Andrew Garfield

The Adventures of Spider-Man and Moonlight

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

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

Word count: 3.1k

Warnings: violence, injury, sexual innuendos 

Chapter 3: Hot Dogs and Quesadillas

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He dropped her wrists and turned back to the city. 

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

“Spider sense.”

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

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

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

“That it’s gonna be a slow night.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m serious!”

“No.”

“Come on!”

“No way, Jose.”

“Just try it!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ll even autograph it.”

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

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

“Nah ones for Herman.”

“Who’s Herman?”

“My pet spider.”

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

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

This time Luna chuckled, biting into her hot dog. 

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

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

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

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

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

“I have a feeling it might scare me.”

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

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

“Not really…?”

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

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

“You started it!”

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

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

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

~~~~~~~

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

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

“See!” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I think so.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Okay so just hear me out.”

Spider-Man groaned. “Hell no.”

“Why?!”

“Because I know I’m gonna hate it.”

“No you won’t! You’re gonna love it!”

“I think it’s time I go solo.”

“Let’s go.”

“Yeah, I’m gonna regret this.”

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

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

“I look ridiculous.”

“I know.” She gushed. “It’s great.”

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

“You love me.”

“I really don’.”

“You do. Couldn't live without me.”

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

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

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

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

“I am indeed a quesadilla guy.”

“Knew it.” She triumphed under her breath.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I may never recover emotionally from the following paragraph

“My knight in shining armor,” you mumble, smiling into the crook of Peter’s neck as your head bounced against his chest with every step he took. “Peter - my Peter. You saved me.”

Doses & Mimosas

TASM!Peter Parker x Reader (f)

Warnings: college party activities, touchy creep, noncon touch, protective Peter Parker, durnk reader,

Summary: After seeing a video on Instagram, Peter rushes to Pi Kappa Alpha’s Spring Mixer in search of his friend.

—

Spring 2016

The entire frat house stunk of marijuana and hot beer as Peter made his way through the crowded rooms, hoping to find his only reason of showing up to this god forsaken hell hole in the first place - you. People were everywhere, it was one of the last parties of the spring semester, Pi Kappa Alpha’s iconic spring mixer.

“Hey! Have you seen my friend?” Peter yelled to one of his classmates, leaning towards where the man stood, drinking from a red solo cup as the music blared.

“Who?” The guy yelled back, cupping his ear closest to Peter as he squinted, clearly tipsy - maybe more. Peter rolled his eyes, pulling out his phone and showing his mate the Instagram video that sent him there in the first place.

It was a video of a crowd of people dancing in the very room Peter stood in this moment. He points at the corner of the video, directly to where you stood in the distance.

You were dancing, but not with the two friends you had brought along with you. A tall man stood behind you, seeming to grip your hips and forcefully dance-grinding on your as you start to pull away - clearly uncomfortable. And then the man grabs your jaw, pulling you in for a sloppy, forced kiss - your hands shoving yourself from his clutch. The stranger’s large hand wraps around your wrist as he yanks on your arm, just as the video ends.

It didn’t matter that it had been the tenth time he’d watched the video since seeing it on the frat’s Instagram story, Peter was just as angry as the first view. And more than anything he was concerned.

The guy looked at Peter, pointing to the ceiling as he slurred, “Saw that dude upstairs.”

“Thanks,” Peter says before beelining across the room, politely shoving past sweaty people as he reached the stairs. He stops, seeing one of your friends that you had originally showed up with making out with a person on the stairs - passionately shoving tongues down each other’s throats. Peter rolls his eyes, too annoyed to even bother to speak as he continues up the stained stairs.

Somehow the second floor of the frat house was even more packed. It was dimly lit, a smoky haze filled the wide hallway as Peter tried to tap into his Spidey-senses. He hoped to smell your perfume or hear your voice somehow through the loud music and chatter from the party.

And then he saw it, the tall stranger dragging you by the waist into a room and shutting the door behind him. Peter was over to the door in an instance, pressing his ear against it as he heard fumbling.

“Shut up,” he heard the man growl, followed by a muffled whimper. Your whimper.

