The way you said that. You laughed.” Spider-Man stands in spandexed glory before you, mask in place. He’s got a brown stain up the side of his thigh that looks more like mud than blood, but it’s not as though each of his fights are bloodless. They’re infamously gory on occasion.

“Did you get hurt?” you ask. You’re worried. You could help him, if he needs it. 

“Aw, this? That’s a scratch. That’s nothing, don’t worry about it. I’ve had worse from that stray cat living outside of 91st.” 

You look at him sharply. 91st is shorthand for 91st Bodega, and it’s not like you and Peter made it up, but suddenly, the man in front of you is Peter. The way he says it, that unique rhythm. 

Peter’s not so rough-voiced, you argue with yourself. Your Peter speaks in a higher register, dulcet often, only occasionally sarcastic. Spider-Man is rough, and cawing, and loud. Spider-Man acts as though the ground is a suggestion. Peter can’t jump off the second diving board at the pool. Spider-Man rolls his shoulders back in front of you with a confidence Peter rarely has. 

“What?” he asks. 

“Sorry. You just reminded me of someone.” 

His voice falls deeper still. “Someone handsome, I hope.” 

You take a small step around him, hoping it invites him to walk along while communicating how sorely you want to leave the subject behind. When he doesn’t follow, you add, “Yes, he’s handsome.” 

“I knew it.”

“What do you look like under the mask?”

Spider-Man laughs boisterously. “I can’t just tell you that.” 

“No? Do I have to earn it?” 

“It’s not like that. I just don’t tell anyone, ever.” 

“Nobody in the whole world?” you ask. 

The rain is spitting. New York lately is cold cold cold, little in the way of sunshine and no end in sight. Perhaps that’s all November’s are destined to be. You and Spider-Man stick to the inside of the sidewalk. Occasionally, a passerby stares at him, or calls out in Hello, and Spider-Man waves but doesn’t part from you. 

“Tell me something about you and I’ll tell you something about me,” Spider-Man says. “I’ll tell you who knows my identity.” 

“What do you want to know about me?” you ask, surprised. 

“A secret. That’s fair.” 

“Hold on, how’s that fair?” You tighten your scarf against a bitter breeze. “What use do I have for the people who know who you are? That doesn’t bring me any closer to the truth.” 

“It’s not about who knows, it’s about why I told them.” Spider-Man slips around you, forcing you to walk on the inside of the sidewalk as a car pulls past you all too quickly and sends a sheet of dirty rainwater up Spider-Man’s side. He shakes himself off. “Jerk!” he shouts after the car. 

“My secrets aren’t worth anything.”

“I doubt that, but if that’s true, that makes it a fair trade, doesn’t it?” 

He sounds peppy considering the pool of runoff collecting at his feet. You pick up your pace again and say, “Alright, useless secret for a useless secret.” 

You think about all your secrets. Some are odd, some gross. Some might make the people around you think less of you, while others would surely paint you in a nice light. A topaz sort of technicolor. But they aren’t useless, then, so you move on. 

“Oh, I know. I hate my major.” You grin at Spider-Man. “That’s a good one, right? No one else knows about that.” 

“You do?” Spider-Man asks. His voice is familiar, then, for its sympathy. 

“I like science, I just hate math. It’s harder than I thought it would be, and I need so much help it makes me hate the whole thing.” 

Spider-Man doesn’t drag the knife. “Okay. Only three people know who I am under the mask. It was four, briefly.” He clears his throat. “I told one person because I was being selfish and the others out of necessity. I’m trying really hard not to tell anybody else.”

“How come?” 

“It just hurts people.” 

You linger in a gap of silence, not sure what to say. A handful of cars pass you on the road. 

“Tell me another one,” he says. 

“What for?” 

“I don’t know, just tell me one.” 

“How do I know you aren’t extorting me for something?” You grin as you say it, a hint of flirtation. “You’ll know my face and my secrets and even if you tell me a really gory juicy one, I have no one to tell and no name to pair it with.” 

“I’m not showing you anything,” he warns, teasing, sounding so awfully like Peter that your heart trips again, an uneven capering that has you faltering in the street. 

Peter’s shorter, you decide, sizing him up. His voice sounds similar and familiar but Peter doesn’t ask for secrets. He doesn’t have to. (Or, he didn’t have to, once upon a time.) 

“Where are you going?” Spider-Man asks. 

“Oh, nowhere.” 

“Seriously, you’re out here walking again for no reason?” 

“I like to walk. It’s not like it’s dark out yet.” You’re not far at all from Queensboro Hill here. Walking in any direction would lead you to a garden —Flushing Meadows, Kew Gardens, Kissena Park. “Walk me to Kissena?” you ask. 

“Sure, for that secret.” 

You laugh as Spider-Man takes the lead, keeping time with him, a natural match of pace. It’s exciting that Spider-Man of all people wants to know one of your useless secrets enough to ask you twice. The attention of it makes searching for one a matter of how fast you can find one rather than a question of why you’d want to. It slips out before you can think better of it. 

“I burned my wrist a few days ago on a frying pan,” you confess, the phantom pain of the injury an itch. “It blistered and I cried when I did it, but I haven’t told anyone about it.” 

“Why not?” he asks. 

He shouldn’t use that tone with you, like he’s so so sorry. It makes you want to really tell him everything. How insecure you feel, how telling things feels like asking for someone to care, and half the time they don’t, and half the time you’re embarrassed. 

You walk past the bakery that demarcates the beginning of Kissena Park grounds across the way. “I didn’t think about it at first. I’m used to keeping things to myself. And then I didn’t tell anyone for so long that mentioning it now wouldn’t make sense. Like, bringing it up when it’s a scar won’t do much.” It’s a weak lie. It comes out like a spigot to a drying up tree. Glugs, fat beads of sound and the pull to find another thing to say.

“It was only a few days ago, right? It must still hurt. People want to know that stuff.” 

“Maybe I’ll tell someone tomorrow,” you say, though you won’t. 

“Thanks for telling me.”

The humour in spilling a secret like that to a superhero stops you from feeling sorry for yourself. You hide your cold fingers in your coat, rubbing the stiff skin of your knuckles into the lining for friction-heat. The rain has let up, wind whipping empty but brisk against your cheeks. Your lips will be chapped when you get home, whenever that turns out to be. 

“This is pretty far from Trader Joe’s,” he comments, like he’s read your mind. 

“Just an hour.” 

“Are you kidding? It’s an hour for me.” 

“That’s not true, Spider-Man, I’ve seen those webs in action. I still remember watching you on the News that night, the cranes. I remember,” —you try to meet his eyes despite the mask— “my heart in my throat. Weren’t you scared?”

“Is that the secret you want?” he asks. 

“I get to choose?” 

Spider-Man throws his gaze around, his hand behind his head like he might play with his hair. You come to a natural stop across the street from Kissena Park’s playground. Teenagers crowd the soft-landing floor, smaller children playing on the wet rungs of the climbing frame. 

“If you want to,” he says. 

“Then yeah, I want to know if you were scared.” 

“I didn’t haveI time to be scared. Connors was already there, you know?” He shifts from one foot to the other. “I don’t think I’ve ever thought about it before. I wasn’t scared of the height, if that’s what you mean. I already had practice by then, and I knew I had to do it. Like, I didn’t have a choice, so I just did it. I had to save the day, so I did.” 

“When they lined up the cranes–”

“It felt like flying,” Spider-Man interrupts. 

“Like flying.”

You picture the weightlessness, the adrenaline, the catch of your weight so high up and the pressure of being flung between the next point. The idea that you have to just do something, so you do. 

“That’s a good secret.” You offer a grateful smile. “It doesn’t feel equal. I burned myself and you saved the city.” 

“So tell me another one,” he says. 

—

Maybe you started to fall for Peter after his Uncle Ben passed away. Not the days where you’d text him and he’d ignore you, or the days spent camping outside of his house waiting for him to get home. It wasn’t that you couldn’t like him, angry as he was; there’s always been something about his eyes when he’s upset that sticks around. You loathe to see him sad but he really is pretty, and when his eyelashes are wet and his mouth is turned down, formidable, it’s an ache. A Cabanel painting, dramatic and dark and other. 

It was after. When he started sending Gwen weird smiles and showing up to the movies exhilarated, out of breath, unwilling to tell you where he’d been. Skating, he’d always say. Most of the time he didn’t have his skateboard. 

You’d only seen them kiss once, his hand on her shoulder curling her in, a pang of heat. You were curdled by jealousy but it was more than that. Peter was tipping her head back, was kissing her soundly, a fierceness from him that made you sick to think about. You spent weeks afterwards up at night, tossing, turning, wishing he’d kiss you like that, just once, so you could feel how it felt to be completely wrapped up in another person. 

You’d always held out for Peter, in a way. It was more important to you that he be your friend. You were young, and love had been a far off thing, and then one day you suddenly wanted it. You learned just how aching an unrequited love could be, like a bruise, where every time you saw Peter —whether it be alone or with Gwen, with anyone— it was like he knew exactly where to poke the bruise. Press the heel of his hand and push. The worst is when he found himself affectionate with you, a quick clasp of your cheek in his palm as he said goodbye. Nights spent in his twin bed, of course you’ll fit, of course you couldn’t go home, not this late, May won’t care if we keep the door open —the suggestion that the door being closed might’ve meant something. His sleeping arm furled around you. 

Now you’re nearing the end of your second semester at ESU, Gwen is going to England at the end of the year, and Peter hasn’t tried to stop her, but he’s still busy. 

“Whatever,“ you say, taking a deep breath. You’re not mad at Peter, you just miss him. Thinking about him all the time won’t change a thing. “It’s fine.” 

“I’d hope so.” 

You swing around. “Don’t do that!”

Spider-Man looks vaguely chastened, taking a step back. “I called out.” 

“You did?” 

“I did. Hey, miss, over there! The one who doesn’t know how to get a goddamn taxi!” 

“I like to walk,” you say. 

“Yeah, so you’ve said. Have you considered that all this walking is bad for you? It’s freezing out, Miss Bennett!” 

“It’s not that bad.” You have your coat, a scarf, your thermal leggings underneath your jeans. “I’m fine.” 

“What’s wrong with staying at home?” 

“That’s not good for you. And you’re one to talk, Spider-Man, aren’t you out on the streets every night? You should take a day off.” 

“I don’t do this every night.” 

“Don’t you get tired?”

Spider-Man’s eyelets seem to squint, his mock-anger effusive as he crosses his arms across his chest. “No, of course not. Do I look like I get tired?” 

“I don’t know. You’re in a full suit, I can’t tell. I guess you don’t… seem tired. You know, with all the backflips.” 

“Want me to do one?” 

“On command?” You laugh. “No, that’s okay. Save your strength, Spider-Man.” 

“So where are you heading today?” he asks. 

There’s a slip of skin peeking out against his neck. You’re surprised he can’t feel the cold there, stepping toward him to point. “I can see your stubble.” 

He yanks his mask down. “Hasty getaway.” 

“A getaway, undressed? Spider-Man, that’s not very gentlemanly.” 

You start to walk toward the Cinemart. Spider-Man, to your strange pleasure, follows. He walks with considerable casualness down the sidewalk by your left, occasionally letting his head turn to chase a distant sound where it echoes from between high-rises and along the busy street. It’s cold and dark, but New York is hectic no matter what, even the residential areas. (Is there such a thing? The neighbourhoods burst with small businesses and backstreet sales, no matter the time.)

“Luckily for you, crime is slow tonight,” he says. 

“Lucky me?” You wonder if your acquainted vigilante flirts with every girl he stalks. “You realise I’ve managed to get everywhere I’m going for the last two decades without help?” 

“I assume there was more than a little help during that first decade.” 

“That’s what you think. I was a super independent toddler.” 

Spider-Man tips his head back and laughs, but that laugh is quickly squashed with a cough. “Sure you were.” 

“Is there a reason you’re escorting me, Spider-Man?” you ask. 

“No. I– I recognised you, I thought I’d say hi.” 

“Hi, Spider-Man.” 

“Hi.” 

“Can I ask you something? Do you work?” 

Spider-Man stammers again, “I– yeah. I work. Freelance, mostly.” 

“I was wondering how you fit all the crime fighting into your life, is all. University is tough enough.” You let the wind bat your scarf off of your shoulder. “I couldn’t do what you do.” 

“Yeah, you could.” 

He sounds sure. 

“How would you know?” you ask. “Maybe I’m awful when you’re not walking me around. I hate New York. I hate people.” 

“No, you don’t. You’re not awful. Don’t ask me how I know, ‘cos I just know.” 

You try not to look at him. If you look at him, you’re gonna smile at him like he hung the moon. “Well, tonight I’m going to be dreadfully selfish. My friend said he’d buy my movie ticket and take me out for dinner, a real dinner, the mac and cheese with imitation lobster at Benny’s. Have you tried that?” 

Spider-Man takes a big step. “Tonight?” he asks. 

“Yep, tonight. That’s where I’m going, the Cinemart.” You frown at his hand pressing into his stomach. “Are you okay? You look like you’re gonna throw up.” 

“I can hear– something. Someone’s crying. I gotta go, okay? Have fun at the movies, okay?” He throws his arm up, a silken web shooting from his wrist to the third floor of an apartment complex. “Bye!” he shouts, taking a running jump to the apartment, using his web as an anchor. He flings himself over the roof. 

Woah, you think, warmth filling your cold cheeks, the tip of your nose. He’s lithe.  

Peter arrives ten minutes late for the movie, which is half an hour later than you’d agreed to meet. 

“Sorry!” he shouts, breathless as he grabs your hands. “God, I’m sorry! I’m so sorry. You should beat me up. I’m sorry.” 

“What the fuck happened?” you ask, not particularly angry, only relieved to see him with enough time to still catch the movie. “You’re sweating like crazy, your hair’s wet.” 

“I ran all the way here, Jesus, do I smell bad? Don’t answer that. Fuck, do we have time?” 

You usher Peter inside. He pays for the tickets with hands shaking and you attempt to wipe the sweat from his forehead with your sleeve. “You could’ve called me,” you say, content to let him grab you by the arm and race you to the screen doors, “we could’ve caught the next one. Why were you so late, anyways? Did you forget?” 

“Forget about my favourite girl? How could I?” He elbows open the doors to let you enter first. “Now shh,” he whispers, “find the seats, don’t miss the trailers. You love them.” 

“You love them–”

“I’ll get popcorn,” he promises, letting the door close between you. 

You’re tempted to follow, fingers an inch from the handle. 

You turn away and rush to find your seats. Hopefully, the popcorn line is ten blocks long, and he spends the night punished for his wrongdoing. My favourite girl. You laugh nervously into your hand. 

—

Winter 

Spider-Man finds you at least once a week for the next few weeks. He even brings you an umbrella one time, stars on the handle, asking you rather politely to go home. He offers to buy you a hot dog as you’re walking past the stand, takes you on a shortcut to the convenience store, and helps you get a piece of gum off of your shoe with a leaf and a scared scream. He’s friendly, and you’re getting used to his company. 

One night, you’re almost home from Trader Joe’s, racing in the pouring rain when a familiar voice calls out, “Hey! Running girl! Wait a second!” 

Him, you think, as ridiculous as it sounds. You don’t know his name, but Spider-Man’s a sunny surprise in a shitty, wet winter, and you turn to the sound with a grin.

He jogs toward you. 

You feel the world pause, right in the centre of your throat. All the air gets sucked out of you. 

“Hey, what are you doing out here? Did you get my texts?” 

You blink as fat rain lands on your face. 

“You okay?” Peter asks, Peter, in a navy hoodie turning black in the rain and a brown corduroy jacket. It’s sodden, hanging heavily around his shoulders. “Come on, let’s go,” —he takes your hand and pulls until you begin to speed walk beside him— “it’s freezing!” 

“Peter–”

“Jesus Christ!” 

“Peter, what are you doing here?” you ask, your voice an echo as he drags you into the foyer of your apartment building. 

Rain hammers the door as he closes it, the windows, the foyer too dark to see properly. 

“I wanted to see you. Is that allowed?” 

“No.” 

Peter takes your hand. You look down at it, and he looks down in tandem, and it is decidedly a non-platonic move. “No?” he asks, a hair’s width from murmuring. 

“Shit, my groceries are soaked.” 

“It’s all snacks, it’s fine,” he says, pulling you to the stairs. 

You rush up the steps together to your floor. Peter takes your key when you offer it, your own fingers too stiff to manage it by yourself, and he holds the door open for you again to let you in. 

Your apartment is a ragtag assortment to match the one next door, old wooden furniture wheeled from the street corners they were left on, thrifted homeward and heavy blankets everywhere you look. You almost slip getting out of your shoes. Peter steadies you with a firm hand. He shrugs out of his coat and hangs it on the hook, prying the damp hoodie over his head and exposing a solid length of back that trips your heart as you do the same. 

“Sorry I didn’t ask,” Peter says. 

“What, to come over? It’s fine. I like you being here, you know that.” 

All your favourite days were spent here or at Peter’s house, in beds, on sofas, his hair tickling your neck as credits run down the TV and his breath evens to a light snore. You try to settle down with him, changing into dry clothes, his spare stuff left at the bottom of your wardrobe for his next inevitable impromptu visit. You turn on the TV, letting him gather you into his side with more familiarity than ever. Rain lays its fingertips on your window and draws lazy lines behind half-turned blinds. You rest on the arm and watch Peter watch the movie, answering his occasional, “You okay?” with a meagre nod. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks eventually. “You’re so quiet.” 

Your hand over your mouth, you part your marriage and pinky finger, marriage at the corner, pinky pressed to your bottom lip, the flesh chapped by a season of frigid winds and long walks. “‘M thinking,” you say. 

“About?” 

About the first night in your new apartment. You got the apartment a couple of weeks before the start of ESU. Not particularly close to the university but close to Peter, your best, nicest friend. You met in your second year of High School, before Peter got contacts, ‘cos he was good at taking photographs and you were in charge of the school newspapers media sourcing. You used to wait for Peter to show up ten minutes late like clockwork, every week. And every week he’d barge into the club room and say, “Fuck, I’m sorry, my last class is on the other side of the building,” until it turned into its own joke. 

Three years later, you got your apartment, and Peter insisted you throw a housewarming party even if he was the only person invited. 

“Fuck,” he’d said, ten minutes late, a cake in one hand and a whicker basket the other, “sorry. My last class is on–”

But he didn’t finish. You’d laughed so hard with relief at the reference that he never got the chance. Peter remembered your very first inside joke, because Peter wasn’t about to go off to ESU and meet new friends and forget you. 

But Peter’s been distant for a while now, because Peter’s Spider-Man. 

“Do you remember,” you say, not willing to share the whole truth, “when you joined the school newspaper to be the official photographer, and you taught me the rule of thirds?” 

“So you didn’t need me,” he says. 

“I was just thinking about it. We ran that newspaper like the Navy.” 

Peter holds your gaze. “Is that really what you were thinking about?” 

“Just funny,” you murmur, dropping your hand in your lap and breaking his stare. “So much has changed.” 

“Not that much.” 

“Not for me, no.” 

Peter gets a look in his eyes you know well. He’s found a crack in you and he’s gonna smooth it over until you feel better. You’re expecting his soft tone, his loving smile, but you’re not expecting the way he pulls you in —you’d slipped away from him as the evening went on, but Peter erases every millimetre of space as he slides his arm under your lower back and ushers you into his side. You hold your breath as he hugs you, as he looks down at you. It’s really like he loves you, the line between platonic and romantic a blur. He’s never looked at you like this before.

“I don’t want you to change,” he whispers. 

“I want to catch up with you,” you whisper back. 

“Catch up with me? We’re in the exact same place, aren’t we?”

“I don’t know, are we?” 

Peter hugs you closer, squishing your head down against his jaw as he rubs your shoulder. “Of course we are.” 

Peter… What is he doing? 

You let yourself relax against him. 

“You do change,” he whispers, an utterance of sound to calm that awful bruise he gave you all those months ago, “you change every day, but you don’t need to try.” 

“I just… feel like everyone around me is…” You shake your head. “Everyone’s so smart, and they know what they’re doing, or they’re– they’re special. I don’t know anything. So I guess lately I’ve been thinking about that, and then you–”

“What?” 

You can say it out loud. You could. 

“Peter, you’re…” 

“I’m what?” he asks. 

His fingers glide down the length of your arm and up again. 

If you're wrong, he’ll laugh. And if you’re right, he might– might stop touching you. Your head feels so heavy, and his touch feels like it’s gonna put you to sleep. 

He’s Spider-Man. 

It makes sense. Who else could have a good enough heart to do that? Of course it’s Peter. It explains so much about him, about Peter and Spider-Man both. Why Peter is suddenly firmer, lighter on his feet, why he can help you move a wardrobe up two flights of stairs without complaint; why Spider-Man is so kind to you, why he knows where to find you, why he rolls his words around just like Pete. 

Spider-Man said there are reasons he wears his mask. And Peter doesn’t tell you much, but you trust him. 

You won’t make him say anything, you decide. Not now. 

You curl your arm over his stomach hesitantly, smiling into his shirt as he hugs you tighter. 

“I was thinking about you,” he says. 

“Yeah?” 

“You’re quieter lately. I know you’re having a hard time right now, okay? You don’t have to tell me. I’m here for you whenever you need me.” 

“Yeah?” you ask.

“You used to sit on my porch when you knew May wouldn’t be home to make sure I wasn’t alone.” Peter’s breath is warm on your forehead. “I don’t know what you’re worried about being, but I’m with you,” he says, “‘n nothing is gonna change that.” 

Peter isn’t as far away as you thought. 

“Thank you,” you say. 

He kisses your forehead softly. Your whole world goes amber. He brings his hand to your cheek, the thought of him tipping your head back sudden and heart-racing, but Peter only holds you. You lose count of how many minutes you spend cupped in his hand. 

“Can I stay over tonight?” he utters, barely audible under the sound of the battering rain. 

“Yeah, please.” 

His thumb strokes your cheek. 

—

Two switches flip at once, that night. Peter is suddenly as tactile as you’ve craved, and Spider-Man disappears. 

He’s alive and well, as evidenced by Peter’s continued survival and presence in your life, but Spider-Man doesn’t drop in on your nightly walks. 

You take less of them lately, feeling better in yourself. Your spirits are certainly lifted by Peter’s increasing affection, but now that you know he’s Spider-Man you were waiting to see him in spandex to mess with his head. Nothing mean, but you would’ve liked to pick at his secret identity, toy with him like you know he’d do to you. After all, he’s been trailing you for weeks and getting to know you. Peter already knows you. Plus, you told Spider-Man secrets not meant for Peter Parker’s ears. 

You find it hard to be angry with him. A thread of it remains whenever you remember his deception, but mostly you worry about him. Peter’s out every night until who knows what hour fighting crime. There are guns. He could get shot, and he doesn’t seem scared. You end up watching videos on the internet of the night he ran to Oscorp, when he fought Connors’ and got that huge gash in his leg. His leg is soiled deep red with blood but banded in white webbing. He limps as he races across a rooftop, the recording shaky yet high definition. 

It’s not nice to see Peter in pain. You cling to what he’d said, how he wasn’t scared, but not being scared doesn’t mean he wasn’t hurting. 

You chew the tip of a finger and click on a different video. Your computer monitor bears heat, the tower whirring by your thigh. Your eyes burn, another hour sitting in the same seat, sick with worry. You don’t mind when Peter doesn’t answer your texts anymore. You didn’t mind so much before, just terrified of becoming an irrelevance in his life and lonely, too, maybe a little hurt, but never worried for his safety. Now when Peter doesn’t text you back you convince yourself that he’s been hurt, or that he’s swinging across New York City about to risk his life.

It’s not a good way to live. You can’t stop giving into it, is all. 

In the next video, Spider-Man sits on a billboard with a can of coke in hand. He doesn’t lift his mask, seemingly aware of his watcher. You laugh as he angles his head down, suspicion in his tight shoulders. He relaxes when he sees whoever it is recording. 

“Hey,” he says, “you all right?” 

“Should you be up there?” the person recording shouts. 

“I’m fine up here!” 

“Are you really Spider-Man?” 

“Sure am.” 

“Are you single?” 

Peter laughs like crazy. How you didn’t know it was him before is a mystery —it couldn’t sound more like him. “I’ve got my eye on someone!” he says, sounding younger for it, the character voice he enacts when he’s Spider-Man lost to a good mood.  

Your phone rings in the back pocket of your jeans. You wriggle it out, nonplussed to find Peter himself on your screen. You click the green answer button. 

“Hello?” Peter asks. 

You bring the phone snug to your ear. “Hey, Peter.” 

“Hi, are you busy?” 

“Not really.” 

“Do you wanna come over? I know it’s late. Come stay the night and tomorrow we’ll go out for breakfast.” 

“Is Aunt May okay with that?” 

“She’s staring at me right now shaking her head, but I’m in trouble for something. May, can she come over, is that allowed?” 

“She’s always allowed as long as you keep the door open.”

You laugh under your breath at May’s begrudging answer. “Are you sure she’s alright with it?” you ask softly. “I don’t want to be a burden.” 

“You never, ever could be. I’m coming to your place and we’ll walk over together. Did you eat dinner?” 

“Not yet, but–”

“Okay, I’ll make you something when you get here. I’ll meet you at the door. Twenty minutes?” 

“I have to shower first.” 

“Twenty five?” 

You choke on a laugh, a weird bubbly thing you’re not used to. Peter laughs on the other side of the phone. “How about I’ll see you at seven?” 

“It’s a date,” he says. 

“Mm, put it in your calendar, Parker.” 

—

Peter waits for you at the door like he promised. He frowns at your still-wet face as he slips your backpack from your shoulder, throwing it over his own. “You’re gonna get sick.” 

“I‘ll dry fast,” you say. “I took too long finding my pyjamas.” 

“I have stuff you can wear. Probably have your sweatpants somewhere, the grey ones.” Peter pulls you forward and wipes your tacky face. “I would’ve waited,” he says. 

“It’s fine.“

“It’s not fine. Are you cold?” 

“Pete, it’s fine.” 

“You always remind me of my Uncle Ben when you call me Pete,” he laughs, “super stern.” 

“I’m not stern. Look, take me home, please, I’m cold.” 

“You said it wasn’t cold!” 

“It’s not, I’m just damp–” Peter cuts you off as he grabs you, sudden and tight, arms around you and rubbing the lengths of your back through your coat. “Handsy!”

“You like it,” he jokes back, his playful warming turning into a hug. You smile, hiding your face in his neck for a few moments. 

“I don’t like it,” you lie. 

“Okay, you don’t like it, and I’m sorry.” Peter gives you a last hug and pulls away. “Now let’s go. I gotta feed you before midnight.” 

“That’s not funny.” 

“Apparently, nothing is.” 

Peter links your arms together. By the time you get to his house, you’ve fallen away from each other naturally. May is in the hallway when you climb through the door, an empty laundry basket in her hands. 

“I see Peter hasn’t won this argument yet,” you say in way of greeting. Peter’s desperate to do his own laundry now he’s getting older. May won’t let him. 

“No, he hasn’t.” She looks you up and down. “It’s nice to see you, honey. And in one piece! Peter tells me you’ve been walking a lot, and I mean, in this city? Can’t you buy a treadmill?” she asks. 

“May!” Peter says, startled. 

“I like walking, I like the air,” you say.

“Can’t exactly call it fresh,” May says. 

“No, but it’s alright. It helps me think.” 

“Is everything okay?” May asks, putting her hand on her hip. 

“Of course.” You smile at her genuinely. “I think starting college was too much for me? It was hard. But things are settling now, I don’t know what Peter told you, but I’m not walking a lot anymore. You know, not more than necessary.”

She softens her disapproving. “Good, honey. That’s good. Peter’s gonna make you some dinner now, right?” 

“Yeah, Aunt May, I’m gonna make dinner,” Peter sighs, pulling a leg up to take off his shoes. 

Peter shouldn’t really know that you’ve been walking. He might see you coming back from Trader Joe’s or the bodega on his way to your apartment, but you haven’t mentioned any of your longer excursions, and everybody in Queens has to walk. That’s information he wouldn’t know without Spider-Man. 

He seems to be hoping you won’t realise, changing the subject to the frankly killer grilled cheese and tomato soup that he’s about to make you, and pushing you into a chair at the table. “Warm up,” he says near the back of your head, forcing a wave of shivers down your arms.

He makes soup in one pan, grilled cheese in the other, two for him and two for you. Peter’s a good eater, and he encourages the same from you, setting a big bowl of tomato soup (from the can, splash of fresh cream) down in front of you with the grilled cheese on a plate between you. You eat it in too-hot bites and try not to get caught looking at him. He does the same, but when he catches you, or when you catch him, he holds your eye and smiles. 

“I can do the dishes,” you say. You might need a breather. 

“Are you kidding? I’m gonna rinse them, put them in the dishwasher.” Peter stands and feels your forehead with his hand. “Warmer. Good job.” 

You shrug away from his hand. “Loser.” 

“Concerned friend.” 

“Handsy loser.” 

”Shut up,” he mumbles. 

As flustered as you’ve ever seen, Peter takes your empty dishes to the kitchen. When he’s done rinsing them off you follow him upstairs to his bedroom and tuck your backpack under his bed. 

You look down at your socks. Peter’s room is on the smaller side, but it’s never been as startlingly small as it is when Peter’s socked feet align with yours, toe to toe. Quick recovery time, this boy. 

“There’s chips and stuff on my desk. Or I could run to 91st for some ice cream sandwiches if you want something sweet,” he says. 

You lift your eyes, tilt your head up just a touch, not wanting him to think you’re in his space no matter how strange that might be, considering he chose to stand there. “I’m all right. Did you want ice cream? We can go if you want to, but if you want to go ’cos you think I do then I’m fine.” 

“That’s such a long answer,” he says, draping an arm over your shoulder. “You don’t have to say all of that, just tell me no.” 

“I don’t want ice cream.” 

“Wasn’t that easy?” he asks. 

“Well, no, it wasn’t. Saying no to you is like saying no to a puppy.” 

“Because I’m adorable?” 

“Persistent.” 

“Yeah, I guess I am.” He drapes the other arm over you. The soap he used at the kitchen sink lingers on his hands. 

“Peter…?” you murmur. 

“What?” he murmurs back. 

You touch a knuckle to his chest. “This– You…” Every quelled thought rushes to the surface at once —Peter doesn’t like you as you desire, how could he, you aren’t beautiful like he is, aren’t smart, aren’t brave, no exceptional kindness or goodness to mark you enough for him. It’s why his being with Gwen didn’t hurt; she made sense. And for months now you’ve wondered what it is that made him struggle to be with her. And sometimes, foolishly, you wondered if it was you. But it’s not you, it’s never you, and whatever Peter’s trying to do now–

“Hey, you okay?” he asks, taking your face into his hand. 

“What are you doing?” 

“What?” He pushes his hand back to hold your nape, thumb under your ear. “I can’t hear you.”  

You raise your voice. “Why did you invite me over tonight?” 

“‘Cos I missed you?” 

“I used to think you didn’t miss me at all.” 

Peter winces, hurt. “How could you think that? Of course I miss you. What you said to May, about college being hard? It’s like that for me too, okay? I miss you all the time.” 

You bite the inside of your bottom lip. “…College isn’t hard for you.” 

“It’s not easy.” He frowns, the fallen angel, his lips an unsure brushstroke. “What’s wrong? Did I say the wrong thing?” 

You’re being wretched, you know, saying it isn’t hard for him. “You didn’t. Really, you didn’t.” 

“But why are you upset?” he implores, dark eyes darker as his eyebrows tug together.

“I’m not–”

“You are. It’s okay, you can be upset. I just want you to feel better, you know that?” He settles his hands at the tops of your arms. Less intimate, but something warm remains. “Even if it takes a long time.” 

“I’m fine.” 

“You’re not fine.”

“How would you know?” you finally ask. 

Peter stares at you. 

“I know you,” he says carefully, “and I know you aren’t struggling like you were, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen or that you have to be a hundred percent better now.” 

“I didn’t realise that I was,” you say, licking your lips, “‘til now. I didn’t get that it was on the surface.”

Peter pulls you in for a gentle hug. “I’m here for you forever, and I’ll make it up to you for not noticing sooner,” he says, scrunching your shirt in his hand.

After the hug, he tells you to change and make yourself comfortable while he showers. So you put on your pyjamas and climb into Peter’s bed, head pounding as though all your energy was stolen in a fell swoop. You press your nose to his pillow and arm wrapped around his comforter, gathering it into a Peter sized lump. The shower pump whines against the shared wall. 

Things aren’t meant to be like this. You thought Peter touching you —holding you— was the deepest of your desires, but you feel now exactly as you had before he started blurring the line, needing Peter to kiss you so badly it becomes its own kind of nausea. Why are you still acting like it’s an impossibility?

When he comes back, you’ll apologise. He hasn’t done anything wrong. He does keep a secret, but don’t you keep one too? He’s Spider-Man. You’ve had deep, complicated feelings for him for months. They are secrets of equal magnitude, and are, more apparently, badly kept. 

You wish you could fall asleep. Your heart ticks in agitation.

Peter returns as perturbed as earlier. 

“Are you sure there’s nothing wrong?” he asks, raking a hand through his hair. A towel hangs around his neck. 

“I’m sorry for being weird.” 

“You’re not weird,” Peter says, bringing the towel to his hair to scrub ruthlessly. 

“It’s just ‘cos things have been different between us.” And, you try to say, that scares me no matter how bad I wanted it. because you’re not just Peter anymore, you’re Spider-Man. I’m only me, and I can’t do anything to protect you.

Peter gives his hair a long scrub before draping the towel on his desk chair. He rakes it messily into place and sits himself at the end of the bed. You sit up. 

“Yeah, they have been. Good different?” he asks hesitantly. 

“I think so,” you say, quiet again. 

“That’s what I thought.” 

“I don’t want you to feel like I don’t want to be here. I just worry about you.” 

Peter uses his hands to get higher up the bed. “Don’t worry about me,” he says, “Jesus, please don’t. That’s the last thing I want from you, I hate when people worry about me.” 

You curl into the lump of comforter you’d made. Peter lets himself rest beside you, his back to the bedroom wall, tens of Polaroids above him shining with the light of the hallway and his orange-bulbed lamp. His skin is glowing like it’s golden hour, dashes of topaz in his eyes, his Cupid’s bow deep. How would it feel to lean forward and kiss him? To catch his Cupid's bow under your lips?

You brush a damp curl tangled in another onto his forehead. 

You lay there for a little while without talking, listening to the sound of the washing machine as it cycles downstairs. 

“Am I going too fast?” Peter murmurs. 

You press your lips together, shaking your head minutely. 

“Is it something else?” 

You don’t move. 

“Do you want me to stop?” he asks. 

“No.”

Peter rewards you with a smile, his hand on your arm. “Alright. Let me get this blanket on you the right way. You’re still cold.” 

You resent the loss of a shape to hold when Peter slips down beside you and wrangles the comforter flat again, spreading it out over you both, his hand under the blankets. His knuckles brush your thigh. 

He takes a deep breath before turning and wrapping his arm over your stomach, asking softly, “Is this alright?” 

“Yeah.” 

He gives you a look and then lifts his head to slot his nose against your temple. “Please don’t take this in a way that I don’t mean it, but sometimes you think about things so much I worry you’re gonna get stuck in your head forever.” 

“I like thinking.” 

“I hate it,” he says quickly, a fervent, flirting cadence to his otherwise dulcet tone, “we should never do it ever again.” 

“I’ll try not to.” 

“Would you? For me?” 

You laugh into his shirt, feeling the warmth of your breath on your own nose. “I’ll do my best.” 

“Good. I’d miss you too much if you got lost in that nice head of yours.” 

You relax under his arm. You aren’t sure what all the fuss was about now that he's hugging you. “I’d miss you too.”

May comes up the stairs about an hour later. To her credit, she doesn’t flinch when she finds you and Peter smushed together watching a DVD on his old TV. He’s holding your arm, and you’re snoozing on his shoulder, half-aware of the world, fully aware of his nice smells and the shapes of his arms. 

“Door open,” she says. 

“Not that either of us want it closed, May, but we’re adults.” 

“Not while I’m still washing your clothes, you’re not.” 

He snorts. “Goodnight, Aunt May. The door isn’t gonna close, I promise.” 

“I know that,” she says, scornful in her pride. “You’re a good boy.” She lightens. “Things are going okay?” 

Peter covers your ear. “Goodnight, Aunt May.” 

”I have half a mind to never listen to you again. You talk my ear off and I can’t ask a simple question?” 

“I love you,” Peter sing-songs. 

“I love you, Peter,” she says. “Don’t smother the girl.” 

“I won’t smother her. It’s in my best interest that she survives the night. She’s buying my breakfast tomorrow.” 

“Peter Parker.” 

“I’m kidding,” he whispers, petting your cheek absentmindedly. “Just messing with you, May.” 

You smile and curl further into his arms. His voice is like the sun, even when he whispers.  

—

To your surprise, Spider-Man comes to find you after class one evening. A guest lecturer had talked to your oncology class about click chemistry and other molecular therapies against cancer, and the zine book she’d given you is burning a hole in your pocket. Peter is going to love it. 

You pull it out and pause beside a bench and a silver trash can, the day grey but thankfully without rain. The pages of your little book whip forcefully in the wind. It’s chemistry, sure, but it’s biology too, wrapping your and Peter’s interests up neatly. If it weren’t for Peter you doubt you’d love science as much as you do. He’s always been good at it, but since you started college he's been a genius. Watching him grow has encouraged you to work harder, and understanding the material is satisfying, if draining. You take a photo of the middle most pages and tuck the book away, writing a quick text to Peter to send with it. 

Look! it says, LEGO cancer treatment!! 

The moment you press send a beep chimes from somewhere close behind you, all too familiar. You turn to the source but find nobody you know waiting. Coincidence, you think, shaking yourself and beginning the trek to the subway. 

But then you hear the tell tale splat and thwick of Spider-Man’s webbing. 

You wait until you’re at the alleyway between Porto’s Bakery and the key cutting shop and turn down to stop by one of the dumpsters. 

“Spider-Man?” you ask, shoulders tensed in case it’s not who you think. 

“What are you doing?” he asks.

You gasp as he hops down in front of you, his suit shiny with its dark web-pattern caught by the grey sunshine passing through the clouds overhead. “Shit, don’t break your ankles.” 

“My ankles?” He laughs. He sounds so much like Peter that you can only laugh with him. What an idiot he is for thinking you don’t know; what a fool you’d been for falling for his put upon tenor. “They’re fine. What would be wrong with my ankles?” 

“You just dropped down twenty feet!” 

“It’s more like thirty, and I’m fine. You understand the super part of superhero, don’t you?” 

“Who said you’re a superhero?” 

“Nice. What are you doing down here?” 

“I was testing my theory. You’re following me.” 

“No, I’m visiting you, it’s very different,” he says confidently. 

“You haven’t come to see me for weeks.” 

“Yes, well, I–” Spider-Peter crosses his arms across his chest. “Hey, you’re the one who told me to take a day off.” 

“I did tell you to take a day off. It’s not nice thinking about you trying to save the world every single night. That’s a lot of responsibility for one person to have.” 

“But it’s my responsibility,” he says easily. “No point in a beautiful girl like you wasting her time worrying about it. I have to do it, and I don’t mind it.” 

“Do you flirt with every girl you meet out here in the city?” you ask, cheeks hot. 

“No,” he says, fondness evident even through the mask, “just you.” 

“Do you wanna walk me home? I was gonna take the subway, but it’s not that far.” 

Spider-Man nods. “Yeah, I’ll walk you back.” 

He doesn’t hide that he knows the way very well. He takes preemptive turns, crosses roads without you telling him to go forward. You can’t believe him. Smartest guy at Midtown High and he can’t pretend to save his life. 

“Are you having a good semester?” he asks. 

“It’s getting better. I’m glad I stuck with it. I love biology, it’s so fucking hard. I used to think that was a bad thing, but it makes it cooler now. Like, it’s not something everyone understands.” You give him a look, and you give into temptation. “My best friend got me into all this stuff. I used to think math was hopeless and science was for dorks.” 

“It’s definitely for dorks.” 

“Right, but I love being one.” You offer a useless secret. “I like to think that it’s why we’re such great friends.” 

“Me and you?” Spider-Man asks hoarsely. 

“Me and Peter.” You elbow him without force. “Why, do you like science?” 

“I love it…” 

“You know, I really like you, Spider-Man. I feel like we’ve been friends for a long time.” You’re teasing poor Peter. 

He doesn’t speak for a while. He stops walking, but you take a few steps without him. When you realise he’s stopped, you turn back to see him. 

Peter’s gone so tense you could strike him with a flint and catch a spark. It’s the same way Peter looked at you when he told you about his Uncle, a truth he didn’t want to be true. Seeing it throws a spanner in the works of all your teasing: you’d meant to wind him up, not make him panic. 

“What’s wrong?” you ask. “Can you hear something?” 

“No, it’s not that…” He’s masked, but you know him well enough to understand why he’s stopped. 

“It’s okay,” you say. 

“It’s not, actually.” 

“Spider-Man.” You take a step toward him. “It’s fine.”

He presses his hands to his stomach. The sun is setting early, and in an hour, the dark will eat up New York and leave it in a blistering cold. “Do you remember when we first met, the second time, we swapped secrets?” 

“Yeah, I remember. Useless secret for another. I told you I hated my major. It’s not true anymore, obviously. I was having a bad time.” 

“I know you were,” he says, emphasis on know, like it’s a different word entirely. 

“But meeting you really helped. If it weren’t for you, for Peter,” —you give him a searching look— “I wouldn’t feel better at all.” 

“It wasn’t his fault?” he asks. “He was your friend, and you were lonely.” 

“No–”

“He didn’t know what was going on with you, he didn’t have a clue. You hurt yourself and you felt like you couldn’t tell anybody, and I know it wasn’t an accident, so what was his excuse?” His voice burns with anger. “It’s his fault.” 

“Of course it wasn’t your fault. Is that what you think?” You shake your head, panicked by the bone-deep self loathing in his voice, his shameful dropped head. “Yes, I was lonely, I am lonely, I don’t know many people and I– I– I hurt myself, and it wasn’t as accidental as I thought it was, but why would that be your fault?” 

“Peter’s fault,” he says, though his head is lifted now, and he doesn’t bother enthusing it with much gusto. 

“Peter, none of it was your fault.” You cringe in your embarrassment, thinking Fuck, don’t let me ruin this. “I was in a weird way, and yes, I was lonely, and I really liked you more than I should have. You didn't want me and that wasn’t your fault, that’s just how it was, I tried not to let it get to me, just there were a lot of things weighing on me at once, but it really wasn’t as bad as you think it was and it wasn’t your fault.” 

