CW: Peter being an absolute HORN DOG & reader realizing Peter may have been hiding a serious secret
fluff and mentions of light smut ahead
again i’m writing at like 2am so sorry for any grammatical mistakes or typos!! <3
2 years, 5 months, 3 weeks, and 3 days.
That's how long you and Peter had been dating. Not that you were keeping count or anything. You had fallen for Peter, hard. He was your first serious boyfriend.
Peter was equally in love with you. He basically worshipped the ground you walked on. If the two of you didn’t have school and work, he’d probably spend every waking moment with you.
Recently, however, you noticed Peter being a little weird. His sleeping habits became sporadic, he began eating three times what was needed to sustain his rather thin frame, and most of all his sex drive was through the roof. You knew male puberty was rough but you could’ve sworn that part of puberty was over seeing as Peter had just turned 21.
Nevertheless, you found yourself being woken to the familiar grasp of your boyfriend
“Good morning, baby.” you felt him whisper into your ear.
You let out a small yawn, smacking your lips.
“What time is it?” you cried trying to shove your head further into your pillow.
"Early," he said, his arms tightening around your waist.
"10 more minutes," you whined, before feeling a slight bulge resting on your thigh.
"Peter...are you hard?" you said fully opening your eyes and turning to face the man who was holding you.
He let out an awkward chuckle.
"He just has a mind of his own," Peter joked.
You playfully rolled your eyes and turned your body to face his.
“Does the morning breath do it for you?” you joked. Peter nodded his head.
“Everything about you does it for me baby,” he said seductively leaning in for a kiss.
You smile, turning your face so he kisses your cheek rather than your lips.
“Let me at least get the crusties out of my eyes and brush my teeth sir” you say untangling yourself from his body and standing up.
“Damn, so you’re just gonna leave him hanging?” he says as you walk to the bathroom connected to your room. You laugh, answering his question .
He kisses his teeth. Soon you reemerge with your toothbrush in your mouth.
“Peter, we’ve had sex almost everyday…more than once actually,” you say trying not to spit any toothpaste out of your mouth.
“Like I said…he’s got a mind of his own” Peter blushes.
You roll your eyes. You walk back into the bathroom to finish brushing your teeth. You soon feel the silhouette of your boyfriend press behind you, forcing your body into the sink.
“My turn,” he says leaning over you to grab his red and blue toothbrush. You slide over, giving him space to use the sink. In doing so, your arm accidentally brushes the caddy that holds your makeup brushes in it. Before you even have time to process that the caddy is about hit the ground, your boyfriend quickly slides his hands underneath it, not only catching the caddy but also catching any spare brushes that found their way out.
You sigh in relief.
“Talk about lightning reflexes, babe,” you say impressed. Peter lets out a nervous laugh. You slipped out of the bathroom to begin getting dressed for the day. You slipped one one your socks and began to think about breakfast.
“Oh babe! you know what would be really good right now?” you said excitedly.
“Hmm, blueberry pancakes from Martha’s?” Peter said, almost reading your mind.
“No—wait yes…how did you know that?” you asked surprised. After almost three years together you could admit Peter did know you almost better than you knew yourself, however he was still a man at the end of the day. He had never guessed your craving on the first try like that.
“Lucky guess,” he shrugs.
The two of you finished getting dressed and made your way to car to get breakfast.
While at breakfast, you and Peter shared a plate of blueberry pancakes and some eggs.
“How is everything?” your waitress asked making her rounds. She was clearly stressed as Martha’s seemed to be packed this morning. The waitress was balancing four glasses on a tray.
The two of you nodded and gave your thanks. She smiled and began to walk to the table behind you. As she stepped, she tripped over her foot flinging both herself and the tray towards the ground. In the blink of an eye, your boyfriend who was once in front of you was now standing behind the waitress. Peter had caught both the waitress and her tray and somehow managed to keep all the glasses steady.
“Oh my goodness, thank you!” the waitress exclaimed. Peter rubbed her shoulder and took his seat in front of you. Your jaw was still agape.
“Okay Peter, what the actual fuck is going on right now?” you said.
Peter pensively pursed his lips. “Let’s finish breakfast first,”
The two of you quickly finished breakfast and Peter guided you out to the car.
He began pacing in front of it.
“Okay, what are the odds that you’ll believe me right now?” he started.
“Well given the stuff I’ve seen today, I’ll believe anything,” you reply.
He takes a deep breath before he explains.
“Okay so a few weeks ago when my professor and I went to Oscorp for our research project…I kinda wandered off and ended up in this really weird room..”
“Okay and?”
“…and the room was full of this equipment and spider webs. I think I got bit by some kind of experimental spider and ever since then I’ve had like spider powers.” he finishes
“…Spider powers?” you say in complete disbelief.
“This is like the funniest thing I’ve heard all week Pete” you laugh. His face remains completely still.
“I’m not joking babe.” he says in a monotone voice.