Peter’s heart pounded in his chest as he clenched his jaw just as hard as he clench his fists.

“Stop saying that fucking name. My name isn’t Peter,” the man grunted. Peter heard his belt click. “And stop fighting me!”

Rage completely washed over Peter as he took two steps back from the door, kicking it open with ease. He steps through the doorway, wanting to scream as he saw the man from the video on top of you on a bare mattress. He was holding your mouth closed with one of his hands as he was fumbling with his pants.

“Hey man, don’t you see we’re busy,” the man stands up as he cranes his neck towards the door.

Peter quickly stalks towards the guy, fist meeting the stranger’s cheek before he can even turn around. The man stumbles, turning towards Peter and drunkenly punching at the air around Peter’s face.

Peter jabs the man in the nose - knocking him unconscious.

He walks over to where you laid on the mattress, drunk out of your mind as you sat up, wiping tears from your face as you adjusted your top, “P-Pete?”

Peter swallowed back tears, clearing his throat as he spoke, his voice shaky - “Are you okay? Did he - did he hurt you?”

You mumble something, trying to stand as you blinked lazily. Your hand braced on Peter’s forearm as you swallowed, feeling the room begin to spin as you started to slip into unconsciousness.

Peter caught you before you could fall, scooping you up in his strong embrace as you lay draped over his arms - head resting against his chest as he walks the two of you out of the frat house and into the night.

Air whipped around you as you stir, opening your eyes and seeing Peter’s ear and fluffy hair. You could smell his aroma, a scent that has comforted you for years now.

“My knight in shining armor,” you mumble, smiling into the crook of Peter’s neck as your head bounced against his chest with every step he took. “Peter - my Peter. You saved me.”

He blushed, adjusting his arms to better hold you as he tried to conceal his wide smile. “We - uh, we need to get you safe. What do you want to do? Go to your dorm?”

“I wanna - I wanna hold you…” you slur as your nose brushes his neck.

Peter knew you were saying that because you were drunk, but it still gave him butterflies. He laughed awkwardly, “You’re drunk.”

“I may be drunk,” you drunkenly proclaim, “But I do wanna hold you.” You sloppily wrap your arms around his neck, snuggling into Peter - finally feeling safe as he continued to walk, holding you in his arms. “Peter, I think I’m gonna throw up.”

——

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Chapter 4 of The Adventures of Spider-Man and Moonlight should be up tomorrow!

can I request shy reader who doesn’t really know how to say I love you and really wants to but she’s anxious and awkward and Peter says it all the time and she’s afraid that she’s not living up to his expectations?

that’s a lot but I’m just really feeling like I could use some Peter comfort after a long day of attempting to handle my feelings and live up to what i think other people deserve from me (which is way more than reality)

love you jade, all your fics make me feel so seen and not alone. they made me okay with a lot of things I’m super insecure about, mentally and physically and gives me a lot of comfort <3

hi I’m sorry I went a little low on the comfort part but I promise Peter is very understanding lmao ! ILY anon and I’m so happy to have you, please know the only persons expectations u need to live upto are ur own (and even then its not too high stales as long as ur happy)))!

"I love you," Peter says. 

You smile and reach for his wrist, rubbing your thumb over the fine hairs there. You hope it says I love you back but somehow you know it's not the same. You want to say it aloud; you do love him, you just can't make yourself. The words feel foreign. 

Ever patient, Peter pulls you towards him and dots a quick kiss in your hair. 

"Alright, see you later honeybee," he says warmly. You let his wrist go slowly as he pulls away, watching his back retreat up the steps of the ESU library. 

It's about two minutes before you realise you're still standing there. 

It doesn't feel fair. You know that you love him, and maybe he knows that you do – but he deserves to be told. Of course he does. You start up the steps before you've formulated a plan, through the double doors, up a flight of stairs to the quiet computer lab. 

Peter's thankfully right by the door. There's not many people, only one without headphones. You clear your throat and Peter looks up. He's pleased and then concerned. 

"Everything okay?" he asks quickly. "Y/N?"

You didn't plan ahead. You stand there in the doorway, take a hesitant step toward him. Breathing too fast to be casual.

"Peter," you say, very quietly. 

"Yeah, what is it?" he asks. 

He holds his hands out, twisting his chair towards you. You falter. If he gets his hands on you you're ability to speak will diminish by at least fifty percent and you need all guns blazing for this one. 

"You're freaking me out," he says. 

"I have to tell you," you start, and then stop. You worry you sound like you're gonna break up with him. Or that you have a secret family. It's awful. It doesn't sound like a proclamation of love. "Uh, I mean. Okay, I'll start again. I want to tell you, and I find it so hard but that's not because you don't make it easy to… to love you." You're mumbling, looking anywhere but his face. The last sentence is a slip up, you don't mean to say it like that. 

You take a shuddering breath. Your hands are shaking you're so nervous, so awkward, so afraid of embarrassing yourself that you've managed it thrice. 

You step into the reach of his hands and glance around to make sure no one's listening to your display of ineptitude. 

Peter takes your forearms into his hands, slides them down until he's clutching your elbows. 

You chance a glance at his face, find his lips determined in a flat line but his eyes betray his amusement, his fondness. 

"I love you." You feel sorry for how strange it sounds. 