“I wasn’t there for you,” he says. “And I’ve been lying to you for a long time.” 

“You couldn’t tell me, right? Spider-Man is your secret for a reason.” 

“…I didn’t even know you were lonely until you told him. He was a stranger.” 

You hold your hands behind your back. “Well, he was a familiar one.” 

Peter reaches out as though wanting to touch you, but your arms aren’t in his reach. “It’s not because I didn’t want you.” 

“Peter,” you say, squirming. 

He steps back. 

“I have to go,” he says. 

“What?” 

“I have to– I don’t want to go,” he says earnestly, “sweetheart, I can hear someone calling out, I have to go. But I’ll come back, I’ll– I’ll come back,” he promises. 

And with a sudden lift of his arm, Peter pulls himself up the side of a building and disappears, leaving you whiplashed on the sidewalk, the sun setting just out of view.

—

You fall asleep that night waiting for Peter. When you wake up, 5AM, eyes aching, he isn’t there. You check your phone but he hasn’t texted. You check the Bugle and Spider-Man hasn’t been seen. 

You aren’t sure what to think. He sounded sincere to the fullest extent when he said he’d come back, but he didn’t, not ten minutes later, not twenty. You made excuses and you went home before it got too dark to see the street, sat on the couch rehearsing what you’d say. How could Peter think your unhappiness was his fault? Why does he always put the entire world on his shoulders?

Selfishly, you worried what it all meant for his lazy touches. Would he want to curl up into bed with you again now he knows what it means to you? It’s different for him. It isn’t like he’s in love with you… you’d just thought maybe he could be. That this was falling in love, real love, not the unrequited ache you’d suffered before. 

But maybe you got everything wrong. All of it. It wouldn't be the first time. 

—

You and Peter found The Moroccan Mode in your senior year at Midtown. The school library was small and you were sick of being underfoot at home. When you started at ESU, you explored the on campus coffeehouse, the Coffee Bean, but it was crowded, and you’d found yourself attached to the Mode’s beautiful tiling, blues and topaz and platinum golds, its heavy, oiled wooden furniture, stained glass lampshades and the case full of lemony treats. The coffee here is better than anywhere else, but the best part out of everything is that it’s your secret. Barely anybody comes to the Mode on purpose. 

You hide in a far corner with a book and an empty cup of decaf coffee, a slice of meskouta on the table untouched. Decaf because caffeine felt a terrible idea, meskouta untouched because you can’t stomach the smell. You push it to the opposite end of the table, considering another cup of coffee instead. It’s served slightly too hot, and will still be warm when it gets to your chest. 

The sunshine is creeping in slowly. It feels like the first time you’ve seen it in months, warming rays kissing your fingers and lining the walls. You turn a page, turn your wrist, let the sun warm the scar you gave yourself those few months ago, when everything felt too big for you. 

Looking back, it was too big. Maybe soon you’ll be ready to talk about it.  

The author in your book is talking about bees. They can fly up to 15 miles per hour. They make short, fast motions from front to back, a rocking motion. Asian giant hornets can go even faster despite their increased mass. They consider humans running provocation. If you see a giant hornet, you’re supposed to lay down to avoid being stung. 

You put your face in your hand. Next year, you’ll avoid the insect-based electives. 

Across the cafe, the bell at the top of the door rings. Laughter falls through it, a couple passing by. The register clashes open. A minute later it closes. 

You don’t raise your head when footsteps draw near. A plate is placed on the table, pushed across to you, stopping just shy of your coffee. 

“Did you eat breakfast?” Peter asks quietly. 

His voice is gentle, but hoarse. 

You tense. 

“Are you okay?” he asks, not waiting for your answer to either question. “You don’t look like yourself. Your eyes are red.” 

You lift your head. Wet with the beginnings of tears, you see Peter through an astigmatic blur. 

“What are you reading?” He frowns at you. “Please don’t cry.” 

You shake your head. Your smile is all odd, nothing like his, no inherent warmth despite your best effort. “I’m okay.” 

He nudges you across the booth seat and sits beside you. His arm settles behind your shoulders. He smells like smoke and soap, an acrid scent barely hidden. “Can you tell me you didn’t wait long for me?” 

“Ten minutes,” you lie. 

“Okay. I’m sorry. There was a fire.” He rubs your arm where he’s holding you. “I’m sorry.” 

“Will you go half?” you ask, nodding to the sandwich he’s brought you. It’s tough sourdough bread, brown with white flour on the crusts and leafy greens poking between the slices. You and Peter complain about the price. You’ve never had one. He passes you the bigger half, holding the other in his hand without eating. 

“I know you’re hungry,” you say, tapping his elbow, “just eat.” 

You eat your sandwiches. Now that Peter’s here, you don’t feel so sick —he’s not upset with you. The dull pang of an empty stomach won’t be ignored. 

Peter puts his sandwich down, which is crazy, and wipes his fingers on the plates napkin. You’ve never seen him stop before he’s done.

“It was in the apartments on Vernon. I– I think I almost died, the smoke was everywhere.” 

You choke around a crust, thrusting the rest of your half onto the plate. “Are you hurt?” you ask, coughing. 

He moves his head from side to side, not a shake, but a slow no. “How long have you known it was me?” he asks, curling his hand behind your back again, fingers spread over your shoulder blade, a fingertip on your neck. 

You savour his touch, but you give in to your apprehension and stare at his chest. “The night you caught me outside in the rain in November. You called me ‘running girl’. The way you said it, you sounded exactly like him. I turned around expecting,” —you whisper, weary of the quiet cafe— “Spider-Man, and I realised it’s him that sounds like you. That he is you.” 

“Was that disappointing?” 

“Peter, you’re, like, my favourite person in the world,” you whisper fervently, your smile making it light. You laugh. “Why would that be disappointing?” 

“I thought maybe you think he’s cooler than me.” 

“He is cooler than you, Peter.” You laugh again, pleased when he scoffs and draws you nearer. “I guess you’re the same person, right? So he’s just as cool as you are. But why would being cool matter to me? You know I like you.” 

“You flirted pretty heavily with Spider-Man.”

“Well, he flirted with me first.” 

You chance a look at his face. From that moment you can’t look away, not from Peter. You like when he wears that darkness in his eyes, the hint of his rarer side so uncommonly seen, but you love this most of all, Peter like your best memory, the way he’s looking at you now a picture perfect copy of that moment in a swimming pool in Manhattan with cracked tile under your feet. His arms heavy on your shoulders. You didn’t get it then, but you’re starting to understand now.

“I’ve made a mess of everything,” he says softly, the trail his hand makes to the small of your back leaving a wake of goosebumps. “I haven’t been honest with you.” 

“I haven’t, either.” 

“I want to ask you for something,” Peter says, a fingertip trailing back up. He smiles when you shiver, not teasing, just loving. “You can say no.” 

“You’re hard to say no to.” 

“I need you to talk to me more,” —and here he goes, Peter Parker, flirting and sweet-talking like his life depends on it, his face inching down into your space— “not just because I love your voice, or because you think so much I’m scared you’ll get lost, but I need you to talk to me. We need to talk about real things.”

We do, you think morosely. 

“It’s not your fault,” he adds, the hand that isn’t holding your back coming up to cup your cheek, “it’s mine. I was scared of telling you for stupid reasons, but I shouldn’t have let it be a secret for so long.” 

“No, I doubt they’re stupid,” you murmur, following his hand as he attempts to move it to your ear. “It’s not easy to tell someone you’re a hero.”

His palm smells like smoke. 

“That’s not the secret I meant,” he says. 

You take his hand from your face. Peter looks down and begins pressing his fingers between yours, squeezing them together as his thumb runs over the back of your hand.

“So tell me.”

The sunshine bleeds onto his cheek. Dappled orange light turning slowly white as time stretches and the sun moves up through a murky sky. “You want to trade secrets again?” he asks. 

“Please.” 

“Okay. Okay, but I don’t have as many as you do,” he warns. 

“I find that hard to believe.” 

“I don’t. It’s not a real secret, is it? I’ve been trying to show you for weeks, we…”

He tilts his head invitingly. 

All those hand-holds and nights curled up in bed together. Am I going too fast? You know exactly what he means; it really isn’t a secret.

“I’ll go first,” he says, lowering his face to yours. You try not to close your eyes. “I’ve wanted to kiss you for weeks.” He closes his eyes so you follow, your breath not your own suddenly. You hold it. Let it go hastily. “What’s your secret?” 

“Sometime I want you to kiss me so badly I can’t sleep. It makes me feel sick–”

“Sick?” he asks worriedly. 

You touch the tip of your nose to his. “It’s like– like jealousy, but…” 

“You have no one to be jealous of,” he says surely. He cups your cheek, and he asks, “Please, can I kiss you?” 

You say, “Yes,” very, very quietly, but he hears it, and his smile couldn’t be more obvious as he closes the last of the distance between you to kiss you.

It isn’t the sort of kiss that kept you up at night. Peter doesn’t hook you in or tip your head back, he kisses gently, his hand coming to live on your cheek, where it cradles. It’s so warm you don’t know what to make of him beyond kissing him back —kissing his smile, though it’s catching. Kissing the line of his Cupid’s bow as he leans down. 

“I’m sorry about everything,” he mumbles, nose flattened against yours. 

You feel sunlight on your cheek. Squinting, you turn into his hand to peer outside at the sudden abundance of it. It’s still cold outside, but the Mode is warm, Peter’s hand warmer, and the sunshine is a welcome guest. 

Peter drops his hand. “Oh, wow. December sun. Good thing it didn’t snow, we’d be blind.”

“I can’t be cold much longer,” you confess. “I’m sick of the shitty weather.” 

“I can keep you warm.” 

He smiles at you. His eyelashes tangle in the corners of his eyes, long and brown. 

“Did you want my meskouta?” you ask. 

Peter plants a fat kiss against your brow. 

You let the sunshine warm your face. Two unfinished sandwich halves, a mouthful of coffee, and a round slice of meskouta, its flaky crumb and lemon drizzle shining on the table. You would ask Peter for his camera if you’d thought he brought it with him, to take a picture of your breakfast and the carved table underneath. You could turn it on Peter, say something cheesy. This is the moment you ruined our lives, you’d tease.

“You never told me you met Spider-Man, you know.” 

You watch Peter lick the tip of his finger without shame. “They could make a novella of things I haven’t told you about,” you murmur wryly. 

Peter takes a bite of meskouta, reaching for your knee under the table. He shakes your leg a little, as if to say, Well, we’ll work on that. 

—

Spring

“Sorry!”

“No, it’s–”

“Sorry, sorry, I’m– shit!”

“–okay! All legs inside the ride?”

“I couldn’t find my purse–”

“You don’t need it!” Peter leans over the console to kiss your cheek. “You don’t have to rush.” 

“Are you sure you can drive this thing?” 

“Harry doesn’t mind.” 

“I don’t mean the car, I mean, are you sure you can drive?” 

“That’s not funny.” 

You grin and dart across to kiss his cheek, too. “Nothing ever is with us.” 

Peter grabs you behind the neck —which might sound rough, if he were capable of such a thing— and pulls you forward for a kiss you don’t have time for. “If we don’t check in,” —you begin, swiftly smothered by another press of his lips, his tongue a heat flirting with the seam of your lips— “by three, they said they won’t keep the room–” He clasps the back of your neck and smiles when your breath stutters. You squeeze your eyes closed, kiss him fiercely, and pull away, hand on his chest to restrain him. “And then we’ll have to drive home like losers.” 

Peter sits back in the driver's seat unbothered. He fixes his hair, and he wipes his bottom lip with his knuckle. You’re rolling your eyes when he finally returns your gaze. “Sorry, am I the one who lost her purse?” 

“Peter!” 

“I can’t make us un-late,” he says, turning the key slowly, hands on the wheel but his eyes still flitting between your eyes and your lips. 

“Alright,” you warn. 

He reaches for your knee. “It’s a forty minute drive. You’re panicking over nothing.” 

“It’s an hour.” 

Your drive from Queens to Manhattan is entirely uneventful. You keep Peter’s hand hostage on your knee, your palm atop it, the other hand wrapped around his wrist, your conversation a juxtaposition, almost lackadaisical. Peter doesn’t question your clinging nor your lazy murmurings, rubbing a circle into your knee with his thumb from Forest Hill to Lenox Hill. There’s so much to do around Manhattan; you could visit MoMA, Central Park, The Empire State Building or Times Square, but you and Peter give it all a miss for the little known Manhattan Super 8. 

It’s been a long time since you and Peter first visited. You took the bus out to Lenox Hill for a med-student tour neither of you particularly enjoyed, feeling out future careers. It’s not that Lenox Hill isn’t one of the most impressive medical facilities in New York (if not the northeastern USA), it’s that all the blood made him queasy, and you were panicking too much about the future to think it through. He got over his aversion to blood but chose the less hands-on science in the end, and you worked things through. You’re a little less scared of the future everyday. 

You and Peter were supposed to get the bus straight back home for a sleepover, but one got cancelled, another delayed, and night closed in like two hands on your neck. Peter sensed your fear and emptied his wallet for a night in the Super 8. 

The next morning it was beautifully sunny. The first day of summer that year, warm and golden. The pool wasn’t anything special but it was invitingly cool, blue and white tiles patterned like fish below; you clambered into the water in shorts and a tank top and Peter his boxers before a worker could see and stop you. 

It was one of the best days of your life. When you told Peter about it last week, he’d looked at you peculiarly, said, Bub, you’re cute, and let you waste the afternoon recounting one of your more embarrassing pangs of longing. A few days later he told you to clear your calendar for the weekend, only spilling the beans on what he’d done when you’d curled over his lap, a hand threaded into the hair at the nape of his neck, murmuring, Tell me, tell me, tell me. 

He’d hung his head over you and scrunched up his eyes. Cheater.

The best thing about having a boyfriend is that he always wants to listen to you. Peter was a good listener as a best friend, but now he has his act together and the secrets between you are never anything more than eating the last of the milk duds or not wanting to pee in front of him, he’s a treasure. There’s no feeling like having Peter pull you into his lap so he can ask about your day with his face buried in your neck, sniffing. Sometimes, when you text one another to meet up the next day, you’ll accidentally will the hours away babbling about school and life and things without reason. Peter has a list on his phone of your silliest tangents; blood oranges to the super moon, fries dipped in ice cream to the world record for kick flips done in five minutes. It’s like when you talk to one another, you can’t stop. 

There are quiet moments. You wake up some mornings to find him awake already, an arm behind you, rubbing at your soft upper arm, fingertip displacing the fine hairs there and trailing circles as he reads. He bends the pages back and holds whatever novel he’s reading at the bottom of his stomach, as though making sure you can see the words clearly, even when you’re sleeping. 

There are hectic, aching moments —vigilante boyfriends become blasé with their lives and precious faces. You’ve teetered on the edge of anxiety attacks trying to pick glass from his cheek with a tweezers, lamented over bruises that heal the next day. It’s easier when Peter’s careful, but Spider-Man isn’t careful. You ask him to take care of himself and he’s gentle with himself for a few days, but then someone needs saving from an armed burglar or a car swerves dangerously onto the sidewalk and he forgets. 

He hadn’t patrolled last night in preparation for today. 

“Did you know,” he says, pulling Harry’s borrowed car into a parking spot just in front of the Super 8 reception, “that today’s the last day of spring?” 

“Already?” 

“Tonight’s the June equinox.” 

“Who told you that?” 

“Aunt May. She said it’s time to get a summer job.” 

You laugh loudly. “Our federal loans won’t last forever.” 

“Harry’s gonna get me something, I think. Do you want to work with me? It could be fun.” 

You nod emphatically. It’s barely a thought. “Obviously I want to. Does Oscorp pay well, do you think?” 

Peter lets the engine go. The car turns off, engine ticking its last breath in the dash. “Better than the Bugle.” 

You get your key from the reception and find your room upstairs, second floor. It’s not dirty nor exceptionally clean, no mould or damp but a strange smell in the bathroom. There’s a microwave with two mugs and a few sachets of instant coffee. Peter deems it the nicest motel he’s ever stayed in, laughing, crossing the room to its only window and pulling aside the curtain. 

“There it is, sweetheart,” he says, wrapping his arm around you as you join him, “that’s what dreams are made of.” 

The blue and white tiled pool. It hasn’t changed. 

It’s about as hot as it’s going to get in June today, and, not knowing if it’ll rain tomorrow, you and Peter change into your swim suits and gather your towels. You wear flip flops and tangle your fingers, clanking and thumping down the rickety metal stairs to the pool. There’s nobody there, no lifeguard, no quests, and the pool is clean and cold when you dip your toes. 

Peter eases in first. Towels in a heap at the end of a sun lounger, his shirt tumbling to the floor, Peter splashes in frontward and turns to face you as the water laps his ribs. “It’s cold,” he says, wading for your legs, which he hugs. 

“I can feel it,” you say, the cool waters to your calves where you sit on the edge. 

“You won’t come in and warm me up?” he asks. 

You stroke a tendril of hair from his eyes. He attempts to kiss your fingers. 

“I’m trying to prepare myself.” 

“Mm, you have to get used to it.” He puts wet hands on your thighs, looking up imploringly until you lean down for a kiss. The fact that he’d want one still makes you dizzy. “Thank you,” he says. 

“You’ll have to move.” 

Peter steps back, a ripple of water ringing behind him, his hands raised. He slips them with ease under your arms and helps you down into the water, laughing at your shocked giggling —he’s so strong, the water so cold. 

Peter doesn’t often show his strength. Never to intimidate, he prefers startling you helpfully. He’ll lift you when you want to reach something too tall, or raise the bed when you’re on his side to force you sideways. 

“Oh, this is the perfect place to try the lift!” he says. 

“How will I run?” you ask, letting your knees buckle, water rushing up to your neck. 

Peter pulls you up. He touches you easily, and yet you get the sense that he’s precious with you, too. There’s devotion to be found in his hands and the specific way they cradle your back, drawing your chest to his. “I don’t need you to do a running start, sweetheart,” he says, tilting his head to the side, “I’ll just lift you.” 

“Last time I laughed so much you dropped me.” 

“Exactly, you laughed, and this is serious.” 

The world isn’t mild here. Car horns beep and tyres crunch asphalt. You can hear children, and singing, and a walkie talkie somewhere in the Super 8’s parking lot. The pool pumps gargle and Peter’s breath is half laughter as he pulls you further from the sidelines, ceramic tiles slippery under your feet. In the distance, you swear you can hear one of those songs he likes from that poor singer who died in the Wolf River. 

He’s a beholden thing in the sun; you can’t not look at him, all of him, his sculpted chest wet and glinting in the sun, his eyes like browning honey, his smile curling up, and up. 

“You’re beautiful,” he says. 

You rest an arm behind his head. “The rash guard is a good look?” 

“Sweetheart, you couldn’t look cuter,” he says, hands on your waist, pinky on your hip. “I wish you’d mentioned these shorts a few days ago. I would’ve prepared to be a more decent man.” 

“You’re decent enough, Parker.” 

“Maybe now.” 

“Well, if things get too hot, you can always take a quick dip,” you say. 

You’re teasing, but Peter’s eyes light up with mischief as he calls, “Oh, great idea!” and lets himself drop backwards into the water. You pull your arm back rather than go with him. You can’t avoid the great burst of water as he surges to the surface. 

He shakes himself off like a dog. 

“Pete!” you cry through laughs, wiping the water from your face before the chlorine gets in your eyes. 

“It just didn’t help,” he says, pulling you back into his arms, “you know, the water is cold, but you’re so hot, and I actually got a pretty good look at them when I was under, and you’re just as pretty as I remembered you being ten seconds ago–”

“Peter,” you say, tempted to roll your eyes. 

Water runs down his face in great rivers, but with the dopey smile he’s sporting, they look like anything but tears. “Tell me a secret?” he asks, dripping in sunshine, an endless summer at his back. 

A soft smile takes your lips. “No,” you say, tipping up your chin, “you tell me one first.”

“What kind of secret?” 

“A real one,” you insist. 

“Oh…” He leans away from you, though his arms stay crossed behind you. “Okay, I have one. Ask me again.” 

You raise a single brow. “Tell me a secret, Peter.” 

He pulls your face in for a kiss. His hand is wet on your cheek, but no less welcome. “I love you,” he says, kissing the skin just shy of your nose. 

You’re lucky he’s already holding you. “I love you too,” you say, gathering him to you for a hug, digging your nose into the slope of his neck as his admission blows your mind. “I love you.” 

Peter wraps his arms around your shoulders, closing his eyes against the side of your head. You can’t know what he’s thinking, but you can feel it. His hands can’t seem to stay still on your skin. 

The sun warms your back for a time. 

Peter lets out a deep breath of relief. You lean away to look at him, your hand slipping down into the water, where he finds it, his fingers circling your wrist. 

“That’s another one to let go of,” he suggests. 

He peppers a row of gentle kisses along your lips and the soft skin below your eye. 

You and Peter swim until your fingers are pruned and the sun has been blanketed by clouds. You let him wrap you in a towel, and kiss your wet ears, and take you back to the room, where he holds your face. 

“I’ll start the shower for you,” he says, rubbing your cheeks with his thumbs, each stroke of them encouraging your face from one side to the other, just a touch, ever so slightly moved in the palms of his hands. 

“Don’t fall asleep standing up,” he murmurs. 

Your eyes close unbidden to you both. “I won’t.” 

He holds you still, leaning in slowly to kiss you with the barest of pressure. Every thought in your head fades, leaving only you and Peter, and the dizziness of his touch as he lays you down at the end of the bed. 

｡𖦹°‧⭑.ᐟ

please like, comment or reblog if you enjoyed, i love comments and seeing what anyone reading liked about the fic is a treat —thank you for reading❤︎

an eternal sort of promise (masterlist)

Keep reading

this so perfect. peter is so perfect. @literaila is so perfect. i have no words.

i’ll tell you in the morning

tasm!peter x reader

summary:

“you’re going to fall through the couch.”

“the couch would never betray me.”

warnings: overly considerate peter, scheming reader, fluff and stuff

*

“you’re supposed to be in bed.”

his voice rolls, like a click on a cassette, and you know that peter is not really there.

because it’s all a little blurry. his voice, the door opening, the feeling when he kneels down next to you, his breath hot in your ear.

it’s all some remanent of a dream. a brief moment where you might wake up, but decide not to.

“i’m serious,” his voice ebbs and flows, waving in and out, like your consciousness. “you know i don’t like it when you wait up for me.”

you groan and roll even further into the couch. your face is smushed, and your hair is a mess, sweaty because you’re drowning under every blanket in the house. it smells like cotton, and peter’s deodorant, and potato chips that you probably dropped through the cushions.

you dig your nose in deeper, trying to get back to that dream.

peters probably not actually there, you think, because if he was he would’ve kissed you awake. his hand would be lazily running through your hair, and his body would be pressed against yours. you would be cuddling by now.

real peter is much nicer than dream peter, who shakes your shoulder, albeit massaging you right afterward. “c’mon, bug, we’re going to bed.”

“sleeping,” you mumble, pulling away from him.

dream peter continues to try and wake you up, while you wonder—amidst the dream, no doubt—when real peter will be home. you want to be drowning in his collarbone instead of your own sweat.

there’s a kiss next to your ear. “you’re going to fall through the couch.”

“the couch would never betray me.”

“we’ll see if you’re saying that in the morning, when your neck is bent the wrong way,” he whispers, and rests his head against yours. you feel it as he breathes out, relaxes. almost like he’s purring into your ear.

so you keen into him, a bit awkwardly, considering that it’s his forehead. “why’d you wake me up?”

“you can’t sleep here.”

“c’mere,” you murmur to him, your hand wrapping around the back of his neck, fingertips just brushing his hair. “cuddle with me.”

“being cute isn’t going to stop me from moving you.”

“peter,” you try and push him away, “go to bed.”

“why are you out here?” his nose trails down your hair, to your neck. “it’s almost four in the morning.”

you ponder this, and decide that you don’t really remember what you were doing before you fell asleep here, with your hand shoved in the crook of your neck. “the beds cold,” you slur, head falling back into the cushions as you doze.

“that’s because all of the blankets are out here. why didn’t you turn the heat up?”

he’s playing with some baby hair by your ear now, trying to lull you to sleep, probably, because he loves you.

“i was waiting for you,” you whisper this like a prayer, “and now you’re here.”

“you waited in the wrong spot. i would’ve come to bed with you. there’s no room for me here,” he smiles when you finally turn your head towards him. he’s got a smudge on his nose, and his eyes are sunken in—aged from exhaustion.

“i know.”

you’re both whispering. trying not to wake that drowsy, lovesick part of yourself right now.

“hmm?” he leans into you, nose brushing your cheek. almost like he’s breathing you in. “what, bug?”

“i wanted to fall asleep with you.”

then his eyes are wide open, and he leans back, brows furrowed in a tight line. “i told you i was going out.”

you muse at his confused face, and lean back towards him. “i know. i didn’t know when you’d be home.”

“you could’ve called.”

“i’m not going to interrupt your repertoire with a burglar at midnight. it’s rude.”

“not to me.”

you tsk, and lean away, back into the pillow comforting you while simultaneously scheming to ruin your morning.

“you need more sleep than i do,” peter adds, trying to keep you awake with his sheer willpower, his hands squirm under your shoulders. “we’ve talked about this.”

“no, you threatened to tell my mom—“

“that’s not what i said,” peter interrupts, groaning into the sofa.

“that i wasn’t getting enough sleep. and i said that you could make your own decisions, but that i wasn’t going to stop waiting up for you.”

“it makes me feel bad,” he ignores your gentle protesting. “i don’t want to keep you up.”

“peter, it’s not like you’re out dancing with strippers.”

he laughs, unexpectedly. and you grin back at him, with a sheer conviction undiluted by any hints of remaining sleep.

“you’re up helping people. i don’t mind waiting for you,” you emphasize this by leaning in to kiss his forehead, tasting sweat and not minding at all.

“you’re going to be tired tomorrow. when did you fall asleep?”

you acknowledge your win for what it is, and sit up on the couch, looking around your apartment like you can’t remember where you are. “probably an hour ago. i didn’t know when you’d be home, and i waited a while, but then i moved to the couch so you’d have to wake me up if i fell asleep.”

“so this was an elaborate scheme, huh?” peter laughs at you as his teeth graze your cheek. his chaste kiss makes you warm.

“i learned from the best.”

peter chuckles against you, and the two of you sit like that for a moment. calculating each others breathing like there’s something you might miss, however brief.

and then you smile at him, and he smiles back. “bed?” he asks you, softly, fingertip running against the skin of your jaw. you nod.

his arms wrap around you as he picks you up, your head rested comfortably on his shoulder, legs wrapped around his waist.

“i’m leaving you on the couch next time,” he threatens as he walks, “just so you know.”

“then we’ll both wake up with sore backs. not just you.”

peter snorts. “i didn’t say i would be there.”

“like you can sleep without me.”

he doesn’t say anything to that, but you feel him murmur in your hair suspiciously.

peter sets you down on the bed softly, pushing your legs so you’ll lay down, then covering you with the comforter. he tucks you in like any average middle aged dad.

when you grin he nods, very satisfied with himself.

“i’m just gonna change,” he says, taking a step back.

“hurry. i’m tired.”

“now, look who’s talking,” he shakes his head, but moves swiftly to the bathroom. you hear it as he runs the sink, as he bangs his foot on something and curses, and when he pads back into the bedroom, looking like a young child sneaking out of bed in his pajamas.

you laugh. “where did you get those?”

peter looks down to himself. to the many cartoon styled spider-man’s dancing across his cotton pajama set. “what? this old thing.”

“i don’t think i can be seen in public with you if you’re wearing that.”

“we are in the privacy of our bedroom,” he points out.

“i don’t think i can be in the same room with you if you’re wearing that.”

peter shakes his head, pouting like he’s disappointed, but he slips the shirt off, a concession he’s apparently willing to make.

though you don’t doubt that there are ulterior motives to this move.

“c’mon,” you whine to him, “i’m cold.”

“you’re so needy.”

you roll your eyes, but sink into him as he shuffles from beside you, laying his head near yours. “you’re not coddling me.”

“i’m so very sorry, my dear,” he whispers, and wraps his arms around you.

“shh,” you nuzzle your nose into his neck, and murmur against his hot skin. “i want to go back to the dream i was having.”

peter must be laughing at you, you can tell, even slightly asleep, because something jostles you.

“what was it about?”

you smile against him, listening to his heart like a hymn you’re devoted to. “i’ll tell you in the morning.”

he whispers something, brief, a whisper in the quiet of the room. but you feel the words as he settles into the bed, his calloused hands running over your skin.

and you fall asleep; hands clutching the others heart.

*

i love him, your honour 🤭🤭

omg @literaila you never fail to describe this man so well!!

i know you 

tasm!peter x fem!reader 

summary: 

“i’m peter.”

“and?”

“i wanted to introduce myself.”

“i know who you are, peter.”

warnings: college party, mentions of biology, peter is a bit of.. a… so-so, um, embarrassment 

*

Keep reading

yes. i AM very much infatuated with him 🤭🤭

some friend you are 

tasm!peter x reader 

summary: 

“why did i agree to this?” 

“cause you love me.”

warnings: fluff, pining, yearning, all of that. i thought about adding more but. this is how it’s supposed to be. 

a/n: not a word from any of you (no this is not personal at all no what)

*

Keep reading

absolute perfection

just barely 

tasm!peter x fem!reader 

summary:

“okay, peter. are you afraid of spiders?”  “no.”  “then can you go get the one in my apartment?”

warnings: angst, grief, mentions of gwen, arachnophobia, fluff. neighbors au. 

a/n: i am. so sorry. and actually i love this one so much so feed my ego, thanks

*

Keep reading

tasm who got sprayed with an aphrodisiac, so he goes to his roommate and fucks her well into the morning 🤭🤭🤭

A/N this deviated a bit but i needed to spread the munch agenda…hope you can forgive me friend…..

peter enters the apartment like a hurricane, his shaking body and heaving breaths impossible to ignore.

“peter?” you ask, eyes wide with concern. “what’s wrong?”

he doesn’t answer at first as he looks at you. of course you’d be wearing tiny pajama shorts right now, when he has no control of where his eyes land. he’s trying hard to catch his breath, his hands clenching into fists. he brushes the hair curled with sweat off his forehead and forces himself to look you in the eyes, raising his head higher. he anchors himself on your kitchen counter behind him. “aphrodisiac.” he breathed. “came home for my research.” he gulped, pushing himself to his bedroom, still evidently woozy. “gotta be an antidote.” he started to sway to the side, and you moved on instinct for him to fall in your arms.

“easy.” you drawled, arms shaking with his weight. you’ve never seen him in this state before. “where’s the antidote? do we have it?” you try to keep your voice level, but the urgency escapes your tongue in droves.

he shakes his head, looking up at you. his brown eyes have been blown even darker, the pupil completely swallowing his irises. “lab. somewhere. gotta go.” he pushes off of you, but you grab his shaking hand.

“there is no way in hell i’m letting you leave here like this.” you took a deep breath, knowing the ethics of this are dubious at best, since you’ve been attracted to him since the day he moved in and he is technically drugged. he’s obviously in pain, and you can’t let him go out alone all the way to the lab to get the antidote. you don’t even know if he’d survive. “look. it’s an aphrodisiac. i….” you closed your eyes before you continued. “if it will take the pain away, you could….take it out on me.” you swallowed, trying to put it gently.

peter looks at you in shock, managing to push himself off the ground all the way. “you mean it?” he asks, looking straight at your lips. “because it would…” his voice trails off, cracking.

“yes.” you grab his shoulders. “i mean it”

peter immediately grabs your face with his large hands and pulls you into him, his lips sliding against yours in an anxious release. you didn’t imagine your first kiss going like this, but it doesn’t count, right? as soon as he gets a bit of control of himself, though, he slows down a little, capturing you in a breath-sucking kiss, both of you breaking away for air twice. “are you sure?” he asks again, his voice a low rasp this time. you nod and he urges you to jump, carrying you with a kiss into his bedroom.

he lays you on the bed as gently as he can, and you immediately make work of sliding off your shorts and underwear. he’s so obvious with his staring, it’s adorable. “can i?” his eyes wander down and he asks again in that low rasp. “please?”

the way he said please sent a shiver down your spine. “yeah.” you answered breathlessly. “what do you want?”

“my face buried in your thighs.” he responds instantly, with the cadence of a casual conversation for something so brazen. you stifle a gasp and nod. he wastes no time gripping your thighs and hooking them on his shoulders. “you’re fucking dripping, baby.” he remarks as he starts to explore with his fingers. “this for me? you like seeing me worked up?” he almost whispers.

“i think so.” you manage to get out in between gasps from his fingers brushing against your clit. “do…do that more.”

“this?” he asks, rubbing his thumb in circles. “you like that, baby?” you squeeze your eyes shut and throw your head back with a stifled moan as your answer, and he grins. he takes this opportunity to start putting his mouth to work, his tongue lapping crudely as his thumb resumes pressing all of your nerves. the way he’s sucking and licking is filthy, the wet noises, his hums of delight and your cries of pleasure create a cacophony of pornography. you buck your hips against his face, pulling him closer lightly by his hair and when he groans you feel it inside of you. you whine, arching your back and he has to pin your hips down with a hand. he pulls his face away for a second, his mouth glistening with a smirk. “now who can’t control themselves?”

“shut up.” you whined in embarrassment, grabbing his hair and pulling him back down. he breathed a laugh against your clit, and you squirmed as much as you could in his hold. you’re not gonna last. he hummed and spoke into you, “yes ma’am.” and you knew you were done for.

“peter?” you whimper in between heavy breaths. “gonna cum.”

“yeah, baby?” he pulls his face away a bit, still keeping his thumb in position, only switching it to take your clit between his lips. “go on. cum for me.”

that’s all it took for you to release all over his chin with a weak little cry, your voice hoarse and breathless. you try to catch your breath, laying your head back on his pillow. “alright…” you breathed. “just give me a second…and you could…we could-“

“-about that.” he interrupted you. “i….i already did?” he says in a question, almost like he’s embarrassed, stark contrast to what his tone was minutes ago. “the effects wore off. let’s just leave it at that…” he trailed off, coughing. you prop yourself up on your elbows.

“did…did you…” you look down. “cum in your suit just from eating me out?”

he takes a deep breath, looking at you up and down. “maybe.”

you fall back with a giggle, and he immediately gets defensive. “what?”

“nothing.” you shake your head, the blood rushing to your face. “just so fucking hot.”

I need

Please someone write trans reader, gay ship, tooth rotting fluff with James Potter, Sirius Black, Regulus black, Remus lupin, Spencer Reid, TASM Peter Parker, or any of the 141. I CANNOT WRITE PLEASE, I DON'T EVEN MIND WHAT THE FICS TOPIC IS, I NEED ITTTTTT

𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐨𝐫 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐧

Things between you and Peter change with the seasons. [17k] 

c: friends-to-lovers, hurt/comfort, loneliness, peter parker isn’t good at hiding his alter ego, fluff, first kisses, mutual pining, loved-up epilogue, mention of self-harm with no graphic imagery

｡𖦹°‧⭑.ᐟ

Fall 

Peter Parker is a resting place for overworked eyes, like warm topaz nestled against a blue-cold city. He waits on you with his eyes to the screen of his phone, clicking the power button repetitively. A nervous tic. 

You close the heavy door of your apartment building. His head stays still, yet he’s heard the sound of it settling, evidence in his calmed hand. 

“Good morning!” You pull your coat on quickly. “Sorry.” 

“Good morning,” he says, offering a sleep-logged smile. “Should we go?” 

You follow Peter out of the cul-de-sac and into the street as he drops his phone into a deep pocket. To his credit, he doesn’t check it while you walk, and only glances at it when you’re taking your coat off in the heat of your favourite cafe: The Moroccan Mode glows around you, fog kissing the windows, condensation running down the inner lengths of it in beads. You murmur something to do with the odd fog and Peter tells you about water vapour. When it rains tonight, he says it’ll be warm water that falls. 

He spreads his textbook, notebook, and rinky-dink laptop out across the table while you order drinks. Peter has the same thing every visit, a decaf americano, in a wide brim mug with the pink-petal saucer. You put it down on his textbook only because that’s where he would put it himself, and you both get to work. 

As Peter helps you study, you note the simplicity of another normal day, and can’t help wondering what it is that’s missing. Something is, something Peter won’t tell you, the absence of a truth hanging over your heads. You ask him if he wants to get dinner and he says no, he’s busy. You ask him to see a movie on Friday night and he wishes he could. 

Peter misses you. When he tells you, you believe him. “I wish I had more time,” he says. 

“It’s fine,” you say, “you can’t help it.”

“We’ll do something next weekend,” he says. The lie slips out easily. 

To Peter it isn’t a lie. In his head, he’ll find the time for you again, and you’ll be friends like you used to be. 

You press the end of your pencil into your cheek, the dark roast, white paper and condensation like grey noise. This time last year, the air had been thick for days with fog you could cut. He took you on a trip to Manhattan, less than an hour from your red-brick neighbourhood, and you spent the day in a hotel pool throwing great cupfuls of water at each other. The fog was gone just fifteen miles away from home but the warm air stayed. When it rained it was sudden, strange, spit-warm splashes of it hammering the tops of your heads, your cheeks as you tipped your faces back to spy the dark clouds. 

Peter had swam the short distance to you and held your shoulders. You remember feeling like your whole life was there, somewhere you’d never been before, the sharp edges of cracked pool tile just under your feet. 

You peek over the top of your laptop screen and wonder if Peter ever thinks of that trip. 

He feels you watching and meets your eyes. “I have to tell you something,” he says, smiling shyly. 

“Sure.” 

“I signed us up for that club.” 

“Epigenetics?” 

“Molecular medicine,” he says. 

The nice thing about fog is that it gives a feeling of lateness. It’s still morning, barely ten, but it feels like the early evening. It’s gentle on the eyes, colouring the whole room with a sconced shine. You reach for Peter’s bag and sort through his jumble of possessions —stick deodorant, loose-leaf paper, a bodega’s worth of protein bars— and grab his camera. 

“What are you doing?” 

“I’m cataloguing the moment you ruined our lives,” you say, aiming the camera at his chin, squinting through the viewfinder. 

“Technically, I signed us up a few days ago,” he says. 

You snap his photo as his mouth closes around ‘ago’, keeping his half-laugh stuck on his lips. “Semantics,” you murmur. “And molecular medicine club, this has nothing to do with the estranged Gwen Stacy?”

“It has nothing to do with her. And you like molecular medicine.”

“I like oncology,” you correct, which is a sub-genre at best, “and I have enough work without joining another club. Go by yourself.” 

“I can’t go without you,” he says. Simple as that. 

He knew you’d say yes when he signed you up. It’s why he didn’t ask. You’re already forgiven him for the slight of assumption. 

“When is it?” you ask, smiling. 

—

Molecular medicine club is fun. You and a handful of ESU nerds gather around a big table in a private study room for a few hours and read about the newer discoveries and top research, like regenerative science and now taboo Oscorp research. It’s boring, sometimes, but then Peter will lean into your side and make a joke to keep you going. 

He looks at Gwen Stacy a lot. Slender, pale and freckled, with blonde hair framing a sweet face. Only when he thinks you’re not looking. Only when she isn’t either. 

—

“Good morning,” you say. 

Peter holds an umbrella over his head that he’s quick to share with you, and together you walk with heads craned down, the umbrella angled forward to fight the wind. Your outermost shoulder is wet when you reach the café, your other warm from being pressed against him. You shake the umbrella off outside the door and step onto a cushy, amber doormat to dry your sneakers. Peter stalks ahead and order the drinks, eager to get warm, so you look for a table. Your usual is full of businessmen drinking flat whites with briefcases at their legs. They laugh. You try to picture Peter in a suit: you’re still laughing when he finds you in the booth at the back. 

“Tell the joke,” he says, slamming his coffee down. He’s careful with yours. He’s given you the pink petal saucer from the side next to the straws and wooden stirrers. 

“I was thinking about you as a businessman.” 

“And that’s funny?” 

“When was the last time you wore a suit?” 

Peter shakes his head. Claims he doesn’t know. Later, you’ll remember his Uncle Ben’s funeral and feel queasy with guilt, but you don’t remember yet. “When was the last time you wore one?” he asks. “I don’t laugh at you.” 

“You’re always laughing at me, Parker.” 

The cafe isn’t as warm today. It’s wet, grimy water footsteps tracking across the terracotta tile, streaks of grey water especially heavy near the counter, around it to the bathroom. There’s no fog but a sad rattle of rain, not enough to make noise against the windows, but enough to watch as it falls in lazy rivulets down the lengths of them.

Your face is chapped with the cold, cheeks quickly come to heat as your fingers curl around your mug. They tingle with newfound warmth. When you raise your mug to your lips, your hand hardly shakes.

“You okay?” Peter asks. 

“Fine. Are you gonna help me with the math today?” 

“Don’t think so. Did you ask nicely?” 

“I did.” You’d called him last night. You would’ve just as happily submitted your homework poorly solved with the grade to prove it —you don’t want Peter’s help, you just wanted to see him. 

Looking at him now, you remember why his distance had felt a little easier. The rain tangles in his hair, damp strands curling across his forehead, his eyes dark and outfitted by darker eyelashes. Peter has the looks of someone you’ve seen before, a classical set to his nose and eyes reminiscent of that fallen angel weeping behind his arm, his russet hair in fiery disarray. There was an anger to Peter after Ben died that you didn’t recognise, until it was Peter, changed forever and for the worse and it didn’t matter —he was grieving, he was terrified, who were you to tell him to be nice again— until it started to get better. You see less of your fallen, angry angel, no harsh brush strokes, no tears. 

His eyes are still dark. Bruised often underneath, like he’s up late. If he is, it isn’t to talk to you. 

You spend an afternoon working through your equations, pretending to understand until Peter explains them to death. His earphones fall out of his pocket and he says, “Here, I’ll show you a song.” 

He walks you home. The song is dreary and sad. The man who sings is good. Lover, You Should’ve Come Over. It feels like Peter’s trying to tell you something —he isn’t, but it feels like wishing he would. 

“You okay?” you ask before you can get to your street. A minute away, less. 

“I’m fine, why?” 

You let the uncomfortable shape of his earbud fall out of your ear, the climax of the song a rattle on his chest. “You look tired, that’s all. Are you sleeping?” 

“I have too much to do.” 

You just don’t get it. “Make sure you’re eating properly. Okay?” 

His smile squeezes your heart. Soft, the closest you’ll ever get. “You know May,” he says, wrapping his arm around your shoulders to give you a short hug, “she wouldn’t let me go hungry. Don’t worry about me.” 

—

The dip into depression you take is predictable. You can’t help it. Peter being gone makes it worse. 