“I know it sounds unreal, I didn’t believe either until I started getting this tingly feeling before something happens—like your makeup brushes or the waitress falling, or even knowing what your wanted to eat for once!”
You scrunched your face.
“and I’m a lot stronger now babe, I’m so hungry all the time, and i’m sure you’ve noticed my libido…”
You couldn’t deny his last statements.
“Okay, show me.” you said quietly.
“Show you what?” he said confused.
“Show me your ‘spider powers”
Peter sighed and walked over to the car and picked it up. You stood there with your jaw on the ground.
“Believe me now?” Peter said in a snarky tone. You nodded.
“So…what now?” you whispered.
“I don’t really know…I haven’t thought that far yet. I couldn’t even figure out how to tell you until now.” he says, his gaze focused on the ground.
“Well…I guess we’ll figure it out together then, Spiderman” you said reaching for his hand.
“Spiderman…I like the sound of that,” he said smiling
~~•~~•~~•~~•~~•~~•~~•~~•~~•~~•~~•~~•~~•~~•~~•~~•
Hii!! I’m lowkey thinking of writing a prologue to this with smut so lmk what you think!! likes, reblogs, and comments are always much appreciated <3
→ premise: peter needed to test how strong the new formula for his web shooters is so why not get his gf’s help, and have a little fun with it. its not like he had millions of other more scientific ways to test its strength.
→ pairing: tasm!peter x fem!reader
→ warnings: smut | 18+, bondage [with peters webs], fingering, small edging, peter possibly ooc, nicknames [baby, princess]
→ a/n: kinktober 04
Sure Peter had plenty of other ways he could test out the strength of his newly formulated web fluid. But you were just so eager to help your boyfriend out, always asking him if there was something you could do. Sewing up gashes and holes in his spider suit, patching him up after a fight, etc. So why not enlist the help of his pretty girlfriend instead of testing it out the same old boring way he always did. Of course being unaware of his little scheme you innocently and sweetly said yes when he asked if you'd help him out with an experiment. That was how you ended up in Peter's bed, hands restrained together and stuck to the headboard with his webs.
His body was currently nestled between your spread legs, eyes roaming your body before fixing on your face. Your lower half is entirely exposed, the breeze from his open window nipping at your skin making you squirm. “This wasn't what I thought you meant when you asked for help, and I said yes Peter” you whine and buck your hips into his touch as his hands roam up your sides, rubbing and caressing your body. You can feel the cool metal of the singular web shooter strapped to his left wrist. “Oh this is fully what I intended when I asked baby, tug all you want, squirm all you want” he coos as he uncovers your breasts by pushing your shirt up to reveal them. “Need to test how strong the new formula is” he explains softly as his right hand falls between your open thighs, middle and ring fingers nudging open your slit and rubbing through your folds. Slick immediately collecting on the tips of his slender fingers.
With a sharp intake of breath you twist your body and try shifting your hips away from his hands. His free hand that has the web shooter aims towards your writhing leg and shoots webs that wrap your ankle tethering it to his foot board. “You sure this wasn’t what you intended, princess? You're so wet for me” he emphasizes his tease with a tilt of his head, smirking softly as his two fingers push at your hole.
You whine and push your hips back on his hand trying to get them inside you, your hole clenching at the small intrusion. “I missed you Pete, you've been so busy” you explain and look through your lashes at your boyfriend hovering over you, your eyes full of longing and love. “Awww well i'm here now baby” he leans down and presses his lips to yours just as his two fingers push knuckle deep inside you. You let out a short surprised moan against his lips as you kiss back greedily. You tug at the webs around your wrists, hands desperate and itching to touch Peter. “Keep tugging baby, try your hardest, you can do it” he mumbles into your mouth, his words both encouraging and mocking before humming when you whine in response. Goosebumps rise on your skin from the pleasure, his free hand coming to pin your hips down holding them still.
Pumping his fingers in and out of your leaking cunt, a sloppy squelching sound filling the room along with your muffled whimpers and moans. “Fuck!~” you let out a plaintive cry and pull away from peters mouth when his thumb is added in, stimulating your clit. Rubbing small circles on your bundle of nerves as his fingers speed up their movement, making your mouth fall open and your head fall back against his pillows. Your hands tug as well as your leg at his webbing, the action doing nothing to tear or unstick it. A heat spreading through your body, you liked this idea of him tying you up with his webs more than you could’ve guessed, the heat settling and growing in the pit of your stomach.
“Come on baby, i don't think your tryin’ hard enough to break out” he taunts as his long fingers find that spongy spot deep inside you and start abusing it, the rough pad of his tongue speeding up its circles. “Gonna have you cumming before you break the webs princess” he chuckles softly and leans down to kiss along the exposed column of your neck. Your head goes fuzzy from his mouth on you, his fingers ruthlessly thrusting inside you, the feeling of him all over you. “Can’t- I can’t do it Pete, i cant break em’ fuck- please baby im gonna cum!” you whine and cry out, your eyes squeezed shut as you teeter on the edge of your climax.
