Welcome To My Clubhouse!

Hi! I’m Mo! She/Her 21!!!

[mosclubhouse]

Peter Parker x chronic migraine!reader

tags: spider-man, post brand new day (no spoilers), gn!reader, fluff, headcanons, peter parker x reader

You've had migraines basically your whole life and it halted your whole day when you got one

Peter had never really gotten them until the whole arachnid dna situation

Even before that, he could always tell when you were getting a migraine

You would typically wake up with it, immediately wincing at the morning light and groaning

As soon as he saw you pressing your palms against your eyes, wishing you could just remove them, he sprung into action

Peter always had a routine on the days where you were down

He would shut out as much light as possible, grab you some painkillers, and grab your trusty migraine cap from the fridge

He always made sure to talk in a hushed voice as he asked you if there was anything else you wanted or needed

If you needed, he would leave you to go back to sleep

Usually though, you would just request that he lay with you and cuddle through your pain

You groan awake after hours of sleep to find Peter scrolling on his phone next to you

“Peter?”

“Hey, you’re awake. How are you feeling?”

“Well, I’ve been better but my head isn’t pounding as bad as it was before so that’s nice.”

“That’s good! Are you up for dinner? You need more to eat than just water and advil.”

“Hmmm yeah how about burgers?”

“Burgers it is.”

You guys order from your favorite burger place and have a quiet rest of your night

Hi guys! Thank you so much for reading my very first piece of fan fiction! This was entirely self indulgent as I suffer from chronic migraines (I literally had one today save me). I hope you have an amazing day!

[enthyrea]

- i bet we were fun.

- like you wouldn’t believe.

[lovekt]

between magic and memories.

pairing; bnd!peter parker x reader

blurb; where a strange boy shows up to your college party with a bouquet and you can’t help but feel like he’s not that strange at all.

word count; 1.7k

author’s note; haven’t wrote anything in a while and then sat down and did this in two hours. pls let me know your thoughts, i really appreciate them! just something short and sweet x

🎶; now playing… oh yeah? - steve lacy

When he first arrived at the party, you only spared him a second glance because of the bouquet. He was new, probably, as you’d never seen him before. Or maybe he wasn’t and he’d been hanging around the same social circles as you for forever and you were just too busy studying to notice. Either way, bringing a floral arrangement to a college party full of sticky beer and cigarettes was not common social practice.

You wondered if a love confession was about to go down, or maybe some oddly planned proposal. That was until he locked eyes with you from across the room and unwillingly your heart jumped.

He had messy, sort of curly, brown hair and a sorrow look highlighted by the fairy lights strung up along the kitchen cupboards. Weird – a bouquet of flowers and heartbroken eyes. Maybe an apology?

When he didn’t look away, you did. Why was he starring at you? You didn’t know him, couldn’t put in a good word even if he asked. This was all down to him to get his girl back, keep the rest of us out of it.

It was hard not to sneak another glance at the brown-haired boy by the door. Your curiosity had been  somewhat peaked and apparently your body recognised him more than your brain did. But when your friend, Ned, stumbled up to you with a red plastic cup in one hand and a bottle of some kind of clear alcohol in the other, you had no more questions. It was a party after all.

The next time you saw him, some time had passed and you were a few drinks down. The world was moving a bit slower and the ground felt only slightly further away. MJ was having a heated debate – it was an argument, but she refused to call it that – with her boyfriend in the kitchen, and you were trying your hardest not to listen in, but what could you do if they were ten feet away and there was nothing else to listen to?

He appeared kind of clumsily, shoving past a few guys who were more than a few drinks too deep. They were taller than him and when he finally got through, he tripped a little and you automatically threw your hands out in front of you to catch him.

The boy caught himself before you needed to, and your hand brushed his forearm when you brought it back to your side. He flinched slightly, taking a step back, and straightening up.

“Hi.” He smiled wonkily, nervously. You noticed the bouquet still in his hand and the way that slight contact from before tingled down your pinkie finger.

“Bouquet boy! You still have it?” It was more of a statement than a question. You had eyes and you knew how to use them. Thank god you knew how to use them, because being this close to him made his face a lot clearer - and you weren’t complaining.

He chuckled a bit, laced with awkward tension and a hint of embarrassment. “Yeah, yeah. I- um, I got them for someone.”

You looked up at him and smiled, brows lifted. “Really? I thought it was just an accessory.”

He smiled back. “I can see why you would think that. They do match my outfit pretty well.”

You looked down at his dark hoodie and jeans. They did not match – at all, and you had to giggle at the sight.

You nodded and looked him up and down dramatically. “Mmm, mhm. Bright yellow and pink. Matches so well.”

“Hey, you’re the one that called me bouquet boy!”

And just like that, the awkward air dissipated, and you began to think if you had actually ever seen him before. A guy who looked good and could crack a joke? Those were rare, surely you would’ve remembered him. Some niggling feeling in the back of your mind told you you did.

He was looking down at himself with his arms out in a ‘what the hell’ kind of motion when you spoke again.

“Well, you’ve been holding them long enough. Who are those for anyway? I’m feeling generous, maybe I can help you out of that heartbroken hole you’re so obviously stuck in.” Your tone was laced with humour, but when he looked at you he wasn’t laughing. The sad face was back, and it was directly at you. Because of you, maybe.

There was an apology for overstepping about to spill from your lips when his eyes flickered over to MJ behind you, and then to Ned who’d now joined her. It was their apartment, and you followed his eyes to them, then the flowers, and then back to him, making the connection.

He started, “Actually, they’re for-“

“I’m so sorry, they’re for Ned and MJ, right? Housewarming gift?” You butted in, hoping to fix your mistake. This guy seemed genuine and you didn’t want to get off on the wrong foot.

He paused. He was still looking at you. His hand holding the flowers half raised and his brow furrowed slightly like he was thinking something over.

Quickly, he nodded. “Yeah, yeah” Cough. “Yeah, they’re for um- they’re a housewarming gift. Of course.” He smiled but it didn’t seem as real as the previous one.

“Do you want me to give them for you?” You offered, assuming that he was nervous. After all, he had just been walking around with them for about an hour now. “I’ll tell MJ and Ned they’re from you, obviously.”

He nodded again and you began to reach for where his hand was, wrapping your fingers around the ribbon holding the stems together. He didn’t let go when your palm overlapped his, and it felt- warm? It felt like he was the fireplace on a cold winter night, like he was the blanket that you’d been shivering for. Not just at your palm, but through every limb and every vessel. Your heart beat and your hand tingled and something was clawing in your memory that you couldn’t quite catch.

You looked away from his and your hands, up to his pleading brown eyes already there, waiting. You let out a soft laugh, hesitant. He wasn’t letting go.

He cleared his throat slightly. “They’re for you, actually.” And then he whispered your name and something clicked.

The warmth was creeping up your throat, spreading through your chest and across your forehead and it was the feeling you get when your crush admits they like you back. Like a first kiss. Like getting into a relationship and planning to go the same college and watching each other’s favourite movies together and building Lego, and, and, and-

And that wasn’t just a feeling. That happened.

A whispered “I know you?”

A step forward.

A slow rise and soft stroke of his free hand against your face, calloused fingertips that felt so familiar. A messy eyebrow so clear and in view. His eyes, begging, twinkling, confirmation glowing and blinking. His lips – the lips you’d kissed before, the only lips you’d ever kissed, the first lips you’d ever kissed.

And it was instinct, more than anything else, that took hold when you leant forward and breathed in the air he breathed out. Waiting, waiting, to see if it felt right between the centimetres of space between you, to see if you were making a mistake. When you looked up, just to check, his eyes were closed. His breath was slow and shallow and careful and waiting and you knew then. You knew when he released a small final sigh of relief.

You knew.

Closing the space between magic and memories, you kissed the boy in front of you, and suddenly ‘the boy’ was not just that. Everything. Every word. Every dream. Every memory that you never knew you had came back in a flow and a flourish and all you’d ever felt was missing was now full.

The way your lips moved against his came naturally, slotted perfectly like the curve of your mouth was carved from his. For his. Nothing else mattered, everyone else fading around your togetherness until it was just him and you and the caress of his fingers against your cheek bone and jaw, back and forth.

When you broke apart for just a second, foreheads rested upon each other’s, you breathed ‘Peter’, and this time he placed his lips back on yours. Desperate, longing, relieved.

He left the flowers on the counter you didn’t even realise was behind you and brought his other hand to the empty side of your face, pressing closer. It was two mouths connecting, two hearts beating, two souls reuniting. His touch was burning, blazing and you realised then that this warmth, this feeling – love.

You loved him.

Peter Parker.

The second time you separated, you wished it didn’t have to end. You wanted to be close to him, to never let go again. Too long, too far, and he must’ve felt the same when his hands fell from your face and he wrapped you in a hug, whispering your name in your ear again and again. An ‘I missed you’ and an ‘I love you’. It was crushing and firm and only hurt a bit, but you didn’t care.

You grabbed his shoulders and pushed him back to look him in the eye. He looked down and you smiled, a tear slipping down his cheek that you carefully swiped away. He didn’t need to be sad, not anymore. But you doubted these were sad tears.

“Peter?”

Peter laughed through tears, choked up and happy. Then he leant back more and your grip tightening slightly to stop him getting too far. He lifted back up the flowers from the counter.

“It’s me.” He said, confirmed, and then looked over at the bouquet in his hand. “These are for you.”

He held them out and this time when you reached for them, he let them go. Peter didn’t need them anymore – he had something else to hold onto, to never let go again.

“You remembered my favourite flowers.” You said, soft and eyes burning.

Peter starred at you, pupils blown and eyes full of love. He lifted his thumb to your bottom lip, then to your chin and lifted your face to his one more time. A short kiss.

“You remembered me.”

thanks for reading!

[whoispeterparkeranyways]

interview gone wrong - request.

pairing: spider-man x reporter!reader summary: spider-man rarely gives sit down interviews. he finally decides to do one, but it goes wayyy different than he expected it to. warnings: angst word count: 1.2k

“Please state your name for the record.” You said, adjusting the voice recorder that sat between you and the hero. This was one of the rare times that anyone had actually managed to get Spider-Man to do a sit down interview. 

He laughed. “You know I can’t do that. That’s why I wear the mask.”

You fought the urge to roll your eyes. Was he purposely being dense? “I meant state your hero alias. Not your actual name.”

“Ohhhh, right.” He cleared his throat. “Spider-Man.” 

Next, you stated your name and all other information that needed to be on record. Once the legal formalities were over, you scanned through your notes before beginning the interview. 

“How does it feel to have such love and support from New York City?” You asked, studying the man in front of you. 

“I mean, it’s really great! I love saying hi to people when I swing from place to place. There’s such a great sense of community that Spider-Man brings and I wouldn’t trade it for the world.”

You nodded. “What about criticism from people who live in other states? Some people think it’s unfair that New York gets to have a vigilante that protects them. Don’t you think it’s unfair?”

Spider-Man tensed at this, visibly sinking back into his chair. He drummed his fingers against his lap while he came up with a response. “Well… Um, I guess I’ve never thought about it that way.”

“Is that all you have to say?”

He hesitated, momentarily at a loss for words. “I- I’m from New York. I understand why people from other states are upset, but I can’t be everywhere at once.”

“Recently, there was an uproar on social media saying that destruction and chaos seem to follow you around.” You handed him printed out versions of various tweets that rehashed the statement. “Do you ever feel guilty about the damage that you cause when taking down these villains? Have you ever considered leaving so that the city doesn’t have to constantly rebuild?”

Spider-Man laughed awkwardly and you narrowed your eyes. “I wasn’t expecting these questions to be so… intense.”

You gave him a tight lipped smile. “Were you expecting an interview with puppies where I showered you with compliments?”

“I- No, of course not! I just… I don’t know. I was expecting you to ask about what I do or what my suit is made of, things like that. Not whatever this is.” He rubbed the back of his neck which you noted down as a nervous tick. 

“I work at the Daily Bugle; we don’t do fluff pieces. I was given specific instruction on what to ask so no, I will not be asking what a regular day is like for you.”

Spider-Man nodded, once again shifting in his seat. You knew he was getting anxious, but you didn’t care. J. Jonah Jameson wanted you to be slightly cruel to the hero, despite however you actually felt about him. In reality, you were indifferent towards Spider-Man. You had no issue with him, but you would never call yourself a fan. Lately, you started to see why Jameson hated him so much. Your neighborhood had been wrecked in a recent battle against some space villain and the average citizens were left to pick up the pieces that Spider-Man had left. 

“If you could please answer the question from earlier, that would be appreciated.”

“Sorry, what was the question again?” 

You took a deep breath to control your ever growing annoyance. “Do you ever feel guilty about the damage that you cause when taking down these villains? Have you ever considered leaving so that the city doesn’t have to constantly rebuild?”

He took a moment to think of an answer before speaking. “Of course I feel guilty about seeing New York City in ruins. When fighting, I try to avoid causing as much damage as possible but it is bound to happen. Even though I am guilty, I could never leave New York. It is my city as much as it is yours.”

“So you stay for selfish reasons?”

“Well… I- that’s not what I meant.” He huffed, going to run a hand through his hair but remembering he had the mask on. 

“Then, what did you mean?”

“The fighting is going to happen whether I’m here or not. If I left New York, sure the damage would decrease but it isn’t going to stop. It’s just going to follow me wherever I am.”

“Why don’t you ever help the community rebuild? We are left to pick up the mess that you made.”

Spider-Man blinked at you a few times, as if just realizing the gravity of his career. “I’m always so focused on fighting crime while trying to live a semi-normal life. I try to help out where I can, but it’s hard to balance both.”

“So you think saving the city from crime is enough? That because you help out, you don’t need to pick up the pieces you leave?” Your words came out harsher than you had intended. You shifted in your seat and turned your focus back towards the notebook in your lap. It wasn’t your job to make Spider-Man happy, but you did pity the way he looked so uncomfortable. 

“I know it’s not enough, but I’m human too.”His voice cracked in the middle of his words, as if he were near tears. “I can’t be everything that everyone wants me to be. I’m flawed. I make mistakes. If there was a way for me to do everything that I wanted, I would be out there helping the community more often. There just aren’t enough hours in the day for me to accomplish everything.”

After you jotted down some notes, you finally looked back up at him. The once bright and eager hero had made himself small in his chair. He avoided looking in your direction, opting to stare out the window. 

You cleared your throat and he glanced over at you. “Listen…,” You began, shutting your notebook and setting it aside. “It’s my job to be unbiased, but I will admit I’m being cruel. I’m letting my emotions get in the way of things and I’m taking it out on you. I’m sorry.”

“I- Uh, yeah it’s fine.” He nodded, seeming to relax in his seat. 

You shook your head. “It’s not. I’ve been incredibly unprofessional.”

“No really, I get it.” Spider-Man said. “It can be hard to be level headed around someone who has caused you so much destruction and pain.”

A brief moment of silence settled over the room. The two of you looked at each other and shared a nod. With that, you concluded the interview and turned off the recording device. 