You listen to love songs and take long walks through the city, even when it’s dark and you know it’s a bad idea. If anything bad happens Spider-Man could probably save me, you think. New York’s not-so-new vigilante keeps a close eye on things, especially the women. You can’t count how many times you’ve heard the same story. A man followed me home, saw me across the street, tried to get into my apartment, but Spider-Man saved me. 

You’re not naive, you realise the danger of walking around without protection assuming some stranger in a mask will save you, but you need to get out of the house. It goes on for weeks. 

You walk under streetlights and past stores with CCTV, but honestly you don’t really care. You’re not thinking. You feel sick and heavy and it’s fine, really, it’s okay, everything works out eventually. It’s not like it’s all because you miss Peter, it’s just a feeling. It’ll go away. 

“You’re in deep thought,” a voice says, garnering a huge flinch from the depths of your stomach.

You turn around, turn back, and flinch again at the sight of a man a few paces ahead. Red shoulders and legs, black shining in a webbed lattice across his chest. “Oh,” you say, your heartbeat an uncomfortable plodding under your hand, “sorry.” 

“Why are you sorry? I scared you.”

“I didn’t realise you were there.” 

Spider-Man doesn’t come any closer. You take a few steps in his direction. You’ve never met before but you’d like to see him up close, and you aren’t scared. Not beyond the shock of his arrival. 

“Can I walk you to where you’re going?” Spider-Man asks you. He’s humming energy, fidgeting and shifting from foot to foot. 

“How do I know you’re the real Spider-Man?” 

After all, there are high definition videos of his suit on the news sometimes. You wouldn’t want to find out someone was capable of making a replica in the worst way possible. 

You can’t be sure, but you think he might be smiling behind the mask, his arms moving back as though impressed at your questioning. “What do you need me to do to prove it?” he asks. 

He speaks hushed. Rough and deep. “I don’t know. What’s Spider-Man exclusive?” 

“I can show you the webs?” 

You pull your handbag further up your arm. “Okay, sure. Shoot something.” 

Spider-Man aims his hand at the streetlight across the way and shoots it. He makes a severing motion with his wrist to stop from getting pulled along by it, letting the web fall like an alien tendril from the bulb. The light it produces dims slightly. A chill rides your spine. 

“Can I walk you now?” he asks. 

“You don’t have more important things to do?” If the bitterness you’re feeling creeps into your tone unbidden, he doesn’t react. 

“Nothing more important than you.” 

You laugh despite yourself. “I’m going to Trader Joe’s.” 

“Yellowstone Boulevard?” 

“That’s the one…” 

You fall into step beside him, and, awkwardly, begin to walk again. It’s a short walk. Trader Joe’s will still be open for hours despite the dark sky, and you’re in no hurry. “My friend, he likes the rolled tortilla chips they do, the chilli ones.” 

“And you’re going just for him?” Spider-Man asks. 

“Not really. I mean, yeah, but I was already going on a walk.” 

“Do you always walk around by yourself? It’s late. It’s dangerous, you know, a beautiful girl like you,” he says, descending into an odd mixture of seriousness and teasing. His voice jumps and swoons to match. 

“I like walking,” you say. 

Spider-Man walking is a weird thing to see. On the news, he’s running, swinging, or flying through the air untethered. You’re having trouble acquainting the media image of him with the quiet man you’re walking beside now.

”Is everything okay?” he asks. “You seem sad.” 

“Do I?” 

“Yeah, you do.” 

“Maybe I am sad,” you confess, looking forward, the bright sign of Trader Joe’s already in view. It really is a short walk. “Do you ever–” You swallow against a surprising tightness in your throat and try again, “Do you ever feel like you’re alone?” 

“I’m not alone,” he says carefully.

“Me neither, but sometimes I feel like I am.” 

He laughs quietly. You bristle thinking you’re being made fun of, but the laugh tapers into a sad one. “Sometimes I feel like I’m the only person in the world,” he says. “Even here. I forget that it’s not something I invented.” 

“Well, I guess being a hero would feel really lonely. Who else do we have like you?” You smile sympathetically. “It must be hard.” 

“Yeah.” His head tips to the side, and a crash of glass rings in the distance, crunching, and then there’s a squeal. It sounds like a car accident. Spider-Man goes tense. “I’ll come back,” he says. 

“That’s okay, Spider-Man, I can get home by myself. Thank you for the protection detail.” 

He sprints away. In half a second he’s up onto a short roof, then between buildings. It looks natural. It takes your breath away. 

You buy Peter’s chips at Trader Joe’s and wait for a few minutes at the door, but Spider-Man doesn’t come back. 

—

I don’t want to study today, Peter’s text says the next day. Come over and watch movies? 

The last handholds of your fugue are washed away in the shower. You dab moisturiser onto your face and neck and stand by the open window to help it dry faster, taking in the light drizzle of rain, the smell of it filling your room and your lungs in cold gales. You dress in sweatpants and a hoodie, throw on your coat, and stuff the rolled tortilla chips into a backpack to ferry across the neighbourhood. 

Peter still lives at home with his Aunt May. You’d been in awe of it when you were younger, Peter and his Aunt and Uncle, their home-cooked family dinners, nights spent on the roof trying to find constellations through light pollution, stretched out together while it was warm enough to soak in your small rebellion. Ben would call you both down eventually. When you’re older! he’d always promise. 

Peter’s waiting in the open door for you. He ushers you inside excitedly, stripping you out of your coat and forgetting your wet shoes as he drags you to the kitchen. “Look what I got,” he says. 

The Parker kitchen is a big, bright space with a chopping block island. The counters are crowded by pots, pans, spices, jams, coffee grounds, the impossible drying rack. There’s a cross-stitch about the home on the microwave Ben did to prove to May he could still see the holes in the aida. 

You follow Peter to the stove where he points at a ceramic Dutch oven you’ve eaten from a hundred times. “There,” he says. 

“Did you cook?” you ask. 

“Of course I didn’t cook, even if the way you said that is offensive. I could cook. I’m an excellent chef.” 

“The only thing May’s ever taught you is spaghetti and meatballs.” 

“Hope you like marinara,” he says, nudging you toward the stove. 

You take the lid off of the Dutch oven to unveil a huge cake. Dripping with frosting, only slightly squashed by the lid, obviously homemade. He’s dotted the top with swirls of frosting and deep red strawberries. 

“It’s for you,” he says casually. 

“It’s not my birthday.” 

“I know. You like cake though, don’t you?” 

You’d tell Peter you liked chunks of glass if that was what he unveiled. “Why’d you make me a cake?” 

“I felt like you deserved a cake. You don’t want it?” 

“No, I want it! I want the cake, let’s have cake, we can go to 91st and get some ice cream, it’ll be amazing.” You don’t bother trying to hide your beaming smile now, twisting on the spot to see him properly, your hands falling behind your back. “Thank you, Peter. It’s awesome. I had no idea you could even– that you’d even–” You press forward, smushing your face against his chest. “Wow.” 

“Wow,” he says, wrapping his arms around you. He angles his head to nose at your temple. “You’re welcome. I would’ve made you a cake years ago if I knew it was gonna make you this happy.” 

“It must’ve taken hours.” 

“May helped.” 

“That makes much more sense.” 

“Don’t be insolent.” Peter squeezes you tightly. He doesn’t let go for a really long time. 

He extracts the cake from the depths of the Dutch oven and cuts you both a slice. He already has ice cream, a Neapolitan box that he cuts into with a serrated knife so you can each have a slice of all three flavours. It’s good ice cream, fresh for what it is and melting in big drops of cream as he gets the couch ready.

“Sit down,” he says, shoving the plates with his strangely great balance onto the coffee table. “Remote’s by you. I’m gonna get drinks.” 

You take your plate, carving into the cake with the end of a warped spoon, its handle stamped PETE and burnished in your grasp. The crumb is soft but dense in the best way. The ganache between layers is loose, cake wet with it, and the frosting is perfect, just messy. You take another satisfied bite. You’re halfway through your slice before Peter makes it back. 

“I brought you something too, but it’s garbage compared to this,” you say through a mouthful, hand barely covering your mouth. 

Peter laughs at you. “Yeah, well, say it, don’t spray it.” 

“I guess I’ll keep it.” 

“Keep it, bub, I don’t need anything from you.” 

He doesn’t say it the way you’re expecting. “No,” you say, pleased when he sits knee to knee, “you can have it. S’just a bag of chips from Trader–”

“The rolled tortilla chips?” he asks. You nod, and his eyes light up. “You really are the best friend ever.” 

“Better than Harry?” 

“Harry’s rich,” Peter says, “so no. I’m kidding! Joking, come here, let me try some of that.” 

“Eat your own.” 

Peter plays a great host, letting you choose the movies, making lunch, ordering takeout in the evening and refusing to let you pay for it. This isn’t that out of character for Peter, but what shocks you is his complete unfiltered attention. He doesn’t check his phone, the tension you couldn’t name from these last few weeks nowhere to be felt. You’re flummoxed by the sudden change, but you missed him. You won’t look a gift horse in the mouth; you won’t question what it is that had Peter keeping you at arm’s length now it’s gone.

To your annoyance, you can’t stop thinking about Spider-Man. You keep opening your mouth to tell Peter you talked to him but biting your tongue. Why am I keeping it a secret? you wonder. 

“Have something to tell you.” 

“You do?” you ask, reluctant to sit properly, your feet tucked under his thigh and your body completely lax with the weight of the Parker throw. 

“Is that surprising?” 

“Is that a trick question?” 

“No. Just. I’ve been not telling you something.” 

“Okay, so tell me.” 

Peter goes pink, and stiff, a fake smile plastered over his lips. “Me and Gwen, we’re really done.” 

“I know, Pete. She broke up with you for reasons nobody felt I should be enlightened right after graduation.” Your stomach pangs painfully. “Unless you…”

“She’s going to England.” 

“She is?” 

“Oxford.” 

You struggle to sit up. “That sucks, Peter. I’m sorry.” 

“But?” 

You find your words carefully. “You and Gwen really liked each other, but I think that–” You grow in confidence, meeting his eyes firmly. “That there’s always been some part of you that couldn’t actually commit to her. So. I don’t know, maybe some distance will give you clarity. And maybe it’ll break your heart, but at least then you’ll know how you really feel, and you can move forward.” You avoid telling him to move on. 

“It wasn’t Gwen,” he says, which has a completely different meaning to the both of you. 

“Obviously, she’s the smartest girl I’ve ever met. She’s beautiful. Of course it’s not her fault,” you say, teasing.

“Really, that you ever met?” Peter asks. 

“She’s the best girl you were ever gonna land.“ 

He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I guess so.” After a few more minutes of quiet, he says, “I think we were done before. I just hadn’t figured it out yet. Something wasn’t right.” 

“You were so back and forth. You’re not mean, there must’ve been something stopping you from going steady,” you agree. “You were breaking up every other week.”

“I know,” he whispers, tipping his head against the back couch. 

“Which, it’s fine, you don’t–” You grimace. “I can’t talk today. Sorry. I just mean that it’s alright that you never made it work.” You worry that sounds plainly obvious and amend, “Doesn’t make you a bad person. You’re never a bad person, Peter.” 

“I know. Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome. You don’t need me to tell you.” 

“It’s nice, though. I like when you tell me stuff. I want all of your secrets.” 

You should say Good, because I have something unbelievable to tell you, and I should’ve said it the moment I got home. 

Good, because last night I met the bravest man in New York City, and he walked me to the store for your chips. 

Good, because I have so much I’m keeping to myself.

You ruffle his hair. Spider-Man goes unmentioned. 

— 

He visits with a whoop. You don’t flinch when he lands —you’d heard the strange whip and splat of his webs landing nearby. 

“Spider-Man,” you say. 

“What’s that about?” 

“What?” 

“The way you said that. You laughed.” Spider-Man stands in spandexed glory before you, mask in place. He’s got a brown stain up the side of his thigh that looks more like mud than blood, but it’s not as though each of his fights are bloodless. They’re infamously gory on occasion.

“Did you get hurt?” you ask. You’re worried. You could help him, if he needs it. 

“Aw, this? That’s a scratch. That’s nothing, don’t worry about it. I’ve had worse from that stray cat living outside of 91st.” 

You look at him sharply. 91st is shorthand for 91st Bodega, and it’s not like you and Peter made it up, but suddenly, the man in front of you is Peter. The way he says it, that unique rhythm. 

Peter’s not so rough-voiced, you argue with yourself. Your Peter speaks in a higher register, dulcet often, only occasionally sarcastic. Spider-Man is rough, and cawing, and loud. Spider-Man acts as though the ground is a suggestion. Peter can’t jump off the second diving board at the pool. Spider-Man rolls his shoulders back in front of you with a confidence Peter rarely has. 

“What?” he asks. 

“Sorry. You just reminded me of someone.” 

His voice falls deeper still. “Someone handsome, I hope.” 

You take a small step around him, hoping it invites him to walk along while communicating how sorely you want to leave the subject behind. When he doesn’t follow, you add, “Yes, he’s handsome.” 

“I knew it.”

“What do you look like under the mask?”

Spider-Man laughs boisterously. “I can’t just tell you that.” 

“No? Do I have to earn it?” 

“It’s not like that. I just don’t tell anyone, ever.” 

“Nobody in the whole world?” you ask. 

The rain is spitting. New York lately is cold cold cold, little in the way of sunshine and no end in sight. Perhaps that’s all November’s are destined to be. You and Spider-Man stick to the inside of the sidewalk. Occasionally, a passerby stares at him, or calls out in Hello, and Spider-Man waves but doesn’t part from you. 

“Tell me something about you and I’ll tell you something about me,” Spider-Man says. “I’ll tell you who knows my identity.” 

“What do you want to know about me?” you ask, surprised. 

“A secret. That’s fair.” 

“Hold on, how’s that fair?” You tighten your scarf against a bitter breeze. “What use do I have for the people who know who you are? That doesn’t bring me any closer to the truth.” 

“It’s not about who knows, it’s about why I told them.” Spider-Man slips around you, forcing you to walk on the inside of the sidewalk as a car pulls past you all too quickly and sends a sheet of dirty rainwater up Spider-Man’s side. He shakes himself off. “Jerk!” he shouts after the car. 

“My secrets aren’t worth anything.”

“I doubt that, but if that’s true, that makes it a fair trade, doesn’t it?” 

He sounds peppy considering the pool of runoff collecting at his feet. You pick up your pace again and say, “Alright, useless secret for a useless secret.” 

You think about all your secrets. Some are odd, some gross. Some might make the people around you think less of you, while others would surely paint you in a nice light. A topaz sort of technicolor. But they aren’t useless, then, so you move on. 

“Oh, I know. I hate my major.” You grin at Spider-Man. “That’s a good one, right? No one else knows about that.” 

“You do?” Spider-Man asks. His voice is familiar, then, for its sympathy. 

“I like science, I just hate math. It’s harder than I thought it would be, and I need so much help it makes me hate the whole thing.” 

Spider-Man doesn’t drag the knife. “Okay. Only three people know who I am under the mask. It was four, briefly.” He clears his throat. “I told one person because I was being selfish and the others out of necessity. I’m trying really hard not to tell anybody else.”

“How come?” 

“It just hurts people.” 

You linger in a gap of silence, not sure what to say. A handful of cars pass you on the road. 

“Tell me another one,” he says. 

“What for?” 

“I don’t know, just tell me one.” 

“How do I know you aren’t extorting me for something?” You grin as you say it, a hint of flirtation. “You’ll know my face and my secrets and even if you tell me a really gory juicy one, I have no one to tell and no name to pair it with.” 

“I’m not showing you anything,” he warns, teasing, sounding so awfully like Peter that your heart trips again, an uneven capering that has you faltering in the street. 

Peter’s shorter, you decide, sizing him up. His voice sounds similar and familiar but Peter doesn’t ask for secrets. He doesn’t have to. (Or, he didn’t have to, once upon a time.) 

“Where are you going?” Spider-Man asks. 

“Oh, nowhere.” 

“Seriously, you’re out here walking again for no reason?” 

“I like to walk. It’s not like it’s dark out yet.” You’re not far at all from Queensboro Hill here. Walking in any direction would lead you to a garden —Flushing Meadows, Kew Gardens, Kissena Park. “Walk me to Kissena?” you ask. 

“Sure, for that secret.” 

You laugh as Spider-Man takes the lead, keeping time with him, a natural match of pace. It’s exciting that Spider-Man of all people wants to know one of your useless secrets enough to ask you twice. The attention of it makes searching for one a matter of how fast you can find one rather than a question of why you’d want to. It slips out before you can think better of it. 

“I burned my wrist a few days ago on a frying pan,” you confess, the phantom pain of the injury an itch. “It blistered and I cried when I did it, but I haven’t told anyone about it.” 

“Why not?” he asks. 

He shouldn’t use that tone with you, like he’s so so sorry. It makes you want to really tell him everything. How insecure you feel, how telling things feels like asking for someone to care, and half the time they don’t, and half the time you’re embarrassed. 

You walk past the bakery that demarcates the beginning of Kissena Park grounds across the way. “I didn’t think about it at first. I’m used to keeping things to myself. And then I didn’t tell anyone for so long that mentioning it now wouldn’t make sense. Like, bringing it up when it’s a scar won’t do much.” It’s a weak lie. It comes out like a spigot to a drying up tree. Glugs, fat beads of sound and the pull to find another thing to say.

“It was only a few days ago, right? It must still hurt. People want to know that stuff.” 

“Maybe I’ll tell someone tomorrow,” you say, though you won’t. 

“Thanks for telling me.”

The humour in spilling a secret like that to a superhero stops you from feeling sorry for yourself. You hide your cold fingers in your coat, rubbing the stiff skin of your knuckles into the lining for friction-heat. The rain has let up, wind whipping empty but brisk against your cheeks. Your lips will be chapped when you get home, whenever that turns out to be. 

“This is pretty far from Trader Joe’s,” he comments, like he’s read your mind. 

“Just an hour.” 

“Are you kidding? It’s an hour for me.” 

“That’s not true, Spider-Man, I’ve seen those webs in action. I still remember watching you on the News that night, the cranes. I remember,” —you try to meet his eyes despite the mask— “my heart in my throat. Weren’t you scared?”

“Is that the secret you want?” he asks. 

“I get to choose?” 

Spider-Man throws his gaze around, his hand behind his head like he might play with his hair. You come to a natural stop across the street from Kissena Park’s playground. Teenagers crowd the soft-landing floor, smaller children playing on the wet rungs of the climbing frame. 

“If you want to,” he says. 

“Then yeah, I want to know if you were scared.” 

“I didn’t haveI time to be scared. Connors was already there, you know?” He shifts from one foot to the other. “I don’t think I’ve ever thought about it before. I wasn’t scared of the height, if that’s what you mean. I already had practice by then, and I knew I had to do it. Like, I didn’t have a choice, so I just did it. I had to save the day, so I did.” 

“When they lined up the cranes–”

“It felt like flying,” Spider-Man interrupts. 

“Like flying.”

You picture the weightlessness, the adrenaline, the catch of your weight so high up and the pressure of being flung between the next point. The idea that you have to just do something, so you do. 

“That’s a good secret.” You offer a grateful smile. “It doesn’t feel equal. I burned myself and you saved the city.” 

“So tell me another one,” he says. 

—

Maybe you started to fall for Peter after his Uncle Ben passed away. Not the days where you’d text him and he’d ignore you, or the days spent camping outside of his house waiting for him to get home. It wasn’t that you couldn’t like him, angry as he was; there’s always been something about his eyes when he’s upset that sticks around. You loathe to see him sad but he really is pretty, and when his eyelashes are wet and his mouth is turned down, formidable, it’s an ache. A Cabanel painting, dramatic and dark and other. 

It was after. When he started sending Gwen weird smiles and showing up to the movies exhilarated, out of breath, unwilling to tell you where he’d been. Skating, he’d always say. Most of the time he didn’t have his skateboard. 

You’d only seen them kiss once, his hand on her shoulder curling her in, a pang of heat. You were curdled by jealousy but it was more than that. Peter was tipping her head back, was kissing her soundly, a fierceness from him that made you sick to think about. You spent weeks afterwards up at night, tossing, turning, wishing he’d kiss you like that, just once, so you could feel how it felt to be completely wrapped up in another person. 

You’d always held out for Peter, in a way. It was more important to you that he be your friend. You were young, and love had been a far off thing, and then one day you suddenly wanted it. You learned just how aching an unrequited love could be, like a bruise, where every time you saw Peter —whether it be alone or with Gwen, with anyone— it was like he knew exactly where to poke the bruise. Press the heel of his hand and push. The worst is when he found himself affectionate with you, a quick clasp of your cheek in his palm as he said goodbye. Nights spent in his twin bed, of course you’ll fit, of course you couldn’t go home, not this late, May won’t care if we keep the door open —the suggestion that the door being closed might’ve meant something. His sleeping arm furled around you. 

Now you’re nearing the end of your second semester at ESU, Gwen is going to England at the end of the year, and Peter hasn’t tried to stop her, but he’s still busy. 

“Whatever,“ you say, taking a deep breath. You’re not mad at Peter, you just miss him. Thinking about him all the time won’t change a thing. “It’s fine.” 

“I’d hope so.” 

You swing around. “Don’t do that!”

Spider-Man looks vaguely chastened, taking a step back. “I called out.” 

“You did?” 

“I did. Hey, miss, over there! The one who doesn’t know how to get a goddamn taxi!” 

“I like to walk,” you say. 

“Yeah, so you’ve said. Have you considered that all this walking is bad for you? It’s freezing out, Miss Bennett!” 

“It’s not that bad.” You have your coat, a scarf, your thermal leggings underneath your jeans. “I’m fine.” 

“What’s wrong with staying at home?” 

“That’s not good for you. And you’re one to talk, Spider-Man, aren’t you out on the streets every night? You should take a day off.” 

“I don’t do this every night.” 

“Don’t you get tired?”

Spider-Man’s eyelets seem to squint, his mock-anger effusive as he crosses his arms across his chest. “No, of course not. Do I look like I get tired?” 

“I don’t know. You’re in a full suit, I can’t tell. I guess you don’t… seem tired. You know, with all the backflips.” 

“Want me to do one?” 

“On command?” You laugh. “No, that’s okay. Save your strength, Spider-Man.” 

“So where are you heading today?” he asks. 

There’s a slip of skin peeking out against his neck. You’re surprised he can’t feel the cold there, stepping toward him to point. “I can see your stubble.” 

He yanks his mask down. “Hasty getaway.” 

“A getaway, undressed? Spider-Man, that’s not very gentlemanly.” 

You start to walk toward the Cinemart. Spider-Man, to your strange pleasure, follows. He walks with considerable casualness down the sidewalk by your left, occasionally letting his head turn to chase a distant sound where it echoes from between high-rises and along the busy street. It’s cold and dark, but New York is hectic no matter what, even the residential areas. (Is there such a thing? The neighbourhoods burst with small businesses and backstreet sales, no matter the time.)

“Luckily for you, crime is slow tonight,” he says. 

“Lucky me?” You wonder if your acquainted vigilante flirts with every girl he stalks. “You realise I’ve managed to get everywhere I’m going for the last two decades without help?” 

“I assume there was more than a little help during that first decade.” 

“That’s what you think. I was a super independent toddler.” 

Spider-Man tips his head back and laughs, but that laugh is quickly squashed with a cough. “Sure you were.” 

“Is there a reason you’re escorting me, Spider-Man?” you ask. 

“No. I– I recognised you, I thought I’d say hi.” 

“Hi, Spider-Man.” 

“Hi.” 

“Can I ask you something? Do you work?” 

Spider-Man stammers again, “I– yeah. I work. Freelance, mostly.” 

“I was wondering how you fit all the crime fighting into your life, is all. University is tough enough.” You let the wind bat your scarf off of your shoulder. “I couldn’t do what you do.” 

“Yeah, you could.” 

He sounds sure. 

“How would you know?” you ask. “Maybe I’m awful when you’re not walking me around. I hate New York. I hate people.” 

“No, you don’t. You’re not awful. Don’t ask me how I know, ‘cos I just know.” 

You try not to look at him. If you look at him, you’re gonna smile at him like he hung the moon. “Well, tonight I’m going to be dreadfully selfish. My friend said he’d buy my movie ticket and take me out for dinner, a real dinner, the mac and cheese with imitation lobster at Benny’s. Have you tried that?” 

Spider-Man takes a big step. “Tonight?” he asks. 

“Yep, tonight. That’s where I’m going, the Cinemart.” You frown at his hand pressing into his stomach. “Are you okay? You look like you’re gonna throw up.” 

“I can hear– something. Someone’s crying. I gotta go, okay? Have fun at the movies, okay?” He throws his arm up, a silken web shooting from his wrist to the third floor of an apartment complex. “Bye!” he shouts, taking a running jump to the apartment, using his web as an anchor. He flings himself over the roof. 

Woah, you think, warmth filling your cold cheeks, the tip of your nose. He’s lithe.  

Peter arrives ten minutes late for the movie, which is half an hour later than you’d agreed to meet. 

“Sorry!” he shouts, breathless as he grabs your hands. “God, I’m sorry! I’m so sorry. You should beat me up. I’m sorry.” 

“What the fuck happened?” you ask, not particularly angry, only relieved to see him with enough time to still catch the movie. “You’re sweating like crazy, your hair’s wet.” 

“I ran all the way here, Jesus, do I smell bad? Don’t answer that. Fuck, do we have time?” 

You usher Peter inside. He pays for the tickets with hands shaking and you attempt to wipe the sweat from his forehead with your sleeve. “You could’ve called me,” you say, content to let him grab you by the arm and race you to the screen doors, “we could’ve caught the next one. Why were you so late, anyways? Did you forget?” 

“Forget about my favourite girl? How could I?” He elbows open the doors to let you enter first. “Now shh,” he whispers, “find the seats, don’t miss the trailers. You love them.” 

“You love them–”

“I’ll get popcorn,” he promises, letting the door close between you. 

You’re tempted to follow, fingers an inch from the handle. 

You turn away and rush to find your seats. Hopefully, the popcorn line is ten blocks long, and he spends the night punished for his wrongdoing. My favourite girl. You laugh nervously into your hand. 

—

Winter 

Spider-Man finds you at least once a week for the next few weeks. He even brings you an umbrella one time, stars on the handle, asking you rather politely to go home. He offers to buy you a hot dog as you’re walking past the stand, takes you on a shortcut to the convenience store, and helps you get a piece of gum off of your shoe with a leaf and a scared scream. He’s friendly, and you’re getting used to his company. 

One night, you’re almost home from Trader Joe’s, racing in the pouring rain when a familiar voice calls out, “Hey! Running girl! Wait a second!” 

Him, you think, as ridiculous as it sounds. You don’t know his name, but Spider-Man’s a sunny surprise in a shitty, wet winter, and you turn to the sound with a grin.

He jogs toward you. 

You feel the world pause, right in the centre of your throat. All the air gets sucked out of you. 

“Hey, what are you doing out here? Did you get my texts?” 

You blink as fat rain lands on your face. 

“You okay?” Peter asks, Peter, in a navy hoodie turning black in the rain and a brown corduroy jacket. It’s sodden, hanging heavily around his shoulders. “Come on, let’s go,” —he takes your hand and pulls until you begin to speed walk beside him— “it’s freezing!” 

“Peter–”

“Jesus Christ!” 

“Peter, what are you doing here?” you ask, your voice an echo as he drags you into the foyer of your apartment building. 

Rain hammers the door as he closes it, the windows, the foyer too dark to see properly. 

“I wanted to see you. Is that allowed?” 

“No.” 

Peter takes your hand. You look down at it, and he looks down in tandem, and it is decidedly a non-platonic move. “No?” he asks, a hair’s width from murmuring. 

“Shit, my groceries are soaked.” 

“It’s all snacks, it’s fine,” he says, pulling you to the stairs. 

You rush up the steps together to your floor. Peter takes your key when you offer it, your own fingers too stiff to manage it by yourself, and he holds the door open for you again to let you in. 

Your apartment is a ragtag assortment to match the one next door, old wooden furniture wheeled from the street corners they were left on, thrifted homeward and heavy blankets everywhere you look. You almost slip getting out of your shoes. Peter steadies you with a firm hand. He shrugs out of his coat and hangs it on the hook, prying the damp hoodie over his head and exposing a solid length of back that trips your heart as you do the same. 

“Sorry I didn’t ask,” Peter says. 

“What, to come over? It’s fine. I like you being here, you know that.” 

All your favourite days were spent here or at Peter’s house, in beds, on sofas, his hair tickling your neck as credits run down the TV and his breath evens to a light snore. You try to settle down with him, changing into dry clothes, his spare stuff left at the bottom of your wardrobe for his next inevitable impromptu visit. You turn on the TV, letting him gather you into his side with more familiarity than ever. Rain lays its fingertips on your window and draws lazy lines behind half-turned blinds. You rest on the arm and watch Peter watch the movie, answering his occasional, “You okay?” with a meagre nod. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks eventually. “You’re so quiet.” 

Your hand over your mouth, you part your marriage and pinky finger, marriage at the corner, pinky pressed to your bottom lip, the flesh chapped by a season of frigid winds and long walks. “‘M thinking,” you say. 

“About?” 

About the first night in your new apartment. You got the apartment a couple of weeks before the start of ESU. Not particularly close to the university but close to Peter, your best, nicest friend. You met in your second year of High School, before Peter got contacts, ‘cos he was good at taking photographs and you were in charge of the school newspapers media sourcing. You used to wait for Peter to show up ten minutes late like clockwork, every week. And every week he’d barge into the club room and say, “Fuck, I’m sorry, my last class is on the other side of the building,” until it turned into its own joke. 

Three years later, you got your apartment, and Peter insisted you throw a housewarming party even if he was the only person invited. 

“Fuck,” he’d said, ten minutes late, a cake in one hand and a whicker basket the other, “sorry. My last class is on–”

But he didn’t finish. You’d laughed so hard with relief at the reference that he never got the chance. Peter remembered your very first inside joke, because Peter wasn’t about to go off to ESU and meet new friends and forget you. 

But Peter’s been distant for a while now, because Peter’s Spider-Man. 

“Do you remember,” you say, not willing to share the whole truth, “when you joined the school newspaper to be the official photographer, and you taught me the rule of thirds?” 

“So you didn’t need me,” he says. 

“I was just thinking about it. We ran that newspaper like the Navy.” 

Peter holds your gaze. “Is that really what you were thinking about?” 

“Just funny,” you murmur, dropping your hand in your lap and breaking his stare. “So much has changed.” 

“Not that much.” 

“Not for me, no.” 

Peter gets a look in his eyes you know well. He’s found a crack in you and he’s gonna smooth it over until you feel better. You’re expecting his soft tone, his loving smile, but you’re not expecting the way he pulls you in —you’d slipped away from him as the evening went on, but Peter erases every millimetre of space as he slides his arm under your lower back and ushers you into his side. You hold your breath as he hugs you, as he looks down at you. It’s really like he loves you, the line between platonic and romantic a blur. He’s never looked at you like this before.

“I don’t want you to change,” he whispers. 

“I want to catch up with you,” you whisper back. 

“Catch up with me? We’re in the exact same place, aren’t we?”

“I don’t know, are we?” 

Peter hugs you closer, squishing your head down against his jaw as he rubs your shoulder. “Of course we are.” 

Peter… What is he doing? 

You let yourself relax against him. 

“You do change,” he whispers, an utterance of sound to calm that awful bruise he gave you all those months ago, “you change every day, but you don’t need to try.” 

“I just… feel like everyone around me is…” You shake your head. “Everyone’s so smart, and they know what they’re doing, or they’re– they’re special. I don’t know anything. So I guess lately I’ve been thinking about that, and then you–”

“What?” 

You can say it out loud. You could. 

“Peter, you’re…” 

“I’m what?” he asks. 

His fingers glide down the length of your arm and up again. 

If you're wrong, he’ll laugh. And if you’re right, he might– might stop touching you. Your head feels so heavy, and his touch feels like it’s gonna put you to sleep. 

He’s Spider-Man. 

It makes sense. Who else could have a good enough heart to do that? Of course it’s Peter. It explains so much about him, about Peter and Spider-Man both. Why Peter is suddenly firmer, lighter on his feet, why he can help you move a wardrobe up two flights of stairs without complaint; why Spider-Man is so kind to you, why he knows where to find you, why he rolls his words around just like Pete. 

Spider-Man said there are reasons he wears his mask. And Peter doesn’t tell you much, but you trust him. 

You won’t make him say anything, you decide. Not now. 

You curl your arm over his stomach hesitantly, smiling into his shirt as he hugs you tighter. 

“I was thinking about you,” he says. 

“Yeah?” 

“You’re quieter lately. I know you’re having a hard time right now, okay? You don’t have to tell me. I’m here for you whenever you need me.” 

“Yeah?” you ask.

“You used to sit on my porch when you knew May wouldn’t be home to make sure I wasn’t alone.” Peter’s breath is warm on your forehead. “I don’t know what you’re worried about being, but I’m with you,” he says, “‘n nothing is gonna change that.” 

Peter isn’t as far away as you thought. 

“Thank you,” you say. 

He kisses your forehead softly. Your whole world goes amber. He brings his hand to your cheek, the thought of him tipping your head back sudden and heart-racing, but Peter only holds you. You lose count of how many minutes you spend cupped in his hand. 

“Can I stay over tonight?” he utters, barely audible under the sound of the battering rain. 

“Yeah, please.” 

His thumb strokes your cheek. 

—

Two switches flip at once, that night. Peter is suddenly as tactile as you’ve craved, and Spider-Man disappears. 

He’s alive and well, as evidenced by Peter’s continued survival and presence in your life, but Spider-Man doesn’t drop in on your nightly walks. 

You take less of them lately, feeling better in yourself. Your spirits are certainly lifted by Peter’s increasing affection, but now that you know he’s Spider-Man you were waiting to see him in spandex to mess with his head. Nothing mean, but you would’ve liked to pick at his secret identity, toy with him like you know he’d do to you. After all, he’s been trailing you for weeks and getting to know you. Peter already knows you. Plus, you told Spider-Man secrets not meant for Peter Parker’s ears. 

You find it hard to be angry with him. A thread of it remains whenever you remember his deception, but mostly you worry about him. Peter’s out every night until who knows what hour fighting crime. There are guns. He could get shot, and he doesn’t seem scared. You end up watching videos on the internet of the night he ran to Oscorp, when he fought Connors’ and got that huge gash in his leg. His leg is soiled deep red with blood but banded in white webbing. He limps as he races across a rooftop, the recording shaky yet high definition. 

It’s not nice to see Peter in pain. You cling to what he’d said, how he wasn’t scared, but not being scared doesn’t mean he wasn’t hurting. 

You chew the tip of a finger and click on a different video. Your computer monitor bears heat, the tower whirring by your thigh. Your eyes burn, another hour sitting in the same seat, sick with worry. You don’t mind when Peter doesn’t answer your texts anymore. You didn’t mind so much before, just terrified of becoming an irrelevance in his life and lonely, too, maybe a little hurt, but never worried for his safety. Now when Peter doesn’t text you back you convince yourself that he’s been hurt, or that he’s swinging across New York City about to risk his life.

It’s not a good way to live. You can’t stop giving into it, is all. 

In the next video, Spider-Man sits on a billboard with a can of coke in hand. He doesn’t lift his mask, seemingly aware of his watcher. You laugh as he angles his head down, suspicion in his tight shoulders. He relaxes when he sees whoever it is recording. 

“Hey,” he says, “you all right?” 

“Should you be up there?” the person recording shouts. 

“I’m fine up here!” 

“Are you really Spider-Man?” 

“Sure am.” 

“Are you single?” 

Peter laughs like crazy. How you didn’t know it was him before is a mystery —it couldn’t sound more like him. “I’ve got my eye on someone!” he says, sounding younger for it, the character voice he enacts when he’s Spider-Man lost to a good mood.  

Your phone rings in the back pocket of your jeans. You wriggle it out, nonplussed to find Peter himself on your screen. You click the green answer button. 

“Hello?” Peter asks. 

You bring the phone snug to your ear. “Hey, Peter.” 

“Hi, are you busy?” 

“Not really.” 

“Do you wanna come over? I know it’s late. Come stay the night and tomorrow we’ll go out for breakfast.” 

“Is Aunt May okay with that?” 

“She’s staring at me right now shaking her head, but I’m in trouble for something. May, can she come over, is that allowed?” 

“She’s always allowed as long as you keep the door open.”

You laugh under your breath at May’s begrudging answer. “Are you sure she’s alright with it?” you ask softly. “I don’t want to be a burden.” 

“You never, ever could be. I’m coming to your place and we’ll walk over together. Did you eat dinner?” 

“Not yet, but–”

“Okay, I’ll make you something when you get here. I’ll meet you at the door. Twenty minutes?” 

“I have to shower first.” 

“Twenty five?” 

You choke on a laugh, a weird bubbly thing you’re not used to. Peter laughs on the other side of the phone. “How about I’ll see you at seven?” 

“It’s a date,” he says. 

“Mm, put it in your calendar, Parker.” 

—

Peter waits for you at the door like he promised. He frowns at your still-wet face as he slips your backpack from your shoulder, throwing it over his own. “You’re gonna get sick.” 

“I‘ll dry fast,” you say. “I took too long finding my pyjamas.” 

“I have stuff you can wear. Probably have your sweatpants somewhere, the grey ones.” Peter pulls you forward and wipes your tacky face. “I would’ve waited,” he says. 

“It’s fine.“

“It’s not fine. Are you cold?” 

“Pete, it’s fine.” 

“You always remind me of my Uncle Ben when you call me Pete,” he laughs, “super stern.” 

“I’m not stern. Look, take me home, please, I’m cold.” 

“You said it wasn’t cold!” 

“It’s not, I’m just damp–” Peter cuts you off as he grabs you, sudden and tight, arms around you and rubbing the lengths of your back through your coat. “Handsy!”

“You like it,” he jokes back, his playful warming turning into a hug. You smile, hiding your face in his neck for a few moments. 

“I don’t like it,” you lie. 

“Okay, you don’t like it, and I’m sorry.” Peter gives you a last hug and pulls away. “Now let’s go. I gotta feed you before midnight.” 

“That’s not funny.” 

“Apparently, nothing is.” 

Peter links your arms together. By the time you get to his house, you’ve fallen away from each other naturally. May is in the hallway when you climb through the door, an empty laundry basket in her hands. 

“I see Peter hasn’t won this argument yet,” you say in way of greeting. Peter’s desperate to do his own laundry now he’s getting older. May won’t let him. 

“No, he hasn’t.” She looks you up and down. “It’s nice to see you, honey. And in one piece! Peter tells me you’ve been walking a lot, and I mean, in this city? Can’t you buy a treadmill?” she asks. 

“May!” Peter says, startled. 

“I like walking, I like the air,” you say.

“Can’t exactly call it fresh,” May says. 

“No, but it’s alright. It helps me think.” 

“Is everything okay?” May asks, putting her hand on her hip. 

“Of course.” You smile at her genuinely. “I think starting college was too much for me? It was hard. But things are settling now, I don’t know what Peter told you, but I’m not walking a lot anymore. You know, not more than necessary.”

She softens her disapproving. “Good, honey. That’s good. Peter’s gonna make you some dinner now, right?” 

“Yeah, Aunt May, I’m gonna make dinner,” Peter sighs, pulling a leg up to take off his shoes. 

Peter shouldn’t really know that you’ve been walking. He might see you coming back from Trader Joe’s or the bodega on his way to your apartment, but you haven’t mentioned any of your longer excursions, and everybody in Queens has to walk. That’s information he wouldn’t know without Spider-Man. 

He seems to be hoping you won’t realise, changing the subject to the frankly killer grilled cheese and tomato soup that he’s about to make you, and pushing you into a chair at the table. “Warm up,” he says near the back of your head, forcing a wave of shivers down your arms.

He makes soup in one pan, grilled cheese in the other, two for him and two for you. Peter’s a good eater, and he encourages the same from you, setting a big bowl of tomato soup (from the can, splash of fresh cream) down in front of you with the grilled cheese on a plate between you. You eat it in too-hot bites and try not to get caught looking at him. He does the same, but when he catches you, or when you catch him, he holds your eye and smiles. 

“I can do the dishes,” you say. You might need a breather. 

“Are you kidding? I’m gonna rinse them, put them in the dishwasher.” Peter stands and feels your forehead with his hand. “Warmer. Good job.” 

You shrug away from his hand. “Loser.” 

“Concerned friend.” 

“Handsy loser.” 

”Shut up,” he mumbles. 

As flustered as you’ve ever seen, Peter takes your empty dishes to the kitchen. When he’s done rinsing them off you follow him upstairs to his bedroom and tuck your backpack under his bed. 

You look down at your socks. Peter’s room is on the smaller side, but it’s never been as startlingly small as it is when Peter’s socked feet align with yours, toe to toe. Quick recovery time, this boy. 

“There’s chips and stuff on my desk. Or I could run to 91st for some ice cream sandwiches if you want something sweet,” he says. 

You lift your eyes, tilt your head up just a touch, not wanting him to think you’re in his space no matter how strange that might be, considering he chose to stand there. “I’m all right. Did you want ice cream? We can go if you want to, but if you want to go ’cos you think I do then I’m fine.” 

“That’s such a long answer,” he says, draping an arm over your shoulder. “You don’t have to say all of that, just tell me no.” 

“I don’t want ice cream.” 

“Wasn’t that easy?” he asks. 

“Well, no, it wasn’t. Saying no to you is like saying no to a puppy.” 

“Because I’m adorable?” 

“Persistent.” 

“Yeah, I guess I am.” He drapes the other arm over you. The soap he used at the kitchen sink lingers on his hands. 

“Peter…?” you murmur. 

“What?” he murmurs back. 

You touch a knuckle to his chest. “This– You…” Every quelled thought rushes to the surface at once —Peter doesn’t like you as you desire, how could he, you aren’t beautiful like he is, aren’t smart, aren’t brave, no exceptional kindness or goodness to mark you enough for him. It’s why his being with Gwen didn’t hurt; she made sense. And for months now you’ve wondered what it is that made him struggle to be with her. And sometimes, foolishly, you wondered if it was you. But it’s not you, it’s never you, and whatever Peter’s trying to do now–

“Hey, you okay?” he asks, taking your face into his hand. 

“What are you doing?” 

“What?” He pushes his hand back to hold your nape, thumb under your ear. “I can’t hear you.”  

You raise your voice. “Why did you invite me over tonight?” 

“‘Cos I missed you?” 

“I used to think you didn’t miss me at all.” 

Peter winces, hurt. “How could you think that? Of course I miss you. What you said to May, about college being hard? It’s like that for me too, okay? I miss you all the time.” 

You bite the inside of your bottom lip. “…College isn’t hard for you.” 