He grabs ahold of your chin and moves your head up the movement forces your eyes open, you stare into his deep brown eyes, his pupils blown.
“Not yet baby, the experiment hasn't gone on long enough, need to see if they break” his voice comes out sweet yet concedesing as he crashes his lips against yours to muffle your wanton moan.
Truthfully Peter had gotten enough information from all your squirming and pulling that he figured it was strong enough, he was just having far too much fun playing with his pretty girlfriend.
→ a/n: i havent written for tasm!peter in a bit so I feel like he’s possibly out of character ? Idk I felt rusty when writing him
shy tasm peter was meant to eat out the reader so he reads a bunch of articles and watches a bunch of videos and he even makes her squirt for the first time and he’s cocky about it
you absolutely can! frothing at the mouth rn. thanks for requesting 💌
Peter is naturally very gifted with an abundance of smarts, his brain always seeming to master skills and abilities completely foreign to him. And while he was a jack of all trades, his confidence in those said abilities tend to lack from time to time. His mind making him question if he was even any good at the things he claimed himself to be.
Extensive amounts of time and effort gets put into research and reading, doing whatever deems necessary to fine tune skills.
And while things with you were fairly new, he wanted to make a good impression in the bedroom department. Essentially, he wanted to impress you, show you things that may very well be new to you both.
Plans were made for you to stay with him this weekend, to spend a night or two at his apartment. There was no definitive talk on what was to happen, but you each knew what it would mean: two adults having their first sleepover as a couple. It was only common sense that it would lead to something more intimate.
Peter’s skills were fairly rusty, his knowledge and confidence on anything intimate seeming to pass with the love of his previous partner some time ago. And so for the days leading up to your planned arrival, he immersed himself in research and forums: relearning the female form.
He watched countless videos, all for educational purposes — spending hours on pornsites just to acquire as much information as possible. He really wanted to make this an enjoyable experience for you both, so to him, research was the way to go.
Peter took a considerably lengthy list of notes, jotting down tips and tricks and techniques to ensure he was confident in getting you off. Though it’s easier said and done. The tricky part was always putting it into practice, applying the knowledge when the time comes.
And so, now you lay on his bed, underwear discarded somewhere on the mattress, bare legs bent in the air as if to keep yourself exposed and available to him. It’s always frightening to present yourself to a new partner: worries of what they may think and say.
But with Peter, not once did you have those doubts. The way he simply is, is enough to distract those thoughts.
He’d admit, it was rather intimidating. Seeing in person once again just how complicated the female form is. It was almost enough to completely discredit the confidence in all that he’s learnt. But he prevails.
He itches himself closer, steady breath hot as it hits at your cunt. He’s slow, movements feeling calculated but really he’s just trying to remember the steps in the hazy panic.
He presses a kiss to the crease of your upper inner thigh, the soft, fluttery touch an effort to build you up slowly. His hands cup the backs of your thighs, wandering, needy fingers pawing and squeezing at the doughy flesh.
And so he presses another kiss, seering the act of affection into the other side, giving both sides similar attention. But between either thigh, there was something else that awaited his attention. Your pussy growing antsy with anticipation, a slight ache forming as he attends to the other parts of you — giving your thighs and ass cheeks the attention your cunt so clearly wanted.
Though you wait. You keep your hands clasped to your chest rather than the locks of his hair, not wanting to hasten or progress things too much, too soon.
His kisses eventually circle inwards and he places one to the centre of your folds, the light, brief moment of contact having more of an effect on you than you’d have expected. It was the attention to detail that caught up to you, the slow, timely movements allowing things to build up naturally for you.
He halts with the kisses for now and lines the expanse of your cunt with his tongue, trailing your folds up and down with the flat of the muscle. Unpointed pressure showing his lack of haste in the matter. He reaches your clit and his lips wrap around it, pucking yet another faint kiss.
But he doesn’t part from it. Instead it’s like he’s latched onto it, mouth covering the sensitive nub with gentle pressure. His tongue pokes out between his lips as he swipes at your clit, flat tongue flickering over it unrushed.
You release your firm hold around your breasts and instead place your hands atop his head, unable to keep yourself from touching him. Your fingers slot into the messy strands of hair at the front, antsy fingers simply using him as something to hold onto.
The silent act of tugging his hair is quite enough to egg him on further, to encourage him even. The way you seek him out was something he found rather endearing, erotic too. The way you sound is also quite the confidence booster, your airy deep full breaths wordlessly telling him that what he’s doing is working. That he’s doing something right.
He parts from your clit for a brief moment to kiss back down the length of your slick cunt, lips halting at the very bottom of you. His tongue sharpens as he begins to lick up you, the slight point curling up against your entrance with the movement. Though that's all it is. Nothing more comes from that little teasing dip into you.
He laps at your arousal only to spit it back onto your pussy, combining your juices with spit of his own. And it becomes apparent that he’s starting to grow lost in the act, freestyling and abandoning his intricate, mental step by step. Like a sense of pressure and worry leaves his shoulders as he listens to your pants, your bodily reactions continuing to tell him that he’s doing a good job.