“Thank you for taking the time to be here.” You said as Spider-Man lingered by your front door. 

“Of course, I’m just doing my job.”

“I wouldn’t really say that doing interviews is a part of being super hero.”

He shrugged. “It’s not but… I really needed this, thank you. I haven’t really had anyone speak to me without praise or false compliments in awhile.”

“I’m just doing my job.” You echoed. 

Spider-Man laughed before heading out the door. Once he was gone, you let out a sigh and ran a hand through your hair. Maybe that interview had been more beneficial than you realized. It felt like a weight had been lifted off your chest and it was finally easier to breathe. From your office window, you could see the ruins of your apartment complex but maybe that didn’t have to be such a bad thing. It could be a fresh start; a chance to do things over. 

[whoispeterparkeranyways]

to the boy i loved before

part one

pairings: peter parker x lara jean!reader summary: peter parker has been your best friend since sixth grade, but one day he recieves a love letter that you had written in order to get over your feelings. how will your friendship survive this disasterous event? warnings: both of them being dumb asf word count: 2.9k

moodboard | spotify playlist

Dear Peter Parker,

You were the first boy that I had ever truly loved; I don’t think that I could ever love someone as much as I did you. This one sided romance started all the way back during 6th grade science camp. Our group leader was taking us on a hike while she pointed out the variety of wildlife within the camp grounds. I had been so distracted watching a small lizard that I failed to notice the large rock that was in my path. Like the klutz I was am, I made the smart decision of landing my entire body weight onto my two knees. Not only had a made a fool out of myself in front of our entire class, I had two bloody knees to accompany my embarrassment. While our classmates laughed (Gen…), you walked over to me and asked if I was okay. When I had managed to stand back up, you were the first person to volunteer to take me to the nurse. We hadn’t even known each other that well and yet you were helping me. On the way to the nurse, you held my hand while I cried over the pain, humiliation, and the loneliness of not having Chris with me. You didn’t even laugh when I admitted that she was my only friend and how I’d been alone during camp. You smiled at me and said that you’d be my friend like it was nothing; it had been everything to me. From that moment on, I was head over heels for you. 

It was hard being your friend for so long and never being able to tell you how I’d felt. That’s why I decided to write these letters in the first place. I know, a love letter nine years later when we're going to be juniors in college? It's dramatic, but I don't think I ever fully got over you. Especially now that we go to ESU together. I’m not selfish enough to confess my feelings and ruin our friendship so this letter will have to do. You Peter Parker, were my first and forever love. No matter how hard I try to get over you, it never works. Watching you fall for MJ was hard, but seeing you heart broken after the break up was even harder. It was like a part of your soul had left when she did. Sometimes I find myself wishing that I had gotten to you before she did. Maybe then I wouldn’t be writing this letter and maybe we’d be dating. Or maybe if I did confess, you’d probably most definitely say you saw me like a sister. Maybe I was doomed from the second you had first spoken to me. 

Love, 

Y/n

The letters you had written to your various loves were your way of finally allowing yourself to let go of the feelings you’d secretly harbored for years. Once each envelope was sealed and placed into the hat box, it was like a brand new start to your life. A life without love that had no direction to go. You still felt the lingering remanent of love whenever you looked at Peter, but his letter was tucked away, in the back of your closet. There was no use in dwelling over a situation in which you had done absolutely nothing to change over the past nine years. 

Your sister, Kitty, thought that the whole situation was pathetic. In her words, what was the point of being in love with someone if they didn’t know? Despite her being far younger, her words of wisdom stuck to you in the same way that a peanut butter sandwich stuck to the roof of your mouth. What was the point of being in love with Peter if he was never going to know? Afterall, it wasn’t like he’d see you as anything more than a best friend; he said so himself. 

“I’m going to throw them out.” You said to Kitty as the two of you lined muffin pans with cupcake liners. 

Kitty stared at you in confusion. “Throw what out, the cupcakes? We literally just made them.”

You shook your head with a laugh. “No, not the cupcakes silly. The letters.” 

“Why would you do that? You wrote them only a few months ago. Don’t you want to look back on them when you’re old and single? It’ll help you reminisce over your non-existent love life.”

Despite your sister joking, you couldn’t help but think that her words may come true in the future. Afterall, you were a junior in college and had been holding on to a crush that started nine years ago. You’d been romance and boyfriend-less your entire adolescence and your adulthood wasn’t looking much better. 

"Okay Kitty, we get it. You’re younger and have a blossoming romance with your table partner.” You glared at the girl before scooping batter into the newly placed cupcake liners. “But, I don’t want to dwell on romances that never amounted to anything. It’s easier to just throw away the letters and pretend as if these crushes didn’t send me into psychosis for months on end.”

Your sister shrugged, swiping her finger into the bowl of batter. Like clockwork, you reprimanded her and reminded her about the dangers of eating raw batter. “I think you should keep them. You didn’t pour your heart and soul out just so that these letters could head straight to the landfill. Also, that would be incredibly wasteful and you could’ve just written them on your phone.”

“It’s a cathartic experience to see your emotions transferred onto a piece of paper. Something you will understand when you’re older.” You said, opening the oven and sliding the pans inside. Once the door was closed, you set a timer and began to clean up the small pile of dishes that had accumulated in the sink. 

Kitty sighed. “Just don’t do-,” Before she could finish her sentence, she was interrupted by the sound of the front door opening and a very familiar voice calling out your name. Of course now was the time that Peter had decided to drop by. 

You spun around, facing your best friend. “Peter! What are you doing here? I thought you were helping out with that robotics camp?”

He grinned and stifled a laugh as he took in your outfit. You had been wearing your favorite apron that said ‘kiss the baker (only if you’re spider-man)’ and now you donned an elbow length pair of dishwashing gloves. “Half of the kids got food poisoning from the pizza last week. Our meetup today was canceled.”

“Oh my gosh, are they okay?”

“They’ll be okay, I hope.”

You rolled your eyes in amusement and continued to tackle the dishes in the sink. Peter took this time to ask Kitty questions about her newfound romance since the girl hadn’t shut up about it all of last week. By the time the dishes were washed and the kitchen was cleaned, the cupcakes were finally done. You took them out of the oven and let them cool for a few minutes while you took the icing out of the fridge. 

“What’s the special occasion?” Peter asked, leaning against the kitchen island. “Let me guess, a last minute bake sale that Kitty forgot to tell you about?”

You grinned and nodded. “At least this time she remembered to tell me 24 hours in advance.”

Later that night, you stared at the letters you had written. They were such intimate confessions, but you knew there was no point in holding on to them. The longer they stayed in your room, the longer you would continue to hold onto those feelings. With one last look, you tossed them all in the trash. 

The next few days went on like normal. They consisted of going to the movies with Chris, grabbing lunch with Peter, and reluctantly braiding Kitty’s hair. Although summer was winding down to an end, you still enjoyed the routine of your days. Spending time with friends and family was all you could really ask for. It wasn’t until board game night that things took a turn. 

Peter had been acting strangely all night. He hardly looked in your direction and when he did, his eyes focused on anything but you. Despite being such a chatty person, he had been quiet all night. Even when you had brought up Spider-Man; that usually sent him on a tangent that no one could stop. When the game was over and your father and Kitty called it a night, you and Peter had headed up to your room as usual. Typically, the two of you would talk about anything and everything, but Peter was as silent as a mouse. You tried to bring up things that he loved, but nothing seemed to work. 

“Peter.” You said, waving your hand in front of his face. “Are you even listening?”

He nodded and mumbled, “Of course I am.”

You scooted closer, nudging his knee with yours. “You know you can always tell me what’s wrong.”

Peter shook his head and bounced his leg. Over the years of friendship, you’d learned that it was a nervous tic he had. “Not this. I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”

“We have all night.” You assured. “Can you at least try?”

Silence filled the room as Peter opted to stare at the floor instead. For a moment, you’d thought he had been offended. You were about to apologize for being so pushy when he began to speak. 

“You’ve been in love with be since sixth grade?” For the first time all night, he had finally looked you straight in the eyes.

Your brows furrowed in confusion and you let out an awkward laugh. “Peter, what are you talking about? Are you feeling okay?”

“You wrote it in the letter.”

“What le-,” You paused mid sentence and it felt like your pulse had doubled within the last minute. Jumping off your bed, you rushed over to your trash can and began to pull everything out. 

You frantically searched for the five envelopes which had just been discarded the other day. How was it that five love letters magically grew legs and walked to the post office? Luckily, four of them still remained in your room. However, Peter’s letter was nowhere to be found.

It took you a few minutes to accept everything you were in denial about. Your love letter to Peter had somehow been sent in the mail and now your best friend knew about the very intense feelings that you’d been hiding for nine years. If your life had been a movie, it certainly would’ve been in the horror genre. This was a nightmare that you desperately wanted to wake up from. 

And to make everything worse, Peter started talking. “W-Why didn’t you ever say anything?”

Your cheeks burned and you were very glad that your back was towards him. Maybe that would make this conversation an ounce more bearable. “I… You’re one of my best friends. I’m not going to possibly ruin a friendship over some silly crush.” You scooped up all the trash that now covered the floor and put it back in the can. 

Peter didn’t respond for a minute which made you even more anxious. 

“It’s not silly.”

You stood up and awkwardly sat back down on your bed. This time, you left a deliberate amount of space between the two of you. Peter was probably repulsed by the entire situation. “It is silly. Besides, you weren’t even supposed to see that letter. I don’t know how it ended up in your mailbox.”

Peter’s head shot up at that. “It wasn’t?”

When you shook your head, a look of mortification crossed his features. “Now I feel awful for even bringing it up! It wasn’t like you even wanted me to see the thing. Did I mess everything up? Do you hate me?” He groaned and buried his face into his hands. 

Despite everything, you laughed. “No Peter, it’s not your fault. I don’t even know whose fault this could be.”

He ran a hand through his hair. “Who knew about the letter? Maybe they could’ve snuck into your room and sent it out?”

“That wouldn’t make much sense though. Why send just one of the five letters? Why not send them all if they wanted to mess with me?”

“Five?!” Peter exclaimed. He looked at you in disbelief. His cheeks were even more flushed than they had been earlier. “I- I wasn’t the only person who got one?”

Now it was your turn to blush. “The rest were just crushes that I hardly knew. Guys who I created a fantasy of in my head.”

“Who?”

“What do you mean, who?”

Peter rolled his eyes with a snort. “Who else got a letter?”

“Oh.” You averted your gaze and looked at the trash can in which the letters sat. “Just some guys.”

He nudged your shoulder with his. “I don’t think this situation could get any worse.”

You sighed and looked back at him. “It could always get worse.”

“How?”

“Like if you actually acknowledged what I said and then rejected me or something. Or said that you were still in love with MJ. This could always get worse.” You rambled. 

Peter looked at you with an expression that you couldn’t read. You had just made the entire situation worse because he probably wasn’t even going to actually bring the contents of the letter up again. Now, he was obligated to. Throughout your years of friendship, there had never been a quiet moment between the two of you; now neither of you wanted to speak. 

“I, uh…” Peter trailed off, at a loss of words. He scratched the back of his neck and stared at the letter in his lap. 

Your heart raced faster the longer the silence dragged on. You swallowed and took a deep breath. “Listen, why don’t we just pretend this never happened? I mean there’s not much to even talk about.” You grabbed the letter off his lap and stuffed it into your nightstand. “There, you never got the letter!”

He nodded slowly, as if he was unconvinced. “Right. You’re- you’re my best friend. Nothing could change that.” 

You nodded back, a little too quickly to be natural. “Nothing at all. Best friends for life!”

Soon after that, you were ushering Peter out of the house. It was painfully awkward to be around him. Your skin felt like it was burning up and you felt like vomiting. This entire situation was making you physically ill. Once he was gone, you threw yourself onto your bed and screamed into your pillow. 

“Is that a cathartic release of emotions?” Kitty asked, leaning against your door frame. 

You bolted upright, staring at the young girl. She looked oddly smug as you narrowed your eyes at her. “Kitty.”

“Yes?” She asked, innocently batting her lashes at you. 

In that moment, you knew she had to be the culprit. No one else knew about the letters, let alone knew that they would be in the trash. You lept off your bed and rushed towards the girl. With wide eyes, she sprinted towards her room. 

“I am going to kill you!” You screamed as you chased after her. 

“I didn’t do anything!” Kitty responded, slamming her bedroom door shut. You tugged at the door handle, only to find it locked. 

Then, you began to pound on the wood. “Why would you do that?! What is wrong with you?” Your voice was loud enough to carry through the door separating the two of you. 

"I said I didn’t do anything!”

You slammed your hand against the door even harder. “Open up!”

“No!”

It took a solid half hour for you to calm down and resist the urge to throttle your own sister. Despite her being a nuisance and possibly ruining your friendship with your best friend, you could understand why she had sent the letter. Kitty claimed that she was just trying to be helpful and play matchmaker. After all, she was only 13 and had grand ideas about love. At her age, you had been just as naive—if not more. 

“I’m sorry.” She mumbled, looking glumly at her feet. “I thought that if he knew, he might confess that he’s in love with you too and then bam! You have a boyfriend.”

“And why would he do such a thing? We’re just friends.”

Kitty gave you a look. “Sure, just friends.” She said sarcastically. “He’s just a friend who looks at you like you hung the moon. But sure, just friends.”

You smacked her arm. “Stop it! Now you’re just lying.”

“I’m not! I am being completely serious. You don’t see the way he looks at you when you're not looking.”

“Kitty, Peter was in love with MJ for years. I know what he looks like when he's in love. And he’s not in love with me.”

“And I’m not the best sister in this house.” Kitty laughed and skipped off to the kitchen. 

You watched her until she disappeared around the corner. In your mind, the last hour replayed on a loop. Peter had looked disturbed by the letter, hadn’t he? You shook off any thoughts of hope you had and went back to your room. There had to be some way to fix this situation, even if it took a little bit of magic. 

tag list: @gwenstacythe2nd @cookiiecakess @childof333 @noir-moons @katttt9 @jsuushgs @introvertreader20 @luvbammie @yourstrulymm @gwcses @yourfavoritefangirl @heartbrokenstud @amrasauras @rafecqmeronslove @rosieposiediditagain @kittykats444 @aluxiela @thatweirdbigirl @zaynsonehairstrand

[spidey-mads]

Look After You: Part Five

Peter Parker x Castle!Reader

Main Masterlist

Mini-Series Masterlist

🚨 BRAND NEW DAY SPOILERS AHEAD! 🚨

A/N: I couldn't leave y'all hanging! Here's part five!

Summary: While saving his girlfriend from a new threat, Peter discovers a surprising connection between her and an old acquaintance.

Word Count: 1.3k

Five Days Later:

"Hey, hey, hey, Pete! I got it."

He carefully settled back onto the couch, craning his neck to see (y/n) run toward the door. "Babe, I can get it. It's five feet away."

"The doctor said to take it easy," (y/n) said as she swung it open. "Hey, Dad."

Frank greeted her with a kiss to the cheek and held up a plastic bag as he entered. "Brought some takeout."