"I know that," he whispers. He smiles so wide you think he might split his lip. His lips press together again like he's trying to contain himself, looking up at you with bright eyes. "C'mon, I know. Don't have to work yourself up so much over that." 

 "No, I do, 'cos you always tell me and I never tell you, and you should know because you're the best thing in my whole world," you whisper, incensed; angry with yourself in the depth of his kindness. 

"Honey," he says softly, "you're fine. You don't have to force yourself." Then, with a huge smirk, "It is awesome to be told, of course, but I already knew. So don't worry about it." 

You reach down to hug him and he receives you eagerly, a bone crushing, excited hug. Suddenly, the adrenaline of telling him hits you. "I love you," you tell him again. 

His arms crush you impossibly tighter. "I love you too. You're your own worst enemy, you know that? Don't stress so much." 

You let out an annoyed, grievous sigh, mouth pressed to his cheek. 

"You come all the way up here to tell me that? Or, let me guess, you want to practice linear equations with me?" he asks teasingly as you pull away, wagging his eyebrows. 

"No…" you moan, digging your face back into his neck. He chuckles and pats your back. 

"Poor girl. They get easier, I swear,” he says gently. You're not sure if he means proclamations of love or linear equations, but both feel like a lie.

V, girl, I don’t even know where to start with this! I have so many feelings about it like ugh the Sunflower nickname? Every time he called her that I melted inside. The way you used the flowers for the feeling to show the way their relationship was evolving was pure genius I’ve never seen anything like that before. Also these two:

 “Peter expects you to argue, to spit venom from your lips as he knows you’re perfectly capable of doing. So when your shoulders slump and your face falls, he feels his heart shatter because watching you close in on yourself like that is worse than anything he could have imagined.”

“See,” Peter responds cooly, running a hand through his hair, the other slipping into his pocket, to stop them from shaking, “When you’re making her cry like that, it does concern me.”

Yep just put me in a grave because there’s nothing I love more than some protective Peter Parker and you wrote perfectly from the the heart shatter to the shaking hands. Also him giving er her first tattoo? I’m obessed. You’ve done it once again lovely.

The Spider and the Sunflower (tasm!Peter x Reader)

Summary: The questions continue, long past twenty-one. The more you find out about Peter, the more you want to know—he tells you that if he found a hundred dollars on the street he’d donate it to a food bank and that the TL;DR version of his life is “Art, panic, loss, and student loans.” When he asks you if you have any tattoos, you wink coyly before laughing and telling him you don’t. Then, when you ask the person he’d love to tattoo more than anyone else in the world, he returns your teasing smile and replies that it’s you. -> or, tattooartist!peter meets florist!reader Words: 9.8 k (i'm sorry!) A/N: inspired by the incredible @pardonmydubstep whose idea this is entirely based on. her own AU will be dropping in April but y'all i've read it and it's brilliant. 18+ only fem!reader; cursing; mentions of: food, tattooing, cheating, debt, grief, drugs; implied masturbation; shitty boyfriends (not peter); arguing; peter and reader are both pining idiots; sexual innuendo; smut (fingering, oral, shower sex) inexperienced!peter; there's a whole ass plot in this; not proofread. please validate me.

wisteria for welcoming

The sign goes up on a Saturday afternoon, just as you’re returning from delivering bridal bouquets to three different addresses. Ink Trails. The lettering is unassuming; the logo, simple—a black spider with extended legs that give off the impression of dripping ink. Perhaps you’d been expecting something more…gothic or biker-esque, so you’re pleasantly surprised by the artistry of it, the delicate lines and soft curves of its insectoid body.

You stifle a yawn, air conditioning barely keeping your eyes from drooping, watching from the driver’s seat of your car as an older woman carries navy blue and grey throw cushions as well as large canvases filled with photography of various New York landmarks into the shop next door. Surely, she can’t be your new neighbour. She looks far too delicate, too quintessentially motherly to—you stop yourself from the pending judgement; you know it’s unfair and decide that you’ll have to introduce yourself.

“Hello?” You step delicately into the shop, hoping you’re not intruding, immediately noting the absence of a bell or chime to announce your arrival. Briefly, you cast your eyes around the interior of what had, up until last month, been a dry cleaner’s—it’s much more aesthetically pleasing now.

To your left is a small waiting area with mismatched wingback chairs and a small table strewn with a collection of coffee table photography books. A few titles stick out to you: Dogs!, Sneakers x Culture, and Hubble. It’s an eclectic collection, to say the least, but it stirs your interest. Behind the front desk, where you stand now, is an open area with two black tattoo beds, each beside a workstation with its own metallic cabinet topped with various tools and implements you don’t know the name of.

“Can I help you, dear?”

You glance over in time to see the older woman from outside come out of a private room at the back of the shop, her hair falling from the loose bun that’s tied at the nape of her neck.

“Hi,” you greet her with a small wave, using your free arm to balance the arrangement you’d popped into your own shop to grab before heading over here. “I own the shop next door—The Greenhouse—and I just wanted to stop in and say welcome.” You hold out the arrangement in her direction as she walks over smiling so warmly it reminds you of summer afternoons spent with your grandmother.