“It’s not easy.” He frowns, the fallen angel, his lips an unsure brushstroke. “What’s wrong? Did I say the wrong thing?” 

You’re being wretched, you know, saying it isn’t hard for him. “You didn’t. Really, you didn’t.” 

“But why are you upset?” he implores, dark eyes darker as his eyebrows tug together.

“I’m not–”

“You are. It’s okay, you can be upset. I just want you to feel better, you know that?” He settles his hands at the tops of your arms. Less intimate, but something warm remains. “Even if it takes a long time.” 

“I’m fine.” 

“You’re not fine.”

“How would you know?” you finally ask. 

Peter stares at you. 

“I know you,” he says carefully, “and I know you aren’t struggling like you were, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen or that you have to be a hundred percent better now.” 

“I didn’t realise that I was,” you say, licking your lips, “‘til now. I didn’t get that it was on the surface.”

Peter pulls you in for a gentle hug. “I’m here for you forever, and I’ll make it up to you for not noticing sooner,” he says, scrunching your shirt in his hand.

After the hug, he tells you to change and make yourself comfortable while he showers. So you put on your pyjamas and climb into Peter’s bed, head pounding as though all your energy was stolen in a fell swoop. You press your nose to his pillow and arm wrapped around his comforter, gathering it into a Peter sized lump. The shower pump whines against the shared wall. 

Things aren’t meant to be like this. You thought Peter touching you —holding you— was the deepest of your desires, but you feel now exactly as you had before he started blurring the line, needing Peter to kiss you so badly it becomes its own kind of nausea. Why are you still acting like it’s an impossibility?

When he comes back, you’ll apologise. He hasn’t done anything wrong. He does keep a secret, but don’t you keep one too? He’s Spider-Man. You’ve had deep, complicated feelings for him for months. They are secrets of equal magnitude, and are, more apparently, badly kept. 

You wish you could fall asleep. Your heart ticks in agitation.

Peter returns as perturbed as earlier. 

“Are you sure there’s nothing wrong?” he asks, raking a hand through his hair. A towel hangs around his neck. 

“I’m sorry for being weird.” 

“You’re not weird,” Peter says, bringing the towel to his hair to scrub ruthlessly. 

“It’s just ‘cos things have been different between us.” And, you try to say, that scares me no matter how bad I wanted it. because you’re not just Peter anymore, you’re Spider-Man. I’m only me, and I can’t do anything to protect you.

Peter gives his hair a long scrub before draping the towel on his desk chair. He rakes it messily into place and sits himself at the end of the bed. You sit up. 

“Yeah, they have been. Good different?” he asks hesitantly. 

“I think so,” you say, quiet again. 

“That’s what I thought.” 

“I don’t want you to feel like I don’t want to be here. I just worry about you.” 

Peter uses his hands to get higher up the bed. “Don’t worry about me,” he says, “Jesus, please don’t. That’s the last thing I want from you, I hate when people worry about me.” 

You curl into the lump of comforter you’d made. Peter lets himself rest beside you, his back to the bedroom wall, tens of Polaroids above him shining with the light of the hallway and his orange-bulbed lamp. His skin is glowing like it’s golden hour, dashes of topaz in his eyes, his Cupid’s bow deep. How would it feel to lean forward and kiss him? To catch his Cupid's bow under your lips?

You brush a damp curl tangled in another onto his forehead. 

You lay there for a little while without talking, listening to the sound of the washing machine as it cycles downstairs. 

“Am I going too fast?” Peter murmurs. 

You press your lips together, shaking your head minutely. 

“Is it something else?” 

You don’t move. 

“Do you want me to stop?” he asks. 

“No.”

Peter rewards you with a smile, his hand on your arm. “Alright. Let me get this blanket on you the right way. You’re still cold.” 

You resent the loss of a shape to hold when Peter slips down beside you and wrangles the comforter flat again, spreading it out over you both, his hand under the blankets. His knuckles brush your thigh. 

He takes a deep breath before turning and wrapping his arm over your stomach, asking softly, “Is this alright?” 

“Yeah.” 

He gives you a look and then lifts his head to slot his nose against your temple. “Please don’t take this in a way that I don’t mean it, but sometimes you think about things so much I worry you’re gonna get stuck in your head forever.” 

“I like thinking.” 

“I hate it,” he says quickly, a fervent, flirting cadence to his otherwise dulcet tone, “we should never do it ever again.” 

“I’ll try not to.” 

“Would you? For me?” 

You laugh into his shirt, feeling the warmth of your breath on your own nose. “I’ll do my best.” 

“Good. I’d miss you too much if you got lost in that nice head of yours.” 

You relax under his arm. You aren’t sure what all the fuss was about now that he's hugging you. “I’d miss you too.”

May comes up the stairs about an hour later. To her credit, she doesn’t flinch when she finds you and Peter smushed together watching a DVD on his old TV. He’s holding your arm, and you’re snoozing on his shoulder, half-aware of the world, fully aware of his nice smells and the shapes of his arms. 

“Door open,” she says. 

“Not that either of us want it closed, May, but we’re adults.” 

“Not while I’m still washing your clothes, you’re not.” 

He snorts. “Goodnight, Aunt May. The door isn’t gonna close, I promise.” 

“I know that,” she says, scornful in her pride. “You’re a good boy.” She lightens. “Things are going okay?” 

Peter covers your ear. “Goodnight, Aunt May.” 

”I have half a mind to never listen to you again. You talk my ear off and I can’t ask a simple question?” 

“I love you,” Peter sing-songs. 

“I love you, Peter,” she says. “Don’t smother the girl.” 

“I won’t smother her. It’s in my best interest that she survives the night. She’s buying my breakfast tomorrow.” 

“Peter Parker.” 

“I’m kidding,” he whispers, petting your cheek absentmindedly. “Just messing with you, May.” 

You smile and curl further into his arms. His voice is like the sun, even when he whispers.  

—

To your surprise, Spider-Man comes to find you after class one evening. A guest lecturer had talked to your oncology class about click chemistry and other molecular therapies against cancer, and the zine book she’d given you is burning a hole in your pocket. Peter is going to love it. 

You pull it out and pause beside a bench and a silver trash can, the day grey but thankfully without rain. The pages of your little book whip forcefully in the wind. It’s chemistry, sure, but it’s biology too, wrapping your and Peter’s interests up neatly. If it weren’t for Peter you doubt you’d love science as much as you do. He’s always been good at it, but since you started college he's been a genius. Watching him grow has encouraged you to work harder, and understanding the material is satisfying, if draining. You take a photo of the middle most pages and tuck the book away, writing a quick text to Peter to send with it. 

Look! it says, LEGO cancer treatment!! 

The moment you press send a beep chimes from somewhere close behind you, all too familiar. You turn to the source but find nobody you know waiting. Coincidence, you think, shaking yourself and beginning the trek to the subway. 

But then you hear the tell tale splat and thwick of Spider-Man’s webbing. 

You wait until you’re at the alleyway between Porto’s Bakery and the key cutting shop and turn down to stop by one of the dumpsters. 

“Spider-Man?” you ask, shoulders tensed in case it’s not who you think. 

“What are you doing?” he asks.

You gasp as he hops down in front of you, his suit shiny with its dark web-pattern caught by the grey sunshine passing through the clouds overhead. “Shit, don’t break your ankles.” 

“My ankles?” He laughs. He sounds so much like Peter that you can only laugh with him. What an idiot he is for thinking you don’t know; what a fool you’d been for falling for his put upon tenor. “They’re fine. What would be wrong with my ankles?” 

“You just dropped down twenty feet!” 

“It’s more like thirty, and I’m fine. You understand the super part of superhero, don’t you?” 

“Who said you’re a superhero?” 

“Nice. What are you doing down here?” 

“I was testing my theory. You’re following me.” 

“No, I’m visiting you, it’s very different,” he says confidently. 

“You haven’t come to see me for weeks.” 

“Yes, well, I–” Spider-Peter crosses his arms across his chest. “Hey, you’re the one who told me to take a day off.” 

“I did tell you to take a day off. It’s not nice thinking about you trying to save the world every single night. That’s a lot of responsibility for one person to have.” 

“But it’s my responsibility,” he says easily. “No point in a beautiful girl like you wasting her time worrying about it. I have to do it, and I don’t mind it.” 

“Do you flirt with every girl you meet out here in the city?” you ask, cheeks hot. 

“No,” he says, fondness evident even through the mask, “just you.” 

“Do you wanna walk me home? I was gonna take the subway, but it’s not that far.” 

Spider-Man nods. “Yeah, I’ll walk you back.” 

He doesn’t hide that he knows the way very well. He takes preemptive turns, crosses roads without you telling him to go forward. You can’t believe him. Smartest guy at Midtown High and he can’t pretend to save his life. 

“Are you having a good semester?” he asks. 

“It’s getting better. I’m glad I stuck with it. I love biology, it’s so fucking hard. I used to think that was a bad thing, but it makes it cooler now. Like, it’s not something everyone understands.” You give him a look, and you give into temptation. “My best friend got me into all this stuff. I used to think math was hopeless and science was for dorks.” 

“It’s definitely for dorks.” 

“Right, but I love being one.” You offer a useless secret. “I like to think that it’s why we’re such great friends.” 

“Me and you?” Spider-Man asks hoarsely. 

“Me and Peter.” You elbow him without force. “Why, do you like science?” 

“I love it…” 

“You know, I really like you, Spider-Man. I feel like we’ve been friends for a long time.” You’re teasing poor Peter. 

He doesn’t speak for a while. He stops walking, but you take a few steps without him. When you realise he’s stopped, you turn back to see him. 

Peter’s gone so tense you could strike him with a flint and catch a spark. It’s the same way Peter looked at you when he told you about his Uncle, a truth he didn’t want to be true. Seeing it throws a spanner in the works of all your teasing: you’d meant to wind him up, not make him panic. 

“What’s wrong?” you ask. “Can you hear something?” 

“No, it’s not that…” He’s masked, but you know him well enough to understand why he’s stopped. 

“It’s okay,” you say. 

“It’s not, actually.” 

“Spider-Man.” You take a step toward him. “It’s fine.”

He presses his hands to his stomach. The sun is setting early, and in an hour, the dark will eat up New York and leave it in a blistering cold. “Do you remember when we first met, the second time, we swapped secrets?” 

“Yeah, I remember. Useless secret for another. I told you I hated my major. It’s not true anymore, obviously. I was having a bad time.” 

“I know you were,” he says, emphasis on know, like it’s a different word entirely. 

“But meeting you really helped. If it weren’t for you, for Peter,” —you give him a searching look— “I wouldn’t feel better at all.” 

“It wasn’t his fault?” he asks. “He was your friend, and you were lonely.” 

“No–”

“He didn’t know what was going on with you, he didn’t have a clue. You hurt yourself and you felt like you couldn’t tell anybody, and I know it wasn’t an accident, so what was his excuse?” His voice burns with anger. “It’s his fault.” 

“Of course it wasn’t your fault. Is that what you think?” You shake your head, panicked by the bone-deep self loathing in his voice, his shameful dropped head. “Yes, I was lonely, I am lonely, I don’t know many people and I– I– I hurt myself, and it wasn’t as accidental as I thought it was, but why would that be your fault?” 

“Peter’s fault,” he says, though his head is lifted now, and he doesn’t bother enthusing it with much gusto. 

“Peter, none of it was your fault.” You cringe in your embarrassment, thinking Fuck, don’t let me ruin this. “I was in a weird way, and yes, I was lonely, and I really liked you more than I should have. You didn't want me and that wasn’t your fault, that’s just how it was, I tried not to let it get to me, just there were a lot of things weighing on me at once, but it really wasn’t as bad as you think it was and it wasn’t your fault.” 

“I wasn’t there for you,” he says. “And I’ve been lying to you for a long time.” 

“You couldn’t tell me, right? Spider-Man is your secret for a reason.” 

“…I didn’t even know you were lonely until you told him. He was a stranger.” 

You hold your hands behind your back. “Well, he was a familiar one.” 

Peter reaches out as though wanting to touch you, but your arms aren’t in his reach. “It’s not because I didn’t want you.” 

“Peter,” you say, squirming. 

He steps back. 

“I have to go,” he says. 

“What?” 

“I have to– I don’t want to go,” he says earnestly, “sweetheart, I can hear someone calling out, I have to go. But I’ll come back, I’ll– I’ll come back,” he promises. 

And with a sudden lift of his arm, Peter pulls himself up the side of a building and disappears, leaving you whiplashed on the sidewalk, the sun setting just out of view.

—

You fall asleep that night waiting for Peter. When you wake up, 5AM, eyes aching, he isn’t there. You check your phone but he hasn’t texted. You check the Bugle and Spider-Man hasn’t been seen. 

You aren’t sure what to think. He sounded sincere to the fullest extent when he said he’d come back, but he didn’t, not ten minutes later, not twenty. You made excuses and you went home before it got too dark to see the street, sat on the couch rehearsing what you’d say. How could Peter think your unhappiness was his fault? Why does he always put the entire world on his shoulders?

Selfishly, you worried what it all meant for his lazy touches. Would he want to curl up into bed with you again now he knows what it means to you? It’s different for him. It isn’t like he’s in love with you… you’d just thought maybe he could be. That this was falling in love, real love, not the unrequited ache you’d suffered before. 

But maybe you got everything wrong. All of it. It wouldn't be the first time. 

—

You and Peter found The Moroccan Mode in your senior year at Midtown. The school library was small and you were sick of being underfoot at home. When you started at ESU, you explored the on campus coffeehouse, the Coffee Bean, but it was crowded, and you’d found yourself attached to the Mode’s beautiful tiling, blues and topaz and platinum golds, its heavy, oiled wooden furniture, stained glass lampshades and the case full of lemony treats. The coffee here is better than anywhere else, but the best part out of everything is that it’s your secret. Barely anybody comes to the Mode on purpose. 

You hide in a far corner with a book and an empty cup of decaf coffee, a slice of meskouta on the table untouched. Decaf because caffeine felt a terrible idea, meskouta untouched because you can’t stomach the smell. You push it to the opposite end of the table, considering another cup of coffee instead. It’s served slightly too hot, and will still be warm when it gets to your chest. 

The sunshine is creeping in slowly. It feels like the first time you’ve seen it in months, warming rays kissing your fingers and lining the walls. You turn a page, turn your wrist, let the sun warm the scar you gave yourself those few months ago, when everything felt too big for you. 

Looking back, it was too big. Maybe soon you’ll be ready to talk about it.  

The author in your book is talking about bees. They can fly up to 15 miles per hour. They make short, fast motions from front to back, a rocking motion. Asian giant hornets can go even faster despite their increased mass. They consider humans running provocation. If you see a giant hornet, you’re supposed to lay down to avoid being stung. 

You put your face in your hand. Next year, you’ll avoid the insect-based electives. 

Across the cafe, the bell at the top of the door rings. Laughter falls through it, a couple passing by. The register clashes open. A minute later it closes. 

You don’t raise your head when footsteps draw near. A plate is placed on the table, pushed across to you, stopping just shy of your coffee. 

“Did you eat breakfast?” Peter asks quietly. 

His voice is gentle, but hoarse. 

You tense. 

“Are you okay?” he asks, not waiting for your answer to either question. “You don’t look like yourself. Your eyes are red.” 

You lift your head. Wet with the beginnings of tears, you see Peter through an astigmatic blur. 

“What are you reading?” He frowns at you. “Please don’t cry.” 

You shake your head. Your smile is all odd, nothing like his, no inherent warmth despite your best effort. “I’m okay.” 

He nudges you across the booth seat and sits beside you. His arm settles behind your shoulders. He smells like smoke and soap, an acrid scent barely hidden. “Can you tell me you didn’t wait long for me?” 

“Ten minutes,” you lie. 

“Okay. I’m sorry. There was a fire.” He rubs your arm where he’s holding you. “I’m sorry.” 

“Will you go half?” you ask, nodding to the sandwich he’s brought you. It’s tough sourdough bread, brown with white flour on the crusts and leafy greens poking between the slices. You and Peter complain about the price. You’ve never had one. He passes you the bigger half, holding the other in his hand without eating. 

“I know you’re hungry,” you say, tapping his elbow, “just eat.” 

You eat your sandwiches. Now that Peter’s here, you don’t feel so sick —he’s not upset with you. The dull pang of an empty stomach won’t be ignored. 

Peter puts his sandwich down, which is crazy, and wipes his fingers on the plates napkin. You’ve never seen him stop before he’s done.

“It was in the apartments on Vernon. I– I think I almost died, the smoke was everywhere.” 

You choke around a crust, thrusting the rest of your half onto the plate. “Are you hurt?” you ask, coughing. 

He moves his head from side to side, not a shake, but a slow no. “How long have you known it was me?” he asks, curling his hand behind your back again, fingers spread over your shoulder blade, a fingertip on your neck. 

You savour his touch, but you give in to your apprehension and stare at his chest. “The night you caught me outside in the rain in November. You called me ‘running girl’. The way you said it, you sounded exactly like him. I turned around expecting,” —you whisper, weary of the quiet cafe— “Spider-Man, and I realised it’s him that sounds like you. That he is you.” 

“Was that disappointing?” 

“Peter, you’re, like, my favourite person in the world,” you whisper fervently, your smile making it light. You laugh. “Why would that be disappointing?” 

“I thought maybe you think he’s cooler than me.” 

“He is cooler than you, Peter.” You laugh again, pleased when he scoffs and draws you nearer. “I guess you’re the same person, right? So he’s just as cool as you are. But why would being cool matter to me? You know I like you.” 

“You flirted pretty heavily with Spider-Man.”

“Well, he flirted with me first.” 

You chance a look at his face. From that moment you can’t look away, not from Peter. You like when he wears that darkness in his eyes, the hint of his rarer side so uncommonly seen, but you love this most of all, Peter like your best memory, the way he’s looking at you now a picture perfect copy of that moment in a swimming pool in Manhattan with cracked tile under your feet. His arms heavy on your shoulders. You didn’t get it then, but you’re starting to understand now.

“I’ve made a mess of everything,” he says softly, the trail his hand makes to the small of your back leaving a wake of goosebumps. “I haven’t been honest with you.” 

“I haven’t, either.” 

“I want to ask you for something,” Peter says, a fingertip trailing back up. He smiles when you shiver, not teasing, just loving. “You can say no.” 

“You’re hard to say no to.” 

“I need you to talk to me more,” —and here he goes, Peter Parker, flirting and sweet-talking like his life depends on it, his face inching down into your space— “not just because I love your voice, or because you think so much I’m scared you’ll get lost, but I need you to talk to me. We need to talk about real things.”

We do, you think morosely. 

“It’s not your fault,” he adds, the hand that isn’t holding your back coming up to cup your cheek, “it’s mine. I was scared of telling you for stupid reasons, but I shouldn’t have let it be a secret for so long.” 

“No, I doubt they’re stupid,” you murmur, following his hand as he attempts to move it to your ear. “It’s not easy to tell someone you’re a hero.”

His palm smells like smoke. 

“That’s not the secret I meant,” he says. 

You take his hand from your face. Peter looks down and begins pressing his fingers between yours, squeezing them together as his thumb runs over the back of your hand.

“So tell me.”

The sunshine bleeds onto his cheek. Dappled orange light turning slowly white as time stretches and the sun moves up through a murky sky. “You want to trade secrets again?” he asks. 

“Please.” 

“Okay. Okay, but I don’t have as many as you do,” he warns. 

“I find that hard to believe.” 

“I don’t. It’s not a real secret, is it? I’ve been trying to show you for weeks, we…”

He tilts his head invitingly. 

All those hand-holds and nights curled up in bed together. Am I going too fast? You know exactly what he means; it really isn’t a secret.

“I’ll go first,” he says, lowering his face to yours. You try not to close your eyes. “I’ve wanted to kiss you for weeks.” He closes his eyes so you follow, your breath not your own suddenly. You hold it. Let it go hastily. “What’s your secret?” 

“Sometime I want you to kiss me so badly I can’t sleep. It makes me feel sick–”

“Sick?” he asks worriedly. 

You touch the tip of your nose to his. “It’s like– like jealousy, but…” 

“You have no one to be jealous of,” he says surely. He cups your cheek, and he asks, “Please, can I kiss you?” 

You say, “Yes,” very, very quietly, but he hears it, and his smile couldn’t be more obvious as he closes the last of the distance between you to kiss you.

It isn’t the sort of kiss that kept you up at night. Peter doesn’t hook you in or tip your head back, he kisses gently, his hand coming to live on your cheek, where it cradles. It’s so warm you don’t know what to make of him beyond kissing him back —kissing his smile, though it’s catching. Kissing the line of his Cupid’s bow as he leans down. 

“I’m sorry about everything,” he mumbles, nose flattened against yours. 

You feel sunlight on your cheek. Squinting, you turn into his hand to peer outside at the sudden abundance of it. It’s still cold outside, but the Mode is warm, Peter’s hand warmer, and the sunshine is a welcome guest. 

Peter drops his hand. “Oh, wow. December sun. Good thing it didn’t snow, we’d be blind.”

“I can’t be cold much longer,” you confess. “I’m sick of the shitty weather.” 

“I can keep you warm.” 

He smiles at you. His eyelashes tangle in the corners of his eyes, long and brown. 

“Did you want my meskouta?” you ask. 

Peter plants a fat kiss against your brow. 

You let the sunshine warm your face. Two unfinished sandwich halves, a mouthful of coffee, and a round slice of meskouta, its flaky crumb and lemon drizzle shining on the table. You would ask Peter for his camera if you’d thought he brought it with him, to take a picture of your breakfast and the carved table underneath. You could turn it on Peter, say something cheesy. This is the moment you ruined our lives, you’d tease.

“You never told me you met Spider-Man, you know.” 

You watch Peter lick the tip of his finger without shame. “They could make a novella of things I haven’t told you about,” you murmur wryly. 

Peter takes a bite of meskouta, reaching for your knee under the table. He shakes your leg a little, as if to say, Well, we’ll work on that. 

—

Spring

“Sorry!”

“No, it’s–”

“Sorry, sorry, I’m– shit!”

“–okay! All legs inside the ride?”

“I couldn’t find my purse–”

“You don’t need it!” Peter leans over the console to kiss your cheek. “You don’t have to rush.” 

“Are you sure you can drive this thing?” 

“Harry doesn’t mind.” 

“I don’t mean the car, I mean, are you sure you can drive?” 

“That’s not funny.” 

You grin and dart across to kiss his cheek, too. “Nothing ever is with us.” 

Peter grabs you behind the neck —which might sound rough, if he were capable of such a thing— and pulls you forward for a kiss you don’t have time for. “If we don’t check in,” —you begin, swiftly smothered by another press of his lips, his tongue a heat flirting with the seam of your lips— “by three, they said they won’t keep the room–” He clasps the back of your neck and smiles when your breath stutters. You squeeze your eyes closed, kiss him fiercely, and pull away, hand on his chest to restrain him. “And then we’ll have to drive home like losers.” 

Peter sits back in the driver's seat unbothered. He fixes his hair, and he wipes his bottom lip with his knuckle. You’re rolling your eyes when he finally returns your gaze. “Sorry, am I the one who lost her purse?” 

“Peter!” 

“I can’t make us un-late,” he says, turning the key slowly, hands on the wheel but his eyes still flitting between your eyes and your lips. 

“Alright,” you warn. 

He reaches for your knee. “It’s a forty minute drive. You’re panicking over nothing.” 

“It’s an hour.” 

Your drive from Queens to Manhattan is entirely uneventful. You keep Peter’s hand hostage on your knee, your palm atop it, the other hand wrapped around his wrist, your conversation a juxtaposition, almost lackadaisical. Peter doesn’t question your clinging nor your lazy murmurings, rubbing a circle into your knee with his thumb from Forest Hill to Lenox Hill. There’s so much to do around Manhattan; you could visit MoMA, Central Park, The Empire State Building or Times Square, but you and Peter give it all a miss for the little known Manhattan Super 8. 

It’s been a long time since you and Peter first visited. You took the bus out to Lenox Hill for a med-student tour neither of you particularly enjoyed, feeling out future careers. It’s not that Lenox Hill isn’t one of the most impressive medical facilities in New York (if not the northeastern USA), it’s that all the blood made him queasy, and you were panicking too much about the future to think it through. He got over his aversion to blood but chose the less hands-on science in the end, and you worked things through. You’re a little less scared of the future everyday. 

You and Peter were supposed to get the bus straight back home for a sleepover, but one got cancelled, another delayed, and night closed in like two hands on your neck. Peter sensed your fear and emptied his wallet for a night in the Super 8. 

The next morning it was beautifully sunny. The first day of summer that year, warm and golden. The pool wasn’t anything special but it was invitingly cool, blue and white tiles patterned like fish below; you clambered into the water in shorts and a tank top and Peter his boxers before a worker could see and stop you. 

It was one of the best days of your life. When you told Peter about it last week, he’d looked at you peculiarly, said, Bub, you’re cute, and let you waste the afternoon recounting one of your more embarrassing pangs of longing. A few days later he told you to clear your calendar for the weekend, only spilling the beans on what he’d done when you’d curled over his lap, a hand threaded into the hair at the nape of his neck, murmuring, Tell me, tell me, tell me. 

He’d hung his head over you and scrunched up his eyes. Cheater.

The best thing about having a boyfriend is that he always wants to listen to you. Peter was a good listener as a best friend, but now he has his act together and the secrets between you are never anything more than eating the last of the milk duds or not wanting to pee in front of him, he’s a treasure. There’s no feeling like having Peter pull you into his lap so he can ask about your day with his face buried in your neck, sniffing. Sometimes, when you text one another to meet up the next day, you’ll accidentally will the hours away babbling about school and life and things without reason. Peter has a list on his phone of your silliest tangents; blood oranges to the super moon, fries dipped in ice cream to the world record for kick flips done in five minutes. It’s like when you talk to one another, you can’t stop. 

There are quiet moments. You wake up some mornings to find him awake already, an arm behind you, rubbing at your soft upper arm, fingertip displacing the fine hairs there and trailing circles as he reads. He bends the pages back and holds whatever novel he’s reading at the bottom of his stomach, as though making sure you can see the words clearly, even when you’re sleeping. 

There are hectic, aching moments —vigilante boyfriends become blasé with their lives and precious faces. You’ve teetered on the edge of anxiety attacks trying to pick glass from his cheek with a tweezers, lamented over bruises that heal the next day. It’s easier when Peter’s careful, but Spider-Man isn’t careful. You ask him to take care of himself and he’s gentle with himself for a few days, but then someone needs saving from an armed burglar or a car swerves dangerously onto the sidewalk and he forgets. 

He hadn’t patrolled last night in preparation for today. 

“Did you know,” he says, pulling Harry’s borrowed car into a parking spot just in front of the Super 8 reception, “that today’s the last day of spring?” 

“Already?” 

“Tonight’s the June equinox.” 

“Who told you that?” 

“Aunt May. She said it’s time to get a summer job.” 

You laugh loudly. “Our federal loans won’t last forever.” 

“Harry’s gonna get me something, I think. Do you want to work with me? It could be fun.” 

You nod emphatically. It’s barely a thought. “Obviously I want to. Does Oscorp pay well, do you think?” 

Peter lets the engine go. The car turns off, engine ticking its last breath in the dash. “Better than the Bugle.” 

You get your key from the reception and find your room upstairs, second floor. It’s not dirty nor exceptionally clean, no mould or damp but a strange smell in the bathroom. There’s a microwave with two mugs and a few sachets of instant coffee. Peter deems it the nicest motel he’s ever stayed in, laughing, crossing the room to its only window and pulling aside the curtain. 

“There it is, sweetheart,” he says, wrapping his arm around you as you join him, “that’s what dreams are made of.” 

The blue and white tiled pool. It hasn’t changed. 

It’s about as hot as it’s going to get in June today, and, not knowing if it’ll rain tomorrow, you and Peter change into your swim suits and gather your towels. You wear flip flops and tangle your fingers, clanking and thumping down the rickety metal stairs to the pool. There’s nobody there, no lifeguard, no quests, and the pool is clean and cold when you dip your toes. 

Peter eases in first. Towels in a heap at the end of a sun lounger, his shirt tumbling to the floor, Peter splashes in frontward and turns to face you as the water laps his ribs. “It’s cold,” he says, wading for your legs, which he hugs. 

“I can feel it,” you say, the cool waters to your calves where you sit on the edge. 

“You won’t come in and warm me up?” he asks. 

You stroke a tendril of hair from his eyes. He attempts to kiss your fingers. 

“I’m trying to prepare myself.” 

“Mm, you have to get used to it.” He puts wet hands on your thighs, looking up imploringly until you lean down for a kiss. The fact that he’d want one still makes you dizzy. “Thank you,” he says. 

“You’ll have to move.” 

Peter steps back, a ripple of water ringing behind him, his hands raised. He slips them with ease under your arms and helps you down into the water, laughing at your shocked giggling —he’s so strong, the water so cold. 

Peter doesn’t often show his strength. Never to intimidate, he prefers startling you helpfully. He’ll lift you when you want to reach something too tall, or raise the bed when you’re on his side to force you sideways. 

“Oh, this is the perfect place to try the lift!” he says. 

“How will I run?” you ask, letting your knees buckle, water rushing up to your neck. 

Peter pulls you up. He touches you easily, and yet you get the sense that he’s precious with you, too. There’s devotion to be found in his hands and the specific way they cradle your back, drawing your chest to his. “I don’t need you to do a running start, sweetheart,” he says, tilting his head to the side, “I’ll just lift you.” 

“Last time I laughed so much you dropped me.” 

“Exactly, you laughed, and this is serious.” 

The world isn’t mild here. Car horns beep and tyres crunch asphalt. You can hear children, and singing, and a walkie talkie somewhere in the Super 8’s parking lot. The pool pumps gargle and Peter’s breath is half laughter as he pulls you further from the sidelines, ceramic tiles slippery under your feet. In the distance, you swear you can hear one of those songs he likes from that poor singer who died in the Wolf River. 

He’s a beholden thing in the sun; you can’t not look at him, all of him, his sculpted chest wet and glinting in the sun, his eyes like browning honey, his smile curling up, and up. 

“You’re beautiful,” he says. 

You rest an arm behind his head. “The rash guard is a good look?” 

“Sweetheart, you couldn’t look cuter,” he says, hands on your waist, pinky on your hip. “I wish you’d mentioned these shorts a few days ago. I would’ve prepared to be a more decent man.” 

“You’re decent enough, Parker.” 

“Maybe now.” 

“Well, if things get too hot, you can always take a quick dip,” you say. 

You’re teasing, but Peter’s eyes light up with mischief as he calls, “Oh, great idea!” and lets himself drop backwards into the water. You pull your arm back rather than go with him. You can’t avoid the great burst of water as he surges to the surface. 

He shakes himself off like a dog. 

“Pete!” you cry through laughs, wiping the water from your face before the chlorine gets in your eyes. 

“It just didn’t help,” he says, pulling you back into his arms, “you know, the water is cold, but you’re so hot, and I actually got a pretty good look at them when I was under, and you’re just as pretty as I remembered you being ten seconds ago–”

“Peter,” you say, tempted to roll your eyes. 

Water runs down his face in great rivers, but with the dopey smile he’s sporting, they look like anything but tears. “Tell me a secret?” he asks, dripping in sunshine, an endless summer at his back. 

A soft smile takes your lips. “No,” you say, tipping up your chin, “you tell me one first.”

“What kind of secret?” 

“A real one,” you insist. 

“Oh…” He leans away from you, though his arms stay crossed behind you. “Okay, I have one. Ask me again.” 

You raise a single brow. “Tell me a secret, Peter.” 

He pulls your face in for a kiss. His hand is wet on your cheek, but no less welcome. “I love you,” he says, kissing the skin just shy of your nose. 

You’re lucky he’s already holding you. “I love you too,” you say, gathering him to you for a hug, digging your nose into the slope of his neck as his admission blows your mind. “I love you.” 

Peter wraps his arms around your shoulders, closing his eyes against the side of your head. You can’t know what he’s thinking, but you can feel it. His hands can’t seem to stay still on your skin. 

The sun warms your back for a time. 

Peter lets out a deep breath of relief. You lean away to look at him, your hand slipping down into the water, where he finds it, his fingers circling your wrist. 

“That’s another one to let go of,” he suggests. 

He peppers a row of gentle kisses along your lips and the soft skin below your eye. 

You and Peter swim until your fingers are pruned and the sun has been blanketed by clouds. You let him wrap you in a towel, and kiss your wet ears, and take you back to the room, where he holds your face. 

“I’ll start the shower for you,” he says, rubbing your cheeks with his thumbs, each stroke of them encouraging your face from one side to the other, just a touch, ever so slightly moved in the palms of his hands. 

“Don’t fall asleep standing up,” he murmurs. 

Your eyes close unbidden to you both. “I won’t.” 

He holds you still, leaning in slowly to kiss you with the barest of pressure. Every thought in your head fades, leaving only you and Peter, and the dizziness of his touch as he lays you down at the end of the bed. 

｡𖦹°‧⭑.ᐟ

please like, comment or reblog if you enjoyed, i love comments and seeing what anyone reading liked about the fic is a treat —thank you for reading❤︎

Game Night | TASM!Peter Parker

TASM!Peter Parker Masterlist

TASM Face Claims

Word Count: 1k

Genre: Fluff | slice of life?

Pairing(s): TASM!Peter Parker x Fem!Reader

Summary: You, Peter and your friends have annual game nights, this time around, you all want to try something new.

Warning(s): Swearing, slight suggestiveness, people checking Peter out

Characters: TASM!Peter Parker, Gwen Stacy, Miles Morales, Harry Osborn, and Felicia Hardy

Note(s):

Established Relationship

All characters are at college age (between 19-23) (yes, I know people go to college at earlier and later ages)

All characters have known each other for years

|PICTURES ARE NOT MINE|

------------------------------------------

“No.”

“What do you mean, ‘no’?” You asked, clearly annoyed.

Peter chuckled, “I mean that you’re answer..” he circled the problem you spent twenty minutes working on, “Is incorrect.”

“But I did everything you told me to.” You pouted to yourself.

Peter hummed in acknowledgment and kissed your cheek at the sight of your pout, causing you to smile.

“Not everything.” He pointed at your error.

You huffed in frustration at the thought of doing the entire problem, again.

Peter chuckled under his breath (but you heard it) and rested his head on your shoulder while rubbing soothing circles on your hips with his thumbs.

“I don’t want to do this.” You complained

“I know, bug.” He kissed your cheek, “Just finish this one problem and then we can do whatever you want.”

You perked up at the idea, and quickly began scribbling numbers onto your paper.

Every once and a while Peter would gently pinch your side as a way to let you know that you made a mistake.

“Done!” You say happily, leaning back into your boyfriend's embrace.

“Good job! See, you got the hang of it.” Peter kissed your cheek affectionately.

“Barely.” You laughed, snuggling into his neck.

You could feel Peter's chest move up and down at his silent laughter.

“Sooooo, you were saying something about how we could do whatever I want.” You smirked.

Peter pretended to think, “Did I say that? I think you’re hearing things, bug. Might ‘ave to take you to a doctor.” He joked.

“Ha ha.” You said dryly.

“Is there something in particular you want to do?” He wiggled his eyebrows

You adjusted yourself on his lap so that you were straddling his thighs, “I believe there is.”

He kissed you once, twice, then….

Brrrrrrrrr

Peter's phone (that was extremely old and cracking on the edges of the screen from the amount of times Peter had underestimated his strength) vibrated on the desk and the two of you groaned in annoyance.

Peter picked up the phone and pressed it against his ear.

“Yellow,” Peter greeted as you played with the neck of his shirt.

“Who is it?” You whispered

“Miles, what’s up man, what can I do for you?” Peter answered your question while continuing his conversation with Miles.

Peter nodded a couple times and sent glances at you, causing you to furrow your eyebrows in confusion.

“Yep, she’s here. Yeah…Okay.” Peter placed the phone back on the table and pressed the speaker button.

“Hey, can you two hear me alright?” Miles’ voice came from the phone.

“Yes.” You and Peter answered at the same time.

“Great!” Miles' enthusiastic voice said, “Harry wants us to meet up at his place for game night. Do you mind giving me a ride?”

“Not at all.” You said

“Awesome, thanks! See you guys tonight!”

“Bye Miles.” You said, pressing the ‘end call’ button.

“So, what was that about me doing whatever I wanted?” You smirked, pushing Peter on to the bed.

———————————————

“Pick up 4 cards my friend.” Harry placed a +4 card on the table.

“What the fuck, Harry! You skipped me last turn and now you want me to pick up four cards.” Peter complained

“All is fair in the game of Uno.” Harry answered, smirking widely.

“This game has been going on far too long, and I’ve still got five cards in my hand.” Felicia complained.

“What do you suggest we do, then?” Harry asked, setting his cards face down on the table in case we planned to resume the game.

“Well,” she flipped her hair, “Since you asked, there is actually a little fair or something like that happening tonight.”

Harry raised his eyebrows, “I wasn’t aware of that.”

“It’s a small thing, you wouldn’t.” Felicia said

Peter laughed, “You don’t know everything that goes on in New York, Harry.”

Harry shoved Peter teasingly, “I like to think that I am.”

“Where is it at?” Gwen asked, taking a couple chips from the bowl Miles had in his lap.

Felicia tapped on her phone, “I’m looking.”

She showed us the location.

“Oh! I know that area.” Miles said

Peter looked at you, “Guess we’re going out tonight.”

—————————————————

The festival didn’t disappoint. There were many food trucks and little tents with small souvenirs made from small businesses.

Miles and Harry had somehow ended up competing at the basketball games, clearly Harry forgot Miles’ ability to effortlessly do sports.

“He cheated.” Harry had grumbled to you and Peter.

Gwen, being the darling she is, was helping Miles carry his many prizes.

Miles had gifted all of you some sort of prize. Even Harry, who got a little stuffed whale that he claimed he didn’t want but refused to give back.

“We could go on the ferris wheel.” Peter suggested

“Pete, that ferris wheel is for small children.” You said

Peter craned his neck, “Huh, I didn’t notice that.”

“Hey, Pete, look!” Miles said excitedly

In true New York fashion there was a stand full of all sorts of Spider-man merchandise.

“Wow.” Peter was a little shocked.

Felicia suddenly laughed out loud causing all of you to turn your attention to her.

“Look, Peter, it’s a Spider-Man merchandise stand!” She pointed to a stand full of Spider-man stuffed animals, shirts, Knick knacks, etc.

You laughed, “We’ll have to stop there, later.”

Peter grumbled at the thought of you buying more stuff with spider-man on it.

————————————

You should’ve expected it. It happens often. Peter is an attractive guy, you of all people are quite aware of it.

But, it didn’t stop your blood from boiling every time you saw somebody check him out. You were right there!

Peter, who is always somewhat aware of your emotions due to his heightened sense, squeezed your hand, effectively pulling your attention away from the woman who was still eyeing him.

“You alright, bug?” He asked

“That woman over there is checking you out.” You grumbled under your breath

“Oh,” Peter looked genuinely surprised, “I hadn’t noticed.”

“You never do.” You didn’t mean to be snappy, you weren’t angry at him.

“That’s because I’m too busy checking you out.” Peter had a dopey grin on his face.

You involuntarily smiled, that fucker, he knew what he was doing.

“Give me a kiss.” He teased

“You’re an idiot, no.” You turned away

“I’m your idiot, though”

“One kiss.” You happily agreed.

TASM!Peter Parker Masterlist

TASM Masterlist

More works in progress…

Imagines:

Tree Lighting

You convince your boyfriend, who also happens to be Spider-Man, to give in to the public’s wishes and light the big Christmas Tree in Central Park. WC: 928

Game Night

You, Peter and your friends have annual game nights, this time around, you all want to try something new. WC: 1k

|PICTURES ARE NOT MINE|

TASM Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Gwen Stacy Masterlist

Peter Parker Masterlist

TASM Moodboards

|PICTURES ARE NOT MINE|

SPIDERMAN

TASM! Peter Parker:

Bitch Onions: Absolutely ridiculous scenario in which you throw Andrew Garfield's chili dog off the Empire State building.

(Crack)

Cloud 9: Memories, danger, and a jar of peanut butter. Only happens when you're with Peter Parker.

(Romance/Slight Angst/Fluff)

Peter's Motivational Speech: Just a little drabble where the reader lets go of some anxiety to which their boyfriend calms them down.

(Romance/Fluff)

Sunflowers and Sunsets: small little one-shot where you're entranced by Peter and the loveliness of the upcoming afternoon.

(Romance/Fluff)

This just made my day omg it's so cute 💛🦐

Dog Days (TASM!Peter Parker x Reader)

Summary: You might have been ever so slightly perturbed about Peter seeing you in your underwear if he wasn’t sporting a large cut along his jawline; one that looked achingly fresh.

“Did you shave with a machete this morning?” You asked, stepping out of the doorway and making room for him to enter.

“A scythe, actually,” Peter deadpanned.

Words: 2.4k

A/N: Andrew Garfield!Spiderman; friends to lovers; heated make-out; cursing; minor injury; mutual pining; possible part 1 of 2? characters are in college & of age.

It was hot. That sticky kind of hot that clung to you and made you feel like tearing your skin off. That makes the sweat pool at the nape of your neck until it slides in a cold streak down the curve of your spine. The New York air was shimmering, alive with exhaust fumes and the output of overworked air conditioning units of every apartment on your block—except for yours. The dumbass thing had broken overnight and when you woke up at five a.m., damp and uncomfortable, you’d called your best friend knowing he’d make a quick fix of it.

But you’d gotten his voicemail, unsurprising given that he’d never been a morning person. Since you’d met him three years ago at freshman orientation, Peter Parker had perfectly offset you in every way. Where he could stay in bed until noon, you were decidedly not a night owl, often cosy in your pyjamas by ten p.m. Peter had a sharp wit and loved to tease, and though his wit brought out a sharp tongue you’d never known you had, you were infinitely shyer than he was. He was perpetually late to everything from the Christmas dinner you’d invited him to at your parents’ home to your final exam for Organic Chemistry—which he’d passed with flying colours—whereas you were punctual to a fault. And perhaps most significantly, you’d never known heartbreak in your life, never had the opportunity because you’d never given anyone your heart to begin with. Peter’s heart, you knew, had endured the worst kind of break. Though he only spoke of her sometimes, you knew his high school girlfriend had died tragically and each year you went with him to visit her resting place, holding his hand and running your thumb over his knuckles as gently as you could. The depths of that pain, written on his face and in his body language whenever he spoke of Gwen, made you steel yourself against love, afraid to give yourself to anyone in case you left them broken and alone.