Peter retracts a hand from the cheek of your ass, instead moving it towards your cunt. He lines over the mess of your folds with his index, trailing over the spit and juice and arousal as he itches it closer to your entrance. His lips and tongue resume their attention on your clit while his finger begins to guide into you. Easing in with no resistance at all.
He locates what he guesses to be your g-spot, the ridges and bumps of it later telling him that he’s correct. And so he starts to rub the pad of his finger against it, mimicking a ‘come hither’ motion.
And once again, your reactions guide him: fingers gripping tighter in his hair, breaths growing ragged and strained, hips winding, chest rising and falling. Every single one of your bodily responses coming from a place of deep, unwavering pleasure. His research didn't need to tell him that you were beginning to near your end, he could just feel it.
Many minutes pass with Peter repeating those few movements, the combination seriously altering the ability to control your volume. You whine and pant against him, the hands that once laid atop his head now sit on his shoulders, your force trying to push him away from between your thighs. The feelings of it all growing too intense.
But that’s not what you really wanted. You didn’t want him to stop and he knew that also.
You feel that pressure build in the pit of your stomach and without much time to prepare, you're writhing against him, an unfamiliar sense of tension accompanying. His finger acts as a plug inside you as he awaits the moment, only retracting when the time feels right. He pulls his index and lowers his mouth, relocating to the bottom half of your cunt — lining himself with you to swallow as much of your squirt as possible.
And once your convulsing and spasming subsides, he’s pressing soft, reassuring kisses to the inners of your thighs, making conscious effort to help you down easily. He adjusts and repositions himself, moving up the length of your body to hover atop you, face now close with yours once again. His cheeks blushing with pride.
His lips ghost yours and you taste yourself.
“That was so embarrassing,” you mutter against him, head turning away bashfully.
He maintains eye contact, his head tilting with yours as if to signify the importance of what he’s about to say.
summary : You've only been in love with 3 boys your entire life, all coincidentally named Peter Parker. But instead of confessing your feelings, you've written it all down in letters you've never sent .
The plan was to write it all down so that the all-consuming love you had for each of them no longer felt all-consuming.
You never imagined they would be exposed for the whole world to read.
warnings: 4.6k words. i know, ridiculous. and it's all just a mess of feelings and yearning ♡
notes: thought of a fic idea inspired by 'To All The Boys I've Loved Before' and ended up writing it :p doesn't follow the plot of the book/movie, only the concept of the letters. thinking about making a part 2 because it was too long to include everything hehe. hope you enjoy <3
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You remember the very first one you wrote. Your first love letter.
Although, it wasn’t a love letter in a traditional sense. It was a ‘I need you to stop consuming my thoughts, so I’m writing it all down on paper and then sealing it away forever’ kind of love letter. And it was never meant to be seen by anyone else’s eyes but your own.
You wrote 3 in total, and all of them were coincidentally for boys with the same name: Peter Parker.
You knew the universe had a funny sense of humor with that one. Thankfully, they all had nicknames to avoid any confusion.
The first letter you wrote was for Pete. He was a few years older, with beautiful blue eyes, perfectly combed hair, and a smile that was worthy of being plastered all over a dental ad. Pete was your classic boy next door, always riding his bike to school, the local Y.M.C.A to volunteer on the weekends, and to Joe’s Pizza for his after-school job. You met him when you signed yourself up for science tutoring sessions your freshman year. He was a senior then, and your tutor for that entire semester, but even after that, he would still always say hi to you in the halls.
He was sweet and soft-spoken and always encouraged you, even going as far as supporting you at the freshman science fair when it was senior skip day at school.
“You didn’t have to come, you know. You’re only a senior once,” you say bashfully, looking down at your display table to keep him from catching the heat rising to your cheeks.
“And miss out on you destroying your competitors? Not a chance,” he says, like it wasn’t a big deal. Like his attendance didn’t mean the absolute world to you. “I mean, biodegradable alternatives to plastic? That’s life-changing stuff.”
You chuckle, flashing him a grateful smile. “Well, I did have the best tutor. If it weren’t for you, this would be the 8th volcano entered today,” you say, and Pete laughs.
“I always knew you were smart. You’re capable of anything you set your mind to,” he says, and your heart swells.
You ended up placing second, and you’ve never forgotten the way he cheered for you when you were presented with the big blue ribbon. He even treated you to pizza afterwards.
It was almost impossible not to have a crush on Pete. He was perfect.
Right before he left for college, however, you knew he would take your crush with him. So you decided that the proper way to let him go was to write him a letter that you would never send.
Dear Pete…
And in that letter you described everything you felt for him. The way your breath caught in your throat every time he leaned in closer to you to gently correct an answer you got wrong on a worksheet. How seeing him clap and smile for you at the science fair made you feel like the luckiest girl in the room. How all of Midtown High was obsessed with him, but he still always had time for you, and it made even the hard days easier. You wrote until the all-consuming love you had for him no longer felt all-consuming.