“That’s very kind, dear, thank you.” She takes the flowers from you and sets the vase on top of the front counter, right by a list of rules that begins with Tattoos are by appointment only. “Peter is lucky to have such a friendly neighbour.”

“Peter?”

“My nephew,” she explains, “This is his place, of course, I’m just here to help him tidy and get everything set up.”

As if on cue, a young man, about your age, stumbles through the door carrying a large box labelled Random Crap and sets it down on the counter next to your arrangement. He notices it and tilts his head to the side, an amused expression tugging up at the corner of his mouth.

“Flowers, May?”

He’s talking to the older woman, his aunt, and she purses her lips at him, eyes flickering toward you in something of a warning. Peter turns to look at you and seems to notice your presence for the first time. His gaze makes you run your suddenly clammy palms over the skirt of your sundress under the pretence of smoothing non-existent wrinkles from the bright yellow fabric. His honey-amber eyes dance with something like mischief as he notices your own eyes sizing him up. He’s tall, almost unfairly so, and lean, with broad shoulders and muscled arms that are on full display given the ribbed white tank top he’s wearing. Your eyes are instantly drawn to the characters that adorn his right bicep—recognizing them as Hebrew, but unsure what they mean.

“So, you’re the flower girl?”

His aunt—May—makes an exasperated noise in her throat and you’re certain she’s about to tell him to be nice when he holds out his hand. You notice the spiderwebs that are inked onto his knuckles, stemming up his hands and culminating on his wrists where they swirl into a stunning pastiche of photorealistic images and carefully lettered text.

You take his offered hand and can’t help but to notice the way the rough edges of his fingers slip into smooth palms. His handshake is gentle but firm, his larger hand nearly swallowing yours. You focus instead on the way his messy brown hair sticks up at odd angles as if he rolled out of bed looking that good.

“I’m Peter,” he grins, his index finger playfully tapping at your delicate wrist, “Nice to meet you, Sunflower.”

carnations for fascination

Peter doesn’t mean to watch you, but in the week since Ink Trails opened, he catches himself staring every time you’re out front of your shop, fixing up the planters you keep by the entrance. There’s something about you—something that makes him feel as though you’ve enchanted him; like you put some magic spell to ensnare him in the flowers that still sit, slightly wilted, next to his register.

It’s the swing of your hips and the way you smile kindly at him every time you cross paths. The way the sunlight catches in the silver rings you wear has him fixating on your fingers, on your hands. He remembers how tiny they were in his own on that first day and the memory sends his mind into a gutter full of shame and self-reproach. It’s not helped by the sundresses you wear, seemingly designed to test the limits of his sanity with their floral prints and their curve-hugging bodices and the way the breeze ruffles them around your thighs.

Yeah, he’s under your spell.

It’s been years since he felt like this—sure, he’s found people attractive, but he’s never been attracted to them—and he blames the way you carefully tend to your plants, gently pruning them and cutting away every bit that’s no longer growing, every bit that’s stagnated into something ugly that leeches off of all the good parts. He finds himself wishing you’d do that for him—take him into your arms and tend to all the things he wants to be, rid him of all the haunted thoughts that snake around him like suffocating tendrils every time he starts to feel happy again. He blames the splash of colour, like the petals of your flowers, that you are in a world that’s otherwise been black and white for nearly a decade.

Peter almost feels guilty. Because he shouldn’t be thinking of you in that way, shouldn’t be thinking of anyone in that way, not since he chose loneliness to be his most trusted companion. If you avoid falling in love you avoid the risk of getting hurt. Of having your entire life ripped out from under you like a rug. Loneliness is safe. So he watches from a distance, ever more fascinated each time you pop open the door to his shop to tell him good morning, a cup of coffee proffered, and to wish him a good night at the end of the day.

It’s the night nine days after he’s opened that Peter lies in bed, his phone buzzing with an Instagram notification. He checks it, sees that it’s from you—a request to follow his personal account. From your personal account. He accepts, too quickly perhaps, and returns the request and no more than ten minutes later he’s scrolling through your photos.

The two of you instantly followed one another’s business accounts, that was a given. But these photos are so very different than the ones of you posed with beautiful arrangements, floral walls, blushing brides and grinning grooms. Instantly, he regrets scrolling through them. It feels invasive to see you like this—laughing and smiling in the woods, on the beach, at Coney Island; living a life outside the confines of where his days intersect with yours.

Frustrated and confused by the needy feeling in the pit of his stomach, Peter tosses his phone aside, ignoring as it clatters to the floor. He tries to sleep, truly he does. But as his hands creep below the sheets, slide under the waistband of his boxers, he can’t get your smile out of his head.

lilies for disdain

Peter’s client tells him, in a quivering voice, that they feel lightheaded. Their partner, looking quesy, meets Peter’s eye as if to say do something. Sighing, Peter pauses in his work and goes to the back of the shop, emerging moments later with an oversized tub of sour keys.

“Have one,” he offers his client—and their partner, for good measure, “The sugar helps. And it’s good that you told me. We’ll take a few minutes and then try again, yeah?”