There was a flaw in your plan to avoid love forever though, and that was Peter himself. As much as you’d tried to swallow them, shut them up in the deepest pits of your soul, bury them where they’d never see the light of day, your feelings for him had only grown in the last three years. At first it was a little thrill each time his eyes met yours, a tingle on your skin when his fingers grazed your own while you shared a carton of fries at a Yankees game. That had grown, exploded really, into a brilliant whirl of colours every time you heard his voice—a sort of love-induced synesthesia that turned Peter’s laughter yellow and his whispers soft purple and his calling your name the deepest, richest scarlet.

You’d fallen desperately in love with your best friend and you were resolutely not going to do anything about it, thank you very much.

“Y/N!” There was a knock at the door of your cramped apartment that drew you out of your crossword puzzle—stuck, as you were, on 18-Down. “It’s Peter!”

You’d barely heard the knock over the sound of Eminem in your headphones, but there was no mistaking Peter’s voice. You were at the door, earbuds abandoned on the coffee table, pulling it open before you remembered that you’d traded in your baggy David Bowie tee and jean shorts for a barely-there camisole and blue panties of the lightest cotton. You might have been ever so slightly perturbed about Peter seeing you in your underwear if he wasn’t sporting a large cut along his jawline; one that looked achingly fresh.

“Did you shave with a machete this morning?” You asked, stepping out of the doorway and making room for him to enter.

“A scythe, actually,” Peter deadpanned. If only you’d known he was being entirely serious—his neck having had a near miss with some villain’s techno-reproduction of a classic medieval weapon only hours ago. “It’s hot as hell in here, Y/N. Are you trying to get me naked?”

Your cheeks flushed and you made quick work of rolling your eyes as dramatically as possible, trying to distract Peter from the change of colour in your face. He was an expert at changing the subject, so much so that you’d long since given up trying to get him to talk about anything he didn’t want to, such as why he was chronically late or where he’d disappeared to that night you had tickets for the Rangers playoff game, or how he managed to find time to workout with his ridiculous school schedule and familial duties because god damn, his arms—you stopped yourself from letting that thought full form, knowing it would send you down a rabbit hole.

“Don’t think I’m not keeping a tally of every time you dodge my questions,” you muttered, moving to the refrigerator and opening it briefly to let some cool air out on your heated chest. The emptiness of the shelves reminded you that you really needed to get groceries because ramen noodles, eggs, and the rapidly decaying bananas on the counter would not keep you alive forever. “And didn’t you get my voicemail?”

“No,” Peter shrugged, “I saw you left me one but thought I’d just swing by.” A small smirk tugged at the corners of his lips, though you couldn’t for the life of you figure out what the joke was.

“Well, the AC is broken,” you informed him, straightened up and facing him where he stood in your living room, his tall and lean frame a familiar sight there alongside the stacks of textbooks and novels, the record player, and the pile of throw pillows you couldn’t stop collecting. For a long moment, Peter stared at you, his head tilted slightly to the side as if he was just now seeing you since coming in. You felt much more naked than you actually were under his stare and shifted your weight from one leg to the other, your hand coming to tug down at the hem of your camisole. Peter had seen you nearly nude before, but this felt—different. Maybe it was the heat, or maybe it was the unfamiliar expression that flashed across his eyes. Either way, it had you squeezing your legs together as subtly as possible. If Peter noticed, he didn’t let on.

“That explains the outfit,” he grinned, tone light, though you noticed the way his Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat as he swallowed hard.

“It was hardly my first choice,” you shot back, “But anyways, now that you’re here do you think you could fix it?”

“This feels like the start of a por—”

“Don’t say it, Parker,” you cut him off with a warning glare, eyes wide. Peter only laughed, though stopped almost immediately, favouring his jaw. Already it looked like the gash was healing and you wondered where he’d gotten it from—it reminded you, oddly, of the ankle he’d “sprained” while showing you a skateboarding trick last summer. You would swear up and down, on every holy text that existed, that you’d seen his bone popping out of his skin. But the next day he’d been absolutely fine and you were certain that the limp he’d had for a week was half-faked.

“Y/N? Are you alive in there?” Peter’s amused voice drew you from your reverie and you nodded, running your fingers through your hair to get it out of your face.

“Alive and well,” you reported, “So you think you can fix it?”

***

As it turned out, Peter could fix the AC unit, but he’d need to pick up a part at the hardware store down the street. While he examined the ancient device mounted on your bedroom wall, you sat perched on your bed, silky pink blankets long since tossed to the floor, watching him with interest, noticing everything about the way his hands moved carefully over the shabby metal, the way his brow furrowed when he peeked inside the unit, and the way his eyes crinkled when he announced that it wouldn’t be an issue to repair.

For his part, Peter knew your eyes were on him—he wouldn’t go so far as to call it Spidey-sense, he just knew you and he’d had an inkling of the feelings you harboured for him for quite some time, though that part probably was Spidey-sense. It wasn’t that he didn’t feel the same way, because god knows he did, but he was terrified to let himself fall in love again; beyond hesitant to ever let anyone get hurt again because of him. But then there was the way you looked at him, your eyes sparkling with delight when he made a stupid joke. And the way you said his name, like it was a magic spell wrapping itself up inside him and making him forget everything other than your voice. Yes, he loved you—more deeply than he’d thought he’d ever love again—but he was afraid to be in love with you.

When he delivered the happy news that he’d be able to get cool air back into your apartment, he felt his heart swell at the look of relief on your face.

“You’re my hero, Pete,” you said earnestly, “Really and truly.”

You had no idea.

“Yeah,” he said lightly, “I’m the best.” He saw the pillow coming at him even before it fully left your hands and dodged it in a swift, graceful motion.

“That’s not very nice,” Peter grinned wolfishly at you and your heart fluttered, “Here I am helping you out like a dear old gentleman and you throw things at me.” With another two quick, almost instantaneous steps, he was at your bedside, his hands coming down to your ribcage, fingers curling in as he began to tickle you mercilessly. You couldn’t do much more than squeal, kicking gently to get him off of you, whining his name as you begged him to stop.

“Peter!” you cried out, “It’s too hot for this!” There were tears in your eyes, threatening to spill down your cheeks and your bottom lip was swollen from where you were biting it to try to keep control of your laughter. Looking down at you, Peter knew he was finished, absolutely doomed, to fall into the warm and beautiful void that was loving you.

His fingers paused their attack and you both seemed to take stock of the position you found yourself in; you, flat on your back in bed, hair a dishevelled mess haloed out over your head; him, legs spread so that they were straddling your hips, his arms on either side of your body, lean muscles holding him up.

“Pete—” you whispered, eyes fluttering down to where your bodies met, lashes wet with unshed tears.

He blinked once, twice, three times, a pregnant pause in the hot air before his brain supplied the two words he’d been wanting to hear, giving him permission to plunge forward. Fuck it.

“Y/N,” he licked his lips, “You—” his fingers moved from your ribs to the edge of your camisole, thumbing across its stitching, “You’re so beautiful.”

Your breath hitched in your throat and your eyes shot up to his, pupils dilated. Your lips twitched, uncertain. “Don’t do this,” you sighed, all the while your own hands moved as if of their own accord, coming to rub up and down his arms, caressing lightly over the rippling muscle.

“Do what?” he asked, hand pausing in its movement to slip under your shirt. He withdrew it immediately, hoping he’d not grossly misread the situation.

“Don’t start something with me that you won’t finish,” your voice was barely there, “I—” You couldn’t bring yourself to say it, couldn’t utter those little words out loud, but you knew Peter understood. You could tell from the way he settled down closer to you, his lips running feather-light kisses along your collarbone, the way he brushed the lightly calloused pad of his thumb over your eyes.

“Y/N, I feel like I was finished the moment I met you,” he said, “And now I’d really like to give you a proper kiss, if you don’t mind.”

“Hopefully you’re as good at kissing as you are at running that mouth, Par—”

The words couldn’t finish leaving your lips because Peter’s shut them right back into your mouth. He kissed you gently at first, then ran his tongue along your lips, asking entrance which you granted easily enough. Your kiss went on for what felt like years, each of you learning the other with care and attention. His hands explored your body freely, eliciting small moans of approval that led him along a path he was memorizing and then his lips were navigating that same path, kissing and nipping at your shoulders, your clavicle, your navel, between your breasts at the edge of your shirt.

You were on fire as your hands tangled into his soft brown hair, nails gently massaging into his scalp. You knew, from the vibrations on his lips, that he liked the sensation and filed that information away for a later date.

Once he’d kissed all the way down to your ankles, Peter flopped onto the mattress beside you, watching as your chest heaved with pleasure.

“It feels even hotter in here than before,” he smirked, “I should go grab that part, yeah?”

You swatted at him, laughter on your lips. “You’re the worst, Peter Parker.”

He caught your hand in mid-air, wrapping his fingers around yours and gently squeezing your palm—once, twice, three times. Three squeezes for three little words that neither of you were ready to say yet, but that you would willingly show each other.

“I’m serious,” Peter said, “I’ll grab the part and a pizza and we can hang out, even though I’m the worst.”

You rolled your eyes again, still trying to steady your heart rate. “Like I said, my hero. How can I ever repay you?” For good measure, you placed the back of your hand against your forehead, faking a swoon.

Peter only looked at you with fire in his eyes. “I can think of a few ways.”

He was out of the room before you could throw another pillow at him. Shame.

in which it's midnight and you're lonely and so is peter and it's the perfect recipe for feelings 🌻 18+ only; peter is a cute dumbass, some implied fwb situationship happening here

"You're late."

With a grin that makes his honey-coloured eyes crinkle up at the corners, Peter allows you to gently grab at his wrist and pull him into your apartment, the small space bathed in the dim yellow light cast by a thrift-store floor lamp.

"Something, something, a wizard is never late or early," he mutters, toeing off his soggy sneakers in the doorway, shrugging off his rain slicker to join the small pile of things he's casting off of himself at this late hour in your entryway.

"Glad you came," you laugh, "Even if you said you'd be here..." you pause to check an invisible watch fastened to your wrist, "Fifteen minutes ago."

"I had to take the long way," Peter retorts, crossing his arms over his chest, "I'd probably have gotten mugged if I took the shortcut."

You stare at him, forced deadpan look on your face. "You're Spider-Man."

"Not tonight," he replies, his lips caught somewhere between a sigh and a smile. "Tonight, I'm just Peter."

For a long moment, you stare at him, noticing the slight dark shimmer of a bruise forming under his left eye. It makes you roll your eyes at the same time that you're pulling him close and gently swiping a thumb across his face. "Someone did try to mug you, didn't they?"

Peter shrugs, leaning into your touch, letting his eyes flutter closed so that his lashes fall heavy against your fingerprints. "Yeah, but I'm Spider-Man."

Something tugs in your chest, an aching warmth that draws you closer to Peter, pulls you up onto your tiptoes so that you can press a soft kiss to his lips, smiling when you feel his tongue swipe across your lower lip, asking entrance.

Briefly, you pull away and gesture with an incline of your chin to his eye. "Do I need to take a look at that?"

"After," he replies in earnest, "Gotta make it up to you for making you wait first."

the waiter

tasm!peter x reader 

summary: 

“the waiter was flirting with you"  

"what?”

“he couldn’t stop staring at you. i thought his eyes were going to fall out of his head." 

warnings: pure fluff, baby. 

Keep reading

andrew peter Parker with the highschool sweethearts trope and prompt “are you wearing my shirt”

𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐋 𝐓𝐀𝐒𝐌!𝐏𝐄𝐓𝐄𝐑'𝐒 𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐑𝐓.

pairings ; tasm!peter parker x female!reader 

warnings ; fem!reader implied at end, established relationship, pet names, pure cheesy fluff to be honest.

word count ; 659

additional notes ; 'high school sweethearts' + "are you wearing my shirt?' prompts used <33

peter was in a grumpy mood. it wasn’t usual that he was these days. not when he was practically renowned across the school for the mood change the second you showed up. your poor boyfriend known for being so sappily in-love with you.

but he wasn’t able to see you this weekend. he caught a glimpse at your window after patrol both days, lightly knocking the glass while you slept in bed before giving up, not wanting to wake you.

plus his favourite t-shirt was missing. a simple band-tee that he likes to wear occasionally and thought he had left it out to wear for school, only to realise it’s missing, aunt may assuring him it’s not in the laundry basket.

his head is glued to the floor when he walks to his locker, glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose while he holds his skateboard under one arm. no glances in anyone’s directions, just wanting to collect his things for first period and go to the class.

yet, peter’s plans are ruined when two hands slide over the expanse of his back, squeezing his shoulders and a small but immediate happy smile tugs upon peter’s lips knowingly. “hey, baby. missed you so much—” he cuts himself off, after turning around to press his lips to yours does he immediately notice the outfit you adorn.

your smile is so bright, enough to make peter’s knees buckle, and there’s a shine in your eye when you greet your boyfriend. your arms instinctively move around his neck while his encircle your waist to pull you close, skateboard hitting the floor, uncaring of the people walking past the hall.

peter’s smile widens, a small noise escaping him as he gapes, “are you wearing my shirt?” it’s the very shirt that he had been looking for, over a long-sleeved top to almost match his own style. and god, you looked so much better in it.

“… is that okay? i thought you wouldn’t mind.” you look down at your attire, smile falling briefly. to which your boyfriend immediately perks up, squeezing your frame before his instincts stop him from pressing too hard, “no! don’t mind, don’t mind at all, baby, no.”

you can’t help giggling at his nature, rambled and flustered as he leans closer to you. warm, wanting more of you, closer. “in fact, you should keep it. looks so much better on you,” with this he kisses you, prolonged and sweet in a wordless i-missed-you way.

your breath wavers after you both pull away, leaning further into his side as peter turns to grab more of his things out the locker. you stare up at him admiringly, “you didn’t drop by after patrol, pete?”.

he glances back down at you, another quipped smile while his lips catch yours briefly, your teeth breaking from your lower lip while you respond. “you were sleeping, baby. i tried,” peter whispers after pulling away, hand caressing your stolen-shirt covered back affectionately while nudging his locker closed and bending down to pick up his skate.

“you watched me sleep, creep?” you tease, smile never faltering as you talk to peter. “sure did, cute thing. you cuddle your pillow when i’m not beside you, y’know?” you just hum as he guides you away, your shoulder bag bumping his hip but peter refuses to remove himself from your side.

“you should really leave your window unlocked, by the way,” peter continues, glancing at one another while you fiddle with the hem of his navy-blue top, “what if someone climbs in?” you ask. “you live twenty stories up, honey, no one but me can sneak in. and if they did, they have a crime-fighting spider who loves his girlfriend to deal with.”

“you’re so cheesy,” you giggle endearingly at your precious peter while leaning up to kiss his cheek, noting that tonight you won’t lock your window in hopes spider-man drops by and replaces your pillow for cuddles.

⤸

taglist form . the library . all blurbs

andrew!peter parker; masterlist

Writer’s Block Drabbles.

Andrew!Peter x Fem!Reader

i have severe writer’s block.. so im writing little things (with help from pinterest) to help.

Prompt —>

- A Secret Romance

- Sad smiles

- A homemade gift.

[This drabble is a summer fling, but make it dramatic.]

She held his face in her hands, pressing their foreheads together. A tear slipped down his cheek, he sniffled and shook his head. “No i cannot lose you, I won’t lose you.” She smiled sadly at his determination. She ran her hand across his cheek, her eyes scanning his face, memorising every scar, blemish and freckle. Her train was due to arrive in twenty minutes but she couldn’t bare to leave him.

He reminded her of summer nights, when the air is cool and the breeze is refreshing. Of freshly baked pastries and intricate oil paintings. He reminded her of simpler times, when nothing really mattered. She looked into his eyes with nothing but love and pure adoration, despite his puffy cheeks and reddened nose. She loved it all, the chestnut brown of his hair and the hazelnut hue of his eyes, the small heart shaped freckle that sat to the left of his slightly crooked nose. She loved the way his thick framed glasses sat awkwardly on the bump in his nose bridge.

“I have something for you. Just a momento, of our time together.” He whispered, reaching into his pocket and picking out a small velvet box. He knelt down on one knee, watching as she smiled softly at him. “You, my dearest Y/n are the love of my life and i need you to know that. I know our time has not been the longest, but i really feel like we have something special.” He pulled open the velvet box which contained a ring, made of paper.

“Oh Peter you’re so romantic.” She blushed, pulling him to his feet and leaning against him. “I know we’re too young, and i know that we cannot be together, but please, wear this ring and know that wherever you are you’re loved.” He slipped the ring on her finger, kissing her cheek shortly after.

“When you wear this ring, remember my love, remember this, remember us.”

“I won’t forget you.”

“I want you. Just you.”

Andrew!peter x Fem!Reader

Peter f!cked up.. badly. Y/n hates him for what he did, but she loves him too much to give up what they have.

¡Warnings!

- nothing much, but a bit of implied smut at the end.

He sat with his knees pulled up to his chest as he stared at the blank white walls of his bedroom. He checked the time, 11:05pm. It was late. He blinked slowly, his eyes dry and tired. He just couldn’t sleep. He pulled out his phone and unlocked it. He contemplated calling her, his thumb hovered over the call button. Just as he was about to put his phone back down, her contact popped up on his screen. He smiled at the photo that came up. It was a picture of the both of them, she had given him a kiss on the cheek and peter had gone bright red. May had taken the photo, giggling at her nephew’s embarrassment.

“Y/n” he said just above a whisper. His voice was shaky with anxiety and tears welled in his eyes. “I know peter.” She responded, she sighed and frowned just a little bit. “I miss you.” he murmured, placing his phone up to his ear. y/n shook her head and held back the tears that threatened to fall from her eyes. She sniffled and said, “Peter. I can’t do this right now-”

“Y/n i can’t live without you. I said that I’m sorry, isn’t that enough?” he asked, raising his voice a bit. He held his tongue and took a deep breath. “I didn’t mean to yell, I just, I can’t do this alone.” His voice was shaky again. He ran an unsteady hand through his hair. It had grown a little longer and it began to curl at the ends a bit.

“You should have thought about that before you kissed Gwen.” she replied, she was tired. Tired of being second choice. First with Flash and now with Peter. She thought it’d be different this time, she swore it would be. But just as she expected, she got tossed to the side like she was worth nothing. “Y/n.”

“No peter. I cannot do this with you anymore. You made up your mind, you chose her. Now leave me alone.” She ended the call and sobbed into her pillow. “But I love you.” He admitted as the call ended. He threw his phone in anger, he had never been so mad at himself for anything in his life, except when Ben died. He swore he wouldn’t let her down, but he did. He had a good thing and he fucked it up. And now he was going to hate himself for this for the rest of his life.

Y/n cried hard. She missed him, of course she did. But she hated what he did to her. He kissed Gwen. He knew how insecure she made her feel, and he kissed her. It was always Gwen. Flash left y/n for Gwen, and Peter was doing the same. Why? What did Gwen have that she didn’t?

Peter looked out of his bedroom window, watching the stars in the sky. They twinkled like fairy lights, brightening the night sky with their innocence. He breathed a heavy sigh. He really fucked up this time. But he was more than determined to fix it. He put on his old, faded red converse and a black hoodie and opened a window. He looked down onto the city, watching how the cars sped past and the city lights twinkled like stars. “I’m coming y/n.” he whispered before letting himself fall out of the window, shooting a web onto a lamp post and swinging through the city.

Y/n laid in her bed, staring at the ceiling, her earphones blasting music into her ears. Every now and again, a tear fell from the corner of her eye; she made no effort to wipe them, she let them fall- hoping they’d eventually sweep her away like the ocean. Peter tapped on the glass of her window, he looked in and saw her laid in her bed, staring at the ceiling. His heart broke, and a tear slipped down his cheek. “Y/n.” he whispered. The guilt hit him like a bus, he almost felt like he was going to fall. He attempted to lift the window, but it stayed closed despite his efforts. She locked it.

“Y/n!” he spoke, he tried to get her attention, going as far as to throw small rocks at her window. She heard a faint tapping on her window and got up. She knew she shouldn’t, she knew he was there, but she couldn’t help herself. She had to see him again, even if it was to yell at him and tell him to leave her alone, she had to see him.

“Y/n unlock the window. Please.” he whimpered, the tears were almost uncontrollable. “What do you want Peter?” she sniffled, wiping the tears from her eyes. He hopped through the window, putting his head in his hands in frustration.

“I.. I don’t-”

“Peter. If you can’t figure out what you want you need to leave. So what do you want?” she asked again, looking up at him. Their faces were so close. He looked at her lips, and back into her eyes. He swallowed hard. “I want..”

“You.”

She felt his hands on her face, his thumb stroked her cheek, and wiped away a stray tear. “I’m so sorry. I did something stupid and i hate myself for it, but i never meant to hurt you. That's not what i wanted, not now not ever. I want to be yours again. I don’t want her. I want you, just you.” By this point his face was in the crook of her neck, as he whispered these words to her. She wanted him. He’s all she needed. But he hurt her, and he hurt her badly.

“You really fucked up Peter.”

“Yeah. I know.”

“I don’t know if I can forgive you.”

“I- yeah I get it.”

“I love you. More than anything… but I need time.” he choked back a sob. He hated to hear it, but he knew he needed to, he had to listen to her and if that meant leaving her, then he would.

“I love you.” he cried into her shoulder, dampening the material of her pyjama top. They just stayed like that for a few moments, he didn’t want to leave. She was all he had, the only person who made him feel safe. With her, things were easy. He didn’t feel like breathing was a chore, living was easier, being Spider man was easier.

“I’ll wait for you.” he mumbled into her skin, kissing her exposed shoulder. He looked into her eyes, her cheeks were flushed, her cheeks stained with fresh tears.

“Before I leave, can I ask you something?” he said quietly.

“Mmhm.” she hummed, never breaking eye contact.

“Will you kiss me, just once before I go.” he chewed on his bottom lip, sniffling a little. He looked into her eyes, they sparkled innocently, he missed looking into her eyes, he could get lost in them for hours.

“Okay.”

"I love you." he said, kissing her on the lips, his kisses taste like cigarette smoke and candy. His hands planted themselves on her waist, rubbing slowly. Fuck. "Have you been smoking?." she whispered against his lips, her left hand on his cheek. He smiled sheepishly, nodding slightly.

“That’s hot.” She kissed him again. harder this time, their lips melting together. His taste was addictive, as was the way his hands went up and down her waist. he lifted her up, never breaking the kiss, his hands on her ass squeezing every now and then as he walked her to her bed, laying her down.

“One more thing.” he said against her lips. She looked dazed, her pupils dilated and her mouth open slightly. “Mmhm.”

“I think you know where this is going. Are you okay with that?” he asked, looking into her eyes for any sign of discomfort.

“I want you Peter Parker. Just you.”

“I’m here baby.”

“Stay. Please?”

Andrew!Peter x Reader

Peter and Y/n are best friends, but both of them want to be a little more than that.

Authors note: I love this man.

The moon sat still in the sky, glowing a silvery white casting shadows upon the city. Despite the time, cars and trucks raced along the roads, the noise never ending. But you didn’t mind, in fact you were kind if used to it. You lay still in your bed, the darkness surrounding you. You waited patiently. For what, you don’t know.

Time seemed to move slower than usual, you checked the time on your phone it read : 1:34AM, sadly only two minutes had passed since you last checked. you sighed loudly and sat up in your bed. you got out and hopped into your bunny slippers that Peter bought you for your birthday three years ago. You had thought they were stupid at first, but now they were one of your most prized possessions. You opened your door with much difficulty, seeing as your hand had been swallowed by the sleeve of one of Peter’s hoodies that he had given you when you were cold one night, plus your bedroom door was already a pain in the ass to open.

You walked toward your kitchen and went straight to the pantry. you grabbed two croissants and the Nutella, carrying a knife in your mouth. You cut the croissants in half horizontally and dipped the knife in the Nutella. you spread the nutella on the croissants and put them back together. You walked back to your room, croissants, a spoonful of Nutella and a glass of water in hand. You placed them down and sat on the edge of you bed, and as you did that, there was soft knocking at your window.

You checked the clock on the wall to see that the time was only 1:40AM. You froze in your tracks, turning slowly as your parents and sister were asleep in their rooms so you had to be as quiet as possible. You tiptoed to the window, unlocking it as quietly as possible after looking and seeing peter’s stupid grin.

“Peter!? What are you doing here? It’s the middle of the freaking night, your 14 storeys up and you could fall!'' you whisper-yelled. “Well i- i would have tried your front door, but i figured it’d be a bit awkward since its late. so i- well now i'm here. And~ I bought snacks. ” he spoke. his teeth were chattering and he couldn’t seem to stand still. “Well you best come in then, Parker.'' you sighed, letting him in and closing the window as quietly as possible. He stumbled to the other side of your bedroom.

“So why are you here then?” you asked, moving back to your bed. “I don't mean it in a rude way, it’s just usually when you come over it’s because something happened, you’re here for Gwen or you need patching up.” you explained, beginning to eat one of your croissants. he sat on your spinning desk chair, watching you eat your food. He grabbed the spoon of Nutella and began eating it happily. “I just- I was in the neighbourhood, you know and i uh, i guess i wanted to swing by.” he said hurriedly, inhaling sharply. “You got hurt again, didn’t you.”

“yeah.”

“lemme see it.” you sighed, he smiled sheepishly, holding his side in pain, this boy.

He took off his jacket , sucking in a breath. He lifted up his shirt, revealing a large bleeding gash on his waist. “Gods sake Peter.”

You quickly grabbed a first aid kit from the bathroom and began fixing him up on the desk chair beside your bed. You poured rubbing alcohol on a cotton ball and began disinfecting the cut. He made little noises as the alcohol got into his cut. “Ah! Be gentle Y/n.” He whined, frowning at you when you looked up at him in frustration.

“What even happened this time?”

He gasped dramatically, placing his hand on his chest in ‘shock’. “Does the y/n- who hates everyone on this dear planet- care about little old me?” he pouted, bringing his face toward you. You pushed him back and gestured your eyes back down to the bleeding wound.

“Just the usual, you know. Mutant lizards and burning cars. No biggie.” he shrugged, placing a gummy worm into his mouth.

“No biggie!? You could’ve died, Parker. I know you have ‘super spider healing’ or whatever, but you are not invincible!” You almost yelled at him. He just muttered a quiet “I know.” and let you continue your rant.

“You’re Peter Parker, My Peter. Stop throwing yourself into the belly of the beast like you’re going to come out unscathed every time, coz you’re not! One day if you’re not careful you’re going to get seriously hurt, or worse! So please for the love of God.. Stop acting like no one loves you because i do! I Love You peter Parker, you and your stupid glasses and your stupid face and that goofy little smile you do when i’m mad at you.” You huffed at the end. You took two deep breaths and resumed cleaning his wound.

“You.. love me. Did I hear that right? ” he mumbled, grabbing your hands and making you look up at him. He looked so pretty. His hair was messy, yet still so soft and fluffy, his doe eyes stared at you intently with so many unclear emotions hiding behind them.

“Yes because you’re my best friend, now can I finish?” you asked, wriggling out of his grasp. He let you finish up, but it was already starting to heal.

“Just your best friend, huh?” he said, as he looked at your lips and then back up into your eyes. When you finally looked back up at him, he was blushing. He shuffled forward on the chair and leant in a little. You pulled back in realisation before he could get any closer.

“No. Peter, we’ve talked about this.” he put his hand on your cheek and pulled your face closer to his so that your lips were barely touching. “I can’t.” you whispered. A tear rolled down your cheek.

“I should- i should probably go.” his face was still centimetres from yours, your noses touching. You didn’t want him to leave, and he knew that.

“Peter don’t- Don’t go. Please.” You chewed on your bottom lip, looking up into his eyes.

“Y/n.”

“I- I don't- You know what, I'm just gonna say it. I think you’re great I- it’s just that you’re my best friend Pete.” you spoke quickly.

“I know.”

“And Gwen. She’s my sister. And, she really likes you, you know.”

“I know but-“

You cut him off. “No peter. There are no ‘buts’. You know how I feel about you, but there are things we can’t risk. We cannot do this to Gwen. So please Peter, don’t do this.” You stayed looking up at him. He swallowed hard and held eye contact.

“How can I not when you look up at me like you want me to hold you in my arms forever and never let you go? How can I not when your eyes are the only thing i want to look at for the rest of my life? How can I not when there’s nothing on this earth that makes me feel the way you do? Tell me Y/n. How?” He breathed against your lips.

“But she loves you.”

“Do you love me?” he asked, staring down into your eyes.

“I- I do. More than anything.”

“Then kiss me.”

His lips were soft and warm. They fit perfectly with yours, it was slow and so filled with passion. He tasted like gummy bears and chocolate. The kiss was so gentle and loving despite the slight clumsiness on your part, but in the moment all you could think of was how perfect it felt. His hand slowly settled on your waist, rubbing the smooth skin under your hoodie. He kissed your cheek and pushed you back on the bed, breaking the kiss.

“Peter.”

“Yeah?”

“Please don’t leave.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. “

when I read your fics it genuinely feels so real that I have to wake myself up to rejoin the real world and when I finish the post I think I enter the five stages of grief

honeybody | tasm!peter parker x fem!reader

summary something about music makes you desperate to feel it. something about Peter, pretty and magnetic and light, multiplies this immeasurably. or, you and Peter want to try everything [wc: 12k]

warnings fluff, friendship, idiots in love, falling in love, strangers to friends to lovers, slow burn, intimacy, the intangible breadth of the human experience or something similar, mentioned/implied past self-harm (nothing graphic)

the honeybody playlist

<3

You perch on the edge of a yellowing cushion, nose tickled by the sweet sick smell of pot and cheap beer, and worry about being by yourself. Are you overstaying your welcome? The room is crowded to the point of awkwardness, two girls crammed onto the sofa besides you having a lovers quarrel, perfect noses turned up at each other. 

You look down at your covered thighs and rub your thumb over the smooth material, thinking. If I go home, I can sleep. But, if I go home, my life remains the size of my room. 

"They're nice pants, I agree," a voice says. 

You look up, mostly worried to be laughed at. And he does look like he's laughing, Peter something. 

"Hi," you say, shy and not knowing if that's what you were supposed to say. 

The perpetual amusement on his face wanes ever so slightly, replaced by something soft. "Hi," he says back, and then, glancing at the arguing couple next to you, "Do you want a drink?"

You say yes, eager to escape from the unpleasant smells and tensions of the main body. Peter something from Biology 102 juts his chin, a gesture to follow. He leads you into a kitchen similarly crowded but smelling more of salt and cocktail mix than smoke. Your shoes stick to the floor as you follow him to the drinks. 

"What a terrible assortment," he says, groaning at the countertop of booze, unimpressed. 

You can't think of something to say back. He turns to you with his eyebrows pinched, guilt evident in his face. 

"We have classes together, right?" 

"We did. Biology. You're Peter." You cringe as you say it. 

He only smiles. "I am Peter. You're…" 

You tell him. He winces and nods like he remembers, and maybe he does, patting his thigh. "I remember. You changed classes?" 

Your turn to wince. "I dropped out." 

He looks shocked for a moment, kind brown eyes wide like a child's. He's the type of handsome to give you chills if you think about it. 

"Well, that's something exciting to drink too." 

Exciting is not the right word. However, he's pretty and giving you attention. You let him make you a lukewarm mix of things and drink it like it's water, leaning against the cool front of the refrigerator. Peter towers above you, chin basically flat with his neck to see your face, too close for comfort because of the rowdy nature of the party. Still, as he speaks, you decide you like his closeness more and more. He has a nice voice, soothing, and when he chuckles halfway through his own joke you decide he has the most attractive laugh any boy could ever hope to have. 

"I mean, I'm sorry you dropped out but I envy you for never having to see Professor Müller again. She's twice as scary as she's ever been." 

"Has she divorced her husband yet?" Your words are careful, concise, likely too soft for the volume of the room. 

He hears each one perfectly and his laugh is a riot of butterflies in your stomach. 

"No, they're hanging in there." 

Small talk is tricky. There are intricacies you likely haven't learned. He's looking down, and you're looking up, but meeting his eyes is hard. You glance at his broad chest again and again to the point where you could likely draw the Bruce Springsteen shirt he's wearing with your eyes blindfolded. 

You find he isn't put off by your quietness. He fills any awkward gaps with chatter without steamrolling you. He listens. He smiles. 

"I came with Avery," you say, bending the plastic cup in your hand. It crunches. 

"I like Avery," he says agreeably. "I mean. I don't like her. Like like her." He clears his throat. "She's nice." 

"I'm surprised she's put up with me this long. Um, you know, she told me you sell photos. To the Bugle. You're a photographer?" 

He scratches the back of his neck. You push your lips together all lopsided as he smiles like he hadn't wanted you say that, and you go to correct yourself. 

"I mean, I'm sorry, was that-" 

He leans in a little closer and drops his hand. You're close enough to kiss, and that realisation makes your heart skip. "Don't be sorry," he says quickly. He's almost whispering. "Only, it's a secret. I don't know how Avery knows." 

"It was in the-" you get distracted by his eyes, unflinching, and look down at his stupid shirt for salvation, "-girls chemistry group chat. Apparently." 

He sighs and leans back. Why he's stressed over this is not apparent to you. When he straightens quickly you pretend you hadn't been staring at his jawline.  

"Are you in this chat?" he asks. 

You shake your head.. 

"I can't imagine how they would know," he says mostly to himself. 

His lips perk up from their thoughtful frown, a beatific smile taking its place. It's an image you're sure to replay in your head for weeks, this normal conversation, this interaction with somebody who's talking to you just to talk to you. You can't believe how pretty he is.

"Isn't it a good thing, to be credited?" you ask gently. 

"Have you seen the photographs?" he asks without a hint of sarcasm. 

You shake your head, a palpable wave of relief washes over him. You pretend not to notice. 

"It's a good thing," he agrees. His hands drift to his stomach. "Are you hungry?" 

You're not. "Yeah." 

"Wanna go get something? Ditch this popsicle stand. Smells like an ashtray in here." 

You think it might be a really bad idea to disappear into the night with a guy you've just met properly. Still, you're lonely, and stupid, and somebody lovely wants to go get food with you. 

You find yourself elbow to elbow with him in a greasy McDonald's, illuminated by neon and laughing harder than you have in a really long time. It's the first meal you've eaten in months that isn't a microwave meal in bed. It's nice. You like it. You like him. 

"Oh, gross." 

"What?" he asks, a milkshake covered fry an inch from his open mouth. 

"That's weird." 

"It's 'weird'?" he asks, extremely amused by you. There's a fondness to his disbelief. "Have you ever tried it?" 

"No," you admit, watching in disgust as he eats it.

Your mumbling amuses him tenfold. He giggles to himself as he plucks a fry from the bottom of his carton, translucent with grease. He dips it generously in his open milkshake and offers it to you. 

You don't reach for it. He shakes his head, bewildered, and moves his hand slowly to your mouth.

"Try it! You might like it. It might be your new favourite flavour on the entire planet, and you'll have me to thank for it." 

You doubt that. 

Honestly, you think you might lick the tables if he asked you to and the shame of it makes you flush white hot as you take the fry from him and eat it. 

"Do you like it?" Peter asks eagerly.

You wrinkle your nose. "Can't tell." 

He picks up a second fry, dips it in his thick shake and passes it to you fast. His fingers shine with grease. You take it from him.

"Atta girl," he praises. 

You melt under his watch. You're embarrassed that he's looking at you like he is - attentive, soft - though there's a thrumming pleasure that comes with his company. 

You chew the hybrid food in your mouth and find it isn't half as bad as you worried it would be. 

"Yeah?" he asks smugly, nodding until you nod with him. 

"Yeah," you say, laughing, eyes shying away from his. "It's nice." 

"I knew it! Knew you'd like it." 

"How did you know?" 

"I can tell. I've got amazing intuition." 

You dip one of your own fries in his shake and tilt your head back to avoid spilling it down your shirt, smiling so hard it makes it difficult to chew. 

"Your photos in the Bugle, what are they? Like, nature shots?" 

The smile slips off of his face. He thinks for a moment, tapping the table with his fingertips, staccato. 

"Do you want to be friends?" he asks you, brown waves falling into his eyes as his head inches to one side. 

You bite your bottom lip and start to smile, then lose it, worried he's pulling a prank on you. 

"You're fun. We mesh. And if you agree to be my friend, I'll tell you who I take photos of," he sells at your hesitance.  

"Yeah," you say. It comes out weird. You clear your throat. "Yeah, I wanna be your friend." 

His smile flashes, soft then contagious, ridiculously bright. He brings his phone out of his pocket, his screen smashed to pieces and held together with clear scotch tape, and clicks in the code, bringing up a small folder of pictures. 

"I take photos of Spider-Man." 

You blink. You look between the phone and your new friend, letting out an excited gasp that startles him. 

"You've met Spider-Man?" you ask, louder than you've spoken all night. 

He gawps at you. "Well," he says bashfully, seeming in two minds from your attention. "I mean… you could say that." 

"No fucking way," you mutter happily. Then, before you can stop yourself, "What's he like? Is he nice? Is he funny? People always say he tells good jokes." 

His cheeks are pinking. "I'd say he's pretty funny." 

"Wow. Peter, this is awesome," you tell him truthfully. 

"Oh," he says, eyes hard to read. "Thank you." 

You pass the phone back to him. "Of course. Wow, Spider-Man. Hey, you don't take them on your phone, do you? They're so crisp." 

"Crisp," he repeats. 

"You know, high definition," you sing-song. 

"I have a camera. A few cameras. I fix them." 

"You fix cameras?" 

He tells you all about it, and he doesn't stop at cameras. He can fix everything. Laptops and TVs, video game consoles and fancy mechanical keyboards. You listen in awe. 

"Well, what do you do? For fun?" he asks.

You waver. "I'm a waitress." 

He raises his eyebrows. "For fun?" 

"I mean, no. It's my job. I just, I don't know what I do for fun." You bring your hands together and run your wrist with the pad of your thumb, suddenly unhappy with yourself. "I guess lately I work and then I come home and, you know, do all the things you have to do." 

You cringe at yourself. Peter starts collecting the rubbish and mess you've made on the table, slipping everything inside the beaten paper bag, eyes flitting in your direction as he says, "Hey, that's alright. Life gets really busy. Having a full time job must be pretty hard, yeah?" 

You nod mindlessly, grateful for his rescue. "Yeah." 

"Before your job, what did you do for fun?" 

You don't expect the question. "Anything. I would do whatever," you say eventually.

"Skydiving?" he challenges. 

"Well, no." 

"Paintballing?" 

"No, but-" 

"Go karting?" 

"You asked me for my hobbies, not my bucket list," you complain with no real heat. 

His laugh echoes through the entire restaurant. You look around to see if anyone cares and he doesn't, reaching out to grasp your wrist lightly, a friendly clasp that makes your skin burn. 

"Maybe we should try doing some of these things. Get you your hobbies back. Hobbies make everything worth it. What's the point in working so hard if you never have time to slow down?" he asks earnestly. 

You beam, staring at his hand. There's no sign that he's just touched you, no mark, no burn, nothing. It doesn't make any sense. 

He finishes off his drink and shoves that in the paper bag too, turning to you with a question already on his lips. 

"How about skateboarding?"

-

"You're overthinking it," Peter says, watching you hesitate in front of his skateboard. 

The sun shines like sticky hot toffee in the sky, piercing the autumn cold. The skatepark complex is busy, more busy than you expected, kids and teens and twenties like you and Peter fighting for space. You and Peter stand off to one side, away from the bowls and congregation.

"I don't want to fall," you confess.

"I won't let you," he says firmly. "Get on." 

He offers his hand. You bite your lip, feel the sun warm the back of your head as you stall. 

"I'll help you on. It's easy, I swear." 

You put one converse-heavy foot on the board. Peter had texted you to wear shoes you didn't mind getting all dinged up and you'd realised that was every pair of shoes, besides your flats for work. He also insisted on bringing knee pads and a helmet. You feel like an idiot. He obviously doesn't mind how you look considering he's tightened the helmet so much your hair is crushed and messy. 

"Is this really necessary?" you'd asked. 

He'd rolled his eyes. "Yes." 

"Look," he says now, "move your foot back a little bit." 

"It's gonna move."

He puts his foot behind the wheels. "There, now it won't. Angle your foot, like this," he shows you with his own, though it's the inverse foot and you get confused. He's patient. "Good job. Now this one, straight on the curved part." 

You wobble and grasp his wrist too tight in your fingers. He moves a little closer. "Alright. You'll push with this one," he says, pointing at your foot on the back of the board, "from this side. But don't worry, I'll show you. For now, let's just practice standing." 

You giggle breathily, nervous at being so close to him. "Not something I thought I'd ever have to practice doing." 

He laughs with you. 

"I know. As soon as you can balance, everything will feel a lot less scary." 

You wobble again. He sighs sympathetically, a half smile on his lips. "Want me to hold you up?" he asks. 

"Yes. Please," you agree. 

You can't help the tiny gasp of fright that leaves you when he lets go of your hand, though he's quick to wrap his both hands around your waist, steadying you on the board. He moves his foot from behind the truck and you're suddenly aware of the boards freedom to fly out from under you. 

You grab onto his arms unthinkingly, feeling the unmistakable curve of defined muscle. It only furthers your dizziness. 

"You're good," he murmurs, fingers flexing on your waist. You can feel his touch in your ribs. "How do you feel?" 

"Fine." 

"I'm gonna move you back and forth, okay?"

He does. It's odd. You sway forwards and backwards, barely moving. It's not as scary as you think it is. 

"You can use your hands for balance if you want but most people get away with having them loose at your sides," he tells you. His instructions are slow, said with a melodic cadence. 

His words click. "Oh, right. Sorry," you rush to say. 

You pull your hands away from him quickly and almost topplez ending up with your hands right back where they'd been moments before, scared at the change in your balance.

"Hey, you're good to hold onto me. Whatever you want to do," he reassures you.

He moves you for a few minutes. You're distracted by his touch and his proximity, of his smell and trying to work out what it is, and then worried about your own smell and how you look, and if you're making a good impression in his head. This is the first time you've seen him since the night you'd gone for food, though he'd texted you every now and then, friendly things, between the waiting days. The weekend had approached quickly. You offered the scarcity of your spare time to him in an uncharacteristic display of courage, texting him: 

I don't have work tomorrow if youre still okay to teach me how to skateboard 

Omg yes I've been looking forward to this all week!! You know where Maloof skatepark is? 

Yeh. Do I need to bring anything?? 

Just yourself and a pair of shoes u don't mind ruining, I'll bring everything else :D

"Okay, climb off." 

"Which-?" 

"This foot first." 

You clamber clumsily off of the board and his hands linger on your waist for a warm second. He climbs on the skateboard swiftly, movement smooth as honey. He's agile. 