You wrote your second letter 2 years later.
You met Peter in your second period economics class. He was a total boy genius, the first-place winner of your freshman year science fair. He knew the answer to every question, aced every pop quiz, and the worst part was that he was always humble about it.
Worst, because it was one of the reasons why you inevitably fell in love with him.
Aside from being ridiculously smart, he was also the kind of cute that made butterflies flutter in your stomach, with puppy dog eyes and fluffy brown hair. You would chew through pens just staring off at him during class, something that your friend, MJ, had to regularly snap you out of.
“You’re literally drooling,” she whispered to you, and you felt your face heat up as you tried to compose yourself.
You even went as far as joining the academic decathlon team that year so you had a chance to spend more time with him. The problem was, you sucked, but Peter, being the good guy that he was, never made you feel bad about it.
It started with him inviting you to ‘brush up on those decathlon skills together’ right before your club meets and soon turned to homework at the library, Star Wars marathons with him and Ned, and hitting up the bodega to split his favorite sandwich together every Wednesday after school.
On one particular Wednesday, you had sat together at a bench in the park, making up conversations and scenarios for the people who walked past you, a little game you both would play often.
“You see, I really must go; I left a pot roast in the oven, and it’s burning as we speak,” Peter says in a high-pitched voice, mimicking a lady who was pulling at her poodle’s leash, very obviously trying to eject herself from the conversation with a man beside her.
“Your pot roast? I’ve had it before, trust me, you're better off letting it burn,” you say in the deepest voice you can muster, voicing the man next to her who looked completely over the conversation himself, and you both fall into a fit of laughter.
Peter turns to you, eyes seemingly catching something as he leans in close.
“Oh wait, you got mustard on the side of your mouth,” he said, and you still remember the way his thumb gently wiped at your skin, a trail of heat left behind.
He stares at you for a moment, cheeks flushing before letting out a nervous laugh, shaking the strands of hair away from his forehead.
“S-sorry.”
You had to practically force yourself to wash your face that night. Wanting to keep his touch forever on your skin. You were absolutely smitten with him until the day he confessed to you.
“I like someone,” he says, and for a moment you think it’s actually you until you see the faraway look in his eyes and droopy smile on his face. “Liz Allan,” he says, and your heart breaks with it.
Peter asks Liz to the junior prom that year, and you decide that an unrequited crush was not how you wanted to spend the rest of high school. So you write him a letter to release him once and for all.
Dear Peter…
It details the very truth of your feelings for him. The way your stomach did flips whenever he smiled, how you admired the twinkle in his eyes whenever he passionately expressed his interests, the love you felt for him beyond just that of a friend. How you wanted him to touch your face again, the way he did that Wednesday afternoon at the park. All of it, until it was finally out of your system.
Your 3rd love letter, and your last, was written in your first year of college.
You had Peter B. for your photography class, but you remember first seeing him riding his skateboard towards the school building. When you entered the class, you pinpointed him immediately; Tall and effortlessly cool-looking, with a face that made him look like he could model if he wanted to. He wore an oversized army jacket, and you wondered what it would be like to wear it.
For how handsome he was, it didn’t seem like he knew it, because he mostly kept to himself. You and Peter B. didn’t interact as much, but in the moments that you did, it was all you could think about for days at a time.
Can I borrow a pen?
Hey, do you know when the next assignment is due?
I forgot my 50mm lens at my dorm; do you mind if I borrow yours real quick for this shot?
So maybe that last one was just you looking for an excuse to talk to him, but each interaction made your heart flutter. There was something about Peter B. that was mesmerizing to you. In the soft way he spoke, in how he skillfully glided on his board around campus, in his quiet wittiness.
Falling in love with Peter B. was unlike the past two Peters, because unlike them, it wasn’t fast and all-knowing. It was quiet and snuck up on you, like time or growth. In fact, you wouldn’t have even thought you were in love with Peter B. until one night, right before the holiday break. You were tipsy at a dorm party, and all the tightly pressed bodies and loud music made you queasy, so you stepped out of the building for some fresh air.
Your teeth shattered as your hands crossed over your arms, rubbing them up and down to create some kind of heat. In the distance, you spot something zooming at you. You raise a brow as the mysterious figure makes it close enough for you to distinguish them; Peter B. landed in front of you, foot extended out as he stopped his board. He pulled his headphones off his head and hung them around his neck.
“If it isn’t my pen savior. What are you doing out here so late, Mother Teresa?” he asks, and you spot a twinkle of amusement in his eyes.
“Shh, don’t blow my cover, but I’m actually undercover as a typical college student. The current assignment is to get drunk at a party inside of a dorm that’s too small for the amount of people stuffed in there. I’m taking it very seriously,” you say, and he chuckles, and you almost want to puke from how giddy it makes you.
“Noted. Wouldn’t there be something in the rules about not drinking on the job though?” he shoots back.