The three of them sat on the couch where Peter had set up shop the past few days. (Y/n) had, of course, called in to work and told her boss of Peter's accident... getting mugged and shot.

It was a pretty good cover story if (y/n) said so herself.

"It's a shame Spider-Man is in the hospital," her boss had sighed. "Maybe he could've stopped it. Take all the time you need."

Frank shoved a forkful of takeout into his mouth. "How ya feeling, kid?"

"Sore. I know how the other Peters felt now. (Y/n) hasn't let me lift a finger."

"Good," he chuckled, nudging his daughter. "I wouldn't expect anything less."

Peter's days consisted of nothing but the couch, ignoring the buzzing alerts of his phone. (Y/n) muted them after a while. They were driving her crazy. If Peter was being honest, it was driving him insane knowing the city needed him and he couldn't do anything. Each time, he'd get up and look out the window longingly at the street below. And each time, (y/n) reminded him that he wasn't alone. DeWolff had called a few times to check up on him, ensuring the NYPD had everything under control.

It didn't make it any easier.

The longer he stayed in his apartment, on that couch, the more he thought he'd lose his mind. As much as he loved it, he could only watch the original Star Wars trilogy---and the cinematic masterpiece, Revenge of the Sith---so many times.

So one day when (y/n) was out at the store, Peter decided to take a walk. After leaving her a note, he hobbled down the hallway, rode the elevator down, and pushed through the lobby doors. He breathed deeply as the sun hit his face.

Playing children ran past him, and a smile graced his lips. He thought of the kid from the hospital, the one who'd smiled at him from atop his father's shoulders. It was crazy how fast life could change. A few years before, the world hated him. But now?

Spider-Man was everywhere. He was on T-shirts, billboards, sweatpants, sunglasses... he was everywhere you looked. "I <3 Spider-Man" shirts were sold out at every little NYC gift shop.

A twinge of pain shot through him with every limping step Peter took, but he couldn't focus on it. He was just glad to be back in his city. On his streets.

"Hey, Peter."

He turned to see an olive-skinned woman in business casual walking beside him. "Do I know you?"

"Glad to see you're up and about... You know, I never got to thank you."

Peter froze, turning toward her with furrowed brows. "Jean?"

"Hi." The woman smiled.

"You don't have to thank me."

"You saved me and then took a bullet for me," the woman reminded him, her voice softening. "Of course I need to thank you."

His eyes dropped to his shoes before meeting her gaze. "I should be thanking you, too. I know you kept me alive."

"That was nothing."

"Jean-"

She ignored him and started forward again. "I'm outside the city, far away from here. It's nice to visit."

"Did you find somewhere safe?"

"Yeah," Jean grinned through the woman. "I think I have."

"They're lucky to have you. But don't forget that you'll always have someone in New York looking out for you."

She nodded. "I know."

Something passed over the woman's face, and she blinked a few times. Was Jean's signal getting weaker? Before he could ask, she pulled him into a careful hug.

"Take care, Peter. I'll, uh, I'll see you around."

She pulled back, and then Jean was gone, replaced by the woman's confused face. Peter continued toward the flower shop a few blocks away. The apartment could use some brightening up. They hadn't been able to take any of the balloons with them, but it brought a smile to his face when he saw one in a shopkeeper's window.

Peter ordered a coffee and sat down, watching the strangers passing by---a mom and son, a teenage couple hand in hand, businessmen with briefcases. Each one unique, worthy of love, of being protected.

May’s voice echoed in his mind. “With great power comes great responsibility.”

For the first time in years, the weight on Peter’s shoulders lifted. Maybe it was alright to share some of that responsibility.

Humanity wasn’t meant to be alone. Life isn’t meant to be bleak and isolating.

Then, like a burst of color, she pushed through the doors with a chime. Her eyes landed on him at the corner table. She only shook her head with a smile as she sat across from him.

“Thought you’d be here.”

“A walk sounded nice."

(Y/n) followed his gaze out the window. "How's it today?"

"Better."

"Yeah?"

He nodded. "Yeah."

"You know, my dad mentioned something about bringing over his chili tonight, but," (y/n) shot him a million-dollar grin, "I was thinking we should go out tonight. What do you think?"

"I think that sounds like a plan."

(Y/n) leaned over the table and kissed him. "Perfect."

"Where do you want to go?"