"I'm gonna push with my leg," he lifts it up to show you. Impressed isn't the right word. "It's really easy, I promise you. You're gonna get this in no time." 

"Do you want the helmet?" you ask him. 

"No, sweetheart, you keep it." 

It's almost like being struck. He demonstrates how to push off, how to put your foot back behind you. You're too busy buzzing with something unfamiliar to pay attention. 

"See how I'm bending my knees a little bit?" he asks. 

You nod with no clue. He comes to a controlled stop and kicks the board up with his shoe, something that in consideration is mildly impressive but has you squeezing your palms closed tight. He braces it against his leg.

"Are you thirsty? I've got drinks," Peter says. 

You sit with your backs to a cold metal wrought fence sipping Sunny-D, the climbing sun cutting through the afternoons chilly weather until you're basking in it, lifting your face with your eyes closed. 

It's not quite peaceful, the childish hubbub and the sound of wheels, blades and metal screeching loud in your ears, but it could be. You can imagine how it might get to be white noise. 

Peter nudges you with his elbow. "You're like a cornflower." 

"A weed?" you murmur, bemused. 

"No!" he scrambles at your teasing tone. "They love the sun." 

"Like sunflowers." 

"Sunflowers aren't really flowers, either. The part that looks like a flower is a capitulum of florests. That's why the middle is weirdly big. It grows like the wood of a tree." 

"So the sunflower isn't a flower," you say, tilting your head towards his. "It's just a plant of- what did you say? Florests?"

"It's a plant covered in lots of little flowers, basically," he sums up for you.

"A plant made of flowers." 

"Exactly." 

"I'd know this if I hadn't dropped out, I assume." 

"That and a handful of other tiny useless facts."

Useless or not, he's hot when he talks, when he explains. You might think he was glaring at you, his eyebrows pinched, his mouth almost pouting like he's mad with himself for needing to concentrate. Whatever it is, it's pretty. He looks like a painting, you think. The Fallen Angel. 

He stops thinking so hard and lifts his head to drink. You watch him swallow and wonder after what kind of friend he wants you to be. 

"Flower or not, all I meant was that you look like you're enjoying the weather," he says after a moment. 

"It's nice. I like the warmth." 

"You're not too hot?" 

You look down at your hoodie. You are warm, but you won't take it off. "Nah," you say, smiling peaceably. 

He takes a second to digest this. His own hoodie is tucked away in his backpack, bare arms on show and a sight. You trace the small arm hairs with your eyes, then his veins, then a scar so silver it would be invisible without the sun's exposure. 

"You wanna try again?" 

You get up reluctantly and he sets his board back out and tucks his foot in front of the wheels. You step on, wobble, find your balance. He's more gentle with you than you think he should be. It's like he's known you for years. 

"Can I move my foot?" 

You nod. 

"Just stay steady. You have your knee pads, but I'll catch you if you fall anyway. All you wanna do for now is stand on the board." 

You trust him to do what he says he will and catch you. You take in a deep breath as he moves his foot, knees slightly bent, arms at your sides, trying your best to be steady. 

"Hey, amazing! Alright! Look at you!" Peter cheers, ecstatic.

"Should I be moving?" you ask through a small smile. 

He shrugs and moves backwards, close enough to grab you but far enough away that you have space to get comfortable on the skateboard by yourself.

"Do what feels right," he advises. 

The sun hits him, turns his hair alight. He's the prettiest boy you've ever met, his eyes dark in the halo of light, eyebrows darker. Light kisses the hills of his cheeks and taper, carving deep shadows under his jaw. You falter on the board, distracted again, and his jaw clenches, his hands reaching out to scoop you up before you can fall flat on your face. 

You're one foot touches down and the other slides out under you, skateboard rolling. Peter laughs straight away and you follow his example, giggling as his fingers hook under your arms. You barely feel them. He smells nice. Vanilla, you think, mixed with something aromatic. Amber, maybe. Whatever it is, it's warm. He smells warm. 

You remember to pull your foot off of his board and feel like you're made of jelly. He pulls his hands off of you but doesn't move away, peering down at you in question. 

"Did something surprise you?" he asks curiously. 

"I- yeah. I don't know." 

"Wanna go again?" 

You get up on the board again. It takes time and mishaps. Peter doesn't ever let you hit the ground. 

The sun edges further and further into the sky. By the time it's begun its descent you can push off by yourself, able to traverse a few slow feet without falling. Peter throws his arm over your shoulder when you dismount by yourself and shakes you gently. 

"Amazing. You're a real Tony Hawk," he compliments. "Next time we'll see if I can get you turning. You don't have anywhere to be, do you?" 

"Nowhere." 

"Wanna get something to eat? There's a place nearby that does Pão de Queijo, you'll love those." 

"Is it like the whole milkshake thing? 'Cos there's only so many stamps on my freak-of-nature card left." 

"Very funny. They're just cheese puffs, swear. Maybe we can get milkshakes on the way for a completely unrelated reason," he says, a vexing smugness behind his joke. 

"Ew, Peter." 

"Ew," he agrees.

-

Do you want to go to a painting class with me

Yeah it's like a Bob Ross rip off at the creative arts centre . They have all the stuff there we just have to pay like 49 dollars 

? 

a painting class? 

Which is on me if u say yes obviously 

You want me to go paint with you ? 

Yeah it'll be fun

I don't own anything  

Peter we can do all that stuff for free at my house if u want to 

wait 

is painting one of your pre job hobbies???

oh awesome. if that's OK with u then sure we might as well. also a relief cos its 49 each so that's like 98 dollars for us to paint waterfalls :0

yeh lol. i have the stuff

You stare down at your phone. Your answer blinks but you can't make yourself press send. You know you don't have to organise these big things to spend time with me, it says. Only, what if he does? What if your friendship doesn't work without something to do? You've known Peter for three weeks now and gone skating every weekend, though last time you'd given up early and insisted he impress you with tricks. He had delivered, and your mouth had been bone dry by the end of it. He'd barely broken a sweat. 

You delete your draft and start anew. 

Do you have a tarp or a big sheet we can lay down on the floor? I have carpet and I rent 

I'll get you a tarp, sweetheart

You scream to yourself and push your phone deep into the sofa cushions beneath you. It chirps and you leave it. It chirps again and you scrounge for it. 

look at this video https://youtu.be/A5L8bdYY9FY

he's eating a tomato

You laugh to yourself, giddy with the pleasure of having a friend. Giddy that it's Peter. 

-

A rattling knock at the door. 

A text before you can get up. 

I'm outside maybe

You open the door in your painting clothes with your hair intricately done to look messy-pretty. Peter is wearing his usual nice clothes, thigh hugging jeans and his brown jacket, but under it is a shirt that smells like burning. 

"S'my soldering shirt," he says quickly, apologetic. 

You smile and hope he reads it for what it is; It smells like it. Also, I'm happy you're here. 

He shrugs off his backpack. 

"I brought sandwiches," he announces. "Like, thanks for inviting me, no I'm not going to murder you sandwiches." 

"Peter, I never thought you were going to murder me." 

"Good. May says hi." He pulls a plate from the bag, cookies covered in saran wrap. 

"Oh my god. Why don't you say hi this way?" you tease, accepting the plate from his hands. The cookies are still warm. You could scream. "Is it rude if I eat one now?" you ask him. 

"It would be rude if you didn't. I sw- rushed here so they'd stay warm." 

"Thank you." 

Beforeyou can psych yourself up, you step forward and hug him with one arm. You'd argued with yourself for hours this morning while cleaning if this was an acceptable thing to do. Friends hug, don't they? 

You do it quickly, reasoning that if he finds it weird then at least it's short. You pull away before his arms are even properly around you. Peter looks mildly confused but is ever a boy of endless generosity and so has the kindness to pretend you're not acting socially inept, instead setting his sights on your apartment. 

"It's bright," he says. 

You read it as a comment on lack of decor. 

"White," you agree. "Can't mess up if it's all the same colour." 

The walls, the rug, the cabinets. Though they're all a dull offwhite. It's horrible, you think, really horrible, but you're so afraid to try and to mess up that you've never bothered. 

Peter stretches the plastic tarp he's acquired out over your floor as you eat one of May's cookies, sighing at the taste of sugar and chocolate chips. You hold the cookie in one hand and use the other to weigh the tarp edges down with four worn paperback books. 

"You read a lot?" Peter asks, beaming. You can't understand it. 

You nod and finish up the cookie. 

"That's a nice hobby to have, sweetheart." Again with sweetheart, so warm it makes your fingers tremble. "What kind of stuff do you like to read?" 

You tell him the bare bones of your reading habit as you spread your freshly-dusted art supplies out onto the trap. You'd bought fresh turps and canvas and laid them out already. 

"What are we painting?" you ask him. 

He nods to himself and opens up his laptop from his rucksack, moving it so you have a good view with YouTube already paused. 

"That's not a waterfall," you say. 

"It looks pretty, though, don't you think?" 

It's an aurora borealis tutorial. "It might be above my skill level." 

"Not mine. Don't worry, I'll get us through it." 

You'd primed the medium canvases with a thick layer of white gesso. Peter rubs his fingertips over the smooth surface deliberately and turns to you. 

"I thought we'd take our time. I know the idea is to paint along with him but we aren't in any hurry. I watched it twice last night and I really think we can manage it," he says, confident. 

First, three stripes of a turquoise-green. Mixing that colour is a struggle that you both giggle through. You add white, Peter adds green, you add too much blue and he adds too much yellow. Eventually you get something right, the both of you already smattered in flecks of oily colour that transfers onto the pristine canvas, marring them. You look at each other with wide eyes. 

"We can just do the stripes across them," Peter says. 

"The background is dark," you agree. "It'll cover it up." 

You paint big green stripes. Peter tips linseed oil on his jeans and you have to take a break to clean it up, kneeling knee to knee with him and dabbing his leg with a rag. 

"I'm really sorry I don't have anything for you to change into," you apologise. 

"It's not your fault," he says, quiet, so close you can feel the heat of his breath on your forehead. 

When he's mostly dry you, in what is the most arduous and quite frankly terrifying step, fill in the gaps with a blue so dark it's almost black. 

"The wine-dark sea," you murmur. 

Peter looks at you in a way you can't decipher.

"You know, Homer?" you ask. 

"I don't know," he says, shaking his head. His voice is cloudy with something as he asks, "Explain it to me?" 

You look down at your painting and make small, careful strokes, working to cover the last corner. "I don't really know everything, but; they didn't have a word for blue, or maybe they didn't have a perception of the colour blue, back then. Culturally."

You go silent with concentration as you fill in the last stroke of dark paint, attempting to be as neat as you can be. 

"So they were all colourblind?" he asks. 

"Maybe," you murmur. "I don't know, I don't think so? I think it might've been about language and how they used it rather than just not seeing it at all. Homer once described Zeus' eyebrow as 'blue', like a synonym for 'dark'." 

It feels weird to disagree with him. You're worried about being pedantic, looking out your peripherals at him. He's leaning over his canvas with a stripe of paint up his arm like a turquoise vein, his shirt sleeve, soft with age, curling up. You can see a chest-aching silver of his muscled bicep. He doesn't seem annoyed at all. In fact, he seems pleased. 

"That's awesome, in a way. Don't you think so? And what, blue was just dark or dark red?" 

"I'm not sure. I don't really remember. I read about it a long time ago," you say hesitantly, afraid of sounding stupid.

"Maybe we can have a look after we're done painting. I'm sure you're right," he says lightly, sitting back on his calves with a pleased smile. "We are literally modern Picasso's." 

Well, they did look quite abstract. 

You paint gentle lines of purple atop the black, taking it straight from the tube with your brushes, waiting your turn like little kids. It becomes invisible as it blends, lying in wait for the white paint meant to go on top.

You clean off your brushes in the turpentine and squeeze out a big dollop of titanium white. 

"This is the tricky part," Peter informs you over the instructor on screen. "We have to use a lot of white, keep the lines really skinny and blobby but also try not to mix it with the blue underneath too much. Think you have the chops?" he asks, voice low, like a formidable opponent from some texas ranger movie. 

You don't. 

"Yeah, we can do it. Looks easy," you say, eyes on the screen. 

It's finicky. The white smudges and gets dirty fast. You don't suppose it will matter when you do the final brush strokes, but still. Peter's perfectionism begins to show and he grows quiet with concentration, white stripes arcing over his canvas in delicate hand. 

"The fun part," he declares when he's done. "You have a big brush, right?" 

"Only the one," you say, sorry. 

"That's okay, I like sharing with you." 

Peter goes first, slowly and then with more confidence when the beginning stroke goes well. He drags the dry brush from the bottom to the top over still wet paint. Where the white spread upwards it lightens the turquoise green and purple, and the aurora borealis is born on his canvas. 

You both look at it in shock. 

By the time he's finished you're beaming. It's so pretty, so simple. 

"I can't believe I made that," he says, then flushes pink. 

He clears his throat and cleans the brush off in turps, wipes it dry on the painting rag. He hands it to you and you take it impulsively, but after a moment you pass it back. 

"Will you do mine for me? Please?" 

"What? You don't want to do it?" he asks, incredulous.

"I'll mess it up." 

Peter takes the brush from you though he looks like it's the last thing he would ever want to do. His shoulders relax, down in fashion with the corner of his mouth. 

"Why would you think that?" he asks. 

You shift uncomfortably. "I just would." 

His face goes stony, and he looks like he did at the skatepark, that flash of fallen angel. His eyebrows furrow and there's a particular sullen quality to his pout. It's gone as quick as it came, overwhelmed by something like determination. 

"You try it. If you mess it up I'll finish it off for you. Final offer." 

"That's the only offer you've given me." 

"Exactly." 

It goes without a hitch. Peter squeezes your forearm gently, says, "I knew you could," and leaves a white-lilac fingerprint behind. Later, when he's left for the night and you're lying in bed with your arm still phantom tingling, you look at the paint mark and figure that it makes sense. A physical mark of how you feel. A soft colour of a soft touch. 

-

Peter waits for you outside the hotel restaurant where you waitress on Friday, 5PM, and looks exceedingly happy when he spots you like he hadn't expected you, despite your being his one reason for standing there. 

He has a bag hanging from the crook of his elbow and his earphones wired in. He pulls them out when he sees you. 

"Watcha listening to?" you ask. 

"Aw, look at you, sweetheart," he cooes instead of answering. 

You don't understand, looking down at your waitress skirt and tights, your white blouse and black overcoat. Your name tag is shining silver in the lamp light. 

"What?" 

"Aren't you cold?" he asks, handing you the drinks tray.

Before you can answer he's shrugging out of his jacket, transferring his bag from one hand then the other. 

"Here." He takes the drinks back and passes you the jacket. "Let's swap." 

"Peter, I can't wear your jacket." 

"I've got this hoodie on," he says, gesturing to his dark blue hoodie with a grin. 

Your cheeks burn. You pretend it's from the cold breeze, pushing your arms into his jacket quickly, shy but thankful for the warmth. It's thick and warm from his wear, corduroy with a puffier inner lining than you were expecting. Chills line your arms as his heat sinks in.

"Where's your jacket?" Peter asks. 

"It put it in my locker and then I lost the key, and the super isn't here on Fridays. So." 

"Typical." 

"Of me?" 

"Of the super. Four day work week! The nerve of that guy." 

You laugh and start to walk, prompting Peter into motion. He wraps your stiff fingers around a warm cardboard cup unnecessarily. You almost question him aloud. You bring the cup to your nose and sniff, quickly forgetting your question as it's replaced by another. 

"Pete, what is this?" 

"It's a honeycomb latte from Tim Hortons. You've been trying so many new things, I thought you'd like it. I'll get you something else, though, if you hate it."

You sip. It's nice. "This is grim," you lie, and it's so obvious it shocks a laugh from him. You're gifted a peek at the underside of his perfect jaw, his lovely neck as he tilts his head back. 

"How will I sleep tonight?" you ask after another burning sip.

"It's decaf, bug." 

"Bug! Like an insect." 

"Exactly." He grins. You take a big mouthful of latte and feel it heat you up inside out. 

He tucks his phone in his pocket but pulls the wired headphones through and offers an earbud to you. You plug it in your ear and listen to his music as you walk mostly in silence. It's nice to decompress after work, nice to enjoy his company without having to talk. There's so much talking, all day, and it's a comfort you can't believe you're privileged enough to have for him to be by your side, hands swinging, almost touching, between you. 

"What song was that?" 

"Raspberry. By Grouplove."

"And what song is this one?" you ask. 

"Honeybody." 

You smile to yourself. 

"What?" he asks, grinning, words all soft and warped with humour. 

"I've never heard any of your songs before." 

"You hate them?" 

"I really don't. They suit you." 

He grins and starts to sway, his drink sloshing, the bag hanging from his wrist rustling with his movement. You step around a mysterious mark on the sidewalk and when you return to his side Peter holds his hand out. You take it and he's suddenly pulling you in, your face by his face, giggles bubbling out of you when you realise he's serenading you in a falsetto. 

"Oh, honeybody, whatcha doing Sunday? Maybe sippin' a coca cola with me, babe?" he begins. 

It's ridiculous, and it makes you laugh, the beat of the song easy to fall into as he stretches your joined hands between you, his shoulders moving in dance. 

"Hands down on the ground, I'm begging you to please - honeybody, please me?" 

He laughs as he sings, words off kilter and high pitched. You smile so wide it hurts your cheeks and try not to spill your drink as his eyes flare wide and he spins you around. People must be looking at you, they have to be, the streets are quiet but not abandoned, and no one can hear the music but you - it must be something awful. And, as someone who is always so paranoid of what people think, you realise you don't care. This is fun. Your heart is racing as you dance, you skirt flaring in the breeze as you almost skip into dance moves, head bobbing left to right. 

Honeybody, want ya body.

You dance through an instrumental pause like idiots, and then hum along to the words you don't know when they start again, Peter moving your hand in his back and forth over the empty air in time with the music.  

It's magnetic in its awkwardness. Why do people dance? Because something about music makes you desperate to feel it, and something about Peter's pretty face open with the simple joy of singing in the street multiplies that. You're not sure you could've kept still if you wanted to, a vestibule of immeasurable slap dap joy. 

The song slows, swells, and you and Peter calm yourselves down now that the pop-y baseline is fading. You turn to each other and smile and laugh breathily, embarrassed and so disgusting stupid happy it hurts your cheeks. You let yourself look into his eyes, their amber flecked, sunwarmed-honey brown, ink black pupils blown wide. He drops your joined hands back down but doesn't let your fingers go, swinging them forwards and back between you. You don't just let him, you help, and you find that you love the weight of his palm in yours. 

The new song is slower but still jumpy. The singer has a deeper voice, a very deep voice, and you can't make out what he's saying until the bridge. 

I'm just a lover boy. I'm not cut out to be cruel. 

You look at Peter and reckon it of him. You can't imagine he's ever been cruel in his life. 

"What is this one called?" you ask, tightening your fingers around his. 

"Low beam," he tells you smoothly, an impersonation, grasping your hand back with a similar pressure. 

"I can't tell what he's saying," you confess. 

He tilts his head and listens to the song, humming and then singing, his voice steady and deep but without the passionate inflection of the singer, whose voice has climbed into a higher pitch for the next two lines. It sounds nice, and Peter's voice sounds nicer. 

"I know what you're all about, I know what you're on. Baby let me down, I just don't belong." 

You barely have time to think about how much you relate to the singer's words before Peter drops his voice down all sticky-deep and croaky. 

"I know what you're thinking, you can take me for a ride. Baby let me have it, 'cos I'm never gonna hide, you can keep on running-" 

He tries to keep singing his dramatic rendition and can't, your roaring laughter too infectious to ignore. 

How could you not laugh? He sounds so ridiculous, his impression of the singer so outlandish and yet spot on. You laugh hard enough that you have to bend over in the street and press your thighs together, gasping for air. You know it's the euphoria of dancing with him making you dizzy, know that this giddiness is a collection of all the ways he's made you feel high with the pleasure of being cared about. 

Peter's own laughter fades before yours, though he's not immune to each fresh wave, each shiny giggle. You wheeze and he snorts in response, pulling his hand from yours to pat your back sympathetically. 

"Alright, bub, laugh it up. We have places to be. Get it all out of your system." 

Get it out of your system! You laugh until tears well in your eyes. 

"If you don't stop laughing I won't heat your grilled cheese up. You'll have to eat it cold." 

You gasp, half mocking as the giggles taper. "Not my artisan-style grilled cheese! The horror!" 

You're not blind enough to miss the fondness on his face as he looks down at you. "Exactly: the horror."

"May won't let you do that to me. It's, like, a human rights violation." 

It's his turn to laugh. You stand giggling in the street with his hand buried in the fabric of your borrowed jacket, clinging to you for dear life. You only manage to sober up when his drink tips over the lip of the cup and miraculously drips into the opening of the plastic bag suspended from the crook of his elbow, ruining your sandwiches. 

-

"There's a phone call for you at the front desk," someone tells you. 

You rush to the desk and accept the phone from the secretary, leaning over the top, and raise it your ear. Nobody ever calls you, really, and it's unlikely they'd know you were here: you're picking up someone else's shift, a night shift.

"Hello?" 

Peter's voice, without greeting. "'In the 1980s a theory gained prominence that after Greeks mixed their wine with hard, alkaline water typical for the Peloponnesus, it became darker and more of a blue-ish color. Approximately at the same time P. G. Maxwell-Stuart argued that "wine-eyed" may simply denote 'drunk, unpeaceful'.'"

"Where'd you read that?" you ask quietly, peeking out the corner of your eye at the secretary. She seems to be uncaring. 

"Wikipedia." 

"So the wine-dark sea isn't red?" 

"I think it's up for interpretation still. Wikipedia isn't exactly the best source. But certainly not red in our context," he says. You can hear how tired he is from the slight monotony of his voice. 

"So it's not red to them, because they saw blue as a dark red," you say, not really arguing so much as thinking out loud. "It's 'cos their wine was blue?" You confuse yourself. 

"That's what I thought at first, too, but if you look at other languages from the same time period, it's very common for their syntax to also lack any mention or translation of the word blue." 

"I'm too stupid for all of this, Pete. You'll have to work it out for me." 

"You're not stupid," he says hotly. 

"I'm not not stupid." 

"You're not stupid. Don't say mean things about my friend." 

You laugh at the seriousness of his tone. "You got it, boss. Anything else? I gotta get back." 

"Right! Sorry, I called you to ask you out, not to theorise dead languages with you."

Your heart stutters. "Ask me out?" 

"There's a rerun tomorrow morning of Big Eden at the movies near your place." 

"What time?" 

"Like, 8AM." 

You check your watch. It's already 10PM. "Will you be okay with waking up early? You sound really tired." 

He laughs nervously. "What?" he asks, voice pitched up. "I'm fine. Of course I will be. So that's a yes?" 

"You're all scratchy… but yes, that sounds fun." 

"Is it ugly? My voice?" 

"It's nice," you say, too honest. 

His answering silence makes you want to slam the phone back into its receiver. A sound like fast wind statics the line. 

"What was that?" 

"What was what? You finish soon, don't you?" he asks. 

You sigh. "Yes, thank you God. Fifteen minutes." 

"You'll text me when you're home?" 

"Sure thing. Catch you later?" 

"Catch you later," he repeats, voice edged with lightness. You put the phone back and slink off to finish up your duties before clocking out and retrieving your things from your locker. 

It's cold and dark. You pin the feeling of being followed on plain paranoia. You hear the strangest sound, a thwip like wet paper towels hitting the floor, and it freaks you out badly. You rush home. 

Peter's timing is impeccable, your phone pinging as soon as you've locked the front door. 

Home?

Yes sir

Plans tonight? 

Calm down my racing heart and then knock out for moveis tomorrow :33 

Racing heart??? Everything OK? 

Yeah, just scary sometimes walking home. I felt like someone was following me 

His reply takes a little while. 

Fuck. Next time I'll meet you there? Even if we don't have plans, I'll walk you home whenever you want. 

You smile to yourself. 

Yeah. that would be nice. Thank you Peter 

-

You're so tired in the morning that your eyes burn. You don't care. You haven't seen Peter all week and there's a hole the size of him in your palm. You meet him outside the movie theatre and instantly narrow your eyes at him. 

"Peter! What the fuck?" 

"What?" he asks, sluggish, dressed briskly in a white shirt and olive green pants. His rucksack bulges on his back, hopefully full of contraband. 

"Your eye!" you say, furious. "What do you mean, 'what'? You have a shiner!" 

You catch his face in your hands, less gentle than you mean to be. You breathe out and try to be careful, tilting his head down and to one side to get a good look, gasping at the extent of it, a horrible wine stain of purple red on his cheek. 

"Peter, did you go to the hospital?" you murmur, chewing your lip. 

You brush your thumb over the very edge of his eye. He wraps his hand around your forearm and strokes down, a little bit of the worry you're feeling dripping away with it. You can't get over how messy it is, how his eye is squinting shut with it. 

"May looked at it. It's ugly but it's fine." 

"How did you do this?" you ask, and maybe he can hear how weirdly close you are to tears, because he tightens his grip on you and meets your eyes. 

"I'm alright," he says emphatically. "I- I ate shit on the rails. Everything's fine." 

You hadn't expected seeing him hurt to evoke such a visceral reaction. You clear your throat and tuck it away, blinking rapidly to push any wetness from your eyes. 

"Jesus Christmas, Peter," you whisper.

"Jesus Christmas," he repeats dryly. 

You drop your hand from his face and ball it into a fist, faux annoyed with him. His hand remains on your arm, slowly climbing up, and the press of his fingertips is a small heaven. Your annoyance doesn't last long; you're too concerned about his face to hide it. 

"Are you really okay? Maybe you should go home." 

"Are you kidding? I missed you all week, I'm not going home. I would've come with a stab wound." 

You might have smiled if his bruise wasn't as awful as it was. 

"Peter…" 

"Come on, it's Big Eden. I guarantee you'll cry and I already bought the tickets," he says this with a mischievous, self-satisfied grin. 

You look at the white t-shirt he's wearing with a little goblin man riding a skateboard, want to laugh at it, want to cry about his face and kiss it better or at the very least hold a tincture to it for a few hours. He's injured and it must hurt like a bitch, and yet he wants to watch a movie with you. That softens your resolve. You're quickly finding that Peter Parker is hard to say no to. 

"Well," you say, rolling the words around in your mouth, "if you already bought the tickets…" 

He cheers and readjusts the strap of his Jansport on one shoulder before leaning down to kiss your cheek. "Yes! Alright, let's do this thing. I have a ridiculous amount of snacks in this bad boy." 

You sit smack dab in the middle of the theatre. Peter is at first a pillar of strength, whispering jokes and forcing snacks not suitable for your early morning appetite into your hands. He grows less talkative as the movie continues and soon, with a struggle and a half, he's lightly dozing, his head thrown back. 

You can't decide whether to be enraptured by the movie or the sleeping boy besides you. Again, you're overtaken by this want to kiss his aching contusion like it might help.

The movie plays and all you can do is look at Peter's face. 

"Listen, you know what they say when you get lost in the woods? If you stay put, stay in one place and don't wander, they'll find you."

You reach out your fingers an inch from his face, half an inch. 

"And I was just hoping you'd let yourself be found this time. I was hoping you'd let us find you. But you keep wandering and-"

You touch his face. He stirs and you can't pull your hand back in time. You're not smart enough to lie, find you don't really want to, and he sees your hand and presses his own overtop without saying anything. 

You twist in the padded velvet seat. Peter slides your hand up his face, towards his eye, leans into your touch like a cushion. 

You worry he's fallen asleep again when his mouth ticks up into a small smile. 

"Was I asleep for long?" he whispers. 

You shake your head. He drops your hands from his face and pulls them into his lap and they stay there for the rest of the movie, catching teardrops. 

You cry too. A lot more. 

"This was the first movie I saw as a kid where I realised it was okay," he says quietly over wide shots of the town, "for me to love boys the same way I loved girls." 

That prompts a fresh wave. You sniff them away, squeezing his hand in his lap and feeling that overwhelming fondness for him that you always feel these days, as well as the pleasure and thankfulness that comes with being trusted brazenly. 

"Yeah?" you ask, eyes shiny. 

"Yeah." 

The lights come up as the credits begin rolling. Peter, despite his obvious fatigue, gets up quickly. He pulls his rucksack on and wipes his eyes, wincing when he brushes against his awful bruise.

"Maybe not the best movie to watch with a black eye," he says self-deprecatingly. 

You're busy trying to think of how to say what you want to say. 

"Thank you. For bringing me to see the movie with you. And for telling me," you say, looking down at the red carpeted floor, it's sprinkling of popcorn, descending the steps to the doors.

He nudges you with his elbow. "Thanks for coming with me. And waking me up before the best part." 

You blush at the memory. If he thinks you woke him on purpose you won't correct him. You don't want to make a big deal of his coming out to you if he doesn't and so you follow him quietly out of the theatre and into the bright day. His eye looks better in the light. 

He sees you looking. "Hm?" 

"Your eye looks less awful now." 

"Must've been the cloud cover this morning, enhanced my shadow," he says offhandedly. 

It really must've been. You feel sore from all the crying and can't imagine how he feels. 

"You could've warned me about the movie, Pete." 

"No! The best part about Big Eden is watching it for the first time and having it destroy and rebuild your heart." 

And don't you just feel yourself falling for him a little bit more? 

You bump his thigh with your hip. "You're evil, Parker." 

He laughs loudly. 

You try to keep too much hopefulness out of your voice when you ask, "So you're busy today?" 

His smile turns disappointed. He explains how much studying he has to do for an exam on Monday and apologises for bringing you out just to ditch you. "I'm really sorry. I love that movie and I was selfish enough to want to see it with you but if I don't study for this I'm gonna flunk the class." 

You wave your hand at him. 

"It's really okay. I'm glad we had the morning together. No hard feelings," you say breezily. 

He walks you home and tells you to text him and promises to try and reply, dropping a kiss in the centre of your hairline, hands braced on the top of your head. His smile tugs at his bruise as he walks away backwards, waving at you and nearly mowing down an old man and his dog. You pretend to shut your door, stand there listening to his panicked apologies through the crack, hungry for those extra seconds of his voice. 

-

Peter's room is busy. A million photos, a surprising amount of them featuring you, decorate the walls, the side of his wardrobe, wherever he can fit them. Some are Polaroids, some are 4×6s on Walmart paper, some you're not sure about. There's the ones he's obviously taken on his phone - you painting, you walking towards him outside the movie theatre, you on his skatebaord, determined. Photos he'd taken with his F2 from your escapades - bowling, go karting, air hockey. You hold your puck in your hand, hair a mess from the fierceness of your competition, wearing the usual glee that comes with his company. You stand outside the 7/11 with a slurpee in a bucket on for bring your own cup, cherry and blue raspberry and piña colada all mixed together in a rainbow mess, pink and blue sticky syrup down the front of your shirt. Peter, having encouraged you to try the F2, with his own slurpee, his inside a heavy casserole dish. So heavy you'd thought there was no way he could carry it - you'd struggled with the bucket, it's flimsy plastic handle untrustworthy - and yet he'd marched it home. A second picture, Peter on the floor in his living room with your slurpees and two comically long straws made of normal sized straws and sellotape for the occasion, Constantine playing on the TV. A third, you cross-legged on the floor watching the screen, half your slurpee gone and the movie now changed to chicken little. That always made you laugh to remember, how he'd demanded something fun after Constantine's hellish nightmare. 

Slightly aside form the photos is your aurora borealis painting. 

"We'll swap. I'll have yours and you'll have mind. That way we can't look at them and pick out all the mistakes we made," Peter had suggested. 

He was right. Having his painting propped on your dresser is nice, and you don't ever look at it and think about its flaws. Your own is a different story.

You turn your face from it. Where you lie flat on your back in Peter's bed he sits at his desk, head down, finishing up some practice questions. His allowance of your company is a win, you think. He'd been reluctant at first, unusual for him, as he let you do most everything you asked to do. 

"Please? I'm so bored here. I won't make any noise." 

"It's not about noise, it's about FOMO." 

"FOMO." 

"If I know you're there I'll want to know what you're doing and then I'll want to do it with you."

"I won't do anything. I'll just sit on your bed silently. Please? At least let me be bored somewhere interesting. Please." 

You watch him work, his earphones singing their bumpy song, dark head of hair bobbing as he goes. In the perfect life, you stand up and pull his hair from his face and he pulls his desk chair out and sets you in his lap, and everything is soft and lilac forever, his fingertips colouring every inch of your body, every centimetre of your hands and your arms and your chest and your neck. 

You feel awful for thinking it of him and quickly bring your hands up to hide, covering your eyes with your palms. Your heart beats so loudly you worry he can hear it from where he's sitting.

The squeal of his desk chair's wheels. His music, louder as he pulls out his earphones. 

"Are you okay? I'm getting distressed vibes," Peter says loudly. 

You rubs your hands down your face and hold them to your cheeks. "Leave me alone." 

"Don't be like that," he says, standing from the chair. Your watch his arms bulge as he does, how the muscles move and contract with his weight. 

"Budge up," he demands. 

You stare at him. 

"Come on." 

"You're not done." 

"I am now. Move over, heathen, it's my bed." 

"I had to plead with you to let me visit because I'm a 'distraction', but when I tell you to work I'm a heathen." 

You move over until your arm is pressed into the cool wall. He sits down with his back to your knees, pulling his sweatshirt over his head in that infuriating way that boys do, flashing his naked back at you. He sheds the sweatshirt on the floor to your shock-horror and looks over his shoulder, hair disheveled. 

"I was always gonna let you come over," he says, like it's obvious, "just had to mess with you a bit first."

"That's mean," you bemoan. 

He raises his eyebrows and lies back, his spine pushing into the soft swell of your tummy. You hear it click. 

"Peter, oh my god." 

He sighs as he stretches, using you like a roller. You blush at the sound he makes as he readjusts, your brain labelling it as a moan even when you begin it not to. You try not to breath weird as he curls up on your abdomen, a touch, face pressed above your naval, eyes on your eyes. Peter can't be comfortable in his position but he looks like there's nowhere he'd rather be. It makes you nauseous. 

You turn your face into his pillow and decide you can't deal with this right now, and you won't. Peter's hands are clasped together, knuckle of his thumb pressed into your ribs. Your own hands lie at either side of you, itching to move, to touch, to hold. 

You ball them into fists. 

"What should we have for lunch?" he asks. 

"What do you want?" you ask, a poor imitation of a normal person.  

He hums to himself in thought and you still as you feel his hand traverse the curve of your ribs. He traces the pattern of your shirt gently, fingertips touching you so slightly you might convince yourself you'd imagined it if you couldn't see his arm moving out of the corner of your eye. 

"The sandwhich house outside the 71 station had signs up for po' boys," he suggests, almost murmuring. 

You squeeze your eyes shut. "You like shrimp?" you ask, slightly wheezy. 

He flattens his hand with a laugh. "I like po' boys." 

You can't help it, you hate yourself for it, but the heat of his hand as he slides it lightly over your ribs makes you tremble. He doesn't say anything, but his hand quickens, as if to soothe, trailing back and forth over your rising abdomen. If he moves his hand up a few inches- 

"Or I can make mac and cheese," his hand pauses as he turns it over in his head, "I can make breadcrumbs. Oh, there's imitation lobster in the freezer. We could have lobster mac and cheese." He raises his head off of your tummy and smiles at you. "Right?" 

You force yourself to speak, scared to move, "I'm not sure I'm very hungry." 

He nods and lays back down, rubbing his face gently against the material of your shirt. It catches on the beginnings of his stubble. Your entire body flushes, a too hot feeling blossoming in your chest. 

"PB and J?" he offers.

Your hand shakes as you raise it behind him, warring with yourself. He's rubbing my chest. I'd hardly be the weird one if I stroked his hair, you think. Would I? 

You touch first single strand, then the outline of a curl. Peter turns his head before you can, crushing his curls, face to his ceiling with a dispirited grumble. 

"It's no use," he says, hands scrubbing his face. "Too many options." 

Then, as if remembering himself, "Oh, sorry. I'm crushing you," he says, sitting up. 

"N-" you physically stop yourself from protesting his departure and instead pull yourself up before he can try anything heartstopping again. 

A pointless exercise, you realise, when he moves to fix your hair for you, flattening your bedhead. He pauses with his hand over your ear and smiles triumphantly.

"Cereal," he says. 

You grin, appeasing. "Cookie crisp?" 

"Yes! Absolutely. Cookie crisp. And Apple Jack's." 

"Not at the same time, though." 

Peter's silent. He stands up and makes for the door, refusing to look at you. 

"Not at the same time, though, Peter. Right?" 

"You don't have to eat it!" he complains, rolling his eyes. 

You follow him down the stairs. Your socks are new and slippery. He's quick, and in your scramble to catch up with him and prevent any atrocity you mist the last step and gasp. 

Peter doubles back. "What?" 

You laugh, forcing mouthfuls of air into your lungs in relief. 

"I missed the last step," you admit, waiting for his judgement. 

He smirks like you knew he would. "Aw, doll, can't even get down the stairs by herself." 

"I can." You hate yourself for how his words make you stammer. "It's your fault, I was chasing you." 

"You were chasing me?" he asks, something evil in his eyes. 

You take a step back that you don't have and fall onto the stairs as he takes a step forward. You want to laugh but Peter doesn't, and so you don't, sitting on his wooden stairs with your hand wrapped around the banister, looking up at him worriedly. 

"No," you say. 

He takes your face into his hands. His black eye is healed. The only colour on his face is the beauty mark just below his nose.

His hands are hot. They cradle your cheeks, fingers pushed under your ears, tilting you up. He's playing a game of intimidation with you, you know, and you swallow, his touch calming but his proximity nerve-wracking. 

"You think you could catch me?" he asks, amusement written clear as day on his pretty face. 

"For cereal," you clarify, bargaining for your life. 

"Right, and if you caught me? Then what?" 

"I would have stopped you." 

"Yeah?" 

You stop with your lips parted. He strokes your cheek with his thumb. You feel suddenly overwhelmed and he must see that, because he pulls his hands from your face with enough gentleness to turn your stomach. 

"Hey," he says. "I'm kidding. I wouldn't hurt you, you know that?" 

And your eyes widen. "Of course I know that," you tell him quickly. You drop your head into your hands and feel your skin where his hands had been. "I didn't think that." 

"You looked pretty freaked out," he mumbles. 

You hold your hand out and he takes it, pulling you back onto your feet, chest touching his chest. He shuffles back. His fingers move down your hand to squeeze your wrist. Weeks and weeks of this. He's more familiar to you than anyone has ever been before, yet you have so much left to learn. 

You want to reassure him. No, Peter, you didn't make me uncomfortable or anything. It's just your hands feel like they were meant to be held to my face. I want to hold them there. 

You wrap your arms around his waist like a coward. Your face disappears into the strength of his chest. He wraps his arms around you without a word.

"I know you wouldn't," is all you can say. 

-

The picnic blanket is a kaleidoscope of colours against the rich green swatch of grass where you lie. Peter sits with one leg up in the opposite corner, your game of uno between you. 

"I think you're slipping cards," Peter accuses. 

"How could I? I don't have sleeves. Or pants." 

"I know what you're like," he says. 

He's right, you are slipping cards. A wad of them are sticky under your sweaty thigh. Peter gives the handheld fan he's propped up across from you both a good wack to get it going again. 

"I thought you were an engineer," you say. "Uno." 

He lays down a +4 and you sigh, picking up an extra four cards. 

"It's fixed. It's fixed, it's just temperamental. It has personality." He sounds personality out. Per-suh-nah-li-ty. 

"Uh-huh," you say. 

"Uno." 

Fuck. You put down a yellow and he sighs, picking up another card.

"It's actually offensive to me that you think I'm slipping." 

"It's offensive to me that you think I wouldn't notice." 

Another card, another. 

"Uno." 

He puts one down. "Uno." 

You pick up. He picks up. 

"You notice nothing." 

"So your leg, it's flat to the blanket for no particular reason?" 

"Uno," you say, your one card wavering in your hand. You refuse to lie to him but won't tell the truth, either. 

"Uno. You have a bad poker face." 

You place your last card. "I win." 

He puts his last card down on the blanket and steadies his gaze on your. His eyes flit to your leg. He throws himself at you. 

His weight pushes your back flat to the picnic blanket and his hand pushes under your thigh. His fingertips dig into your leg and he scoops up a handful of your cheating cards, moving off of you and brandishing them. 

You giggle and stay lying down. He drops them on your chest, red cards stark against your short white summer dress. 

"I knew it. You lose." 

"I won!" 

"You forfeit for cheating!" 

You concede, simpering. He kneels between your legs, looking only at your face, and then he catches sight of your legs and he stops smiling. You know he sees them. 

He looks at your face, as if to say, argue with me about them.  

"It's okay," you murmur. 

He follows a white, raised line once. His hands are steady and kind. His fingertips feel like the kiss of a soft mouth. 

You bring your legs up and push your knees together, folding them to the side and away from his view. He straightens your dress to hide your underwear and you can barely bring yourself to be embarrassed. His fingers linger, pinched in the white of your skirt.

"Are you sure?" he asks. 

"I promise." 

His relief is palpable. 

He crawls backwards on his knees to clean up the mess of cards. You listen to his movements, his breathing, the shuffling of cards as he puts them back in their cardboard box and the zipper of his bag. You think about the mess of scars on your body and how he's seen them, too inattentive to notice his creeping approach. 

He dangles a daisy picked from the surrounding grass in front of your eyes. 

"You're my best friend," he says, love sewed into the seams of each syllable. "The best friend I have ever had. Nothing will change that." 

You accept the flower and sit up, passing him the last red card from under your ribs. 

-

"Why did we agree to come here?" Peter asks into your ear, leaning over the sofa where you're sitting. 

"You didn't miss the smell?" you ask him innocently. 

"Or the taste," he informs you, arms hanging either side of your head. 

He rests his chin in your hair and you poke your tongue towards his cup until he gets what you're saying and holds it to your mouth. 

"Me neither," you say after you've swallowed. "Yuck." 

"Shall we go home?" he asks. 

You tilt your head backwards and watch the underside of his jaw move. He raises his head to look down at you. It's weird, like he's upside down. 

"We shall," you declare. 

Peter pulls you off the couch side through the apartment, down flights of stairs and onto the street, which smells better than the stuffy tang of beer that had lingered at the party by a small, almost invisible margin. 

The sky is split by our star's descent, a brilliant mix of orange and pink and white and blue, clouds dancing across it like lovers, unhurried. 

You and Peter walk much the same, crossing streets and ducking through cold alleyways until the road to his aunt's house appears in the distance, hands brushing against hands, dancing around each other.   

A car drives past playing sweet classical music. Another blares heavy rock. A dog sticks his head out of the window and wags his tail, tongue heaving. You and Peter wave at him excitedly. 