The pair nod and Peter smiles until something outside the window catches his eye. He sees you pacing the same four sidewalk panels with enough force to erode cement. Your ear is pressed to your phone and from this vantage point he can see the way you’re wringing your hands in the sleeves of your cardigan.

“I’ll be back in a minute, okay?” Peter says, “Just outside if you need anything.” He stands, slipping into the back room once more, quickly, to grab a bottle of orange juice for his client, before he takes the sour keys and heads outside, stepping into your path. It makes you stop in your pacing, but the conversation you’re having with whoever is on the other side of that call continues and Peter can hear the frustration laced in your voice.

“What do you mean? No. No, I specifically ordered the calla lilies. Eight dozen. For Friday. Are you not hearing me?”

Your hand has travelled up to the back of your neck and Peter can see the way your fingers are trembling. Smiling softly, he holds out the sour keys to you as an offering. You glance down at them and, without reacting, turn away from him to continue your pacing.

“Listen,” you’re saying into the receiver, Peter thinking he’s never heard you sound so firm before, “If I don’t have those calla lilies I will never order flowers from you again, do you understand?” There’s a pause in the conversation and Peter watches as your brows knit together, creasing your forehead. He finds himself wanting to pull you close and smooth away your worries with his thumb. “Yeah,” you mutter finally, “3 p.m.? Perfect. See you then.”

The call ends and you slip your phone into the pocket of your cardigan, noticing that Peter is still there, a large jar of candy held out in your direction. You feel heat rise in your body, embarrassment bubbling in your veins that someone witnessed you losing your cool, even if only slightly.

“Everything okay?”

Peter asks the question with such calm earnestness that your stomach lurches and you suddenly feel annoyed at him standing there, being so…goddamn chill and holding out candy like it’s supposed to make you feel better. You ignore the fact that all you need to do is reach out and grab a sour key, roll your eyes and laugh about shitty suppliers. Instead, you’re fixated on the way Peter is looking at you, like you’re some sort of frightened animal he needs to placate. It makes you feel silly, makes humiliation rise in your throat like bile, coating the words you spit out at him.

“Don’t worry about it,” you mutter darkly, fingertips pinching at the bridge of your nose to smother what is surely an oncoming headache.

“I know candy isn’t much,” Peter chuckles, “But in my line of work, sugar helps and—”

“It’s fine,” you snap, holding your free hand up to stop him from saying anything else. There’s ice creeping into your tone, a defence mechanism you’re trying desperately to melt. “And honestly, Peter, it’s really none of your business.”

He blinks at you, surprised, then licks his lips, holding his hands up in the universal gesture of surrender. “Okay,” Peter frowns, “Sorry I asked.”

You don’t reply, turning on your heel to head back inside, too shame-faced to look at him. Peter, never one to not have the last word, calls out to you with that damn nickname he always uses—the one that sends curls of delight coursing through your body, though you’d be loath to admit it. “Let me know if you do need anything though,” Peter says, eyes narrowed, “Like help getting that stick out of your ass.”

“Bite me, Parker.” You throw up your middle finger at his retreating figure, slinking back into your shop with tears in your eyes.

geraniums for folly

It’s a couple days before you see Peter again and you notice that the tattoo shop stays dark. Part of you is still annoyed at yourself for your behaviour earlier in the week, but you find yourself also worrying that he’s sick and wondering if you could get his number from the landlord so you could check in on him.

As it turns out, there’s no need.

You’re running late Thursday morning and are entirely frazzled, realizing only as you’re getting out of the car to open the shop that your jean jacket is mysteriously missing two buttons and the client who you’re rushing to meet had sent you an email cancelling while you were weaving in and out of traffic. Fucking hell. Sweat trickles down your spine, partly from the urgency you’d been feeling and partly from sheer frustration. You reach the door of your shop and remember that your keys are buried at the bottom of your purse.

“Hey Sunflower.”

You glance over at the entrance to the shop next door to yours, pausing in your fumbling for your keys. It takes all of you not to roll your eyes at the man standing lazily against the wall, a coffee in his tattooed hands. His easy stance, his soft voice—it’s like he’s entirely forgotten the last time you’d spoken to him.

“Hi Peter,” you mutter, going back to rummaging in your bag, trying to ignore his gaze, which you feel burning into the back of your neck.

“Need a hand?” His question is light, teasing.

“Not from you,” you retort, perhaps more harshly than you mean to. In an effort to soften the blow, you look pointedly at his fingers as they tap a frenetic beat on the paper coffee cup and try your best to sound cheeky. “With all the coffee you drink, I don’t know how you even manage to tattoo anyone.”

“That’s not very nice, Sunflower,” Peter mocks, a grin playing on his lips. His perpetual grinning drove you crazy—in more ways than you’d care to admit. “My hands are always steady…when it matters.”

His comment sends a shiver down your spine, makes you want to douse yourself in cold water. Thankfully, at that moment, your index finger loops around your keyring and you pull it unceremoniously from your purse.

hyacinth for jealousy

Peter isn’t thrilled when he finds out you’re seeing someone, a picture of you and a dark-haired man showing up on his Instagram feed and making his jaw clench. He wonders, with a stab of embarrassment, how long you’ve been with this guy and how much of a fool he’s made of himself by trying—and failing—to get your attention.

He’s even less thrilled when he meets the man in question, distaste instantly coursing through his veins as though he’s got a sixth sense to detect assholes.