She took his hand. "I have something in mind."

~~~

The setting sun cast its golden rays across the city, silhouetting the surrounding skyscrapers. (Y/n)'s hair blew in the wind as she readjusted on her lawn chair and took a bite of cake.

"Happy Six Months" had been written on the tiny cake before they'd dug into it, devouring three-fourths of it. Peter had repeatedly apologized for forgetting, but (y/n) insisted that getting shot was a worthy excuse. A couple of kisses also helped him believe her.

And now they sat, hand in hand, as they watched the sun set over the city. Their city.

"Never gets old," she murmured, squeezing his hand.

Peter's gaze drifted from the skyline to the woman beside him. The fading light illuminated her features, setting her beautiful eyes alight. His heart clenched in his chest.

How was he so lucky to find someone like her?

She'd stayed by his side as Peter Parker and as Spider-Man, never pushing or prying for details or explanations. She'd simply been there. She never left his hospital bed and had been taking care of him ever since---replacing his bandages and making sure he took it easy.

Oh, how he loved her.

"No, it doesn't."

(Y/n) turned to find him staring at her. A slow smile tugged at her lips, and she leaned over and gave him a kiss. "Have I told you I love you?" she mumbled against his lips.

Peter shook his head. "I think you'll have to tell me again."

"I love you, Peter Parker," she whispered, kissing him once. "I love you, Spider-Man." She kissed him again.

He leaned in for another, but she pulled back with a giggle. Something serious flashed over his face before she could speak. His suddenly glossy gaze flicked between her lips and eyes.

"Thank you... for everything. For being here. Taking care of me... all of it."

(Y/n)'s eyes burned. "You don't have to thank-"

"Yes, I do," he croaked, shaking his head. "I was so alone before you. I-I had no one. You changed my life, (y/n). Thank you doesn't seem like enough."

She wrapped her arms around him and buried her face in his neck. "You're enough," whispered (y/n). "You're more than enough. And I'll always look after you, my Spider-Man."

________________________________________________________________

A/N: OKAY! That is the end of the mini-series! Thank you all so much for reading and supporting me! <3

[mosclubhouse]

THIS IS SO CUTE AW

[whoispeterparkeranyways]

spider-man x reader smau (part two)

part one | two | three

spotify playlist that i made for this fic

spiderman

liked by yourname, leedsneeds, and others

spiderman Just an average day being an average guy 🕸️

open all comments

leedsneeds Awesome!

spiderman Thanks Ned!

gwenstacy @.yourname it's your man

yourname GWEN yourname @.gwenstacy YOU CAN'T SAY THAT ON A PUBLIC SERVER yourname @.gwenstacy TAKE THIS DOWN spiderman @.gwenstacy Haha no, I'm just me! yourname @.gwenstacy i'm going to die

spidermanlover MY MAN MY MAN MY MAN

artdonaldsonlover *our man spidermanlover @.artdonaldsonlover why don’t you just go back to loving art donaldson and leave me and my man ALONE artdonaldsonlover @.spidermanlover DAMN OKAY 😭😭😭😭

your pov:

yourname · close friends

mj's pov:

peter's pov:

peter's pov:

yourname · close friends

taglist: @swanvirtue @divaliciousglitz @denae0o0 @mayaaxeneizeee @fawnadoeb @brookiecooie @lit3rallyhop3less @plutoisnotapl4net @xoaaliyxh

[whoispeterparkeranyways]

spider-man x reader smau (part one)

in which you meet spider-man and a friendship blossoms!

here’s the spotify playlist i made for this fic!

(this is a mix of amazing spider-man + mcu spider-man)

part one | two

spiderspottings

liked by yourname, gwenstacy, and others

spiderspottings recent spider-man spottings in williamsburg! i wonder what he gets on his pizza 🍕🕸️💙

open all comments

yourname met him in line and can confirm he is a sausage and pepproini kind of guy!

gwenstacy the ONE time i decide to study instead of getting a snack yourname @.gwenstacey what if i said he followed me back on instagram gwenstacy @.yourname WTF??? mjwatson It was kind of epic. gwenstacy @.mjwatson i am going to LOSE IT RN

leedsneeds We're best friends btw!

flashthompson he doesn't know you little bro spiderman @.needsleeds Ned, my man! leedsneeds @.spiderman Mr. Spidey!

yourname

liked by mjwatson, spiderman, and others

yourname guess who ate pizza with spider-man... ME!!

open all comments

spiderman It was so nice to meet you!

yourname you too! we must do that again yourname @.spiderman when you're not too busy saving the city ofc spiderman @.yourname Totally!

gwenstacey i'm so jealous. i can't believe my luck

mjwatson I can hear you squealing from the next room

yourname I CAN'T CONTAIN MY HAPPINESS

your pov:

peter's pov:

mj's pov:

a/n: lmk if you want to be on the tag list!

[daily-daydream]

Born to be Y/N Stark with Wanda's powers but purple who is besties with Peter, builds Legos with him on the weekends and pulls pranks with Natasha while Clint hides in the vents. Goes to Stark galas and has HYDRA trauma, hugs Bucky because he needs it and is probably in some sort of weird forbidden relationship with Loki who's living in the Tower with no valid explanation, and keeps pop tarts on stock for Thor

Forced to work instead. Oh how I miss you Y/N Stark...

[shelterwoodpod]

Shelterwood opening monologue // @unteriors images digital collage

NICK (V.O.) 52% of all Americans live in neighborhoods they would describe as suburban. That’s 180 million people living in intentionally developed communities across the United States. But what is suburbia? Is it white picket fences in neat little rows, or long rolling acres for the kids and a dog? Colonials or McMansions? Does a suburb need to have cul-de-sacs, or a neighborhood watch? When you think of suburbia, what do you picture? Because I can almost guarantee, it’s not exactly what I picture.  The truth is, suburbia is defined not by any one aspect of its design, but by distance; by absence. Suburbia isn’t rural, but it isn’t urban either. It doesn’t have manufacturing or an abundance of restaurants and stores. It isn’t agricultural and lord knows there isn’t a whole lot to do. What suburbia  is, is a borderland. It can only ever exist on the outskirts—the outskirts of cities, mostly, but also the outskirts of farming communities, manufacturing hubs, or tourism hotspots.   This podcast is about one particular suburb. A suburb not on the border of any one city, job site, or transit hub, but rather one on the border of material reality itself. This is a story of disappearances, and homecomings. Loss and grief, family and belonging.

[reggieslilslut]

girls talk boys

peter parker x fem! reader • idiots in love • 10k words

summary: peter parker spends his nights climbing through your bedroom window, falling asleep on your ceiling, and kissing you like there is nowhere else he would rather be. the problem is that neither of you has ever talked about what any of that means.

♫ girls talk boys - 5 seconds of summer ♫

masterlist ♡ | read on ao3 (extended ending)

peter parker is asleep on your ceiling.

you notice only because the rain begins tapping harder against the bedroom window, covering the quieter sounds of his breathing until the silence above your bed feels wrong. the desk lamp remains on beside you, casting a pale circle across unfinished chemistry notes, two empty mugs, and the black-and-red mask peter drops beside your pencil case when he climbs through the window shortly after midnight.

you tip your head back.

he lies several feet above you with one arm folded beneath his head, his shoulder blades pressed flat against the ceiling as though gravity has become an optional inconvenience. the sweatshirt he pulls over the suit has ridden up along his stomach. one bare foot hangs through the torn cuff of his pant leg, revealing a darkening bruise across his ankle.

you set down your pencil. “peter.”

his breathing continues evenly.

you reach for the eraser beside your notebook and throw it. the small pink rectangle strikes his forehead.

peter jerks awake, and his entire body releases from the ceiling at once.

you barely have time to push away from the desk before he drops toward your bed, catches himself with one hand against the wall, and swings upside down above the mattress. loose hair hangs away from his forehead. his eyes move across the room in quick, unfocused passes before settling on you.

“what happened?” he asks.

you stare at him.

peter glances toward the window. “is someone here?”

“you fell asleep on my ceiling.”

his attention shifts upward as though the ceiling might explain itself. “oh.”

“you said you were leaving ten minutes ago.”

“i was.”

“from the ceiling?”

“i sat down for a second.”

“that is not sitting.”

peter lowers himself until his feet reach the floor. the room seems smaller once he stands inside it, though he keeps his shoulders drawn inward as if trying to take up less space. rainwater still darkens the ends of his hair from patrol, and a shallow cut crosses the corner of his mouth where someone catches him hard enough to split the skin.

you reach toward it.

peter turns his face before your fingers touch him.

“it’s nothing,” he says.

“you’re bleeding.”

“barely.”

“it’s on my rug.”

he looks down. a small red mark stains the pale fibers beneath his left hand where his knuckles brush the floor.

“sorry.”

you rise from the chair and walk toward the bathroom. the floorboard near the door gives its familiar creak beneath your heel, followed by the softer sound of peter trailing after you.

your bathroom is narrow enough that he has to lean against the doorway while you search beneath the sink. bottles shift against one another as you move them aside. by the time you straighten with the first-aid kit, peter has taken off the sweatshirt.

the suit beneath it is torn along his ribs.

you stop.

peter follows your gaze and immediately pulls the fabric closed with one hand. “that looks worse than it is.”

“you say that about everything.”

“because everything usually looks worse than it is.”

“the tower bridge looked exactly as bad as it was.”

something passes through his face.

the change is brief, but you see it anyway. the line of his mouth tightens. his fingers curl into the torn edge of the suit, hiding the exposed skin more firmly.

you set the first-aid kit beside the sink.

“sit.”

“i’m okay.”

“peter.”

he looks toward the bedroom, calculating the distance to the window.

you fold your arms.

peter exhales and lowers himself onto the closed toilet lid.

the overhead light hums faintly. rain runs against the small frosted window above the shower, turning the streetlights outside into dull patches of yellow. you step between peter’s knees and take hold of the torn fabric before he can object again.

the injury is not deep. a scrape follows the lower curve of his ribs, already beginning to close around the edges, but dried blood covers more of his side than the wound should produce.

“what happened?” you ask.

“car thief.”

“the car thief had a knife?”

“crowbar.”

you wet a strip of gauze with alcohol. “that’s not better.”

“it’s less sharp.”

“thank you, peter.”

“you asked.”

he watches your hands as you clean the blood from his skin. his body remains unnaturally still beneath your touch, every muscle holding itself in place despite the instinct that usually keeps him moving. you have seen him catch a falling glass without looking, turn toward sirens before anyone else hears them, and flinch when the radiator begins knocking three apartments away.

now, his attention stays fixed on you.

“you should have called me,” you say.

“while the guy was hitting me?”

“after.”

“it was late.”

“you climbed through my window at twelve thirty.”

“technically, i climbed down the wall.”

you glance up. the corner of his mouth lifts, pulling slightly at the cut.

you touch the gauze to it before he can smile wider. peter winces, more from surprise than pain.

“hold still.”

“you attacked me.”

“with gauze.”

“it could be contaminated.”

“it it literally sterilized.”

“you never know with those amazon first-aid kits.”

you try not to laugh. the effort lasts until peter looks at you with exaggerated suspicion, then something escapes anyway—small and tired, softened by the hour.

his expression changes.

the humor remains, but it settles beneath something quieter as his eyes move across your face. you become aware of how close you are standing, one of his knees against the outside of your leg and your fingers resting beneath his chin.

peter reaches for you slowly. his hand settles against your waist, light enough that you could step away without resistance. the material of your shirt gathers slightly beneath his fingers.

“you’re tired,” he murmurs.

“you’re concussed.”

“i’m not.”

“you fell asleep on the ceiling.”

“that’s happened before.”

“that doesn’t help your argument.”

his thumb moves once against your side.

the bathroom continues humming around you. water drips from the cloth into the sink. somewhere outside, tires pass over the wet street, their sound rising briefly before fading into the rain.

peter looks toward your mouth.

you kiss him first.

his hand tightens against your waist, pulling you between his knees while his other palm settles along your jaw. the cut at the corner of his mouth makes the first press careful, almost hesitant. then you angle your face, and whatever restraint he brings through the window with him disappears.

peter kisses you like he has spent the whole patrol trying not to think about it.

his fingers slide into your hair. your hand finds the back of his neck, where damp curls soften beneath your palm. the suit feels cold under your other hand, but the skin visible above its collar is warm.

he draws you closer until the first-aid kit catches beneath your hip and falls into the sink. plastic clasps strike porcelain with a sharp crack.

you pull back.

peter’s eyes remain closed for half a second longer. when they open, his breathing is uneven.

“that was loud,” he whispers.

“thank you for identifying it.”

“your parents—”

“are across town.”

“right.”

“you knew that.”

“i forgot.”

“you came through my window because they’re gone.”

peter looks toward the bedroom again. his hand remains around your waist.

“that wasn’t the only reason.”

the words settle between you without explanation.

you wait for him to continue.

he does not.

instead, peter lowers his forehead against yours. his breath warms the space near your mouth while rain presses harder against the window.

“i should go,” he says.

his fingers do not loosen.

“probably.”

neither of you moves.

peter kisses you again, softer this time, as though the decision to leave makes every second before it more important. his thumb traces the edge of your jaw. your hand stays against his neck, feeling the quick rhythm of his pulse beneath your fingers.

then a siren begins several streets away.

peter hears it before you do.

his head lifts. his body turns toward the sound with an instinctive sharpness that leaves the rest of him somewhere behind.

the siren grows louder.

you step back, and peter’s hands fall from you.

he stands and reaches for the sweatshirt, pulling it over his head without looking away from the window. the mask disappears into one pocket. a web cartridge rolls from the other and strikes the bathroom floor.

you pick it up before he notices.

“you’re low,” you say.

peter takes the cartridge from your palm. “i’ll make more tomorrow.”

“you said that yesterday.”

“tomorrow keeps changing.”

“that isn’t how tomorrow works.”

“it kind of is.”

he pauses in the doorway. the collar of his sweatshirt has folded inward, and you fix it without thinking.

peter goes still beneath your fingers.

“what?” you ask.

“nothing.”

his gaze moves over your shoulder toward the mirror, where the two of you stand reflected together beneath the bathroom light. your hair is disordered from his hands. his mouth is red where you kiss him around the split skin.

the image looks like an answer to a question neither of you has asked.

peter looks away first.

“i’ll text you,” he says.

“when?”

“when i’m done.”

“that isn’t a time.”

he gives you a small, apologetic smile. “soon.”

you follow him into the bedroom. peter opens the window, letting cold air and rain into the room. one hand sticks easily to the outside brick as he climbs onto the sill.

“peter.”

he glances back.

you almost ask what this is.

the question reaches the back of your teeth and stops there. you don’t know what answer you expect from a boy wearing a superhero suit beneath your old sweatshirt, already halfway out of your bedroom because someone he has never met might need him.

“don’t bleed on anyone else’s carpet,” you say instead.

peter’s smile becomes real.

“no promises.”

then he disappears into the rain.

—

peter’s sweatshirt is still hanging over the back of your desk chair the next morning.

you find it while searching for your jacket, which seems to have disappeared along with him. the sweatshirt smells faintly of rain, laundry detergent, and the sharp chemical trace of web fluid that never entirely washes out.

your phone remains silent on the bed.

peter does eventually text after patrol, though the message arrives at four seventeen in the morning and contains only three words.

home. alive. sorry.

you read it twice.

then you take his sweatshirt.

midtown smells like wet coats and industrial cleaner when you arrive. students crowd the entrance, shaking rain from umbrellas and complaining about the weather as though new york has personally betrayed them. someone has taped a photograph of mysterio above one of the trophy cases, surrounding it with handwritten messages and a strip of black ribbon.

you avoid looking at it for long.

the trip to europe already feels strangely distant. people talk about london as if it belongs to a movie rather than something that happens around you—fire breaking across the bridge, drones filling the sky, spider-man swinging through collapsing illusions while the rest of you hide inside the tower.

peter returns to school with a bruise along his jaw and tells everyone he falls in the hotel bathroom.

no one except you, ned, and mj knows to stop asking.

you find mj in the cafeteria with a book open beside her tray. she occupies the same table near the windows, though ned and peter’s chairs remain empty.

“where are they?” you ask as you sit across from her.

mj turns one page. “ned said they had to do something.”

“something?”

“that was the official description.”

you look toward the cafeteria entrance.

mj looks at you over the top of her book.

“what?” you ask.

she lowers her eyes to your clothes.

peter’s sweatshirt hangs past your hips. the academic decathlon logo has faded from years of washing, and a thin white stain marks the cuff where he spills web fluid on it two nights ago.

you pull the sleeve over your hand.

mj closes the book around one finger.

“is that peter’s?”

“maybe.”

“you know i’ve seen him wear it.”

“lots of people have this sweatshirt.”

“with web fluid on the sleeve?”

you glance down.

mj watches your face.

“you could at least try lying,” she says.

“you already know.”

“i know he’s spider-man.” she rests her elbows against the table. “i don’t know why you’re wearing his clothes.”

you reach for the straw attached to your milk carton. the wrapper refuses to tear beneath your fingers.