The sun sinks further through its rainbow sky like the fat yolk of an egg having escaped its shell, almost bobbing against the honey yellow horizon, a wave of light. 

There's no music to be heard as Peter knits his fingers through yours, pulling you towards him. You spin into him like it's a game, the edges of your skirt flaring out, the petals of a baby blue tulip over your thighs. 

You spin out for the simple pleasure of watching it. Peter digs through his pocket for his phone and sets his music to shuffle. The first song to come on is all you need. 

You spin out, spin in, arms joined and high in the air. Away again, in, you trip over your own feet and drop your head into his chest, something akin to peace wrapping itself around you like sheer ribbon as you laugh breathlessly.

Peter says your name. You lift your head from his chest and see reflected on his face how you're feeling now - light, pure light. 

"I think you're my honeybody," you tell him, beaming. 

He raises his hands to your neck, moves them up in synchrony to your face. He ebbs like a wave, hands falling down, pushing under your arms as he pulls you into a hug, leaning backwards. Your shoes leave the ground, Peter hugging you so tightly it aches, face buried in your hair. He sets you down on sure footing and kisses you, misses your mouth by an inch. You both giggle incessantly, fingers on faces and pulling each other in until you get it right. 

By the time you make it home the sky is dark as wine. 

<3

𝗆𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍

thanks for reading ❤️

tasm taglist @pomminine @isabelleonabicycle @decafcoffew @runawaywithmyghost @joebobisachickenfart

this is literally so perfect i don't have the words to properly express how fulfilling this fanfic made me feel???? like the way you write peter is perfect, your language is perfect, the dialogue is perfect, i just want to live here forever inside this fic ughhhhh thank you for being so fucking awesome

𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐨𝐫 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐧

Things between you and Peter change with the seasons. [17k] 

c: friends-to-lovers, hurt/comfort, loneliness, peter parker isn’t good at hiding his alter ego, fluff, first kisses, mutual pining, loved-up epilogue, mention of self-harm with no graphic imagery

｡𖦹°‧⭑.ᐟ

Fall 

Peter Parker is a resting place for overworked eyes, like warm topaz nestled against a blue-cold city. He waits on you with his eyes to the screen of his phone, clicking the power button repetitively. A nervous tic. 

You close the heavy door of your apartment building. His head stays still, yet he’s heard the sound of it settling, evidence in his calmed hand. 

“Good morning!” You pull your coat on quickly. “Sorry.” 

“Good morning,” he says, offering a sleep-logged smile. “Should we go?” 

You follow Peter out of the cul-de-sac and into the street as he drops his phone into a deep pocket. To his credit, he doesn’t check it while you walk, and only glances at it when you’re taking your coat off in the heat of your favourite cafe: The Moroccan Mode glows around you, fog kissing the windows, condensation running down the inner lengths of it in beads. You murmur something to do with the odd fog and Peter tells you about water vapour. When it rains tonight, he says it’ll be warm water that falls. 

He spreads his textbook, notebook, and rinky-dink laptop out across the table while you order drinks. Peter has the same thing every visit, a decaf americano, in a wide brim mug with the pink-petal saucer. You put it down on his textbook only because that’s where he would put it himself, and you both get to work. 

As Peter helps you study, you note the simplicity of another normal day, and can’t help wondering what it is that’s missing. Something is, something Peter won’t tell you, the absence of a truth hanging over your heads. You ask him if he wants to get dinner and he says no, he’s busy. You ask him to see a movie on Friday night and he wishes he could. 

Peter misses you. When he tells you, you believe him. “I wish I had more time,” he says. 

“It’s fine,” you say, “you can’t help it.”

“We’ll do something next weekend,” he says. The lie slips out easily. 

To Peter it isn’t a lie. In his head, he’ll find the time for you again, and you’ll be friends like you used to be. 

You press the end of your pencil into your cheek, the dark roast, white paper and condensation like grey noise. This time last year, the air had been thick for days with fog you could cut. He took you on a trip to Manhattan, less than an hour from your red-brick neighbourhood, and you spent the day in a hotel pool throwing great cupfuls of water at each other. The fog was gone just fifteen miles away from home but the warm air stayed. When it rained it was sudden, strange, spit-warm splashes of it hammering the tops of your heads, your cheeks as you tipped your faces back to spy the dark clouds. 

Peter had swam the short distance to you and held your shoulders. You remember feeling like your whole life was there, somewhere you’d never been before, the sharp edges of cracked pool tile just under your feet. 

You peek over the top of your laptop screen and wonder if Peter ever thinks of that trip. 

He feels you watching and meets your eyes. “I have to tell you something,” he says, smiling shyly. 

“Sure.” 

“I signed us up for that club.” 

“Epigenetics?” 

“Molecular medicine,” he says. 

The nice thing about fog is that it gives a feeling of lateness. It’s still morning, barely ten, but it feels like the early evening. It’s gentle on the eyes, colouring the whole room with a sconced shine. You reach for Peter’s bag and sort through his jumble of possessions —stick deodorant, loose-leaf paper, a bodega’s worth of protein bars— and grab his camera. 

“What are you doing?” 

“I’m cataloguing the moment you ruined our lives,” you say, aiming the camera at his chin, squinting through the viewfinder. 

“Technically, I signed us up a few days ago,” he says. 

You snap his photo as his mouth closes around ‘ago’, keeping his half-laugh stuck on his lips. “Semantics,” you murmur. “And molecular medicine club, this has nothing to do with the estranged Gwen Stacy?”

“It has nothing to do with her. And you like molecular medicine.”

“I like oncology,” you correct, which is a sub-genre at best, “and I have enough work without joining another club. Go by yourself.” 

“I can’t go without you,” he says. Simple as that. 

He knew you’d say yes when he signed you up. It’s why he didn’t ask. You’re already forgiven him for the slight of assumption. 

“When is it?” you ask, smiling. 

—

Molecular medicine club is fun. You and a handful of ESU nerds gather around a big table in a private study room for a few hours and read about the newer discoveries and top research, like regenerative science and now taboo Oscorp research. It’s boring, sometimes, but then Peter will lean into your side and make a joke to keep you going. 

He looks at Gwen Stacy a lot. Slender, pale and freckled, with blonde hair framing a sweet face. Only when he thinks you’re not looking. Only when she isn’t either. 

—

“Good morning,” you say. 

Peter holds an umbrella over his head that he’s quick to share with you, and together you walk with heads craned down, the umbrella angled forward to fight the wind. Your outermost shoulder is wet when you reach the café, your other warm from being pressed against him. You shake the umbrella off outside the door and step onto a cushy, amber doormat to dry your sneakers. Peter stalks ahead and order the drinks, eager to get warm, so you look for a table. Your usual is full of businessmen drinking flat whites with briefcases at their legs. They laugh. You try to picture Peter in a suit: you’re still laughing when he finds you in the booth at the back. 

“Tell the joke,” he says, slamming his coffee down. He’s careful with yours. He’s given you the pink petal saucer from the side next to the straws and wooden stirrers. 

“I was thinking about you as a businessman.” 

“And that’s funny?” 

“When was the last time you wore a suit?” 

Peter shakes his head. Claims he doesn’t know. Later, you’ll remember his Uncle Ben’s funeral and feel queasy with guilt, but you don’t remember yet. “When was the last time you wore one?” he asks. “I don’t laugh at you.” 

“You’re always laughing at me, Parker.” 

The cafe isn’t as warm today. It’s wet, grimy water footsteps tracking across the terracotta tile, streaks of grey water especially heavy near the counter, around it to the bathroom. There’s no fog but a sad rattle of rain, not enough to make noise against the windows, but enough to watch as it falls in lazy rivulets down the lengths of them.

Your face is chapped with the cold, cheeks quickly come to heat as your fingers curl around your mug. They tingle with newfound warmth. When you raise your mug to your lips, your hand hardly shakes.

“You okay?” Peter asks. 

“Fine. Are you gonna help me with the math today?” 

“Don’t think so. Did you ask nicely?” 

“I did.” You’d called him last night. You would’ve just as happily submitted your homework poorly solved with the grade to prove it —you don’t want Peter’s help, you just wanted to see him. 

Looking at him now, you remember why his distance had felt a little easier. The rain tangles in his hair, damp strands curling across his forehead, his eyes dark and outfitted by darker eyelashes. Peter has the looks of someone you’ve seen before, a classical set to his nose and eyes reminiscent of that fallen angel weeping behind his arm, his russet hair in fiery disarray. There was an anger to Peter after Ben died that you didn’t recognise, until it was Peter, changed forever and for the worse and it didn’t matter —he was grieving, he was terrified, who were you to tell him to be nice again— until it started to get better. You see less of your fallen, angry angel, no harsh brush strokes, no tears. 

His eyes are still dark. Bruised often underneath, like he’s up late. If he is, it isn’t to talk to you. 

You spend an afternoon working through your equations, pretending to understand until Peter explains them to death. His earphones fall out of his pocket and he says, “Here, I’ll show you a song.” 

He walks you home. The song is dreary and sad. The man who sings is good. Lover, You Should’ve Come Over. It feels like Peter’s trying to tell you something —he isn’t, but it feels like wishing he would. 

“You okay?” you ask before you can get to your street. A minute away, less. 

“I’m fine, why?” 

You let the uncomfortable shape of his earbud fall out of your ear, the climax of the song a rattle on his chest. “You look tired, that’s all. Are you sleeping?” 

“I have too much to do.” 

You just don’t get it. “Make sure you’re eating properly. Okay?” 

His smile squeezes your heart. Soft, the closest you’ll ever get. “You know May,” he says, wrapping his arm around your shoulders to give you a short hug, “she wouldn’t let me go hungry. Don’t worry about me.” 

—

The dip into depression you take is predictable. You can’t help it. Peter being gone makes it worse. 

You listen to love songs and take long walks through the city, even when it’s dark and you know it’s a bad idea. If anything bad happens Spider-Man could probably save me, you think. New York’s not-so-new vigilante keeps a close eye on things, especially the women. You can’t count how many times you’ve heard the same story. A man followed me home, saw me across the street, tried to get into my apartment, but Spider-Man saved me. 

You’re not naive, you realise the danger of walking around without protection assuming some stranger in a mask will save you, but you need to get out of the house. It goes on for weeks. 

You walk under streetlights and past stores with CCTV, but honestly you don’t really care. You’re not thinking. You feel sick and heavy and it’s fine, really, it’s okay, everything works out eventually. It’s not like it’s all because you miss Peter, it’s just a feeling. It’ll go away. 

“You’re in deep thought,” a voice says, garnering a huge flinch from the depths of your stomach.

You turn around, turn back, and flinch again at the sight of a man a few paces ahead. Red shoulders and legs, black shining in a webbed lattice across his chest. “Oh,” you say, your heartbeat an uncomfortable plodding under your hand, “sorry.” 

“Why are you sorry? I scared you.”

“I didn’t realise you were there.” 

Spider-Man doesn’t come any closer. You take a few steps in his direction. You’ve never met before but you’d like to see him up close, and you aren’t scared. Not beyond the shock of his arrival. 

“Can I walk you to where you’re going?” Spider-Man asks you. He’s humming energy, fidgeting and shifting from foot to foot. 

“How do I know you’re the real Spider-Man?” 

After all, there are high definition videos of his suit on the news sometimes. You wouldn’t want to find out someone was capable of making a replica in the worst way possible. 

You can’t be sure, but you think he might be smiling behind the mask, his arms moving back as though impressed at your questioning. “What do you need me to do to prove it?” he asks. 

He speaks hushed. Rough and deep. “I don’t know. What’s Spider-Man exclusive?” 

“I can show you the webs?” 

You pull your handbag further up your arm. “Okay, sure. Shoot something.” 

Spider-Man aims his hand at the streetlight across the way and shoots it. He makes a severing motion with his wrist to stop from getting pulled along by it, letting the web fall like an alien tendril from the bulb. The light it produces dims slightly. A chill rides your spine. 

“Can I walk you now?” he asks. 

“You don’t have more important things to do?” If the bitterness you’re feeling creeps into your tone unbidden, he doesn’t react. 

“Nothing more important than you.” 

You laugh despite yourself. “I’m going to Trader Joe’s.” 

“Yellowstone Boulevard?” 

“That’s the one…” 

You fall into step beside him, and, awkwardly, begin to walk again. It’s a short walk. Trader Joe’s will still be open for hours despite the dark sky, and you’re in no hurry. “My friend, he likes the rolled tortilla chips they do, the chilli ones.” 

“And you’re going just for him?” Spider-Man asks. 

“Not really. I mean, yeah, but I was already going on a walk.” 

“Do you always walk around by yourself? It’s late. It’s dangerous, you know, a beautiful girl like you,” he says, descending into an odd mixture of seriousness and teasing. His voice jumps and swoons to match. 

“I like walking,” you say. 

Spider-Man walking is a weird thing to see. On the news, he’s running, swinging, or flying through the air untethered. You’re having trouble acquainting the media image of him with the quiet man you’re walking beside now.

”Is everything okay?” he asks. “You seem sad.” 

“Do I?” 

“Yeah, you do.” 

“Maybe I am sad,” you confess, looking forward, the bright sign of Trader Joe’s already in view. It really is a short walk. “Do you ever–” You swallow against a surprising tightness in your throat and try again, “Do you ever feel like you’re alone?” 

“I’m not alone,” he says carefully.

“Me neither, but sometimes I feel like I am.” 

He laughs quietly. You bristle thinking you’re being made fun of, but the laugh tapers into a sad one. “Sometimes I feel like I’m the only person in the world,” he says. “Even here. I forget that it’s not something I invented.” 

“Well, I guess being a hero would feel really lonely. Who else do we have like you?” You smile sympathetically. “It must be hard.” 

“Yeah.” His head tips to the side, and a crash of glass rings in the distance, crunching, and then there’s a squeal. It sounds like a car accident. Spider-Man goes tense. “I’ll come back,” he says. 

“That’s okay, Spider-Man, I can get home by myself. Thank you for the protection detail.” 

He sprints away. In half a second he’s up onto a short roof, then between buildings. It looks natural. It takes your breath away. 

You buy Peter’s chips at Trader Joe’s and wait for a few minutes at the door, but Spider-Man doesn’t come back. 

—

I don’t want to study today, Peter’s text says the next day. Come over and watch movies? 

The last handholds of your fugue are washed away in the shower. You dab moisturiser onto your face and neck and stand by the open window to help it dry faster, taking in the light drizzle of rain, the smell of it filling your room and your lungs in cold gales. You dress in sweatpants and a hoodie, throw on your coat, and stuff the rolled tortilla chips into a backpack to ferry across the neighbourhood. 

Peter still lives at home with his Aunt May. You’d been in awe of it when you were younger, Peter and his Aunt and Uncle, their home-cooked family dinners, nights spent on the roof trying to find constellations through light pollution, stretched out together while it was warm enough to soak in your small rebellion. Ben would call you both down eventually. When you’re older! he’d always promise. 

Peter’s waiting in the open door for you. He ushers you inside excitedly, stripping you out of your coat and forgetting your wet shoes as he drags you to the kitchen. “Look what I got,” he says. 

The Parker kitchen is a big, bright space with a chopping block island. The counters are crowded by pots, pans, spices, jams, coffee grounds, the impossible drying rack. There’s a cross-stitch about the home on the microwave Ben did to prove to May he could still see the holes in the aida. 

You follow Peter to the stove where he points at a ceramic Dutch oven you’ve eaten from a hundred times. “There,” he says. 

“Did you cook?” you ask. 

“Of course I didn’t cook, even if the way you said that is offensive. I could cook. I’m an excellent chef.” 

“The only thing May’s ever taught you is spaghetti and meatballs.” 

“Hope you like marinara,” he says, nudging you toward the stove. 

You take the lid off of the Dutch oven to unveil a huge cake. Dripping with frosting, only slightly squashed by the lid, obviously homemade. He’s dotted the top with swirls of frosting and deep red strawberries. 

“It’s for you,” he says casually. 

“It’s not my birthday.” 

“I know. You like cake though, don’t you?” 

You’d tell Peter you liked chunks of glass if that was what he unveiled. “Why’d you make me a cake?” 

“I felt like you deserved a cake. You don’t want it?” 

“No, I want it! I want the cake, let’s have cake, we can go to 91st and get some ice cream, it’ll be amazing.” You don’t bother trying to hide your beaming smile now, twisting on the spot to see him properly, your hands falling behind your back. “Thank you, Peter. It’s awesome. I had no idea you could even– that you’d even–” You press forward, smushing your face against his chest. “Wow.” 

“Wow,” he says, wrapping his arms around you. He angles his head to nose at your temple. “You’re welcome. I would’ve made you a cake years ago if I knew it was gonna make you this happy.” 

“It must’ve taken hours.” 

“May helped.” 

“That makes much more sense.” 

“Don’t be insolent.” Peter squeezes you tightly. He doesn’t let go for a really long time. 

He extracts the cake from the depths of the Dutch oven and cuts you both a slice. He already has ice cream, a Neapolitan box that he cuts into with a serrated knife so you can each have a slice of all three flavours. It’s good ice cream, fresh for what it is and melting in big drops of cream as he gets the couch ready.

“Sit down,” he says, shoving the plates with his strangely great balance onto the coffee table. “Remote’s by you. I’m gonna get drinks.” 

You take your plate, carving into the cake with the end of a warped spoon, its handle stamped PETE and burnished in your grasp. The crumb is soft but dense in the best way. The ganache between layers is loose, cake wet with it, and the frosting is perfect, just messy. You take another satisfied bite. You’re halfway through your slice before Peter makes it back. 

“I brought you something too, but it’s garbage compared to this,” you say through a mouthful, hand barely covering your mouth. 

Peter laughs at you. “Yeah, well, say it, don’t spray it.” 

“I guess I’ll keep it.” 

“Keep it, bub, I don’t need anything from you.” 

He doesn’t say it the way you’re expecting. “No,” you say, pleased when he sits knee to knee, “you can have it. S’just a bag of chips from Trader–”

“The rolled tortilla chips?” he asks. You nod, and his eyes light up. “You really are the best friend ever.” 

“Better than Harry?” 

“Harry’s rich,” Peter says, “so no. I’m kidding! Joking, come here, let me try some of that.” 

“Eat your own.” 

Peter plays a great host, letting you choose the movies, making lunch, ordering takeout in the evening and refusing to let you pay for it. This isn’t that out of character for Peter, but what shocks you is his complete unfiltered attention. He doesn’t check his phone, the tension you couldn’t name from these last few weeks nowhere to be felt. You’re flummoxed by the sudden change, but you missed him. You won’t look a gift horse in the mouth; you won’t question what it is that had Peter keeping you at arm’s length now it’s gone.

To your annoyance, you can’t stop thinking about Spider-Man. You keep opening your mouth to tell Peter you talked to him but biting your tongue. Why am I keeping it a secret? you wonder. 

“Have something to tell you.” 

“You do?” you ask, reluctant to sit properly, your feet tucked under his thigh and your body completely lax with the weight of the Parker throw. 

“Is that surprising?” 

“Is that a trick question?” 

“No. Just. I’ve been not telling you something.” 

“Okay, so tell me.” 

Peter goes pink, and stiff, a fake smile plastered over his lips. “Me and Gwen, we’re really done.” 

“I know, Pete. She broke up with you for reasons nobody felt I should be enlightened right after graduation.” Your stomach pangs painfully. “Unless you…”

“She’s going to England.” 

“She is?” 

“Oxford.” 

You struggle to sit up. “That sucks, Peter. I’m sorry.” 

“But?” 

You find your words carefully. “You and Gwen really liked each other, but I think that–” You grow in confidence, meeting his eyes firmly. “That there’s always been some part of you that couldn’t actually commit to her. So. I don’t know, maybe some distance will give you clarity. And maybe it’ll break your heart, but at least then you’ll know how you really feel, and you can move forward.” You avoid telling him to move on. 

“It wasn’t Gwen,” he says, which has a completely different meaning to the both of you. 

“Obviously, she’s the smartest girl I’ve ever met. She’s beautiful. Of course it’s not her fault,” you say, teasing.

“Really, that you ever met?” Peter asks. 

“She’s the best girl you were ever gonna land.“ 

He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I guess so.” After a few more minutes of quiet, he says, “I think we were done before. I just hadn’t figured it out yet. Something wasn’t right.” 

“You were so back and forth. You’re not mean, there must’ve been something stopping you from going steady,” you agree. “You were breaking up every other week.”

“I know,” he whispers, tipping his head against the back couch. 

“Which, it’s fine, you don’t–” You grimace. “I can’t talk today. Sorry. I just mean that it’s alright that you never made it work.” You worry that sounds plainly obvious and amend, “Doesn’t make you a bad person. You’re never a bad person, Peter.” 

“I know. Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome. You don’t need me to tell you.” 

“It’s nice, though. I like when you tell me stuff. I want all of your secrets.” 

You should say Good, because I have something unbelievable to tell you, and I should’ve said it the moment I got home. 

Good, because last night I met the bravest man in New York City, and he walked me to the store for your chips. 

Good, because I have so much I’m keeping to myself.

You ruffle his hair. Spider-Man goes unmentioned. 

— 

He visits with a whoop. You don’t flinch when he lands —you’d heard the strange whip and splat of his webs landing nearby. 

“Spider-Man,” you say. 

“What’s that about?” 

“What?” 

“The way you said that. You laughed.” Spider-Man stands in spandexed glory before you, mask in place. He’s got a brown stain up the side of his thigh that looks more like mud than blood, but it’s not as though each of his fights are bloodless. They’re infamously gory on occasion.

“Did you get hurt?” you ask. You’re worried. You could help him, if he needs it. 

“Aw, this? That’s a scratch. That’s nothing, don’t worry about it. I’ve had worse from that stray cat living outside of 91st.” 

You look at him sharply. 91st is shorthand for 91st Bodega, and it’s not like you and Peter made it up, but suddenly, the man in front of you is Peter. The way he says it, that unique rhythm. 

Peter’s not so rough-voiced, you argue with yourself. Your Peter speaks in a higher register, dulcet often, only occasionally sarcastic. Spider-Man is rough, and cawing, and loud. Spider-Man acts as though the ground is a suggestion. Peter can’t jump off the second diving board at the pool. Spider-Man rolls his shoulders back in front of you with a confidence Peter rarely has. 

“What?” he asks. 

“Sorry. You just reminded me of someone.” 

His voice falls deeper still. “Someone handsome, I hope.” 

You take a small step around him, hoping it invites him to walk along while communicating how sorely you want to leave the subject behind. When he doesn’t follow, you add, “Yes, he’s handsome.” 

“I knew it.”

“What do you look like under the mask?”

Spider-Man laughs boisterously. “I can’t just tell you that.” 

“No? Do I have to earn it?” 

“It’s not like that. I just don’t tell anyone, ever.” 

“Nobody in the whole world?” you ask. 

The rain is spitting. New York lately is cold cold cold, little in the way of sunshine and no end in sight. Perhaps that’s all November’s are destined to be. You and Spider-Man stick to the inside of the sidewalk. Occasionally, a passerby stares at him, or calls out in Hello, and Spider-Man waves but doesn’t part from you. 

“Tell me something about you and I’ll tell you something about me,” Spider-Man says. “I’ll tell you who knows my identity.” 

“What do you want to know about me?” you ask, surprised. 

“A secret. That’s fair.” 

“Hold on, how’s that fair?” You tighten your scarf against a bitter breeze. “What use do I have for the people who know who you are? That doesn’t bring me any closer to the truth.” 

“It’s not about who knows, it’s about why I told them.” Spider-Man slips around you, forcing you to walk on the inside of the sidewalk as a car pulls past you all too quickly and sends a sheet of dirty rainwater up Spider-Man’s side. He shakes himself off. “Jerk!” he shouts after the car. 

“My secrets aren’t worth anything.”

“I doubt that, but if that’s true, that makes it a fair trade, doesn’t it?” 

He sounds peppy considering the pool of runoff collecting at his feet. You pick up your pace again and say, “Alright, useless secret for a useless secret.” 

You think about all your secrets. Some are odd, some gross. Some might make the people around you think less of you, while others would surely paint you in a nice light. A topaz sort of technicolor. But they aren’t useless, then, so you move on. 

“Oh, I know. I hate my major.” You grin at Spider-Man. “That’s a good one, right? No one else knows about that.” 

“You do?” Spider-Man asks. His voice is familiar, then, for its sympathy. 

“I like science, I just hate math. It’s harder than I thought it would be, and I need so much help it makes me hate the whole thing.” 

Spider-Man doesn’t drag the knife. “Okay. Only three people know who I am under the mask. It was four, briefly.” He clears his throat. “I told one person because I was being selfish and the others out of necessity. I’m trying really hard not to tell anybody else.”

“How come?” 

“It just hurts people.” 

You linger in a gap of silence, not sure what to say. A handful of cars pass you on the road. 

“Tell me another one,” he says. 

“What for?” 

“I don’t know, just tell me one.” 

“How do I know you aren’t extorting me for something?” You grin as you say it, a hint of flirtation. “You’ll know my face and my secrets and even if you tell me a really gory juicy one, I have no one to tell and no name to pair it with.” 

“I’m not showing you anything,” he warns, teasing, sounding so awfully like Peter that your heart trips again, an uneven capering that has you faltering in the street. 

Peter’s shorter, you decide, sizing him up. His voice sounds similar and familiar but Peter doesn’t ask for secrets. He doesn’t have to. (Or, he didn’t have to, once upon a time.) 

“Where are you going?” Spider-Man asks. 

“Oh, nowhere.” 

“Seriously, you’re out here walking again for no reason?” 

“I like to walk. It’s not like it’s dark out yet.” You’re not far at all from Queensboro Hill here. Walking in any direction would lead you to a garden —Flushing Meadows, Kew Gardens, Kissena Park. “Walk me to Kissena?” you ask. 

“Sure, for that secret.” 

You laugh as Spider-Man takes the lead, keeping time with him, a natural match of pace. It’s exciting that Spider-Man of all people wants to know one of your useless secrets enough to ask you twice. The attention of it makes searching for one a matter of how fast you can find one rather than a question of why you’d want to. It slips out before you can think better of it. 

“I burned my wrist a few days ago on a frying pan,” you confess, the phantom pain of the injury an itch. “It blistered and I cried when I did it, but I haven’t told anyone about it.” 

“Why not?” he asks. 

He shouldn’t use that tone with you, like he’s so so sorry. It makes you want to really tell him everything. How insecure you feel, how telling things feels like asking for someone to care, and half the time they don’t, and half the time you’re embarrassed. 

You walk past the bakery that demarcates the beginning of Kissena Park grounds across the way. “I didn’t think about it at first. I’m used to keeping things to myself. And then I didn’t tell anyone for so long that mentioning it now wouldn’t make sense. Like, bringing it up when it’s a scar won’t do much.” It’s a weak lie. It comes out like a spigot to a drying up tree. Glugs, fat beads of sound and the pull to find another thing to say.

“It was only a few days ago, right? It must still hurt. People want to know that stuff.” 

“Maybe I’ll tell someone tomorrow,” you say, though you won’t. 

“Thanks for telling me.”

The humour in spilling a secret like that to a superhero stops you from feeling sorry for yourself. You hide your cold fingers in your coat, rubbing the stiff skin of your knuckles into the lining for friction-heat. The rain has let up, wind whipping empty but brisk against your cheeks. Your lips will be chapped when you get home, whenever that turns out to be. 

“This is pretty far from Trader Joe’s,” he comments, like he’s read your mind. 

“Just an hour.” 

“Are you kidding? It’s an hour for me.” 

“That’s not true, Spider-Man, I’ve seen those webs in action. I still remember watching you on the News that night, the cranes. I remember,” —you try to meet his eyes despite the mask— “my heart in my throat. Weren’t you scared?”

“Is that the secret you want?” he asks. 

“I get to choose?” 

Spider-Man throws his gaze around, his hand behind his head like he might play with his hair. You come to a natural stop across the street from Kissena Park’s playground. Teenagers crowd the soft-landing floor, smaller children playing on the wet rungs of the climbing frame. 

“If you want to,” he says. 

“Then yeah, I want to know if you were scared.” 

“I didn’t haveI time to be scared. Connors was already there, you know?” He shifts from one foot to the other. “I don’t think I’ve ever thought about it before. I wasn’t scared of the height, if that’s what you mean. I already had practice by then, and I knew I had to do it. Like, I didn’t have a choice, so I just did it. I had to save the day, so I did.” 

“When they lined up the cranes–”

“It felt like flying,” Spider-Man interrupts. 

“Like flying.”

You picture the weightlessness, the adrenaline, the catch of your weight so high up and the pressure of being flung between the next point. The idea that you have to just do something, so you do. 

“That’s a good secret.” You offer a grateful smile. “It doesn’t feel equal. I burned myself and you saved the city.” 

“So tell me another one,” he says. 

—

Maybe you started to fall for Peter after his Uncle Ben passed away. Not the days where you’d text him and he’d ignore you, or the days spent camping outside of his house waiting for him to get home. It wasn’t that you couldn’t like him, angry as he was; there’s always been something about his eyes when he’s upset that sticks around. You loathe to see him sad but he really is pretty, and when his eyelashes are wet and his mouth is turned down, formidable, it’s an ache. A Cabanel painting, dramatic and dark and other. 

It was after. When he started sending Gwen weird smiles and showing up to the movies exhilarated, out of breath, unwilling to tell you where he’d been. Skating, he’d always say. Most of the time he didn’t have his skateboard. 

You’d only seen them kiss once, his hand on her shoulder curling her in, a pang of heat. You were curdled by jealousy but it was more than that. Peter was tipping her head back, was kissing her soundly, a fierceness from him that made you sick to think about. You spent weeks afterwards up at night, tossing, turning, wishing he’d kiss you like that, just once, so you could feel how it felt to be completely wrapped up in another person. 

You’d always held out for Peter, in a way. It was more important to you that he be your friend. You were young, and love had been a far off thing, and then one day you suddenly wanted it. You learned just how aching an unrequited love could be, like a bruise, where every time you saw Peter —whether it be alone or with Gwen, with anyone— it was like he knew exactly where to poke the bruise. Press the heel of his hand and push. The worst is when he found himself affectionate with you, a quick clasp of your cheek in his palm as he said goodbye. Nights spent in his twin bed, of course you’ll fit, of course you couldn’t go home, not this late, May won’t care if we keep the door open —the suggestion that the door being closed might’ve meant something. His sleeping arm furled around you. 

Now you’re nearing the end of your second semester at ESU, Gwen is going to England at the end of the year, and Peter hasn’t tried to stop her, but he’s still busy. 

“Whatever,“ you say, taking a deep breath. You’re not mad at Peter, you just miss him. Thinking about him all the time won’t change a thing. “It’s fine.” 

“I’d hope so.” 

You swing around. “Don’t do that!”

Spider-Man looks vaguely chastened, taking a step back. “I called out.” 

“You did?” 

“I did. Hey, miss, over there! The one who doesn’t know how to get a goddamn taxi!” 

“I like to walk,” you say. 

“Yeah, so you’ve said. Have you considered that all this walking is bad for you? It’s freezing out, Miss Bennett!” 

“It’s not that bad.” You have your coat, a scarf, your thermal leggings underneath your jeans. “I’m fine.” 

“What’s wrong with staying at home?” 

“That’s not good for you. And you’re one to talk, Spider-Man, aren’t you out on the streets every night? You should take a day off.” 

“I don’t do this every night.” 

“Don’t you get tired?”

Spider-Man’s eyelets seem to squint, his mock-anger effusive as he crosses his arms across his chest. “No, of course not. Do I look like I get tired?” 

“I don’t know. You’re in a full suit, I can’t tell. I guess you don’t… seem tired. You know, with all the backflips.” 

“Want me to do one?” 

“On command?” You laugh. “No, that’s okay. Save your strength, Spider-Man.” 

“So where are you heading today?” he asks. 

There’s a slip of skin peeking out against his neck. You’re surprised he can’t feel the cold there, stepping toward him to point. “I can see your stubble.” 

He yanks his mask down. “Hasty getaway.” 

“A getaway, undressed? Spider-Man, that’s not very gentlemanly.” 

You start to walk toward the Cinemart. Spider-Man, to your strange pleasure, follows. He walks with considerable casualness down the sidewalk by your left, occasionally letting his head turn to chase a distant sound where it echoes from between high-rises and along the busy street. It’s cold and dark, but New York is hectic no matter what, even the residential areas. (Is there such a thing? The neighbourhoods burst with small businesses and backstreet sales, no matter the time.)

“Luckily for you, crime is slow tonight,” he says. 

“Lucky me?” You wonder if your acquainted vigilante flirts with every girl he stalks. “You realise I’ve managed to get everywhere I’m going for the last two decades without help?” 

“I assume there was more than a little help during that first decade.” 

“That’s what you think. I was a super independent toddler.” 

Spider-Man tips his head back and laughs, but that laugh is quickly squashed with a cough. “Sure you were.” 

“Is there a reason you’re escorting me, Spider-Man?” you ask. 

“No. I– I recognised you, I thought I’d say hi.” 

“Hi, Spider-Man.” 

“Hi.” 

“Can I ask you something? Do you work?” 

Spider-Man stammers again, “I– yeah. I work. Freelance, mostly.” 

“I was wondering how you fit all the crime fighting into your life, is all. University is tough enough.” You let the wind bat your scarf off of your shoulder. “I couldn’t do what you do.” 

“Yeah, you could.” 

He sounds sure. 

“How would you know?” you ask. “Maybe I’m awful when you’re not walking me around. I hate New York. I hate people.” 

“No, you don’t. You’re not awful. Don’t ask me how I know, ‘cos I just know.” 

You try not to look at him. If you look at him, you’re gonna smile at him like he hung the moon. “Well, tonight I’m going to be dreadfully selfish. My friend said he’d buy my movie ticket and take me out for dinner, a real dinner, the mac and cheese with imitation lobster at Benny’s. Have you tried that?” 

Spider-Man takes a big step. “Tonight?” he asks. 

“Yep, tonight. That’s where I’m going, the Cinemart.” You frown at his hand pressing into his stomach. “Are you okay? You look like you’re gonna throw up.” 

“I can hear– something. Someone’s crying. I gotta go, okay? Have fun at the movies, okay?” He throws his arm up, a silken web shooting from his wrist to the third floor of an apartment complex. “Bye!” he shouts, taking a running jump to the apartment, using his web as an anchor. He flings himself over the roof. 

Woah, you think, warmth filling your cold cheeks, the tip of your nose. He’s lithe.  

Peter arrives ten minutes late for the movie, which is half an hour later than you’d agreed to meet. 

“Sorry!” he shouts, breathless as he grabs your hands. “God, I’m sorry! I’m so sorry. You should beat me up. I’m sorry.” 

“What the fuck happened?” you ask, not particularly angry, only relieved to see him with enough time to still catch the movie. “You’re sweating like crazy, your hair’s wet.” 

“I ran all the way here, Jesus, do I smell bad? Don’t answer that. Fuck, do we have time?” 

You usher Peter inside. He pays for the tickets with hands shaking and you attempt to wipe the sweat from his forehead with your sleeve. “You could’ve called me,” you say, content to let him grab you by the arm and race you to the screen doors, “we could’ve caught the next one. Why were you so late, anyways? Did you forget?” 

“Forget about my favourite girl? How could I?” He elbows open the doors to let you enter first. “Now shh,” he whispers, “find the seats, don’t miss the trailers. You love them.” 

“You love them–”

“I’ll get popcorn,” he promises, letting the door close between you. 

You’re tempted to follow, fingers an inch from the handle. 

You turn away and rush to find your seats. Hopefully, the popcorn line is ten blocks long, and he spends the night punished for his wrongdoing. My favourite girl. You laugh nervously into your hand. 

—

Winter 

Spider-Man finds you at least once a week for the next few weeks. He even brings you an umbrella one time, stars on the handle, asking you rather politely to go home. He offers to buy you a hot dog as you’re walking past the stand, takes you on a shortcut to the convenience store, and helps you get a piece of gum off of your shoe with a leaf and a scared scream. He’s friendly, and you’re getting used to his company. 

One night, you’re almost home from Trader Joe’s, racing in the pouring rain when a familiar voice calls out, “Hey! Running girl! Wait a second!” 

Him, you think, as ridiculous as it sounds. You don’t know his name, but Spider-Man’s a sunny surprise in a shitty, wet winter, and you turn to the sound with a grin.

He jogs toward you. 

You feel the world pause, right in the centre of your throat. All the air gets sucked out of you. 

“Hey, what are you doing out here? Did you get my texts?” 

You blink as fat rain lands on your face. 

“You okay?” Peter asks, Peter, in a navy hoodie turning black in the rain and a brown corduroy jacket. It’s sodden, hanging heavily around his shoulders. “Come on, let’s go,” —he takes your hand and pulls until you begin to speed walk beside him— “it’s freezing!” 

“Peter–”

“Jesus Christ!” 

“Peter, what are you doing here?” you ask, your voice an echo as he drags you into the foyer of your apartment building. 

Rain hammers the door as he closes it, the windows, the foyer too dark to see properly. 

“I wanted to see you. Is that allowed?” 

“No.” 

Peter takes your hand. You look down at it, and he looks down in tandem, and it is decidedly a non-platonic move. “No?” he asks, a hair’s width from murmuring. 

“Shit, my groceries are soaked.” 

“It’s all snacks, it’s fine,” he says, pulling you to the stairs. 

You rush up the steps together to your floor. Peter takes your key when you offer it, your own fingers too stiff to manage it by yourself, and he holds the door open for you again to let you in. 

Your apartment is a ragtag assortment to match the one next door, old wooden furniture wheeled from the street corners they were left on, thrifted homeward and heavy blankets everywhere you look. You almost slip getting out of your shoes. Peter steadies you with a firm hand. He shrugs out of his coat and hangs it on the hook, prying the damp hoodie over his head and exposing a solid length of back that trips your heart as you do the same. 

“Sorry I didn’t ask,” Peter says. 

“What, to come over? It’s fine. I like you being here, you know that.” 

All your favourite days were spent here or at Peter’s house, in beds, on sofas, his hair tickling your neck as credits run down the TV and his breath evens to a light snore. You try to settle down with him, changing into dry clothes, his spare stuff left at the bottom of your wardrobe for his next inevitable impromptu visit. You turn on the TV, letting him gather you into his side with more familiarity than ever. Rain lays its fingertips on your window and draws lazy lines behind half-turned blinds. You rest on the arm and watch Peter watch the movie, answering his occasional, “You okay?” with a meagre nod. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks eventually. “You’re so quiet.” 

Your hand over your mouth, you part your marriage and pinky finger, marriage at the corner, pinky pressed to your bottom lip, the flesh chapped by a season of frigid winds and long walks. “‘M thinking,” you say. 

“About?” 

About the first night in your new apartment. You got the apartment a couple of weeks before the start of ESU. Not particularly close to the university but close to Peter, your best, nicest friend. You met in your second year of High School, before Peter got contacts, ‘cos he was good at taking photographs and you were in charge of the school newspapers media sourcing. You used to wait for Peter to show up ten minutes late like clockwork, every week. And every week he’d barge into the club room and say, “Fuck, I’m sorry, my last class is on the other side of the building,” until it turned into its own joke. 

Three years later, you got your apartment, and Peter insisted you throw a housewarming party even if he was the only person invited. 

“Fuck,” he’d said, ten minutes late, a cake in one hand and a whicker basket the other, “sorry. My last class is on–”

But he didn’t finish. You’d laughed so hard with relief at the reference that he never got the chance. Peter remembered your very first inside joke, because Peter wasn’t about to go off to ESU and meet new friends and forget you. 

But Peter’s been distant for a while now, because Peter’s Spider-Man. 

“Do you remember,” you say, not willing to share the whole truth, “when you joined the school newspaper to be the official photographer, and you taught me the rule of thirds?” 

“So you didn’t need me,” he says. 

“I was just thinking about it. We ran that newspaper like the Navy.” 

Peter holds your gaze. “Is that really what you were thinking about?” 

“Just funny,” you murmur, dropping your hand in your lap and breaking his stare. “So much has changed.” 

“Not that much.” 

“Not for me, no.” 

Peter gets a look in his eyes you know well. He’s found a crack in you and he’s gonna smooth it over until you feel better. You’re expecting his soft tone, his loving smile, but you’re not expecting the way he pulls you in —you’d slipped away from him as the evening went on, but Peter erases every millimetre of space as he slides his arm under your lower back and ushers you into his side. You hold your breath as he hugs you, as he looks down at you. It’s really like he loves you, the line between platonic and romantic a blur. He’s never looked at you like this before.

“I don’t want you to change,” he whispers. 

“I want to catch up with you,” you whisper back. 

“Catch up with me? We’re in the exact same place, aren’t we?”

“I don’t know, are we?” 

Peter hugs you closer, squishing your head down against his jaw as he rubs your shoulder. “Of course we are.” 

Peter… What is he doing? 

You let yourself relax against him. 

“You do change,” he whispers, an utterance of sound to calm that awful bruise he gave you all those months ago, “you change every day, but you don’t need to try.” 

“I just… feel like everyone around me is…” You shake your head. “Everyone’s so smart, and they know what they’re doing, or they’re– they’re special. I don’t know anything. So I guess lately I’ve been thinking about that, and then you–”

“What?” 

You can say it out loud. You could. 

“Peter, you’re…” 

“I’m what?” he asks. 

His fingers glide down the length of your arm and up again. 

If you're wrong, he’ll laugh. And if you’re right, he might– might stop touching you. Your head feels so heavy, and his touch feels like it’s gonna put you to sleep. 

He’s Spider-Man. 

It makes sense. Who else could have a good enough heart to do that? Of course it’s Peter. It explains so much about him, about Peter and Spider-Man both. Why Peter is suddenly firmer, lighter on his feet, why he can help you move a wardrobe up two flights of stairs without complaint; why Spider-Man is so kind to you, why he knows where to find you, why he rolls his words around just like Pete. 

Spider-Man said there are reasons he wears his mask. And Peter doesn’t tell you much, but you trust him. 

You won’t make him say anything, you decide. Not now. 

You curl your arm over his stomach hesitantly, smiling into his shirt as he hugs you tighter. 

“I was thinking about you,” he says. 

“Yeah?” 

“You’re quieter lately. I know you’re having a hard time right now, okay? You don’t have to tell me. I’m here for you whenever you need me.” 

“Yeah?” you ask.

“You used to sit on my porch when you knew May wouldn’t be home to make sure I wasn’t alone.” Peter’s breath is warm on your forehead. “I don’t know what you’re worried about being, but I’m with you,” he says, “‘n nothing is gonna change that.” 

Peter isn’t as far away as you thought. 

“Thank you,” you say. 