It’s a rainy Saturday afternoon when a man in a well-tailored suit enters his shop. Peter glances up from where he’s working on a large dragon piece for a regular. He instantly recognizes the cold eyes and sharp angles of your boyfriend’s face, but he pretends not to, pausing in his work to greet this would-be-stranger.

“Hey man,” Peter gives a short, cordial wave, “Can I help you?” He notes, with some satisfaction, how the suit looks uncomfortable in his tiny shop with its buzzing needles and cheap furniture. Good.

“I’m waiting for the girl next door,” he says with an arrogant grin, “You’re Peter?”

Peter nods, rotating his stool back toward his client. “That’s me. You know Y/N?”

“Harry,” the suit introduces himself, “Y/N’s told me about you.”

Peter has to bite his tongue to stop himself from saying Funny, she’s never mentioned you because that would be petty. Satisfying, sure, but petty.

“You’re her boyfriend?” Peter asks casually, the hum of his tattoo gun hiding some of the bitterness that’s woven into the question.

“Recently back together,” Harry replies, hands in his jacket pockets, “I called, she answered kind of thing, you know?”

Peter nods, silent and tense because, no actually he does not ‘know’. He returns to his client, tongue poking out of his lips in concentration as he begins to shade the dragon he’s inking onto the man’s back.

“I have to ask, how’s the money in this business?”

Peter exchanges a swift glance with the man in his chair, who looks over his shoulder in disbelief, a knowing grin peeking out from under a bushy grey beard.

“Enough to pay the bills,” Peter answers vaguely. Sometimes, he tacks on as an afterthought, as if he hasn’t been sleeping in the back of the shop and showering at May’s. No designer suits for him.

daffodils for uncertainty

“Did you take these yourself?”

You’re on one of the wingback chairs in Peter’s shop, a blue pillow resting atop your thighs to cover your lap, the length of your skirt making you a little self-conscious.

Peter’s latest client has just left—a chatty young woman, clearly enamoured with the lithe man inking her ribs. You’d been sitting there long enough to see that even though she was stunningly pretty, Peter did not return her advances, either uninterested or entirely inept and picking up flirty social clues. The woman had shot you a withering look on her way out as if you were to blame for Peter’s aloofness. Whatever. You’d tried not to be bothered, but it was that icy glare that had sent you reaching for a pillow to hold over your legs.

Peter glances up from tidying his work station, following your pointed finger to a large canvas of the Brooklyn Bridge. A smile tugs at the corners of his lips, something like pride making his eyes crinkle with delight.

“Yeah,” he replies, a little sheepishness creeping into his voice, “I was super into photography for a while. They’re all mine.” Vaguely, he gestures around the shop and you let your eyes linger briefly on each of the canvases.

“They’re really good,” you smile, “You’ve got a good eye. Ever thought about doing wedding photography?”

Peter snorts at the suggestion and you cross your arms over your chest, somewhat miffed at his dismissal. If he notices, he doesn’t let on, instead standing from his stool and stretching. You try not to look at the stripe of skin that’s revealed as his arms go up over his head, his Henley riding up to exposing jeans slung low on his hips and a small, scruffy patch of hair below his belly button. You decide to change the subject, distract yourself.

“She was flirting with you, by the way,” you smirk, jerking a thumb out the window even though the woman was long gone. Peter shrugs, coming over to the front of the shop and taking the seat across from you. “What?” you continue, tone light, “Don’t tell me you didn’t notice!”

“I did,” he replies, nonchalant.

You narrow your eyes at him, then nod with understanding, a teasing smirk on your lips. “You already have a girlfriend.”

“No. I don’t.” The sharp tone of Peter’s words takes you aback and you mumble an apology, suddenly feeling a stab of guilt in your chest.

delphiniums for fun

The lights flicker once before going out entirely, shrouding your workspace in darkness and making you prick your thumb on a boutonnière pin in your surprise. Hissing, you stick the injured digit in your mouth for a moment, the taste of blood metallic on your tongue. It’s not worth complaining about, so you sigh and head to the retail area of the shop where sunlight from the street streams in through the windows. There’s already a line of cars on the road, the traffic light outage clearly causing problems.

You’re about to grab your phone to see what’s going on, but then you remember that it’s dead and you’d been meaning to charge it, but every little distracting task had led you to this moment.

Resigned to an unproductive afternoon break, you lock up shop and decide to check in on Peter, hoping his tools didn’t die in the middle of a sitting. Thankfully, you find him alone, scrolling through his obviously not-dead phone and it makes you smirk that Peter was more responsible than you.

You wave as you walk into the shop, taking a seat on the chair that you’ve unofficially claimed as your own. “The power’s out.”

“Really?” Peter scoffs playfully, “I couldn’t tell.” He looks up from his phone with an amused expression and quickly flashes the screen at you, something that looks like a headline briefly entering your line of sight before Peter is pocketing the device. “I think it’s gone two or three blocks out,” he continues, “So who knows how much time will pass.”

“Maybe it’s the apocalypse,” you joke, “And we’re the last two people on Earth.”

“If you expect me to make a let’s repopulate joke, I refuse to be so crass.”

“Such a gentleman,” you tease, heart skipping a beat when you notice the flush in Peter’s cheeks. You purse your lips, suddenly feeling guilty because you have a boyfriend and here you are flirting with your neighbour. Your handsome, kind, looks like his hands could wrap around your neck, neighbour.