mj waits.

the cafeteria continues around you, filled with plastic trays striking tables and students talking over one another. flash stands near the vending machines, showing three girls the same photograph of spider-man above tower bridge. he claims they are close personal friends now because peter introduces him to spider-man once in a hotel hallway.

“i’m seeing someone,” you admit.

mj’s expression does not change. “okay.”

you wait. she reopens her book.

“that’s it?”

“did you want applause?”

“no.”

“good. i don’t have any.”

you nudge the bottom of the book until she lowers it again. mj looks from you to the empty chair beside you, then back toward the sweatshirt.

understanding settles across her face one piece at a time.

“no,” she says.

“i haven’t told you who.”

“you don’t need to.”

“you could be wrong.”

“i’m not.”

mj leans across the table, lowering her voice even though the students around you are too absorbed in their own conversations to listen.

“oh my god,” she whispers. “are you seriously saying you’re with peter?”

heat moves into your face.

“could you say it louder?”

“probably.”

you catch her wrist before she can lift a hand toward her mouth. mj looks down at your fingers, then back at you with open satisfaction.

“you’re with peter,” she repeats.

“i didn’t say that.”

“you’re wearing his sweatshirt.”

“he took my jacket.”

“that explains everything.”

“it explains the sweatshirt.”

“how did he take your jacket?”

the straw wrapper tears between your fingers. you stare at the thin strip of plastic rather than answering.

mj’s eyes narrow.

“was he in your room?”

“he visits sometimes.”

“through the window?”

you finally push the straw through the carton. “the front door would involve questions.”

“questions like why peter parker is entering your bedroom after midnight?”

“those kinds of questions.”

mj settles back in her chair. her expression has changed from suspicion to the focused stillness she usually develops while watching documentaries about unsolved disappearances.

“how long?” she asks.

“a few weeks.”

“weeks?”

“keep your voice down.”

“you kept this from me for weeks?”

“i was going to tell you.”

“when?”

you take a drink of milk to delay answering. it is lukewarm and tastes faintly of the cardboard container.

“eventually,” you say.

“that isn’t a time.”

“neither is ‘soon,’ and peter uses that constantly.”

mj glances toward the cafeteria entrance. “does he know you’re calling it seeing someone?”

the question catches against something unprotected.

you lower the carton.

the answer should be simple. peter climbs through your window after patrol. he lets you clean blood from his face and sleeps beside you when his senses refuse to settle. he kisses you until neither of you remembers the conversation that comes before it, then leaves before morning with apologies and promises to text.

sometimes he holds your hand beneath the table while the four of you study together, hidden behind ned’s laptop and open textbooks. he keeps a toothbrush in your bathroom because the first time he stays until sunrise, you complain about his coffee breath. he knows which floorboard creaks outside your bedroom and how to close your window without making the frame stick.

but peter has never called himself your boyfriend. you have never asked him to either. 

“i don’t know,” you admit.

mj’s eyebrows rise. “you don’t know if he knows you’re involved?”

“i know how that sounds.”

“do you?”

“we haven’t talked about it.”

“you’ve established a secret window-entry system, but not a relationship?”

“the window thing happens naturally.”

“of course it does.”

you look toward the entrance again.

peter and ned were supposed to arrive several minutes ago. peter probably hears the cafeteria from wherever he is in the building. the thought makes your skin feel warmer.

mj steals one of your fries.

“does he come over as peter or spider-man?” she asks.

“mj.”

“it matters.”

“he’s always peter.”

the answer leaves before you consider it. mj’s hand stops above your tray. you look down at the milk carton, rubbing one thumb through the damp ring it leaves against the table.

“even with the suit,” you continue, quieter now. “he’s still peter.”

mj lowers the fry.

“that was disgustingly sincere.”

“forget i said it.”

“absolutely not.”

you reach for the fry, but she eats it first. a small smile touches the corner of her mouth while she chews.

“what do you talk about?” she asks.

“things.”

“helpful.”

“school. movies. patrol.”

“his patrols?”

“sometimes.”

“does he tell you everything?”

you hesitate. peter tells you about the people he saves. the little boy who cries when peter returns his lost dog. the elderly woman who offers him twenty dollars for stopping someone from stealing her bicycle. he tells you about the strange noise his web-shooter makes when one of the cartridges jams and how difficult it is to swing when the wind changes between buildings.

he does not tell you when he is frightened. that part arrives in the tremor of his fingers while he locks your window. in the way he startles awake at ordinary sounds. in the nights when he lies beside you without sleeping, his attention fixed on every distant siren until you place your hand over his chest.

“not everything,” you say. “but more than he thinks.”

mj studies you for another moment.

“you love him.”

your elbow strikes the milk carton. mj catches it before it tips, sliding it safely toward the center of the table.

“i didn’t say that,” you whisper.

“you didn’t have to.”

“it’s only been a few weeks.”

“that doesn’t answer me.”

“you sound like a detective.”

“you’re doing whatever this is with spider-man. somebody should investigate.”

“i’m not doing anything with spider-man.”

mj’s eyebrows lift. you pull the carton closer.

“it’s peter,” you correct. “that’s different.”

a tray lands on the table beside yours with enough force to make the silverware jump.

peter stands over the empty chair, slightly out of breath. his hair looks as though he runs both hands through it repeatedly, and the collar of his shirt folds inward beneath his jacket. ned arrives behind him carrying his tray.

“sorry,” peter says, looking between you and mj. “mr. cobbwell needed help with something.”

ned’s expression tightens. “a projector,” he adds.

“right.” peter nods too quickly. “the projector.”

mj looks from peter to ned. “did the projector attack someone in the east stairwell?”

ned nearly drops his tray.

peter lowers himself into the chair beside you. “why would you ask that?”

“no reason.”

you reach over and fix his collar before you can stop yourself. peter goes still beneath your fingers. the movement is small, ordinary. you have done it in your bedroom without thinking, usually while he talks too quickly about something that happens during patrol. here, beneath fluorescent lights and mj’s attention, it feels more intimate than kissing him in the dark.

you let your hand fall. ned looks at mj. mj looks at peter’s sweatshirt around your body. peter follows her gaze. his eyes widen.

“oh,” he says.

“yeah,” mj replies.

peter turns toward you. “you told her?”

the question is quiet, almost lost beneath the cafeteria noise.

you study his face, unable to decide whether he is embarrassed or upset. “was i not supposed to?”

“no. i mean, yes. obviously, she knows about—” he glances around the room before lowering his voice. “everything.”

“then what’s wrong?”

“nothing.”

mj snorts. peter looks at her. “what?”

“you don’t have a nothing face,” she says. “that isn’t it.”

his ears begin turning red. peter reaches for the unopened water bottle on his tray, but his fingers miss and knock it sideways. you catch it before it rolls from the table. he stares at your hand around the bottle.

“what did you tell her?” he asks.

you set it upright. “about what?”

“you know, me.”

mj’s mouth curves. peter notices and points toward her. “don’t.”

“i haven’t said anything.”

“you’re doing the face.”

“i have several.”

“that one means you know something.”

“i know lots of things.”

ned sits across from peter and slowly opens a packet of ketchup as though he wants no involvement. the packet tears too far, spreading ketchup over his thumb.

“ned,” peter says.

ned reaches for a napkin. “i’m staying out of it.”

“you’re already in it.”

“i don’t know what she told mj.”

“but you know what i told you.”

silence settles across the table. peter’s face changes, and ned closes his eyes briefly.

mj leans forward. “this is interesting.”

“it isn’t,” peter says quickly.

you turn toward him. “what do you tell ned?”

“nothing.”

ned wipes ketchup from his hand. “that’s not true.”

“dude.”

“you brought me into this.”

“because you said you’d stay out of it.”

“yeah, well, i changed my mind.”

peter looks as though he might crawl beneath the table. his knee presses against yours, restless and warm through your jeans.

mj props her chin against one hand. “apparently, peter wants to know what girls say about boys.”

“i don’t,” peter says.

“you just asked what she told me.”

“that’s different.”

“how?”

peter opens his mouth. nothing comes out. you watch the flush spread from his ears into his cheeks. his fingers curl around the edge of his tray, worrying the plastic rim while his attention moves anywhere except your face.

the cafeteria continues around you. flash’s voice rises from the neighboring table as he insists he could have helped spider-man in london. someone drops several quarters beside the vending machines. outside the windows, pale afternoon light catches against the courtyard doors.

you touch peter’s wrist beneath the table. his hand turns immediately beneath yours.

“what do you want to know?” you ask. his thumb brushes once across your knuckles.

“i don’t know.”

“that isn’t true.”

peter glances toward mj and ned. mj opens her book again, though she holds it upside down. ned becomes intensely interested in arranging fries by length. peter leans closer. his voice drops until it belongs only to the space between your chairs.

“did you tell her about last night?”

your heartbeat catches.

“which part?”

his gaze flickers toward your mouth. the answer moves through him visibly. his fingers tighten around yours beneath the table.

“never mind,” he says. before you can stop him, peter releases your hand and reaches for his water.

—

mj waits until peter and ned leave for physics to ask what happened last night. you tell her almost nothing

not because you are protecting peter’s identity, though. mj already knows about the bite, the suit, the web-shooters, and every disastrous decision he makes in europe. there is no secret left to guard except the shape of peter’s mouth against yours and the way he falls asleep in your bed because his body finally relaxes somewhere. those details feel different.

they do not belong to spider-man. they barely belong to you and peter, because neither of you has decided what to call the collection of nights accumulating between you. you tell mj that he gets hurt. you tell her you clean the blood from his face. you do not tell her that he kisses you with both hands shaking after difficult patrols, or that sometimes you wake with his forehead pressed between your shoulder blades and his arm around your waist. mj watches you with increasing suspicion as you avoid every important part.

“so he visits,” she says while the two of you carry your trays toward the bins. “you perform emergency medical care, and then he leaves.”

“sometimes he sleeps.”

“in your room.”

“where else would he sleep?”

“his house.”

“may worries when he comes home injured.”

mj drops her plastic fork into the trash. “and you don’t?”

you scrape the untouched half of your lunch into the bin.

“that isn’t the point.”

“it seems like the point.”

students move around you toward the cafeteria doors. the next bell is still several minutes away, but the hall already fills with the sound of lockers opening and shoes striking tile. mj steps aside to let a freshman pass.

“what do you call him?” she asks.

“peter.”

“you know that isn’t what i mean.”

you balance the empty tray against your hip. “i don’t call him anything.”

“sweetheart?”

you stare at her. mj’s mouth twitches.

“absolutely not,” you say.

“lover?”

“you need to stop.”

“boyfriend?”

the word catches differently. you place the tray on top of the others with more care than necessary.

“he hasn’t asked,” you say.

mj studies the side of your face. “have you?”

you turn toward the hallway.

“we’re going to be late.”

“that’s not an answer.”

“you spend too much time with peter.”

“he avoids answers worse than you.”

you walk away before she can ask again.

—

peter asks ned about the conversation during physics. he tries to wait until mr. harrington turns toward the board, but waiting requires a kind of patience peter does not possess when you are concerned. he leans across the lab table before ned finishes copying the formula.

“what do you think they talked about after we left?”

ned keeps writing. “you.”

peter’s pencil stops. “you think?”

“mj was staring at you like you were part of an unsolved crime.”

“she always looks like that.”

“then why did you ask?”

peter glances toward the classroom door as if he might be able to see through two walls and across the building to wherever you are.

“i didn’t know she knew.”

“she knows everything.”

“not everything.”

ned looks at him.

peter lowers his voice. “about us.”

“there’s an us?”

the question hits harder than ned intends. peter looks down at the blank page in front of him.

“i don’t know.”

ned’s pencil stills. “you don’t know?”

“we never talked about it.”

“you’ve been sneaking into her room for a month.”

“three weeks.”

“that is the least important part of what i said.”

mr. harrington glances toward them from the front of the room. peter bends over his notebook and writes the first equation he sees on the board. he completes it before the teacher turns away. ned waits.

“it isn’t simple,” peter whispers.

“why?”

“because of everything.” he gestures vaguely toward himself, though the movement contains the suit beneath his clothes, london, the drones, tony’s glasses, and every siren he follows instead of answering his phone.

ned understands, and his expression softens. “does she know you think it’s complicated?”

peter rotates the pencil between his fingers.

“probably.”

“because you told her?”

“because she’s smart.”

“dude.”

“i don’t know what she wants me to say.”

“you could ask what she wants.”

“that sounds dangerous.”

ned stares at him.

peter looks toward the board again. “what?”

“you fought an army of drones.”

“that was different.”

“how?”

“the drones were trying to kill me.”

“and this is worse?”

peter presses the eraser into the corner of the page until the paper begins to tear.

“maybe.”

—

you find peter waiting near the stairwell after the final bell. students move around him without stopping, splitting naturally around the place where he leans against the wall. his backpack hangs from one shoulder. a faint red mark crosses the bridge of his nose, probably from whatever happened with the projector before lunch. he straightens when he sees you.

“hey.”

“hey.”

you stop in front of him. the hallway windows reflect a dull silver sky, and rain begins gathering again against the glass.

peter looks at his sweatshirt you’re wearing.

“you can keep that,” he says.

“you have my jacket.”

“right.”

“you wore it home.”

“it was cold.”

“you can lift cars.”

“that doesn’t make me warm.”

“you were wearing a suit.”

peter shrugs and reaches for the cuff. his thumb rubs across the white mark, though the dried fluid does not move beneath it. his fingers remain around your wrist.

students continue emptying from the hallway. a teacher pushes a cart of textbooks past the stairwell, one wheel producing a high squeak every few feet. peter flinches at the sound. you step closer.

“headache?”

“a little.”

“come over.”

his eyes lift to yours. “now?”

“unless you have something else to do.”

peter’s attention shifts toward the nearest window. you recognize the movement.

“patrol,” you say.

“i should.”

“okay.”

you try to pull your wrist away, but peter keeps hold of you.

“i could come over first,” he says.

“you just said you should patrol.”

“i can do both.”

“you always do both.”

something in your tone makes his fingers loosen. you don’t mean for it to sound sharp. you are tired from sleeping in fragments, listening for his messages, and wondering whether every quiet period means he is busy or hurt. none of that is his fault. none of it is something you know how to explain without asking for more than he has offered.

“sorry,” you say.

“no, you’re right.”

“i didn’t say you shouldn’t go.”

“i know.”

peter lets go of your wrist. the absence of his hand feels immediate. his gaze drops toward the floor between you.

“what did you tell mj?” he asks. the question appears unrelated enough to leave you briefly disoriented.

“when?”

“at lunch.”

“we talked about lots of things.”

“about me.”

you study him. his posture remains deliberately casual, one hand curled around his backpack strap, but the muscles along his jaw tighten while he waits.

“why does it matter?”

“it doesn’t.”

“you brought it up.”

“i was wondering.”

“about what?”

peter looks toward the students passing at the far end of the hall. “what you say.”

“i told her the truth.”

his attention returns to you. “which truth?”

you almost smile.

“you’re going to have to be more specific.”

peter doesn’t answer. instead, he pushes away from the wall.

“i should go.”

“peter.”

“i’ll text you.”

“soon?”

the word makes him pause. his mouth curves faintly, though the expression does not reach his eyes.

“yeah,” he says. “soon.”

—

he does not come through your window that night. a message arrives shortly after midnight.

busy. safe. don’t wait up.

you wait anyway. rain continues until morning, moving steadily against the windows while headlights pass in pale bands across your ceiling. you keep the desk lamp on beside unfinished homework, though the equations stop making sense long before midnight.

peter’s sweatshirt stays around you. you wake at four with your cheek pressed to an open textbook and the phone beneath your hand.

there are no new messages.

—

by monday, peter decides mj cannot be trusted. he reaches this conclusion after asking whether you call him ‘sweet’ and receiving seven uninterrupted seconds of silence. the four of you sit in the library beneath the watchful attention of a librarian who already warned ned twice about opening snacks near the computers. peter occupies the chair across from you, though his eyes lift from his notes every few minutes.

you pretend not to notice, but mj notices enough for everyone.

she closes her book and looks at peter. “what?”

“nothing.”

“you’ve looked at me fourteen times.”

peter’s eyebrows pull together. “you counted?”

“i count lots of things.”

ned lowers his voice. “that’s creepy.”

peter glances toward the librarian, then lowers his voice.

“did she call me sweet?”

you look up from your chemistry notes. mj’s face remains perfectly still, and ned slowly sets down his pencil.

“what?” you ask.

peter’s attention snaps toward you. “nothing.”

“you just asked her something.”

“about the assignment.”

mj opens her book again. “peter wants to know if you call him sweet.”