“Not if you’re the one who made up the rules in the first place,” you state with a wink, earning another chuckle from him and another stomach flip for you.
“Giving and funny. Careful, you're after my heart there,” he says, and you have to stop yourself from thinking you had enough liquid courage to say, ‘And what if I am? Would you give it to me?’
He spots a shiver run through you and immediately shrugs his jacket off, gently laying it over your shoulders.
And now you knew what it was like.
The action was soft and innocent, but it made your heart beat rapidly in your chest. He ended up walking you to your dorm after that. Or, well, you stood on his skateboard as he held your hand and guided you there.
Your hand felt like it was tingling the entire night.
You wanted to know more about Peter B., but sadly, you never had the courage to. That night was all you had to show for it.
So you wrote him a letter to put an end to it, as it looked like it would never begin in the first place.
Dear Peter B.…
It detailed the rush of emotions you felt for him. How the way he viewed the world through a lens left you in awe. How you craved more from him, but the lack of understanding didn’t take away from the beauty you already saw within. How he should really stop wearing his glasses on a whim because it made him look unbearably attractive.
And that was the last and final letter you wrote.
You were now a graduate of Empire State University and worked as a journalist for Vanity Flair, a pop culture and fashion magazine with an office located in the city. You lived in a two-bedroom apartment with your best friend since high school, MJ, and you were the proud owner of a fiddle leaf fig, regifted from your boss Ms. Felicia Hardy, who hated taking care of any living thing.
Another thing Felicia hated? Uninspired magazine articles. Which she now claimed all of the ones you had just pitched to her were.
“It’s not interesting. It’s not exciting. I want people to be inspired when they read our magazine. Not bored to death,” she spat, looking at her sharpened fingernails.
You process her words, trying to keep your composure. “I agree, Ms. Hardy. I was also thinking maybe I can write about trend predictions? Like how fashion moves in 20-year cycles and maybe the next style trends would be-”
“You know what people love reading about?” Felicia questions out loud, interrupting you unapologetically.
You remain silent because you knew she already had the answer.
“Love,” she answers. “I want you to write about that.”
Your eyes just about bulge out of your head. “Ms. Hardy, I-I don’t know much about that…”
“You know, you’ve survived 3 months here already, so I'm gonna give you some advice in the hopes that you can survive another day. What I want most out of the people who work for me is growth. This magazine is all about elevating yourself. I’m not hiring one-trick ponies to bring out whatever comfortable party trick they’ve mastered over the years. I want versatility. Just like the readers, I want to be excited. So either bring me something that does, or clean out your desk. I expect either decision by tomorrow’s morning meeting,” she states, and you can pretty much see your hopes and dreams burst into flames.
You can even picture a mini version of yourself screaming and running around with her hands up at the chaos, 4 years of student loans and a journalism major down the drain…
Well, there goes your future.
That night when you get to your apartment, you make a beeline for your room, ignoring MJ, who was cooking in the kitchen, the smell of something tomato-y filling your shared space. You push the door open and immediately flop on your bed, head first.
“Tough day?” you hear her call out, and you groan into your pillow.
You feel eyes on your back, so you turn over and see her leaning on the door frame, wooden spoon in hand. “You know what we said about wallowing. We’re not doing it in the big 2026 anymore. We’re adults now. We fix our problems. And…” she leaves the door for a moment, voice trailing, before returning with a bottle of wine. “We use wine to help.”
Getting wine drunk on a Tuesday evening was nothing new for MJ and you. In fact, ever since working for Felicia, you found yourself participating in it more often than not. But it was all in good fun, and MJ always made you feel loved and supported, and at the end of it you felt as carefree as the $8 grocery store wine could get you.
“Felicia is such a hardass. She acts like y’all are writing for The New Yorker or Foreign Affairs. You guys once had Ariana Grande’s dog as the cover for your magazine. Like, sans Ariana Grande,” she says, and you burst out in laughter, your wine glass jiggling in your hand.
“No, for real! Her expectations are absurd. She also couldn’t have picked a worse person to give this assignment to. I literally have zero experience with love,” you state, grabbing handfuls of chips from your shared bowl.
“Oh, come on. It’s not zero. You’ve dated a couple people,” she says, rolling her eyes at you.
You shove the chips in your mouth, messy as you shake your head and muster up a ‘Nuh uh’ before swallowing. “I mean. I’ve dated, yeah, but I was never in love with any of them. And the only times I felt like I was ever in love, like, for real, all I did was write them a letter. And I never even sent them,” you confess, the wine transforming itself into truth serum.
At this, MJ snaps her head towards you. “Letters? What?” she asks, intrigued.
You hiccup, nodding. “Yup. Like old-fashioned, handwritten, tied up with a bow and everything. To the three boys I’ve fallen in love with,” you say, licking the salt from your fingers.
“Shut up,” MJ says, arms crossed. “Proof or you're lying.”
You raise a brow at her. “Proof? Like you want me to pull out these letters?’ you ask, and MJ nods.