He kisses your forehead softly. Your whole world goes amber. He brings his hand to your cheek, the thought of him tipping your head back sudden and heart-racing, but Peter only holds you. You lose count of how many minutes you spend cupped in his hand. 

“Can I stay over tonight?” he utters, barely audible under the sound of the battering rain. 

“Yeah, please.” 

His thumb strokes your cheek. 

—

Two switches flip at once, that night. Peter is suddenly as tactile as you’ve craved, and Spider-Man disappears. 

He’s alive and well, as evidenced by Peter’s continued survival and presence in your life, but Spider-Man doesn’t drop in on your nightly walks. 

You take less of them lately, feeling better in yourself. Your spirits are certainly lifted by Peter’s increasing affection, but now that you know he’s Spider-Man you were waiting to see him in spandex to mess with his head. Nothing mean, but you would’ve liked to pick at his secret identity, toy with him like you know he’d do to you. After all, he’s been trailing you for weeks and getting to know you. Peter already knows you. Plus, you told Spider-Man secrets not meant for Peter Parker’s ears. 

You find it hard to be angry with him. A thread of it remains whenever you remember his deception, but mostly you worry about him. Peter’s out every night until who knows what hour fighting crime. There are guns. He could get shot, and he doesn’t seem scared. You end up watching videos on the internet of the night he ran to Oscorp, when he fought Connors’ and got that huge gash in his leg. His leg is soiled deep red with blood but banded in white webbing. He limps as he races across a rooftop, the recording shaky yet high definition. 

It’s not nice to see Peter in pain. You cling to what he’d said, how he wasn’t scared, but not being scared doesn’t mean he wasn’t hurting. 

You chew the tip of a finger and click on a different video. Your computer monitor bears heat, the tower whirring by your thigh. Your eyes burn, another hour sitting in the same seat, sick with worry. You don’t mind when Peter doesn’t answer your texts anymore. You didn’t mind so much before, just terrified of becoming an irrelevance in his life and lonely, too, maybe a little hurt, but never worried for his safety. Now when Peter doesn’t text you back you convince yourself that he’s been hurt, or that he’s swinging across New York City about to risk his life.

It’s not a good way to live. You can’t stop giving into it, is all. 

In the next video, Spider-Man sits on a billboard with a can of coke in hand. He doesn’t lift his mask, seemingly aware of his watcher. You laugh as he angles his head down, suspicion in his tight shoulders. He relaxes when he sees whoever it is recording. 

“Hey,” he says, “you all right?” 

“Should you be up there?” the person recording shouts. 

“I’m fine up here!” 

“Are you really Spider-Man?” 

“Sure am.” 

“Are you single?” 

Peter laughs like crazy. How you didn’t know it was him before is a mystery —it couldn’t sound more like him. “I’ve got my eye on someone!” he says, sounding younger for it, the character voice he enacts when he’s Spider-Man lost to a good mood.  

Your phone rings in the back pocket of your jeans. You wriggle it out, nonplussed to find Peter himself on your screen. You click the green answer button. 

“Hello?” Peter asks. 

You bring the phone snug to your ear. “Hey, Peter.” 

“Hi, are you busy?” 

“Not really.” 

“Do you wanna come over? I know it’s late. Come stay the night and tomorrow we’ll go out for breakfast.” 

“Is Aunt May okay with that?” 

“She’s staring at me right now shaking her head, but I’m in trouble for something. May, can she come over, is that allowed?” 

“She’s always allowed as long as you keep the door open.”

You laugh under your breath at May’s begrudging answer. “Are you sure she’s alright with it?” you ask softly. “I don’t want to be a burden.” 

“You never, ever could be. I’m coming to your place and we’ll walk over together. Did you eat dinner?” 

“Not yet, but–”

“Okay, I’ll make you something when you get here. I’ll meet you at the door. Twenty minutes?” 

“I have to shower first.” 

“Twenty five?” 

You choke on a laugh, a weird bubbly thing you’re not used to. Peter laughs on the other side of the phone. “How about I’ll see you at seven?” 

“It’s a date,” he says. 

“Mm, put it in your calendar, Parker.” 

—

Peter waits for you at the door like he promised. He frowns at your still-wet face as he slips your backpack from your shoulder, throwing it over his own. “You’re gonna get sick.” 

“I‘ll dry fast,” you say. “I took too long finding my pyjamas.” 

“I have stuff you can wear. Probably have your sweatpants somewhere, the grey ones.” Peter pulls you forward and wipes your tacky face. “I would’ve waited,” he says. 

“It’s fine.“

“It’s not fine. Are you cold?” 

“Pete, it’s fine.” 

“You always remind me of my Uncle Ben when you call me Pete,” he laughs, “super stern.” 

“I’m not stern. Look, take me home, please, I’m cold.” 

“You said it wasn’t cold!” 

“It’s not, I’m just damp–” Peter cuts you off as he grabs you, sudden and tight, arms around you and rubbing the lengths of your back through your coat. “Handsy!”

“You like it,” he jokes back, his playful warming turning into a hug. You smile, hiding your face in his neck for a few moments. 

“I don’t like it,” you lie. 

“Okay, you don’t like it, and I’m sorry.” Peter gives you a last hug and pulls away. “Now let’s go. I gotta feed you before midnight.” 

“That’s not funny.” 

“Apparently, nothing is.” 

Peter links your arms together. By the time you get to his house, you’ve fallen away from each other naturally. May is in the hallway when you climb through the door, an empty laundry basket in her hands. 

“I see Peter hasn’t won this argument yet,” you say in way of greeting. Peter’s desperate to do his own laundry now he’s getting older. May won’t let him. 

“No, he hasn’t.” She looks you up and down. “It’s nice to see you, honey. And in one piece! Peter tells me you’ve been walking a lot, and I mean, in this city? Can’t you buy a treadmill?” she asks. 

“May!” Peter says, startled. 

“I like walking, I like the air,” you say.

“Can’t exactly call it fresh,” May says. 

“No, but it’s alright. It helps me think.” 

“Is everything okay?” May asks, putting her hand on her hip. 

“Of course.” You smile at her genuinely. “I think starting college was too much for me? It was hard. But things are settling now, I don’t know what Peter told you, but I’m not walking a lot anymore. You know, not more than necessary.”

She softens her disapproving. “Good, honey. That’s good. Peter’s gonna make you some dinner now, right?” 

“Yeah, Aunt May, I’m gonna make dinner,” Peter sighs, pulling a leg up to take off his shoes. 

Peter shouldn’t really know that you’ve been walking. He might see you coming back from Trader Joe’s or the bodega on his way to your apartment, but you haven’t mentioned any of your longer excursions, and everybody in Queens has to walk. That’s information he wouldn’t know without Spider-Man. 

He seems to be hoping you won’t realise, changing the subject to the frankly killer grilled cheese and tomato soup that he’s about to make you, and pushing you into a chair at the table. “Warm up,” he says near the back of your head, forcing a wave of shivers down your arms.

He makes soup in one pan, grilled cheese in the other, two for him and two for you. Peter’s a good eater, and he encourages the same from you, setting a big bowl of tomato soup (from the can, splash of fresh cream) down in front of you with the grilled cheese on a plate between you. You eat it in too-hot bites and try not to get caught looking at him. He does the same, but when he catches you, or when you catch him, he holds your eye and smiles. 

“I can do the dishes,” you say. You might need a breather. 

“Are you kidding? I’m gonna rinse them, put them in the dishwasher.” Peter stands and feels your forehead with his hand. “Warmer. Good job.” 

You shrug away from his hand. “Loser.” 

“Concerned friend.” 

“Handsy loser.” 

”Shut up,” he mumbles. 

As flustered as you’ve ever seen, Peter takes your empty dishes to the kitchen. When he’s done rinsing them off you follow him upstairs to his bedroom and tuck your backpack under his bed. 

You look down at your socks. Peter’s room is on the smaller side, but it’s never been as startlingly small as it is when Peter’s socked feet align with yours, toe to toe. Quick recovery time, this boy. 

“There’s chips and stuff on my desk. Or I could run to 91st for some ice cream sandwiches if you want something sweet,” he says. 

You lift your eyes, tilt your head up just a touch, not wanting him to think you’re in his space no matter how strange that might be, considering he chose to stand there. “I’m all right. Did you want ice cream? We can go if you want to, but if you want to go ’cos you think I do then I’m fine.” 

“That’s such a long answer,” he says, draping an arm over your shoulder. “You don’t have to say all of that, just tell me no.” 

“I don’t want ice cream.” 

“Wasn’t that easy?” he asks. 

“Well, no, it wasn’t. Saying no to you is like saying no to a puppy.” 

“Because I’m adorable?” 

“Persistent.” 

“Yeah, I guess I am.” He drapes the other arm over you. The soap he used at the kitchen sink lingers on his hands. 

“Peter…?” you murmur. 

“What?” he murmurs back. 

You touch a knuckle to his chest. “This– You…” Every quelled thought rushes to the surface at once —Peter doesn’t like you as you desire, how could he, you aren’t beautiful like he is, aren’t smart, aren’t brave, no exceptional kindness or goodness to mark you enough for him. It’s why his being with Gwen didn’t hurt; she made sense. And for months now you’ve wondered what it is that made him struggle to be with her. And sometimes, foolishly, you wondered if it was you. But it’s not you, it’s never you, and whatever Peter’s trying to do now–

“Hey, you okay?” he asks, taking your face into his hand. 

“What are you doing?” 

“What?” He pushes his hand back to hold your nape, thumb under your ear. “I can’t hear you.”  

You raise your voice. “Why did you invite me over tonight?” 

“‘Cos I missed you?” 

“I used to think you didn’t miss me at all.” 

Peter winces, hurt. “How could you think that? Of course I miss you. What you said to May, about college being hard? It’s like that for me too, okay? I miss you all the time.” 

You bite the inside of your bottom lip. “…College isn’t hard for you.” 

“It’s not easy.” He frowns, the fallen angel, his lips an unsure brushstroke. “What’s wrong? Did I say the wrong thing?” 

You’re being wretched, you know, saying it isn’t hard for him. “You didn’t. Really, you didn’t.” 

“But why are you upset?” he implores, dark eyes darker as his eyebrows tug together.

“I’m not–”

“You are. It’s okay, you can be upset. I just want you to feel better, you know that?” He settles his hands at the tops of your arms. Less intimate, but something warm remains. “Even if it takes a long time.” 

“I’m fine.” 

“You’re not fine.”

“How would you know?” you finally ask. 

Peter stares at you. 

“I know you,” he says carefully, “and I know you aren’t struggling like you were, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen or that you have to be a hundred percent better now.” 

“I didn’t realise that I was,” you say, licking your lips, “‘til now. I didn’t get that it was on the surface.”

Peter pulls you in for a gentle hug. “I’m here for you forever, and I’ll make it up to you for not noticing sooner,” he says, scrunching your shirt in his hand.

After the hug, he tells you to change and make yourself comfortable while he showers. So you put on your pyjamas and climb into Peter’s bed, head pounding as though all your energy was stolen in a fell swoop. You press your nose to his pillow and arm wrapped around his comforter, gathering it into a Peter sized lump. The shower pump whines against the shared wall. 

Things aren’t meant to be like this. You thought Peter touching you —holding you— was the deepest of your desires, but you feel now exactly as you had before he started blurring the line, needing Peter to kiss you so badly it becomes its own kind of nausea. Why are you still acting like it’s an impossibility?

When he comes back, you’ll apologise. He hasn’t done anything wrong. He does keep a secret, but don’t you keep one too? He’s Spider-Man. You’ve had deep, complicated feelings for him for months. They are secrets of equal magnitude, and are, more apparently, badly kept. 

You wish you could fall asleep. Your heart ticks in agitation.

Peter returns as perturbed as earlier. 

“Are you sure there’s nothing wrong?” he asks, raking a hand through his hair. A towel hangs around his neck. 

“I’m sorry for being weird.” 

“You’re not weird,” Peter says, bringing the towel to his hair to scrub ruthlessly. 

“It’s just ‘cos things have been different between us.” And, you try to say, that scares me no matter how bad I wanted it. because you’re not just Peter anymore, you’re Spider-Man. I’m only me, and I can’t do anything to protect you.

Peter gives his hair a long scrub before draping the towel on his desk chair. He rakes it messily into place and sits himself at the end of the bed. You sit up. 

“Yeah, they have been. Good different?” he asks hesitantly. 

“I think so,” you say, quiet again. 

“That’s what I thought.” 

“I don’t want you to feel like I don’t want to be here. I just worry about you.” 

Peter uses his hands to get higher up the bed. “Don’t worry about me,” he says, “Jesus, please don’t. That’s the last thing I want from you, I hate when people worry about me.” 

You curl into the lump of comforter you’d made. Peter lets himself rest beside you, his back to the bedroom wall, tens of Polaroids above him shining with the light of the hallway and his orange-bulbed lamp. His skin is glowing like it’s golden hour, dashes of topaz in his eyes, his Cupid’s bow deep. How would it feel to lean forward and kiss him? To catch his Cupid's bow under your lips?

You brush a damp curl tangled in another onto his forehead. 

You lay there for a little while without talking, listening to the sound of the washing machine as it cycles downstairs. 

“Am I going too fast?” Peter murmurs. 

You press your lips together, shaking your head minutely. 

“Is it something else?” 

You don’t move. 

“Do you want me to stop?” he asks. 

“No.”

Peter rewards you with a smile, his hand on your arm. “Alright. Let me get this blanket on you the right way. You’re still cold.” 

You resent the loss of a shape to hold when Peter slips down beside you and wrangles the comforter flat again, spreading it out over you both, his hand under the blankets. His knuckles brush your thigh. 

He takes a deep breath before turning and wrapping his arm over your stomach, asking softly, “Is this alright?” 

“Yeah.” 

He gives you a look and then lifts his head to slot his nose against your temple. “Please don’t take this in a way that I don’t mean it, but sometimes you think about things so much I worry you’re gonna get stuck in your head forever.” 

“I like thinking.” 

“I hate it,” he says quickly, a fervent, flirting cadence to his otherwise dulcet tone, “we should never do it ever again.” 

“I’ll try not to.” 

“Would you? For me?” 

You laugh into his shirt, feeling the warmth of your breath on your own nose. “I’ll do my best.” 

“Good. I’d miss you too much if you got lost in that nice head of yours.” 

You relax under his arm. You aren’t sure what all the fuss was about now that he's hugging you. “I’d miss you too.”

May comes up the stairs about an hour later. To her credit, she doesn’t flinch when she finds you and Peter smushed together watching a DVD on his old TV. He’s holding your arm, and you’re snoozing on his shoulder, half-aware of the world, fully aware of his nice smells and the shapes of his arms. 

“Door open,” she says. 

“Not that either of us want it closed, May, but we’re adults.” 

“Not while I’m still washing your clothes, you’re not.” 

He snorts. “Goodnight, Aunt May. The door isn’t gonna close, I promise.” 

“I know that,” she says, scornful in her pride. “You’re a good boy.” She lightens. “Things are going okay?” 

Peter covers your ear. “Goodnight, Aunt May.” 

”I have half a mind to never listen to you again. You talk my ear off and I can’t ask a simple question?” 

“I love you,” Peter sing-songs. 

“I love you, Peter,” she says. “Don’t smother the girl.” 

“I won’t smother her. It’s in my best interest that she survives the night. She’s buying my breakfast tomorrow.” 

“Peter Parker.” 

“I’m kidding,” he whispers, petting your cheek absentmindedly. “Just messing with you, May.” 

You smile and curl further into his arms. His voice is like the sun, even when he whispers.  

—

To your surprise, Spider-Man comes to find you after class one evening. A guest lecturer had talked to your oncology class about click chemistry and other molecular therapies against cancer, and the zine book she’d given you is burning a hole in your pocket. Peter is going to love it. 

You pull it out and pause beside a bench and a silver trash can, the day grey but thankfully without rain. The pages of your little book whip forcefully in the wind. It’s chemistry, sure, but it’s biology too, wrapping your and Peter’s interests up neatly. If it weren’t for Peter you doubt you’d love science as much as you do. He’s always been good at it, but since you started college he's been a genius. Watching him grow has encouraged you to work harder, and understanding the material is satisfying, if draining. You take a photo of the middle most pages and tuck the book away, writing a quick text to Peter to send with it. 

Look! it says, LEGO cancer treatment!! 

The moment you press send a beep chimes from somewhere close behind you, all too familiar. You turn to the source but find nobody you know waiting. Coincidence, you think, shaking yourself and beginning the trek to the subway. 

But then you hear the tell tale splat and thwick of Spider-Man’s webbing. 

You wait until you’re at the alleyway between Porto’s Bakery and the key cutting shop and turn down to stop by one of the dumpsters. 

“Spider-Man?” you ask, shoulders tensed in case it’s not who you think. 

“What are you doing?” he asks.

You gasp as he hops down in front of you, his suit shiny with its dark web-pattern caught by the grey sunshine passing through the clouds overhead. “Shit, don’t break your ankles.” 

“My ankles?” He laughs. He sounds so much like Peter that you can only laugh with him. What an idiot he is for thinking you don’t know; what a fool you’d been for falling for his put upon tenor. “They’re fine. What would be wrong with my ankles?” 

“You just dropped down twenty feet!” 

“It’s more like thirty, and I’m fine. You understand the super part of superhero, don’t you?” 

“Who said you’re a superhero?” 

“Nice. What are you doing down here?” 

“I was testing my theory. You’re following me.” 

“No, I’m visiting you, it’s very different,” he says confidently. 

“You haven’t come to see me for weeks.” 

“Yes, well, I–” Spider-Peter crosses his arms across his chest. “Hey, you’re the one who told me to take a day off.” 

“I did tell you to take a day off. It’s not nice thinking about you trying to save the world every single night. That’s a lot of responsibility for one person to have.” 

“But it’s my responsibility,” he says easily. “No point in a beautiful girl like you wasting her time worrying about it. I have to do it, and I don’t mind it.” 

“Do you flirt with every girl you meet out here in the city?” you ask, cheeks hot. 

“No,” he says, fondness evident even through the mask, “just you.” 

“Do you wanna walk me home? I was gonna take the subway, but it’s not that far.” 

Spider-Man nods. “Yeah, I’ll walk you back.” 

He doesn’t hide that he knows the way very well. He takes preemptive turns, crosses roads without you telling him to go forward. You can’t believe him. Smartest guy at Midtown High and he can’t pretend to save his life. 

“Are you having a good semester?” he asks. 

“It’s getting better. I’m glad I stuck with it. I love biology, it’s so fucking hard. I used to think that was a bad thing, but it makes it cooler now. Like, it’s not something everyone understands.” You give him a look, and you give into temptation. “My best friend got me into all this stuff. I used to think math was hopeless and science was for dorks.” 

“It’s definitely for dorks.” 

“Right, but I love being one.” You offer a useless secret. “I like to think that it’s why we’re such great friends.” 

“Me and you?” Spider-Man asks hoarsely. 

“Me and Peter.” You elbow him without force. “Why, do you like science?” 

“I love it…” 

“You know, I really like you, Spider-Man. I feel like we’ve been friends for a long time.” You’re teasing poor Peter. 

He doesn’t speak for a while. He stops walking, but you take a few steps without him. When you realise he’s stopped, you turn back to see him. 

Peter’s gone so tense you could strike him with a flint and catch a spark. It’s the same way Peter looked at you when he told you about his Uncle, a truth he didn’t want to be true. Seeing it throws a spanner in the works of all your teasing: you’d meant to wind him up, not make him panic. 

“What’s wrong?” you ask. “Can you hear something?” 

“No, it’s not that…” He’s masked, but you know him well enough to understand why he’s stopped. 

“It’s okay,” you say. 

“It’s not, actually.” 

“Spider-Man.” You take a step toward him. “It’s fine.”

He presses his hands to his stomach. The sun is setting early, and in an hour, the dark will eat up New York and leave it in a blistering cold. “Do you remember when we first met, the second time, we swapped secrets?” 

“Yeah, I remember. Useless secret for another. I told you I hated my major. It’s not true anymore, obviously. I was having a bad time.” 

“I know you were,” he says, emphasis on know, like it’s a different word entirely. 

“But meeting you really helped. If it weren’t for you, for Peter,” —you give him a searching look— “I wouldn’t feel better at all.” 

“It wasn’t his fault?” he asks. “He was your friend, and you were lonely.” 

“No–”

“He didn’t know what was going on with you, he didn’t have a clue. You hurt yourself and you felt like you couldn’t tell anybody, and I know it wasn’t an accident, so what was his excuse?” His voice burns with anger. “It’s his fault.” 

“Of course it wasn’t your fault. Is that what you think?” You shake your head, panicked by the bone-deep self loathing in his voice, his shameful dropped head. “Yes, I was lonely, I am lonely, I don’t know many people and I– I– I hurt myself, and it wasn’t as accidental as I thought it was, but why would that be your fault?” 

“Peter’s fault,” he says, though his head is lifted now, and he doesn’t bother enthusing it with much gusto. 

“Peter, none of it was your fault.” You cringe in your embarrassment, thinking Fuck, don’t let me ruin this. “I was in a weird way, and yes, I was lonely, and I really liked you more than I should have. You didn't want me and that wasn’t your fault, that’s just how it was, I tried not to let it get to me, just there were a lot of things weighing on me at once, but it really wasn’t as bad as you think it was and it wasn’t your fault.” 

“I wasn’t there for you,” he says. “And I’ve been lying to you for a long time.” 

“You couldn’t tell me, right? Spider-Man is your secret for a reason.” 

“…I didn’t even know you were lonely until you told him. He was a stranger.” 

You hold your hands behind your back. “Well, he was a familiar one.” 

Peter reaches out as though wanting to touch you, but your arms aren’t in his reach. “It’s not because I didn’t want you.” 

“Peter,” you say, squirming. 

He steps back. 

“I have to go,” he says. 

“What?” 

“I have to– I don’t want to go,” he says earnestly, “sweetheart, I can hear someone calling out, I have to go. But I’ll come back, I’ll– I’ll come back,” he promises. 

And with a sudden lift of his arm, Peter pulls himself up the side of a building and disappears, leaving you whiplashed on the sidewalk, the sun setting just out of view.

—

You fall asleep that night waiting for Peter. When you wake up, 5AM, eyes aching, he isn’t there. You check your phone but he hasn’t texted. You check the Bugle and Spider-Man hasn’t been seen. 

You aren’t sure what to think. He sounded sincere to the fullest extent when he said he’d come back, but he didn’t, not ten minutes later, not twenty. You made excuses and you went home before it got too dark to see the street, sat on the couch rehearsing what you’d say. How could Peter think your unhappiness was his fault? Why does he always put the entire world on his shoulders?

Selfishly, you worried what it all meant for his lazy touches. Would he want to curl up into bed with you again now he knows what it means to you? It’s different for him. It isn’t like he’s in love with you… you’d just thought maybe he could be. That this was falling in love, real love, not the unrequited ache you’d suffered before. 

But maybe you got everything wrong. All of it. It wouldn't be the first time. 

—

You and Peter found The Moroccan Mode in your senior year at Midtown. The school library was small and you were sick of being underfoot at home. When you started at ESU, you explored the on campus coffeehouse, the Coffee Bean, but it was crowded, and you’d found yourself attached to the Mode’s beautiful tiling, blues and topaz and platinum golds, its heavy, oiled wooden furniture, stained glass lampshades and the case full of lemony treats. The coffee here is better than anywhere else, but the best part out of everything is that it’s your secret. Barely anybody comes to the Mode on purpose. 

You hide in a far corner with a book and an empty cup of decaf coffee, a slice of meskouta on the table untouched. Decaf because caffeine felt a terrible idea, meskouta untouched because you can’t stomach the smell. You push it to the opposite end of the table, considering another cup of coffee instead. It’s served slightly too hot, and will still be warm when it gets to your chest. 

The sunshine is creeping in slowly. It feels like the first time you’ve seen it in months, warming rays kissing your fingers and lining the walls. You turn a page, turn your wrist, let the sun warm the scar you gave yourself those few months ago, when everything felt too big for you. 

Looking back, it was too big. Maybe soon you’ll be ready to talk about it.  

The author in your book is talking about bees. They can fly up to 15 miles per hour. They make short, fast motions from front to back, a rocking motion. Asian giant hornets can go even faster despite their increased mass. They consider humans running provocation. If you see a giant hornet, you’re supposed to lay down to avoid being stung. 

You put your face in your hand. Next year, you’ll avoid the insect-based electives. 

Across the cafe, the bell at the top of the door rings. Laughter falls through it, a couple passing by. The register clashes open. A minute later it closes. 

You don’t raise your head when footsteps draw near. A plate is placed on the table, pushed across to you, stopping just shy of your coffee. 

“Did you eat breakfast?” Peter asks quietly. 

His voice is gentle, but hoarse. 

You tense. 

“Are you okay?” he asks, not waiting for your answer to either question. “You don’t look like yourself. Your eyes are red.” 

You lift your head. Wet with the beginnings of tears, you see Peter through an astigmatic blur. 

“What are you reading?” He frowns at you. “Please don’t cry.” 

You shake your head. Your smile is all odd, nothing like his, no inherent warmth despite your best effort. “I’m okay.” 

He nudges you across the booth seat and sits beside you. His arm settles behind your shoulders. He smells like smoke and soap, an acrid scent barely hidden. “Can you tell me you didn’t wait long for me?” 

“Ten minutes,” you lie. 

“Okay. I’m sorry. There was a fire.” He rubs your arm where he’s holding you. “I’m sorry.” 

“Will you go half?” you ask, nodding to the sandwich he’s brought you. It’s tough sourdough bread, brown with white flour on the crusts and leafy greens poking between the slices. You and Peter complain about the price. You’ve never had one. He passes you the bigger half, holding the other in his hand without eating. 

“I know you’re hungry,” you say, tapping his elbow, “just eat.” 

You eat your sandwiches. Now that Peter’s here, you don’t feel so sick —he’s not upset with you. The dull pang of an empty stomach won’t be ignored. 

Peter puts his sandwich down, which is crazy, and wipes his fingers on the plates napkin. You’ve never seen him stop before he’s done.

“It was in the apartments on Vernon. I– I think I almost died, the smoke was everywhere.” 

You choke around a crust, thrusting the rest of your half onto the plate. “Are you hurt?” you ask, coughing. 

He moves his head from side to side, not a shake, but a slow no. “How long have you known it was me?” he asks, curling his hand behind your back again, fingers spread over your shoulder blade, a fingertip on your neck. 

You savour his touch, but you give in to your apprehension and stare at his chest. “The night you caught me outside in the rain in November. You called me ‘running girl’. The way you said it, you sounded exactly like him. I turned around expecting,” —you whisper, weary of the quiet cafe— “Spider-Man, and I realised it’s him that sounds like you. That he is you.” 

“Was that disappointing?” 

“Peter, you’re, like, my favourite person in the world,” you whisper fervently, your smile making it light. You laugh. “Why would that be disappointing?” 

“I thought maybe you think he’s cooler than me.” 

“He is cooler than you, Peter.” You laugh again, pleased when he scoffs and draws you nearer. “I guess you’re the same person, right? So he’s just as cool as you are. But why would being cool matter to me? You know I like you.” 

“You flirted pretty heavily with Spider-Man.”

“Well, he flirted with me first.” 

You chance a look at his face. From that moment you can’t look away, not from Peter. You like when he wears that darkness in his eyes, the hint of his rarer side so uncommonly seen, but you love this most of all, Peter like your best memory, the way he’s looking at you now a picture perfect copy of that moment in a swimming pool in Manhattan with cracked tile under your feet. His arms heavy on your shoulders. You didn’t get it then, but you’re starting to understand now.

“I’ve made a mess of everything,” he says softly, the trail his hand makes to the small of your back leaving a wake of goosebumps. “I haven’t been honest with you.” 

“I haven’t, either.” 

“I want to ask you for something,” Peter says, a fingertip trailing back up. He smiles when you shiver, not teasing, just loving. “You can say no.” 

“You’re hard to say no to.” 

“I need you to talk to me more,” —and here he goes, Peter Parker, flirting and sweet-talking like his life depends on it, his face inching down into your space— “not just because I love your voice, or because you think so much I’m scared you’ll get lost, but I need you to talk to me. We need to talk about real things.”

We do, you think morosely. 

“It’s not your fault,” he adds, the hand that isn’t holding your back coming up to cup your cheek, “it’s mine. I was scared of telling you for stupid reasons, but I shouldn’t have let it be a secret for so long.” 

“No, I doubt they’re stupid,” you murmur, following his hand as he attempts to move it to your ear. “It’s not easy to tell someone you’re a hero.”

His palm smells like smoke. 

“That’s not the secret I meant,” he says. 

You take his hand from your face. Peter looks down and begins pressing his fingers between yours, squeezing them together as his thumb runs over the back of your hand.

“So tell me.”

The sunshine bleeds onto his cheek. Dappled orange light turning slowly white as time stretches and the sun moves up through a murky sky. “You want to trade secrets again?” he asks. 

“Please.” 

“Okay. Okay, but I don’t have as many as you do,” he warns. 

“I find that hard to believe.” 

“I don’t. It’s not a real secret, is it? I’ve been trying to show you for weeks, we…”

He tilts his head invitingly. 

All those hand-holds and nights curled up in bed together. Am I going too fast? You know exactly what he means; it really isn’t a secret.

“I’ll go first,” he says, lowering his face to yours. You try not to close your eyes. “I’ve wanted to kiss you for weeks.” He closes his eyes so you follow, your breath not your own suddenly. You hold it. Let it go hastily. “What’s your secret?” 

“Sometime I want you to kiss me so badly I can’t sleep. It makes me feel sick–”

“Sick?” he asks worriedly. 

You touch the tip of your nose to his. “It’s like– like jealousy, but…” 

“You have no one to be jealous of,” he says surely. He cups your cheek, and he asks, “Please, can I kiss you?” 

You say, “Yes,” very, very quietly, but he hears it, and his smile couldn’t be more obvious as he closes the last of the distance between you to kiss you.

It isn’t the sort of kiss that kept you up at night. Peter doesn’t hook you in or tip your head back, he kisses gently, his hand coming to live on your cheek, where it cradles. It’s so warm you don’t know what to make of him beyond kissing him back —kissing his smile, though it’s catching. Kissing the line of his Cupid’s bow as he leans down. 

“I’m sorry about everything,” he mumbles, nose flattened against yours. 

You feel sunlight on your cheek. Squinting, you turn into his hand to peer outside at the sudden abundance of it. It’s still cold outside, but the Mode is warm, Peter’s hand warmer, and the sunshine is a welcome guest. 

Peter drops his hand. “Oh, wow. December sun. Good thing it didn’t snow, we’d be blind.”

“I can’t be cold much longer,” you confess. “I’m sick of the shitty weather.” 

“I can keep you warm.” 

He smiles at you. His eyelashes tangle in the corners of his eyes, long and brown. 

“Did you want my meskouta?” you ask. 

Peter plants a fat kiss against your brow. 

You let the sunshine warm your face. Two unfinished sandwich halves, a mouthful of coffee, and a round slice of meskouta, its flaky crumb and lemon drizzle shining on the table. You would ask Peter for his camera if you’d thought he brought it with him, to take a picture of your breakfast and the carved table underneath. You could turn it on Peter, say something cheesy. This is the moment you ruined our lives, you’d tease.

“You never told me you met Spider-Man, you know.” 

You watch Peter lick the tip of his finger without shame. “They could make a novella of things I haven’t told you about,” you murmur wryly. 

Peter takes a bite of meskouta, reaching for your knee under the table. He shakes your leg a little, as if to say, Well, we’ll work on that. 

—

Spring

“Sorry!”

“No, it’s–”

“Sorry, sorry, I’m– shit!”

“–okay! All legs inside the ride?”

“I couldn’t find my purse–”

“You don’t need it!” Peter leans over the console to kiss your cheek. “You don’t have to rush.” 

“Are you sure you can drive this thing?” 

“Harry doesn’t mind.” 

“I don’t mean the car, I mean, are you sure you can drive?” 

“That’s not funny.” 

You grin and dart across to kiss his cheek, too. “Nothing ever is with us.” 

Peter grabs you behind the neck —which might sound rough, if he were capable of such a thing— and pulls you forward for a kiss you don’t have time for. “If we don’t check in,” —you begin, swiftly smothered by another press of his lips, his tongue a heat flirting with the seam of your lips— “by three, they said they won’t keep the room–” He clasps the back of your neck and smiles when your breath stutters. You squeeze your eyes closed, kiss him fiercely, and pull away, hand on his chest to restrain him. “And then we’ll have to drive home like losers.” 

Peter sits back in the driver's seat unbothered. He fixes his hair, and he wipes his bottom lip with his knuckle. You’re rolling your eyes when he finally returns your gaze. “Sorry, am I the one who lost her purse?” 

“Peter!” 

“I can’t make us un-late,” he says, turning the key slowly, hands on the wheel but his eyes still flitting between your eyes and your lips. 

“Alright,” you warn. 

He reaches for your knee. “It’s a forty minute drive. You’re panicking over nothing.” 

“It’s an hour.” 

Your drive from Queens to Manhattan is entirely uneventful. You keep Peter’s hand hostage on your knee, your palm atop it, the other hand wrapped around his wrist, your conversation a juxtaposition, almost lackadaisical. Peter doesn’t question your clinging nor your lazy murmurings, rubbing a circle into your knee with his thumb from Forest Hill to Lenox Hill. There’s so much to do around Manhattan; you could visit MoMA, Central Park, The Empire State Building or Times Square, but you and Peter give it all a miss for the little known Manhattan Super 8. 

It’s been a long time since you and Peter first visited. You took the bus out to Lenox Hill for a med-student tour neither of you particularly enjoyed, feeling out future careers. It’s not that Lenox Hill isn’t one of the most impressive medical facilities in New York (if not the northeastern USA), it’s that all the blood made him queasy, and you were panicking too much about the future to think it through. He got over his aversion to blood but chose the less hands-on science in the end, and you worked things through. You’re a little less scared of the future everyday. 

You and Peter were supposed to get the bus straight back home for a sleepover, but one got cancelled, another delayed, and night closed in like two hands on your neck. Peter sensed your fear and emptied his wallet for a night in the Super 8. 

The next morning it was beautifully sunny. The first day of summer that year, warm and golden. The pool wasn’t anything special but it was invitingly cool, blue and white tiles patterned like fish below; you clambered into the water in shorts and a tank top and Peter his boxers before a worker could see and stop you. 

It was one of the best days of your life. When you told Peter about it last week, he’d looked at you peculiarly, said, Bub, you’re cute, and let you waste the afternoon recounting one of your more embarrassing pangs of longing. A few days later he told you to clear your calendar for the weekend, only spilling the beans on what he’d done when you’d curled over his lap, a hand threaded into the hair at the nape of his neck, murmuring, Tell me, tell me, tell me. 

He’d hung his head over you and scrunched up his eyes. Cheater.

The best thing about having a boyfriend is that he always wants to listen to you. Peter was a good listener as a best friend, but now he has his act together and the secrets between you are never anything more than eating the last of the milk duds or not wanting to pee in front of him, he’s a treasure. There’s no feeling like having Peter pull you into his lap so he can ask about your day with his face buried in your neck, sniffing. Sometimes, when you text one another to meet up the next day, you’ll accidentally will the hours away babbling about school and life and things without reason. Peter has a list on his phone of your silliest tangents; blood oranges to the super moon, fries dipped in ice cream to the world record for kick flips done in five minutes. It’s like when you talk to one another, you can’t stop. 

There are quiet moments. You wake up some mornings to find him awake already, an arm behind you, rubbing at your soft upper arm, fingertip displacing the fine hairs there and trailing circles as he reads. He bends the pages back and holds whatever novel he’s reading at the bottom of his stomach, as though making sure you can see the words clearly, even when you’re sleeping. 

There are hectic, aching moments —vigilante boyfriends become blasé with their lives and precious faces. You’ve teetered on the edge of anxiety attacks trying to pick glass from his cheek with a tweezers, lamented over bruises that heal the next day. It’s easier when Peter’s careful, but Spider-Man isn’t careful. You ask him to take care of himself and he’s gentle with himself for a few days, but then someone needs saving from an armed burglar or a car swerves dangerously onto the sidewalk and he forgets. 

He hadn’t patrolled last night in preparation for today. 

“Did you know,” he says, pulling Harry’s borrowed car into a parking spot just in front of the Super 8 reception, “that today’s the last day of spring?” 

“Already?” 

“Tonight’s the June equinox.” 

“Who told you that?” 

“Aunt May. She said it’s time to get a summer job.” 

You laugh loudly. “Our federal loans won’t last forever.” 

“Harry’s gonna get me something, I think. Do you want to work with me? It could be fun.” 

You nod emphatically. It’s barely a thought. “Obviously I want to. Does Oscorp pay well, do you think?” 

Peter lets the engine go. The car turns off, engine ticking its last breath in the dash. “Better than the Bugle.” 

You get your key from the reception and find your room upstairs, second floor. It’s not dirty nor exceptionally clean, no mould or damp but a strange smell in the bathroom. There’s a microwave with two mugs and a few sachets of instant coffee. Peter deems it the nicest motel he’s ever stayed in, laughing, crossing the room to its only window and pulling aside the curtain. 

“There it is, sweetheart,” he says, wrapping his arm around you as you join him, “that’s what dreams are made of.” 

The blue and white tiled pool. It hasn’t changed. 

It’s about as hot as it’s going to get in June today, and, not knowing if it’ll rain tomorrow, you and Peter change into your swim suits and gather your towels. You wear flip flops and tangle your fingers, clanking and thumping down the rickety metal stairs to the pool. There’s nobody there, no lifeguard, no quests, and the pool is clean and cold when you dip your toes. 

Peter eases in first. Towels in a heap at the end of a sun lounger, his shirt tumbling to the floor, Peter splashes in frontward and turns to face you as the water laps his ribs. “It’s cold,” he says, wading for your legs, which he hugs. 

“I can feel it,” you say, the cool waters to your calves where you sit on the edge. 

“You won’t come in and warm me up?” he asks. 

You stroke a tendril of hair from his eyes. He attempts to kiss your fingers. 

“I’m trying to prepare myself.” 

“Mm, you have to get used to it.” He puts wet hands on your thighs, looking up imploringly until you lean down for a kiss. The fact that he’d want one still makes you dizzy. “Thank you,” he says. 

“You’ll have to move.” 

Peter steps back, a ripple of water ringing behind him, his hands raised. He slips them with ease under your arms and helps you down into the water, laughing at your shocked giggling —he’s so strong, the water so cold. 

Peter doesn’t often show his strength. Never to intimidate, he prefers startling you helpfully. He’ll lift you when you want to reach something too tall, or raise the bed when you’re on his side to force you sideways. 

“Oh, this is the perfect place to try the lift!” he says. 

“How will I run?” you ask, letting your knees buckle, water rushing up to your neck. 

Peter pulls you up. He touches you easily, and yet you get the sense that he’s precious with you, too. There’s devotion to be found in his hands and the specific way they cradle your back, drawing your chest to his. “I don’t need you to do a running start, sweetheart,” he says, tilting his head to the side, “I’ll just lift you.” 

“Last time I laughed so much you dropped me.” 

“Exactly, you laughed, and this is serious.” 

The world isn’t mild here. Car horns beep and tyres crunch asphalt. You can hear children, and singing, and a walkie talkie somewhere in the Super 8’s parking lot. The pool pumps gargle and Peter’s breath is half laughter as he pulls you further from the sidelines, ceramic tiles slippery under your feet. In the distance, you swear you can hear one of those songs he likes from that poor singer who died in the Wolf River. 

He’s a beholden thing in the sun; you can’t not look at him, all of him, his sculpted chest wet and glinting in the sun, his eyes like browning honey, his smile curling up, and up. 

“You’re beautiful,” he says. 

You rest an arm behind his head. “The rash guard is a good look?” 

“Sweetheart, you couldn’t look cuter,” he says, hands on your waist, pinky on your hip. “I wish you’d mentioned these shorts a few days ago. I would’ve prepared to be a more decent man.” 

“You’re decent enough, Parker.” 

“Maybe now.” 

“Well, if things get too hot, you can always take a quick dip,” you say. 

You’re teasing, but Peter’s eyes light up with mischief as he calls, “Oh, great idea!” and lets himself drop backwards into the water. You pull your arm back rather than go with him. You can’t avoid the great burst of water as he surges to the surface. 

He shakes himself off like a dog. 

“Pete!” you cry through laughs, wiping the water from your face before the chlorine gets in your eyes. 

“It just didn’t help,” he says, pulling you back into his arms, “you know, the water is cold, but you’re so hot, and I actually got a pretty good look at them when I was under, and you’re just as pretty as I remembered you being ten seconds ago–”

“Peter,” you say, tempted to roll your eyes. 

Water runs down his face in great rivers, but with the dopey smile he’s sporting, they look like anything but tears. “Tell me a secret?” he asks, dripping in sunshine, an endless summer at his back. 

A soft smile takes your lips. “No,” you say, tipping up your chin, “you tell me one first.”

“What kind of secret?” 

“A real one,” you insist. 

“Oh…” He leans away from you, though his arms stay crossed behind you. “Okay, I have one. Ask me again.” 

You raise a single brow. “Tell me a secret, Peter.” 

He pulls your face in for a kiss. His hand is wet on your cheek, but no less welcome. “I love you,” he says, kissing the skin just shy of your nose. 

You’re lucky he’s already holding you. “I love you too,” you say, gathering him to you for a hug, digging your nose into the slope of his neck as his admission blows your mind. “I love you.” 

Peter wraps his arms around your shoulders, closing his eyes against the side of your head. You can’t know what he’s thinking, but you can feel it. His hands can’t seem to stay still on your skin. 

The sun warms your back for a time. 

Peter lets out a deep breath of relief. You lean away to look at him, your hand slipping down into the water, where he finds it, his fingers circling your wrist. 

“That’s another one to let go of,” he suggests. 

He peppers a row of gentle kisses along your lips and the soft skin below your eye. 

You and Peter swim until your fingers are pruned and the sun has been blanketed by clouds. You let him wrap you in a towel, and kiss your wet ears, and take you back to the room, where he holds your face. 

“I’ll start the shower for you,” he says, rubbing your cheeks with his thumbs, each stroke of them encouraging your face from one side to the other, just a touch, ever so slightly moved in the palms of his hands. 

“Don’t fall asleep standing up,” he murmurs. 

Your eyes close unbidden to you both. “I won’t.” 

He holds you still, leaning in slowly to kiss you with the barest of pressure. Every thought in your head fades, leaving only you and Peter, and the dizziness of his touch as he lays you down at the end of the bed. 

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please like, comment or reblog if you enjoyed, i love comments and seeing what anyone reading liked about the fic is a treat —thank you for reading❤︎