the librarian looks toward your table when ned chokes on his own breath. peter closes his eyes. you stare at him.

“you asked her that?”

“not exactly.”

“those were your exact words,” mj says.

“i was asking in general.”

“generally, ‘does she call you sweet?’”

peter pushes his chair back an inch. “i’m going to move.”

ned catches the leg with his shoe. “no, you’re not.”

the librarian clears her throat. all four of you lower your voices.

you lean across the table. “why do you want to know?”

peter looks down at his notes. “i don’t.”

“you asked.”

“i was curious.”

“about whether i think you’re sweet?”

“forget it.”

mj turns a page she has not read. “she called you a freak.”

peter becomes still.

you look at her. “mj.”

“what?” she asks. “he wanted to know.”

“context matters.”

peter’s gaze remains on the paper in front of him. “what context?”

“you were asleep on my ceiling.”

ned’s head lifts. “he does that at your house too?”

“too?” you repeat.

peter looks betrayed. “ned.”

“sometimes he does it during sleepovers.”

“you said you’d never tell anyone.”

“i assumed she knew.”

“why would she know?”

the question leaves peter before he considers the answer. silence settles around the table. mj’s mouth twitches behind her book. peter’s face turns red. you reach across and touch the back of his hand.

“you were asleep on the ceiling,” you repeat quietly. “you’re allowed to be a little bit of a freak.”

his eyes lift to yours. something wounded remains behind them. you turn your hand beneath his and fit your fingers against his palm.

“i also said it affectionately.”

“how do you say ‘freak’ affectionately?” ned asks.

mj looks at him. “tone.”

“right.”

peter’s thumb moves across your knuckles.

“did you tell her anything else?” he asks.

the question is meant only for you now. you think of what mj says in the cafeteria. you love him. you think of how quickly you deny it, not because it is wrong, but because saying it would make the feeling solid enough to lose.

“probably,” you say.

peter waits. when you do not continue, his fingers slowly loosen from yours.

—

the first time betty asks about the sweatshirt, you tell her it belongs to a cousin. the second time, you say you borrow it from lost and found. by the third, even you recognize that the lie is becoming insulting.

betty sits beside you on the gym bleachers during a school fundraiser, carefully painting letters across a poster for the academic decathlon booth. the gym smells like tempera paint, dust, and the pizza flash convinces a local restaurant to donate in exchange for several social media posts. peter and ned work across the room, attempting to hang a banner without a ladder. ned stands on a folding chair. peter holds the back of his shirt to keep him from falling, though either of them could complete the task more easily if the gym were empty.

“so,” betty says, dipping her brush into blue paint, “is there a guy?”

your hand slips. a line of yellow paint cuts through the letter you are outlining.

“why would you ask that?”

betty looks toward the sweatshirt tied around your waist. “because you keep wearing someone else’s clothes.”

“it could be mine.”

“it says parker inside the collar.”

you look across the gym. peter’s back is turned, but with his hearing, that means almost nothing.

“peter lends it to me,” you say.

betty’s expression brightens. “peter?”

“we’re friends.”

“just friends?” the question lands loudly despite her quiet voice.

you dip the brush into paint again. “it isn’t like that.”

across the gym, the folding chair scrapes sharply against the floor. peter catches ned before he falls. several students laugh. ned climbs down, speaking too quickly while peter keeps one hand against the banner. his face has gone carefully blank.

betty follows your attention.

“are you sure?” she asks.

you press the brush against the poster until paint spreads through the paper.

“peter and i aren’t together,” you say. the words are technically true, but they sound wrong anyway.

peter looks toward you. the distance between you is too great for an ordinary person to hear, but his eyes meet yours immediately. he lets go of the banner.

“i forgot something,” he tells ned. then, he walks out of the gym.

—

you follow him to the roof. the door resists beneath your hand until you remember to lift it before turning the handle. cold wind crosses the rooftop, carrying the smell of rain from clouds gathering above queens. peter stands near the edge with both hands braced against the concrete wall. his shoulders tense when the door closes behind you.

“you heard that,” you say.

“heard what?”

“peter.”

he looks across the neighboring rooftops. “you were talking to betty. i wasn’t listening.”

“you hear everything.”

“not everything.”

“you heard me.”

his jaw tightens. you move closer, though several feet remain between you when you stop.

“she doesn’t know,” you say.

“about spider-man.”

“about any of it.”

“right.”

“i can’t tell her.”

“i know.”

“then why are you upset?”

peter turns. wind pushes his hair across his forehead. the pale mark along his nose has almost healed, but exhaustion darkens the skin beneath his eyes.

“i’m not.”

“you left.”

“i forgot something.”

“what?”

he opens his mouth. nothing comes out.

you fold your arms against the cold. “that’s what i thought.”

peter looks away again. traffic moves below the building, filling the silence with distant engines and horns.

“you said we aren’t together,” he says.

you step closer.

“are we?”

his head turns toward you. the question moves between you, more frightening in daylight than it ever seems in your bedroom. peter looks at your face as though he is searching for the safest possible answer, one that cannot hurt either of you.

“i don’t know,” he admits.

you nod. peter’s expression falls.

“then i didn’t lie.”

“no.”

“i couldn’t tell betty about you.”

“i know.”

“why do you keep saying that like you don’t?”

“because knowing doesn’t make it sound better.”

you look past him toward the skyline. buildings rise through dull afternoon light, their windows catching what little sun remains beneath the clouds.

“you never asked me,” you say.

peter becomes very still.

“asked you what?”

“anything.”

“i ask you things all the time.”

“you ask whether i finish homework. you ask if my parents are home. you ask if you can come through the window.”

his hands curl against the concrete wall.

“you never ask what this is.”

“neither do you.”

“i’m asking now.”

peter looks at you. for one second, hope moves openly across his face. then something louder than either of you interrupts from the street below—a crash of metal, followed by several car horns and someone shouting.

peter turns toward the edge. you close your eyes. of course.

“go,” you say.

“i can stay.”

“someone might be hurt.”

“this matters too.”

“then come back.”

peter hesitates. you step close enough to take hold of the front of his jacket.

“come back when you have an answer.”

his eyes move across your face. then he nods.

peter climbs onto the ledge. the suit is hidden beneath his clothes, but the web-shooters already circle his wrists.

“i will,” he says.

you release his jacket. he falls backward from the roof.

your heart lurches even though you know what happens next. a web catches somewhere beyond the building, pulling him into a wide arc above the street.

he does not look back.

—

peter does not have an answer when he returns. he does not return at all. your phone receives three messages over the next two days, each of them apologetic and none containing enough information.

big thing downtown. safe.

helping happy. sorry.

can we talk tomorrow?

tomorrow arrives without him.

at school, he moves between classes with ned. he looks toward you whenever he thinks you are not watching, but does not approach. you do not wear his sweatshirt.

mj finds you in the library after school and lowers herself into the chair across from you.

“you look terrible,” she says.

you turn a page. “thank you.”

“peter looks worse.”

“good.”

mj raises an eyebrow. you close the book.

“not good,” you correct. “you know what i mean.”

“unfortunately.”

she rests her folded arms against the table. students work quietly around you while rain begins tapping at the high windows, soft enough to disappear beneath turning pages and computer keys.

“he talks about you,” mj says.

you look down at the closed book. “i know.”

“no. you know he talks. you don’t know what he says.”

“did ned tell you?”

“ned tells me everything when he’s stressed.”

“is peter stressed?”

mj stares at you.

“right,” you murmur.

she leans closer. “he asks ned whether you’re mad every twenty minutes. he asks whether he should text. then he writes a text, deletes it, and asks whether deleting it makes things worse.”

“it does.”

“i told ned that.”

you trace one finger along the edge of the book cover.

“does he say anything else?”

mj’s expression changes slightly. “you could ask him.”

“he asked you what i say.”

“and i told him to ask you.”

“did you answer?”

“not really.”

“why?”

“because it isn’t my job to tell peter you love him.”

your fingers still. mj doesn’t look away.

“you don’t know that,” you say.

“you talk about him constantly.”

“we barely talk about him.”

“you told me he makes a different face when he hears ambulances than police sirens.”

“that came up naturally.”

“you told me he hates bananas but eats them because may buys them.”

“she forgets he doesn’t like them.”

“you told me he apologizes to furniture.”

“he walked into a chair and said sorry.”

“you told me you can tell when he’s smiling beneath the mask.”

your throat tightens. mj sits back.

“you talk about him,” she says. “you just don’t use the word.”

“what word?”

she gives you a tired look. you look toward the rain-streaked windows.

“he hasn’t used it either,” you say.

“maybe he thinks you don’t want him to.”

“he knows i want him.”

“does he?”

the question remains after mj returns to her book.

—

ned finds peter in the chemistry lab after sunset.

peter sits beneath one of the work lights with a web cartridge dismantled in front of him. every component is arranged in careful rows across the table, though he has not touched any of them for several minutes. ned closes the door.

“mj says you’re being stupid.”

peter does not look up. “she says that every day.”

“she says you’re being more stupid than usual.”

“great.”

ned pulls out the stool beside him. “did you talk to her?”

“i tried.”

“what happened?”

“someone crashed a van into a taxi.”

“after that.”

peter rotates a small metal spring between his fingers.

“i got busy.”

“for two days?”

“there was the van. then happy needed help with damage control from london. then may had a fundraiser.”

“you could text.”

“i did.”

“you sent her three words.”

“one message had four.”

ned closes his eyes. “dude.”

peter places the spring on the table.

“i don’t know what to say.”

“tell her the truth.”

“which part?”

“all of it.”

peter looks toward the dark windows. his reflection appears faintly above the lab tables, a tired boy beneath harsh fluorescent light.

“i don’t know what she tells mj,” he says.

ned’s eyebrows draw together. “you’re still thinking about that?”

“she told betty we aren’t together.”

“you said you aren’t.”

“i know.”

“then what’s the problem?”

peter rubs both hands over his face. “i don’t want that to be true.”

the admission leaves the room quiet. ned waits. peter lowers his hands.

“every time we’re alone, it feels like…” he stops, searching for something precise enough to hold the feeling. “it feels bigger than it should.”

“bigger than what?”

“me.”

ned’s expression softens.

peter looks down at the cartridge again. “then we come to school, and i don’t know if i’m supposed to sit beside her or touch her or act like nothing happens. i don’t know if she tells mj i’m some guy who climbs through her window or if she tells her she wishes i’d stop.”

“she wears your clothes.”

“because i stole her jacket.”

“she waits for you after patrol.”

“because she worries.”

“she kisses you.”

peter glances toward him. “how do you know that?”

“you told me.”

“i did not.”

“you spent twenty minutes explaining why your lip was bleeding more after you left her house.”

peter looks away. ned pushes one of the web components back into line.

“what do you say about her?” he asks.

“to who?”

“me.”

“nothing.”

ned stares at him.

peter sighs. “fine. things.”

“you told me the exact sound she makes when she’s trying not to laugh.”

“it’s noticeable.”

“you told me what shampoo she uses.”

“she asked me to buy it once.”

“you told me she keeps the window unlocked for you.”

peter’s hands become still. ned looks at him.

“you talk about her like she’s already your girlfriend.”

the word pulls something tight across peter’s face.

“she isn’t.”

“because she doesn’t want to be?”

“because i haven’t asked.”

“why?”

“people change," he shrugs, looking away from ned.

“what?”

“we’re eighteen. everything changes.” his voice drops. “six months ago, mr. stark was alive. two months ago, i thought beck was a hero. three weeks ago, i didn’t know she would ever look at me like this.”

ned does not interrupt.

“what if i ask for something i can’t give her?” peter continues. “what if she gets tired of cancelled plans and windows and me showing up hurt? what if she says yes now and hates me later?”

“what if she doesn’t?”

peter swallows.

“that might be worse.”

“why?”

“because then i have someone else to lose.”

ned sits with that for a moment.

outside the lab, a cleaning cart rattles along the hallway. peter turns toward the sound instinctively, then forces himself to look back at the table.

“you already have her to lose,” ned says.

peter’s eyes close. “yeah,” he admits.

—

peter comes through your window the following night.

you are awake, though the lights are off. the city fills the room instead—headlights moving across the walls, red aircraft lights blinking above distant buildings, and neon from the pharmacy sign at the corner turning the ceiling faintly blue.

the window opens without a sound. peter climbs inside and closes it behind him. he wears the suit with the mask pushed above his mouth. one lens is cracked. dirt marks the red fabric across his shoulder, but you see no blood. you stay beneath the blankets.

“are you hurt?” you ask.

he turns. “no.”

“are you sure?”

“yeah.”

you nod toward the chair beside your desk. “your sweatshirt’s there.”

peter looks at it. the folded fabric has remained untouched since the fundraiser.

“you can keep it,” he says.

“you already said that.”

“right.”

he removes the mask. flattened curls spring unevenly around his face, and a faint crease crosses his cheek from the edge of the fabric. neither of you speaks.

peter sits on the desk chair rather than approaching the bed. the distance feels deliberate, though your bedroom is too small for it to become convincing.

“you came back,” you say.

“i said i would.”

“three days ago.”

“i know.”

“you’re late.”

“i know,” he repeats.

his hands turn the mask between them, twisting the fabric until one white lens bends inward. you push back the blankets and sit against the headboard.

“you’re going to break that.”

peter looks down. he smooths the lens with his thumb.

“sorry.”

“stop apologizing.”

“sorry.”

you stare at him. a tired smile touches his mouth before disappearing again.

rain begins outside, not yet heavy enough to reach the window. the weather has spent the entire week threatening a storm it cannot seem to produce.

peter looks toward the sweatshirt.

“what did you tell mj?” he asks.

you release a slow breath.

“you came here to ask me that again?”

“not only that.”

“but it’s still bothering you.”

“yes.”

the honesty surprises you. peter sets the mask on the desk.

“i know it shouldn’t,” he says. “i know you have to lie to people who don’t know, and mj already knows everything important. i know it isn’t my business what you say when i’m not there.”

“but?”

his fingers curl around the edge of the chair.

“but i need to know.”

you wait. peter looks at you directly.

“when you talk about me, who am i?”

the question quiets everything else. you look toward the window. raindrops begin catching against the glass one at a time, each one dividing the city lights into smaller pieces.

“you’re peter.”

“i know.”

“do you?”

his brow pulls together. you slide your legs from beneath the blankets and sit on the edge of the bed.

“betty doesn’t know about spider-man,” you say. “she thinks you’re the boy who disappears from class and loses his backpack twice a week. flash thinks you’re spider-man’s ‘assistant.’ my parents think you’re the polite kid from school who helps me with biology.”

“you don’t need help with biology.”

“i know, that’s why it’s a useful lie.”

peter’s mouth almost curves. you continue before he can retreat into the joke.

“mj gets the truth.”

“what truth?”

you look down at your hands.

“i tell her you’re sweet when you aren’t trying to convince everyone you’re fine. i tell her you’re a freak when you sleep on ceilings and hiss at the vacuum.”

“it was loud.”

“i know.”

“and i didn’t hiss.”

“you absolutely did.”

peter lowers his eyes, but a small smile remains at the edge of his mouth.

“i tell her you steal my clothes,” you continue. “i tell her you leave before morning, and that sometimes you don’t text until i’m already imagining every terrible thing that could happen to you.”

the smile fades.

“i’m sorry.”

“peter.”

“right.”

you move from the bed. he watches while you cross the small distance between you. your knees touch when you stop in front of the chair.

“i tell her you’re impossible,” you say. “that you cancel plans. that you show up bleeding and expect me not to react. that you hear every lie except the ones you tell yourself.”

peter’s hands loosen from the chair.

“do you tell her you wish i’d stop coming?”

the question is so quiet that you almost miss it. you look at him.

“is that what you thought?”

he doesn’t answer. you reach down and take the mask from the desk. the damaged lens catches the city light as you smooth the fabric between your hands.

“peter, i keep my window unlocked.”

“that could mean anything.”

“no one in queens keeps a fourth-floor window unlocked by accident.”

“then what does it mean?”

you set the mask aside.

“what do you tell ned?”

peter blinks. “what?”

“you want to know what i say. i want to know what you say.”

“that isn’t fair.”

“why?”

“because ned repeats things.”

“mj doesn’t?”

“not to me.”

“exactly.”

peter looks down at your knees touching his.

“i tell him about you,” he admits.

“what about me?”

“things.”

“helpful.”

“i tell him you make tea and forget to drink it. i tell him you leave the hall light on when you know i’m coming over. i tell him you can tell when it’s too loud for me even if i don’t say anything.”

your breathing slows. peter touches the edge of your sleeve. you are wearing your own shirt tonight, but his fingers still move as though looking for something familiar.

“i tell him you don’t treat spider-man like someone different,” he continues. “you don’t ask me to take the suit off before you touch me. you don’t act disappointed when it’s just me underneath.”

“peter.”

“i know that sounds stupid.”

“it doesn’t.”

his fingers close gently around your wrist.