“Or else it’s total bullshit,” she says with a challenge.
You laugh, swatting the air. “Well, you’re in luck ‘cause I’m a memory hoarder and I’ve kept them after all these years,” you say, standing up from your cross-legged position on the couch. “One sec,” you say as you practically bounce over to your room, heading straight to your closet.
MJ laughs, yelling out a “No way!” from the living room as you open your closet door and stand up on your tiptoes, grabbing a shoebox from the very top. The shoebox was decorated in pink wrapping paper featuring delicate-looking white swans; An old elementary school Valentine's Day box you made to stick all your cards in.
You then race back into the living room and present the box to her. “Madam,” you say playfully as you bow and hand her the box.
MJ stares at you, hand over her mouth as she eyes the box. “Stop. You’re totally not kidding, are you?”
She takes the box from your hands and practically tosses the lid open. Inside were several cartoon Valentine cards from the past, but at the very top were 3 pastel colored envelopes. One was a light yellow, another a baby blue, and the third a soft pink. All three were tied in white ribbon and lace.
“Dudeeeeeeee!” she practically squeals, grabbing the 3 envelopes out of the box.
“Now why would you think I made this up? This is like real heart-yearning stuff. I've never told anyone about this,” you say, and MJ looks up at you.
“Oh my gosh. It’s like the plot of a rom-com. Letters to boys that you love? That you never sent?”
“You wanna know the worst part?” you say, biting your lip. MJ nods vigorously. “They all have the same name.”
“SHUT UP!” MJ yells, slamming her hands on her thighs.
You crack up at that, nodding as you flop on the couch, hands in your face, embarrassed. “Yup. I couldn't make this up even if I tried.”
“Wait, wat, wait,” MJ says, crawling over to you, head resting on the couch seat next to you. “Who are they?” she questions, and you shake your head.
“No, absolutely not.”
“Oh come oooooon. You can’t do that to me. You just gave me like the juiciest secret ever and only shared, like, half of it. You might as well just reveal the whole thing.”
You pry the hands away from your face and look at her. “Ok, fine. So two of them actually went to our high school. The first letter was to a guy who was a senior when we were freshmen. It was before you and I became friends. His name was Peter Parker,” you state, bracing yourself, because you knew that with one name, MJ would immediately figure out who the next letter was for.
MJ stared at you, wide-eyed, before collapsing dramatically on the floor. “Oh my gosh, oh my gosh. Peter Parker?! Golden boy Parker?? Shut up!” she says, and you squeal, both embarrassed and giddy at finally confessing.
You nod. “Yeah. He used to be my science tutor. He was a pretty great guy.”
“Wait, so if you sent a letter to Golden Boy Peter Parker, then that means,” and she lifts herself up like a zombie being resurrected, wide eyes on you. You form just the beginning of a nod before MJ collapses once again, yelling, “Lover Boy Parker!! OH MY GOSH, YES! You were literally drooling for that kid!”
You try to shush MJ through your fits of laughter, face on fire. “I know. I had it bad. So embarrassing,” you say, pressing the cold wine glass to your cheek in an effort to cool it down.
“Wait, so we have Golden Boy Parker, Lover Boy Parker, and… there’s seriously another Peter Parker on this planet that you wrote a letter to?”
You nod, biting your lip. “First year of college, a guy in my photography class. Peter. B. Parker,” you say, and MJ’s eyes look like they're about to fall off her head.
“That’s literally insane. Like, Twilight Zone level of insane,” she says.
You lean over and grab the envelopes from her hand.
“Golden Boy Parker, AKA Pete,” you say as you lift the yellow envelope up.
“Lover Boy Parker, AKA Peter,” baby blue envelope.
“And….” you pause, thinking for a moment before continuing. “We’ll call him Skater Boy Parker, AKA Peter B.,” pink envelope.
As you're now face to face with each envelope after years of storing them away, you feel the emotions rush back to you. There were only three boys that you’ve ever loved in your entire life, and it was like they were face to face with you now; each envelope holding a moment in time inside of them.
“Well, there’s your article,” MJ says, snapping you out of your nostalgia.
You look at her, brows furrowing. “What? Write about my letters? Isn’t that like… juvenile? Like for a sophisticated magazine like Vanity Flair?”
MJ snorts. “Vanity Flair. Sophisticated. Sure,” she says sarcastically before proceeding, “Anyways, this is juicy stuff. If Felicia was all on you about an ‘exciting love story’, this is it.”
You take a moment to process her words.
An article about love letters written to the boys of your past, who all share the same name, whom you've never even sent them to.
“And if you're scared about them finding out, though I doubt any of them would be spending their time paroozing through Vanty Flair, you can just keep the names out,” she continues, and maybe it was the wine or the way MJ was very persistent about this, but you jump out of your spot on the couch and fetch your laptop from your room.