“Let’s play a game. 21 questions?” Peter’s suggestion pushes through your thoughts and you let out a short huff of laughter, crossing your arms over your chest. You realize, all of a sudden, that you left your sweater on the chair in your workshop and it’s cold in Peter’s shop, prickly goosebumps forming on your skin.

“Absolutely not.” You giggle, running your hands over your arms. Peter notices and slips his Henley over his head in one fluid motion, tossing it in your direction. He’s left in an old Bowie t-shirt that clings to him in all the right ways. You catch the offered shirt and wrap it around your shoulders, too timid to wear it properly because that would be intimate, right? This is just a friendly gesture. One that smells of cinnamon and fresh baked bread with a whisper of disinfectant.

“I promise I’ll keep it PG,” Peter grins, leaning back in the chair opposite you. “I’m a gentleman, remember?”

“Okay, fine.”

He looks delighted at your agreement and feigns a thinking pose, elbow on this knee, chin propped up on his fist. You try not to stare at the vein you can see running down his bicep but your traitorous eyes will not allow themselves to be pulled away.

“What’s your favourite animal?” Peter’s first question is gentle and you can only hope he’ll keep his promise to not get too personal.

You think for a moment, flashes of adorable creatures running through your mind in a way that makes it impossible to choose just one. “Polar bears. No, tigers. Or maybe horses…”

Peter chuckles, clearly amused by your indecision and you playfully flip him off. “Shut up. What’s yours?”

“Spiders.” He answers without missing a beat.

“Spiders aren’t technically animals.” You pull Peter’s Henley more tightly around your shoulders, still basking in the warmth that it’s retained from his skin.

“And you’re not technically any fun to play this game with,” he retorts.

“Ask another,” you can’t help but to laugh, the sound of it contagious so that Peter is laughing too as he lines up his next question.

“Best place to get sloshed in Queens?”

“Easy,” you crow, “The Jar.”

Peter looks taken aback for a moment, until you realize he’s smirking and there’s something cheeky about to roll off his tongue. “There’s no way you’re cool enough to go to The Jar,” Peter teases and you feign affront, putting a hand over your heart.

“That’s very ungentlemanly, Mr. Tattoo Artist.”

Peter has the sense to dramatically sweep his hand across his forehead, jesting at penitence. “I’m terribly sorry, Madame Sunflower.”

“I’ll forgive you,” you mutter, tapping a finger on your cheek as you think of your next question. It pops into your head from a now-distant memory of the first day you met Peter. “What does the text on your arm mean? The Hebrew script?”

Peter smiles a little ruefully, his hand coming up to brush over the characters you’re referring to. “It says Ben,” he tells you, “After my Uncle. He and May raised me and when he died, it was…it hurt. But I know he’s with me all the time. I’ve got his middle name. Peter B. Parker.”

“I’m sorry,” you frown, sticking the tip of your index finger in your mouth, wishing you could take back the question, “I didn’t mean to ask something so personal.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Peter assures you, smiling wide, “It was a long time ago.”

The questions continue, long past twenty-one. You learn that Peter’s favourite colour is tied between blue and red, that his favourite food is his Aunt May’s latkes, and that he imagines himself to be very useful during a zombie apocalypse. The more you find out about Peter, the more you want to know—he tells you that if he found a hundred dollars on the street he’d donate it to a food bank and that the TL;DR version of his life is “Art, panic, loss, and student loans.”

When he asks you if you have any tattoos, you wink coyly before laughing and telling him you don’t. Then, when you ask the person he’d love to tattoo more than anyone else in the world, he returns your teasing smile and replies that it’s you.

And then the lights come back on and you’re thankful because the air between you and Peter had been starting to get warm and thick with something that didn’t fit well between just acquaintances.

“One more question?” Peter asks as you get up to return to your shop. You decide to humour him and nod, opening your arms as though inviting him to interrogate you. Peter bites his lip, surveying you for a long moment, eyes lingering on your exposed neck. “What do you see in Harry?”

The question surprises you, makes a cool sweat bead at the nape of your neck. You swallow heavily, chewing the inside of your bottom lip. “Peter…” you begin, though you’re not quite certain what words you want to say.

“I mean it, Y/N,” Peter sighs in earnest, “The dude is like every stereotype of a rich kid ever rolled into a suit and hair gel.”

He’s right. You know he’s right. Yet something inside you steels, armour coating your heart to keep it from beating too loudly. “It’s complicated,” you resign yourself to delivering an unsatisfactory answer. How can you possibly explain that you’ve been lonely and you want somebody—anybody—to make you feel less like you’re floating around in the world, untethered as you take the dreams and expressions of other peoples’ love and stitch it together with flowers and greenery. You want that love, want to be like a kite that has someone holding it down to earth, a safe place to return to after every flight.

And Harry has his flaws, you know that far too well—it’s ingrained in your memory with images of text messages and photos shared with other women and seemingly sincere apologies and a grand romantic gesture to ask for another chance. Those flaws nag at you while you try to sleep next to him at night, but you know if you try hard enough you can overlook them. Not forget them, but learn to live with them.

Or so you believed. But Peter B. Parker walked casually into your life with a shabby box of Random Crap and sent you spinning, dropping, scattering into the unknown.