“i tell ned that when something happens, you’re the first person i want to talk to. even if i can’t.” peter’s thumb presses over your pulse. “i tell him i think about your room during patrol because it’s quiet here. not actually quiet, but…” he glances toward the window. “quiet in my head.”

the rain begins falling harder. you don’t move.

“what else?” you whisper.

peter’s gaze lifts to yours. fear appears there before the words do.

“i tell him you take my breath away.”

your throat tightens. peter’s hand slips from your wrist as though the confession requires him to release you.

“i don’t understand it,” he says. “i know we’re young. i know everything changes, and i can’t promise i’ll be good at this. i can’t promise normal dates or that i’ll always answer my phone. i can’t even promise i’ll use the door.”

“the window is faster.”

“it is.”

“and less awkward.”

“usually.”

you step closer. peter looks up at you from the chair.

“you still haven’t answered,” you say.

“answered what?”

“what this is.”

his lips part. you place one hand against his cheek. the faint crease from the mask remains beneath your thumb. peter leans into your palm before he can stop himself.

“i want you to be my girlfriend,” he says. “i should’ve asked before. i think part of me thought if we didn’t say it, then nothing could change. you couldn’t decide you didn’t want it later because i never actually gave you anything to leave.”

the honesty hurts more than hesitation would. you brush your thumb beneath his eye.

“that isn’t how it works.”

“i know.”

“you could still lose me without calling me your girlfriend.”

“ned said that.”

“ned is smart.”

“don’t tell him that.”

you laugh lightly. peter’s hand rises to your waist, but he doesn’t pull you closer yet.

“do you want to?” he asks.

“want to what?”

“be my girlfriend.”

you make him wait, but not for long. only enough that peter’s fingers tighten once against your shirt and the fear in his expression becomes impossible to tease.

then you lower yourself onto his lap. the chair creaks beneath the added weight. peter catches your hips automatically, surprise passing across his face before you settle with one knee on either side of him.

“yes,” you say.

his breathing stops.

“yes?”

“yes, peter.”

“you’re sure?”

you touch your forehead to his.

“you’re a sweetheart and a freak. i know what i’m agreeing to.”

a breath of laughter leaves him, warm against your mouth.

“so i’m your boyfriend?” the quiet hope in his voice makes your chest ache.

“you’re my boyfriend.”

peter smiles. it begins slowly, pulling at one corner of his mouth before spreading across his entire face. you barely have time to see it before his hand slides into your hair and he kisses you. there is nothing hesitant in it now.

peter pulls you against him while your arms circle his shoulders. the chair shifts beneath you, one wheel catching against the edge of the rug, but neither of you pays attention. his mouth moves against yours with the urgency of every question he doesn’t ask soon enough. your fingers catch in his hair. the mask falls from the desk and lands beside the chair. peter kisses the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, his breath uneven against your skin.

“wait,” he murmurs.

you lean back enough to look at him. his hands remain around your waist.

“what?”

peter’s eyes move across your face. the fear returns, but it is different now—more open, no longer protected by uncertainty.

“did you tell mj you love me?”

your heart stops. peter seems to regret the question immediately.

“you don’t have to answer,” he says. “forget i asked.”

you keep one hand against the back of his neck.

“do you tell ned you love me?”

his gaze drops toward your shoulder.

“yes.” the answer comes so quietly that the rain nearly takes it. 

you wait until peter looks at you again.

“then we tell them the same thing.”

he becomes completely still beneath you.

“you love me? the way i love you?”

“probably more.”

“that seems scientifically unlikely.”

“i have evidence.”

“what evidence?”

“you.”

peter’s expression breaks. he kisses you before either of you can say anything else, one hand pressing between your shoulder blades while the other cradles the back of your head. the kiss softens after the first desperate second, becoming something slower and almost careful.

when he pulls away, his forehead rests against yours.

“i love you,” he says.

the words sound unfamiliar in his voice, as though he has carried them long enough that hearing them aloud surprises him.

you brush your nose against his.

“i love you too.”

outside, the storm finally breaks over queens.

—

mj does not react when you tell her.

she sits across from you at lunch with her book open beside her tray. ned and peter are still in line, arguing about whether two cartons of chocolate milk count as a complete meal.

you take peter’s sweatshirt from the back of your chair and put it on. mj turns one page.

“peter asked me to be his girlfriend,” you say.

“finally.”

you stare at her. “that’s it?”

“did you want applause?”

“maybe.”

“i don’t have any.”

the corner of her mouth lifts.

you pull one sleeve over your hand. “you could pretend to be surprised.”

“you’ve worn his clothes for a month.”

“that doesn’t mean anything.”

“he fell asleep with his head in your lap during study hall.”

“he was tired.”

“he threatened a vending machine because it kept your change.”

“it was two dollars.”

mj looks toward the lunch line.

peter stands beside ned with one hand in his pocket. even from across the cafeteria, he finds you immediately. the tension leaves his shoulders when your eyes meet. he smiles.

mj follows your gaze.

“oh my god,” she mutters. “you’re seriously with peter.”

you smile into the collar of his sweatshirt. “yes.”

peter and ned reach the table moments later. peter sets his tray beside yours with more care than usual, then lowers himself into the chair. beneath the table, his hand finds yours. this time, neither of you hides it.

ned sits across from him. “he told me.”

“i assumed.”

“at four in the morning.”

peter’s face reddens. “you were awake.”

“because you called me.”

“you said i could call whenever.”

“i meant during emergencies.”

peter looks toward you. “it felt like one.”

you squeeze his hand.

mj closes her book. “did he ask what you tell me?”

“eventually.”

“did you tell him?”

“eventually.”

peter’s thumb passes over your knuckles. “she made me go first.”

“good,” mj says.

ned opens his chocolate milk. “what did you say?”

peter looks at him. “none of your business.”

“you called me immediately afterward.”

“that was different.”

“you cried.”

peter nearly drops his fork.

“i did not,” he says, his voice higher than usual.

ned looks at you. “he cried.”

“there was rain,” peter says.

“inside your bedroom?”

“the window was open.”

“well, i don’t think rain sniffles.”

you lean against his shoulder. peter looks down at you, embarrassment softening into something warmer. around you, the cafeteria continues as it always does. flash talks too loudly from the neighboring table. coins strike the floor near the vending machines. someone argues about mysterio, insisting spider-man could never have defeated him without help.

for once, peter does not turn toward every mention of his name.

[snowynns]

Peter Parker ◞ Diaries of a spider

 Diaries of a Spider: how to make your girlfriend happy !

𝒯AGS ⸝⸝ 𝓦ARNINGS ˖ +18 light smut at the end fluff & slice of life college!Peter dorks in love public séx fingeríng

navigation ◞ rules ◞ spiderman list 📨

Welcome to Peter Parker's guide to having a happy, somewhat spoiled girlfriend !

Peter is a genius and we all know that.

He knows more about physics than any twenty-year-old you know, can take apart a machine and put it back together better than when he found it, and somehow managed to balance college with all the assignments, exams, and being Spider-Man without losing his mind.

Well, he has mostly not lost his mind !

There is one thing he has yet to find a scientific solution for: his girlfriend.

Not that there's anything wrong with you ! Quite the opposite, actually. You're sweet, clever, pretty, and you're very, very good at loving him.

You just happen to require a little more attention than the average person.

Honestly? He doesn't mind.

If anything, Peter has become a lil' too good at spoiling you. He knows which snacks you like, how you order your favorite drinks, which side of the bed you prefer, how long you want to be held when you're upset, and how to make you smile when you're pretending you don't want to.

What he doesn't tell you is that he actually likes being needed by you— probably more than he should.

There's something about being the person you reach for that makes Peter's chest feel warm in a way he can't explain.

He likes when you call his name just because you want him to look at you or when you crawl into his side while he's working, when you ask him to come over even though he was already planning to.

He likes being the one who gets to make your days better.

And giving you attention isn't a chore, either.

Maybe it's because he loves the way your face lights up when he gives you his full attention or he secretly enjoys how spoiled you've become ooor maybe Peter Parker is just a hopeless boyfriend who likes having an excuse to kiss his girlfriend every five minutes.

Whatever the reason, he's learned one very important thing during his time dating you: a happy girlfriend is a happy Peter.

And, as it turns out, keeping you happy is one of his favorite things to do.

I. LOVER BOYS DON'T IGNORE THEIR GIRLFRIENDS !

Peter would never ignore you. That's to be made very clear.

He's just... studying. Which, to mister Peter Parker, is a reasonable excuse for not checking his phone for the last three hours.

He's tucked away in one of the corners at the university library, surrounded by open textbooks, loose sheets of paper, and his laptop. His glasses have slipped down the bridge of his nose, one hand tapping his pen against the desk while the other works through a problem, and how not, Peter is absorbed in what he's doing.

His phone, unfortunately, has been sitting face-down beside him the entire time.

Initially, you were patient about it. You knew how he got when he was studying, and you weren't about to be the girlfriend who demanded his attention every five minutes when he had an exam coming up! So you'd sent him something simple, something he would normally answer immediately.

you: hi baby :D

But nothing came, not a single tiny small reply from him in 1 hour... So of course you tried again.

you: peter?

you: are you alive babe?

Peter, meanwhile, was unaware that his girlfriend was starting to build a case against him. He was trying to figure out why one of his calculations wasn't matching the expected result, convinced that if he stared at the page long enough, the answer would reveal itself. His phone buzzed again, but he only reached over to move it farther away from his notes.

Which, unfortunately, was the moment you decided you had been patient enough!

you: okay

you: wow i see how it ISSS

you: you're ignoring me

you: your girlfriend is RIGHT HERE btw💔💔

Peter finally noticed the phone; as it was buzzing a lot against the table and caught his attention...

He glanced down, expecting maybe a message from one of his classmates about their project for next week, and instead found your name sitting at the top of a rapidly growing conversation with yourself.

There were 20 unread messages.

you: peter :(

you: hello????

you: parker

you: PETER PARKER

you: i'm being ignored by my bf awful

you: i could be dead !!!!

There's a tiny crease between his eyebrows because he knows you well enough to recognize that peculiar progression. You aren't angry, just wanted him to answer, then you got bored, then you got pouty and now you're probably lying in your puff convincing yourself that your boyfriend has abandoned you for the Newton's laws.

Peter smiles despite himself because you're ridiculous; his ridiculous. And he types quickly.

peter: oh my god baby i'm sorry

peter: I wasn't ignoring you, I swear

peter: I got stuck on something, don't be mad 💕 :(

Your answer arrives instantly, almost without the bubbles appearing on his screen.

you: too late 💔

Peter laughs quietly to himself, earning a confused look from the student sitting across from him, and closes his laptop.

He should finish his work, but then he looks at your messages again, imagines you sitting somewhere with your arms crossed and that little pout you get when wanting attention, and suddenly the physics problem doesn't seem nearly as important anymore.

peter: Where are you loml?

Parker learns early in the relationship that there are some things he shouldn't ignore, and his girlfriend being needy for a little attention is definitely one of them. Especially when, if he's being honest, he likes that you're waiting for him with a smile on your cute face.

II. LOVER BOYS NEGLIGENCE CATEGORY : NO KISSES !

Peter is very good at goodbyes, after all, he fears he'll never see you again after defending New York.

He kisses your forehead when he's in a hurry, presses one to your cheek when half-asleep, and if he's got the time, he'll linger over your lips so you have a smile before he leaves.

It's become a little routine between the two of you, so when Peter slips out of your apartment one morning because he's running late for class, his mind occupied with an assignment he forgot to finish, he doesn't think twice about the fact that he didn't kiss you goodbye.

He makes it halfway across campus before stopping dead in his tracks.

Oh— Oh, no.

He forgot it— forgot to kiss his girlfriend goodbye.

He's turning around in a moment, backpack bouncing against his shoulder as he practically jogs back the way he came, because there's absolutely no way he's going to let himself get away with that.

When he finally pushes through your door again, you're still curled up in the bed, looking sleepy and confused at the sight of him standing there.

“Hi,” he says breathless.

You squint at him. “Didn't you just leave love..?”

“Yeah.” Peter walks straight over, drops his backpack onto the floor, and leans down to press a soft kiss to your forehead, then your cheek, and finally your lips. “Forgot something.”

And judging by the little smile appearing on your face, Peter knows it's worth being late to the 1st class; maybe not even going as a way of paying for forgetting.

III. A LOVER BOY NEED A LITTLE SOFTNESS TOO !

Peter comes home through your window sometime after two in the morning, exhausted from patrol, and instead of waking you, he changes out of the suit and slips beneath the blankets.

You're half-asleep when you feel the mattress dip and his familiar arm settle around your waist. He doesn't say anything at first, just presses himself against your back and buries his face into your shoulder— he's been waiting all night to do this.

You'd probably wake properly and turn around, sleepy and confused, only to find him looking tired, all the usual energy gone from his face.

He doesn't need you to ask what happened; just hold you, pull you against his chest and let himself sink into you, maybe with his forehead tucked beneath your chin while your fingers run through his messy hair.

Peter is so used to being the one who takes care of everything—the city, his aunt, his friends, you—that sometimes he forgets he's allowed to be taken care of too.

Those nights, you're all he wants.

Your warmth. Your sleepy voice. Your hands in his hair. The little kisses you leave against his forehead when you think he's asleep. He doesn't want to talk about his adventures as a superhero or what happened out there; he just wants to be your Peter for a few hours instead of Spider-Man, wrapped up in your arms where nothing is expected of him.

And, eventually, when you're almost asleep again, you hear him mumble something soft against your neck about how much he loves you, followed by a quiet request for you not to let go yet.

Even superheroes need their girlfriend's cuddles from time to time.

IV. A GOOD LOVER BOY SHARES HIS PASSIONS !

Peter has always loved the adrenaline feeling.

Before the spider bite, there was skateboarding— some afternoons spent on skating around Queens, trying new tricks, bruising his knees and getting back up.

Now that he's Spider-Man, though, he's discovered something even better! Swinging through the city gives him the same rush, except multiplied by approximately a thousand; there's nothing like throwing yourself off the side of a building and trusting yourself.

Naturally, once you're dating him, Peter decides you need to experience the things he loves too.

The skateboarding part goes well. You're wobbly at first, Peter holding both your hands while you figure out how to balance, and he's ridiculously patient about it, laughing every time you almost fall and reaching for you before you can hit the pavement.

Eventually you're skating beside him, and Peter looks so proud that you'd think you won an Olympic medal.

The swinging, however, is another story.

Peter is convinced you'll love it !

You are less convinced when you're standing on the edge of a rooftop, staring down at the city below while Peter attaches a web to the nearest building like this is the most normal thing in the world.

“It's safe,” he promises. “I do this every night.”

Before you can think about this he's stepping closer and wrapping an arm around your waist. You can feel how excited he is, practically vibrating beside you, and that's what makes you agree in the end. Peter wouldn't ask you to do something he thought would genuinely hurt you.

Besides, there's something about seeing him this happy that makes you want to try, even if your stomach is somewhere around your ankles.

The first swing is horrifying and you do scream.

Your hands fly up, one gripping his shoulder while the other ends up smacking against the side of his face as you cling to him for dear life, and he loses it— laughing so hard that he has to slow down, your terrified expression making him nearly double over against you.

“PETER!”

“I'M SORRY—” he manages between laughs, “—I didn't know you were gonna scream!”

“WE ARE IN THE AIR!” You smack his cheek again, mostly because you're terrified and partly because he is laughing at you, which only makes him laugh harder.

Eventually he wraps his arm around you good and proper, keeping you secured against his chest as he swings slowly, and you bury your face against his neck as you refuse to look down.

Peter is still giggling. “You're okay,” he promises, pressing a kiss against your hair. “I've got you.”

As annoying as it is, once the initial terror fades, you start to understand why he loves it.

The city looks different from up here. The lights stretch endlessly beneath you, the wind catches against your clothes, and right now there is nothing except the two of you moving through the night.

By the time your feet touch the rooftop again, your legs are shaky and your hair is been ruined by the wind.

Peter takes off the mask and smiles at you. “See?”

“I hated every second.” You hug yourself to him. “…Can we do it again?”

V. A LOVER BOY NEVER COMES EMPTY-HANDED !

At some point in the relationship, Peter started bringing you flowers, but can't even remember when it began, because there was never really an occasion for it.