To: VF Felica Hardy
CC: VF Editors
Subject: Love Letters I’ve Never Sent (Article Idea)
═════════════════════════════════════════════
The next morning you wake up hungover with yesterday's mascara crusted on your lashes and half a chip inside your shirt. Your head pounds as you shower and get ready for the day, tiptoing around a snoring MJ who had passed out on the couch after last night's escapades. You pour yourself a cup of coffee before a sudden memory makes itself known to you, and you gasp as you immediately fish your phone from out of your pocket.
There it was.
The email you sent. The one that detailed how pathetic your love life truly was. The one with pictorial evidence of your letters, so you couldn’t even say it was made up out of desperation.
Nope, you were just authentically that desperate.
You let out a deep breath as you closed your eyes, hoping and praying that Felica would be gentle with you when you entered the meeting room today. You knew she would rip into you for thinking that idea was even good enough to send to her at 1 am, let alone to cc the editors, a step only made when it was ready to be edited for publishing.
Your career at Vanity Flair was officially over.
You wondered if Felicia would ask for the fiddle leaf fig back. You grew to really like that plant.
You entered the meeting room that morning like you were walking to your death sentence. You were one of the first few people who arrived, so thankfully you wouldn't be eaten alive for being late as well. You watched as the rest of the staff trickled in, and finally Felcia, with her long white curls and another perfectly tailored business suit.
The meeting goes off without a hitch. Talks about the rollout for the upcoming issue, suggestions for future celebrity features, and details on next month's Vanity Flair gala.
No mention of your email.
You think it's some kind of miracle you were gifted. Maybe the universe did you a solid, seeing as you’ve dealt with so much already. But once the meeting is adjourned, and Felicia tells you to stay behind, you know why she waited till the very end; she wants to destroy you in private.
No witnesses. Smart move.
“Yes, Ms. Hardy?” you ask, acting like you had no idea whatsoever why she would want to talk to you.
Pathetic.
“So I got your email last night. At 1 am, was it?” she says, and you feel your stomach climb up your throat.
“A little unprofessional if you ask me. Lucky for you, however, I was riddled with insomnia and was going over my emails when lo and behold, I see a very interesting subject matter.”
Interesting, ok. Not a bad word. Not offensive or horrible or ludicrous. You could live with interesting.
“‘Love letters I’ve never sent’,” she quoted, an eyebrow raised as her eyes never left yours.
You braced yourself.
“Absolutely brilliant,” she says, after leaving you hanging for a few seconds, and you feel yourself immediately regain the ability to breathe. “It’s intriguing and authentic and just the right amount of sad and pathetic to reel people in. And most importantly, it’s exciting,” she says, a smirk on her lips, the closest you'd ever get to a smile.
You couldn’t believe it; MJ was actually right. You make a mental note to stop by the cafe after work to get her her favorite drink and pastry as a thank-you gift.
“I'm not going to lie, however, I was prepared for you to disappoint me. But you really came through with this article. So much so that I sent it to print expeditiously so that it can come out with this month's issue.”
You stiffen for a moment. Eyes wide. “Oh really? W-wow, that’s really fast. I mean, the issue is coming out next week.”
“No need to thank me. I mean, you did already tag the editors on the email. Something I would refrain from doing again in the future, by the way, but even you knew you struck gold here. Why wait a month when we can feed the hungry now,” she states, and you nod in agreement because whatever Felicia wanted, she got.
“Oh, and we’re keeping the names.”
And your stomach immediately drops. “I’m sorry?”
“Yeah, the anonymous thing just doesn't work for this story. And part of its charm is the fact that you fell for not one, but three Peter Parkers? I'm sorry, but that's the selling point of this article,” she states unapologetically, and you immediately gnaw at your bottom lip.
“So, you’re saying everything in my letters will be published in the magazine next week. Including the real names of the real people I wrote real love letters to?” you say out loud, trying to process the reality of it.
Felicia gives you a wink. “Get ready. You got a hit in your hands,” she says as she grabs the portfolios on her desk and struts her way out of the meeting room.
You remain in your seat, unable to move as you mentally go through a quick slideshow of everything that has transpired in the past few hours.
The feelings you kept hidden away in letters for years were now going to be exposed for the whole world to read in just a few days' time.
In honor of revealing the Spider-Man: Brand New Day spidey suit. Set in a universe where Tony lives and Peter still meets the other Spider-Men…
Peter, showing Tony with a spin: Isn’t it cool? I stayed up all night sewing it!
Tony: Of course it looks great, kid. I just wish you would’ve let me help. Still confused on how you managed to prick every single one of your fingers…
Peter: But, I wanted it to be a surprise! And I didn’t know if you’d be upset if I, uh… stopped using the suit you made me..?
Tony: Upset? It’s your hero costume, Pete. Anything you would’ve chosen would’ve been perfect. Or, y’know, close to perfect. Nothing beats the Red and Gold.
Peter: Pretty sure Spidey’s colors are Red and Blue? I mean… I think so? All my brothers had red and blue suits, so-
Tony, already mentally signing the adoption papers: Pause. Your who had what now?
Peter: Oh! Don’t worry, they’re from different universes.