The first time, he showed up at your door with a little bouquet tucked awkwardly beneath his arm and explained that he'd been walking home from class, passed a flower shop, and thought you'd like them.

You kissed him, obviously, and put them in a glass of water, and that should've been the end of it. Except then he did it again the following week. And then again.

Sometimes it was an actual bouquet, sometimes it was only a few flowers wrapped in brown paper, and once, when he'd been having a particularly broke college-student week, it was one slightly crooked flower he'd bought because, “it was the prettiest one he could find.”

The funny thing is that Peter doesn't seem to realize how often he's doing it.

He just walks through the door with his backpack hanging from one shoulder, hair messy from swaying around, and flowers in his other hand like they're just another part of his fit.

You don't even ask where they came from anymore. You look at them, look at him, and Peter gives you that little smile that shows his dimples because he knows you're going to be happy.

“I saw these and thought of you,” becomes his favorite & all-time excuse, even when you point out that he has said that about every flower you've received in the past month.

He shrugs, unashamed, and tells you that maybe you should stop being so easy to think about.

So eventually, the flowers start accumulating around your apartment. A few fresh ones sit beside the window, another bunch is in a jar on your desk, and some of the older ones have been carefully dried because you couldn't bring yourself to throw them away.

“You kept them?”

You look at him. “Of course I kept them.”

Peter glances down, looking a little shy. “Even the silly ones?”

You laugh, reaching over to smooth his messy hair back from his forehead. “Especially the silly ones.”

He doesn't get you flowers because he's trying to make up for something, or because he needs a special occasion, or trying to prove that he's romantic.

He buys them because pretty = you.

VI. THE LOVER BOY KNOWS YOUR BODY !

Peter accepted that his wardrobe stopped belonging to him a long time ago.

First hoodies, then his shirts, and also, somehow, you're wandering around his apartment in his sweatpants too, the waistband sitting low on your hips and one of his old T-shirts slipping off your shoulder.

He knows you do it on purpose or at least, he strongly suspects you are. There's no reason you couldn't wear your own clothes, especially when you have an entire closet, but yet seem to find your way into his things— Peter has never been good at pretending he doesn't enjoy it.

Ah! Peter knows your body very well too, you know?

Which is why you're currently backed against a table in an empty chemistry classroom, Peter's fingers buried inside you, his mouth hot against your ear.

"Three days," he murmurs, his voice has that low quality it gets when he's been worked up for too long. "Three days you've been walking around campus in my clothes, bending over in front of me, sitting in my lap during lunch..." His fingers curl, and your breath catches. "and you're going to stand here and tell me you didn't know what you were doing?"

"I didn't," you breathe, but the lie dissolves into a whimper when his thumb finds your clit, pressing in a slow circle that makes your knees buckle.

He catches you with his free hand, palm flat against your lower back, holding you steady against the table.

"You're a terrible liar babe." His fingers slide out, then push back in, slower this time.

Your boyfriend learned your body over months— learned that you like the steady rhythm, the slight curl and the way he stretches you. He knows when to speed up, when to slow down, when to add a third finger and watch your eyes roll back.

He does it now, and you grab the edge of the table hard enough to creak. "Peter—"

"That's my name." He's smiling, is like you can hear it.

His lips trace the shell of your ear, down to the spot below your jaw that makes your whole body tighten. "You know what you do to me? Walking around looking like that? Making me sit through a two-hour lab with a hard-on because you decided to wear my sweatpants with nothing underneath?"

You laugh, breathless and unsteady. "How did you know I wasn't wearing—"

The classroom door is locked; Peter checked twice.

The last class ended twenty minutes ago, and the building clears out by five on Tuesdays — he planned this.

He's been thinking about it, you realize.

He's been thinking about getting you alone, about spreading you out on this table and make you pay for every stolen hoodie and every time you ground your ass against him during lecture just to feel him twitch behind you.

He pulls his fingers out, and you whine at the loss.

"Turn around," he says.

You obey, spinning to face the table, and he guides you down until your chest is flat against the surface, your hips at the edge. His hand presses between your shoulder blades — gentle but firm, holding you in place.

The cool laminate shocks through the fabric of his hoodie, and you're suddenly aware of how empty you feel, how wet, how desperate.

"Peter, I need—"

"I know love."

Of course he knows, he loves every piece of you and has learned them.

You hear his belt buckle, the soft rustle of fabric. He doesn't take his pants off, just works himself out through the zipper, and you can feel the heat of him when he steps closer, his cock sliding against the back of your thigh. "But this is what you get right now. You want more, you wait until we're home."

"I can't wait until we're home."

His hand gathers the waistband of the sweatpants — his sweatpants — and tugs them down to your mid-thighs.

He taps his cock against your pussy once, twice; so light, so damn teasing, the head dragging through your wetness and pressing against your clit enough to make your hips jerk.

You can feel him smiling against your ear again, the bastard, enjoying this.

"You're so wet," he says conversational. "All that just from my fingers, mhmm?"

"Peter, if you don't—" He pushes in.

Slow sososo slow you feel every inch, the stretch of him opening you up, the way your walls clench around him as if your body is trying to pull him deeper.

He doesn't stop until he's fully seated, his hips flush against your ass, and then he pauses— one hand on your hip, the other still pressing between your shoulder blade— and you can hear his breathing, ragged and controlled at the same time, like he's counting backwards from ten.

And rest assured that from now on he will make it clear that you shouldn't tempt him in these ways.

Tho he hopes you do; he loves being able of getting you fucked up.

VII. THE DAY THE LOVER BOY GETS SPOILED.

You know it by now, Peter loves making you happy.

It's in the flowers he brings home because they remind him of you, in the snacks he picks up without asking because he knows what you're going to crave, in the way he'll put everything down to give you attention when you come crawling into his arms. He's always been like that with you, always finding little ways to make your life easier and happier, because there's something about seeing you smile that makes exhausting days feel worth it.

So naturally, when his birthday comes around, you decide that for once, Peter gets to be the spoiled one.

And you do take it very seriously !!

Peter isn't expecting much. In fact, he's convinced that you don't need to do anything special at all, because as far as he's concerned, having you there is enough.

He wakes up thinking it'll be a normal day, maybe some cake with friends later, a dinner together, nothing too extravagant.

Instead, he wakes up to you curled beside him, with you smiling like you're hiding something.

The entire day becomes a collection of little things you've planned specifically for him. His favorite breakfast, a present you've been saving for weeks, his favorite flowers, because yes, Peter gets flowers too in this relationship.

You take him somewhere he loves, let him choose what to do, indulge every little hobby he's been putting off because college and being Spider-Man have been taking up all his time.

You make sure he gets to feel like Peter Parker for an entire day instead of Spider-Man, student, genius, or boyfriend who is constantly taking care of everyone else.

And somewhere between the laughter, the presents, the cake, and Peter looking at you like he genuinely can't believe you did all this for him, he finally realizes something.

You love being spoiled by Peter, yes, and you love crawling into his arms and demanding his attention and stealing his hoodies, but you love making him happy just as much.

And when the day finally winds down, Peter is lying beside you with his head resting in your lap, one of your hands playing with his hair while he stares up at you with the softest of the smiles.

“Best birthday ever,” he murmurs.

You smile down at him. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Peter reaches up, takes your hand, and presses a kiss to your palm. “I think I like being spoiled.”

You laugh softly. “Good.”

He closes his eyes again, still smiling.

Peter Parker's guide to having a happy, somewhat spoiled girlfriend is in reality just a guide of two people who really, really love loving eachother.

💭 ; Happy birthday to the Spider boy !

[mosclubhouse]

this is so cute omfg

[b3ach-bunn7]

✩₊˚.🕸️ NATURAL ✩₊˚.🕸️ ~ peter parker x reader

texts between you and your friendly neighbour (spiderman)

fluff, slight angst but it gets resolved, smau, strangers to friends, (no mj in this universe)

note: I love peter Parker I love spiderman

October 12th

8:32 am

Y/N: is this Peter from 12b?

Peter: Yes! Is this Y/N from 11b? 

Y/N: yes

Peter: Cool :D Is everything okay?

Y/N: no.

Peter: Oh

Y/N: I get that you might have stuff to do in the middle of the night EVERY NIGHT but can u be a little bit quieter plz???? 

Y/N: I work early morning and u wake me up nealey every day 😔

Peter: Oh shit 

Peter: Sorry I had no idea the walls are that thin

Peter: I promise I’ll be quieter

Y/N: thank u

Peter: No problem

October 14th

1:03 pm

Y/N: *image attachment*

Y/N: these from you?

Peter: Nice right

Peter: A little apology from your noisy neighbour 🌷 

Y/N: ass kisser 

Peter: OI

October 17th

8:06pm 

Y/N: hey do u have any spare quarters? I got laundry to do and I’m all out

Peter: Uh eyag jusy one scecond 

Y/N: ? 

Y/N: can we try again in English 

Peter: Sry gimme a min

Peter: I’ll meet u in the laundry toim in ten?

Y/N: yes I’ll see u in the laundry toim 

Peter: 🫩

October 20th

12:09am 

Y/N: what the hell happened to you 

Peter: Wdym?

Y/N: uhm ur face?? who beat u up 

Peter: Oh that

Peter: It’s nothing

Y/N: it’s definitely something 

Y/N: are you okay?

Peter: I’m fine don’t worry about me

Y/N: I am worried

Peter: Wow.. what a good friend 🩷

Y/N: let’s not get ahead of ourselves

Peter: It’s fine it doesn’t even hurt

Y/N: so macho and strong 

Peter: Ofc 💪 

October 22nd

11:34pm

Peter: Oh my god can u hear that

Y/N: LMAO YES

Peter: It surely can’t be that good

Y/N: nobody is good enough to make u scream that loud

Peter: Oh really

Y/N: gross

Peter: Are they gonna get an angry message too

Y/N: no those r just reserved for u

Peter: Oh wow

Peter: I feel so special

October 24th

9:44 am

Y/N: do u jog

Y/N: or gym or smth

Peter: Uh yeah to both

Peter: Why

Y/N: just wondering

Peter: Did my incredible physique and big muscles tip u off

Y/N: yeah they were so visible in ur juicy tracksuit

Peter: SHUT UP

Y/N: u just looked soooooo juicy

Peter: 🤬🤬🤬

Peter: Erase that from ur memory

Y/N: *image attachment*

Y/N: shall i erase this too

Peter: FUCK OFF

October 25th

9:23pm

Y/N: hey so I know this is last minute but

Y/N: I’m throwing Halloween party at my place if ur free 

Peter: Idk it’s kind of a long commute

Y/N: har har har

Peter: Ofc I wanna come 

Peter: Thank u for the invite!

Y/N: costumes not optional 

Y/N: I won’t let u in if ur not dressed❌

Peter: I’ll make sure I’m looking my best 

October 30th

7:09pm

Peter: *image attachment*

Peter: How’s my costume

Y/N: woah

Y/N: r u that Star Wars guy

Peter: That Star Wars guy???

Peter: U mean Kylo ren??

Y/N: yeah i never watched Star Wars sorry x

Peter: Girl

Y/N: don’t girl me

Peter: How have u not watched star wars??

Y/N: cause I’m not a big fat nerd

Peter: Right

Peter: R u busy tonight?

Y/N: I am not

Peter: Cool

Peter: I have them all on dvd we are getting through as many as we can tonight

Y/N: is this a threat

Peter: Yes 

October 31st

12:45am

Peter: Did u get home safe x

Y/N: gosh ur so funny

Y/N: the movies weren’t half bad yk

Peter: We got through two before you fell asleep on my shoulder

Y/N: YH sorry about that…

Peter: No worries x it was so cute when you drooled all over my shoulder

Y/N: die

October 31st

9:10pm

Y/N: are the flowers from you?

Peter: Guilty

Y/N: awwww u spoil me

Peter: Just a housewarming gift 

Y/N: most people brought beer

Peter: What can I say I’m a stand up guy

Peter: I like your costume 

Y/N: thanks!! It’s kinda hard to move around tho.. I assume iron man had a much easier time than I am

Peter: Yeah well his suit wasn’t made out of cardboard 

Y/N: unfortunately I cannot afford nanotech 

Y/N: are u gonna just text me all night or are u gonna come over and talk to me?

Peter: On my way ma’am

October 31st

11:09 pm

Y/N: bro this beer pong is getting serious u have to come look 

Y/N: wait did u leave I can’t find u anywhere 

Y/N: peter?

November 1st

1:02am 

Peter: Hey I’m sorry I had to leave so randomly 

Peter: Something urgent came up 

Y/N: a goodbye would’ve been nice 🥀

Peter: I’m sorry 😔 it was urgent 

Y/N: nah dw im just joking

Y/N: you okay? 

Peter: I will be once u forgive me

Y/N: sigh maybe I will if a pizza was in my lap and return of the Jedi was on my tv

Peter: Be there in fifteen 

November 3rd

12:47pm 

Y/N: what are u doing November 15th

Peter: Hmm probably nothing 

Y/N: would u like to come to friendsgiving hosted at my humble abode

Peter: friendsgiving?

Y/N: yeahh smth me and my friends do every year before the real thing

Y/N: and feel free to invite anyone u want as well 

Y/N: ur friend Frank? was that his name

Peter: Uh 

Peter: Idk about that but I’d love to come

Y/N: perfect 

November 4th

3:45pm

Y/N: are you not home?

Peter: No why

Y/N: I was gonna return ur dvds u forgot them at mine

Y/N: wait how did u leave I didn’t even hear ur door

Peter: Uh

Peter: I left quietly

Y/N: okay…

November 7th

11:47pm

Peter: Hey u up?

Y/N: uhm yeah 

Peter: Perfect

Peter: So by any chance do u know basic first aid? 

Y/N: I guess why

Peter: *image attachment*

Peter: Ur services would be greatly appreciated 

Y/N: BRO

Y/N: 😭😭😭 Peter wtf happened to u

Peter: I was

Peter: I got mugged

Y/N: mugged????

Peter: The streets are ruthless

Y/N: all those muscles and u didn’t fight back??

Peter: Hey u should see the other guy

Y/N: I’m sure he’s battered

Y/N: can’t believe u had to fight him alone

Y/N: god where’s spiderman when u need him

Peter: I know right!!!!!!

Peter: Can u come over now 💔

Y/N: alright I’m coming calm ur tits

Peter: My tits are perfectly fine thanks 

November 10th

5:45pm

Y/N: r these flowers gonna be a regular thing now?

Peter: Only when I pass by the bodega 

Peter: Which is basically everyday so yeah

Y/N: how thoughtful and kind🩷

Peter: Am I finally forgiven for being loud all the time 

Y/N: let’s not get ahead of ourselves here

November 12th:

6:34pm

Peter: Hey do i need to bring food to Thanksgiving 

Y/N: friendsgiving 

Peter: Yes friendsgiving

Y/N: and yes u have to 

Peter: Shit 

Y/N: can’t cook?

Peter: Yeah I live off protein powder lowkey

Y/N: LOL

Y/N: u have to bring smth tho… so u bette get in that kitchen 

Peter: Fine

Peter: If I make something tonight will u be my test bunny

Y/N: do i have to

Peter: Sorry babe u do

Peter: I’ll be over with the goods later

Y/N: are u gonna bring the food too?

Peter: Cheeky

November 14th

9:12pm

Y/N: yk u disappear a lot

Peter: I do?

Y/N: you do.. noticing things

Peter: Noticing what??

Y/N: shhhhhh

November 15th

6:07pm

Y/N: uhmmmmm is that Frank

Peter: Yes?

Y/N: wow 😍 u didn’t tell me how hot he was

Peter: Y/N.

Y/N: sooo is he single or what 🩷🩷🩷

Peter: Shut up 

Peter: He’s taken and about thirty years too old for you

Y/N: age ain’t nothing but a number

Peter: Ohhhh shit i just remembered he has to go home early actually 😔😔😔 Shoot!!

Y/N: LMAO

November 16th

7:12pm

Y/N: hey where’d you go we’re about to eat

Y/N: peter?

Y/N: are u seriously doing this again??

Y/N: are y gonna do this everytime I invite u to smth? In front of all my friends ?

Y/N: yk if u don’t wanna come next time just don’t show up 

November 16th

10:28 pm

Peter: Y/N

Peter: Can i come over?

Y/N: sorry I’m cleaning 

Peter: I’ll help you clean 

Y/N: I don’t need help

Peter: I’ll keep you company then

Y/N: peter stop okay 

Peter: I’m sorry Y/N 

Y/N: I don’t want any apologies 

Y/N: I just want some space plz I need to think

Y/N: I’ll talk to u later

Peter: alright

November 18th

9:07pm

Y/N: I’m gonna ask u smth and I want u to be honest with me

Peter: Anything yeah 

Y/N: and u cannot lie to me

Peter: I won’t I promise 

Y/N: and also dont freak out

Peter: I definitely wont

Y/N: are u spiderman?

Peter: what

Y/N: idk I’ve just been thinking about it and it makes so much sense

Y/N: you always randomly disappear when spiderman HAPPENS to be fighting someone halfway across the city 

Y/N: ur always getting beat up and then somehow like a day later ur completely healed??

Y/N: and u always leave ur house without leaving ur front door so i guess u use ur balcony which is about ten feet off the ground so how else would u do that

Y/N: oh and I downloaded that spider tracker app and he (you) is ALWAYS by our apartment soooo

Y/N: am I right? 

Y/N: peter??

Y/N: i can hear u moving around in ur place okay don’t ignore me

Peter: Can I come over?

Y/N: yes

November 19th

7:07pm

Peter: *image attachment*

Y/N: am I just gonna get spiderman selfies now?

Peter: Yes you are

Y/N: I think J Jonah Jameson will love these

Peter: Don’t even start

Peter: And you can’t lie this is sick 

Peter: Don’t I look so cool swinging all over the city 

Y/N: sigh I guesssss 

Peter: I’ll take u one day then you’ll see

Y/N: in ur dreams Parker 

Peter: That’s Spiderman to you

this is jsut smth short and sweet because im going on holiday tonight so!! Wont be posting for a week x

notice peter asking u to patch him up knowing he’s gonna be healed in like ten minutes…

peter Parker I wish u were real I wish

[hyenabrained]

they would

[pingo1387]

having a headache while hydrated is so unfair. you were supposed to protect me.

[hybridsheart]

hi i just want everyone to know that i will never ever EVER be angry with anyone for not replying to my texts even though you’re visibly online and reblogging/posting. i understand that holding a conversation takes a lot more energy and effort than scrolling and posting and that’s 100% okay. take care of yourself first. the whole idea that you HAVE to reply to someone when you’re online is toxic and makes mentally ill people feel as though they are bad friends just because they can’t always reply within minutes. 

[aurora-sadprose]

put down that c.ai thing and read y/n fics like god intended.