Peter B. Parker, who shakes his head at you now, forehead creased. “It shouldn’t be complicated,” he whispers.

“I should go,” you sigh, “Thanks for the company, Pete.” You turn tail, almost afraid of looking at him for a moment longer, and exit the tattoo parlour.

It’s only when you’re back in your own shop, brewing a tea in the back room, that you realize you’ve still got Peter’s Henley draped carefully over your shoulders.

daisies for friendship

Your shop is closed on Mondays so you can recover from your busy weekends, but that doesn’t stop you from going by Peter’s place with takeout Pad Thai around noon, knowing he’s got a full day of sittings and that he likely won’t think to put anything other than coffee in his system. Because over the last four weeks since the power outage you’ve become Peter’s friend. And friends know these things about each other and take care of one another in ways that are perfectly fit for friendship.

Peter’s face lights up with gratitude at the smell of the takeout and he gives his client a break to come over to greet you, messing his fingers around at the top of your head.

“You’re amazing, Bug,” he grins, ravenously tearing open the paper bag and pulling out the container labelled Chicken, Extra Egg. Extra Peanuts.

“I prefer Sunflower,” you scowl, reaching into Peter’s lunch to snatch a slice of carrot. “Besides, you’re the bug, Spider-Man.”

Peter glances up at you, something sharp and pained darting across his eyes. You tilt your head to the side, concerned, the carrot you’ve been chewing going down sideways. “You okay?”

Peter nods, teeth favouring his bottom lip. “Just, uh, someone I know used to call me that, as a joke.”

“Ben?” You offer the name with a smile, knowing that Peter loves to tell stories about his late Uncle. You’d gone over to Aunt May’s for supper a week earlier and the two of them had reminisced until even you were in tears at the loving way they recounted humorous moments from the past.

But Peter shakes his head once, tersely. “Thanks for lunch, Sunflower,” he whispers. “I should get back to work.”

You nod, watching him walk back to his stool and put on a fresh pair of gloves. You slip out of the shop, and back in not ten minutes later while Peter’s back is to you, a small potted plant in your hands. You set it down gently next to the lunch Peter still hasn’t touched.

Two hours later, when you’ve gone home for the day and Peter’s finished with his sitting, he returns to his cold Pad Thai and shovels it into his mouth. Then, he notices the card attached to the spiny plant you left for him earlier in the day. Curiously, he opens and reads the tiny note scrawled in your hand: Aloe. For healing. The plant receives a special place of honour in the windowsill.

holly for defence

There’s shouting outside the shop and Peter abandons the dusting he’s been trying to get through all afternoon, the distraction not entirely unwelcome—until he sees what it is.

You’re standing in the doorway to your shop, the door propped open against your shoulder. A foot in front of you, Harry stands, rapidly losing his cool. Frowning, Peter steps out onto the sidewalk just in time to hear him berating you.

“—Ridiculous, Y/N, just calm down.”

“Don’t you dare,” you hiss, tears in your eyes, “I am not imagining things.”

“Y/N,” Harry’s voice is terse, angry, and Peter feels the same emotions welling up in his chest, his fingers digging into his palms as he forms loose fists. “You’re making a scene. Let’s talk about this later.”

Peter expects you to argue, to spit venom from your lips as he knows you’re perfectly capable of doing. So when your shoulders slump and your face falls, he feels his heart shatter because watching you close in on yourself like that is worse than anything he could have imagined.

“C’mon,” Harry urges, beginning to usher you into the shop. Peter worries that if he gets you in there and closes the door he may never see you again—not in the same way that he’s seen you up until now. He takes a few steps forward, squaring his shoulders.

“You alright, Y/N?”

Your eyes flit up, meeting his, and Peter notices your bottom lip quiver, the way your lashes become lined with more tears at the sight of him.

“She’s fine,” Harry snaps, “This doesn’t concern you.”

“See,” Peter responds cooly, running a hand through his hair, the other slipping into his pocket, to stop them from shaking, “When you’re making her cry like that, it does concern me.”

Harry rolls his eyes, muttering a curse under his breath before turning back to you. You cast a quick look at Peter and he gives you an earnest look. You’ve never seen him so avid, but you can’t do this—whatever this is. Not here. Not now. You look away, staring hard at the ground.

“Don’t worry about it, Peter,” you mumble, allowing yourself to be led back into your shop, “I’m fine.”

peonies for shame

The next day, Peter is outside his shop when you walk up. You offer him a small smile, a wave, but he turns away, heading inside his door without so much as acknowledging you. It stings, because you’re ashamed. Because Peter saw the worst and weakest parts of you and decided that you weren’t worth even a fake smile between friends. You allow yourself to cry your eyes dry in the flower fridge, emerging ten minutes later shivering and lost.

petunias for anger

“You didn’t sign for the delivery?”

You storm into Peter’s shop, not even caring if he’s with a client. Thankfully he’s not, instead sitting at the front desk, drawing something. He looks up at you as you enter, eyebrows knit together in a nonchalant way that makes you want to poke him in the eye.

“I was busy.” His voice is clipped, more professional than you’ve ever heard it before. That only makes you angrier and you cross your arms over your chest defensively, glaring at him.

“I’m going to need to drive an hour to pick up those urns! We made a deal!” Your voice is growing more hysterical with every word, rage rippling on your tongue. It was a little agreement between neighbours, made a week after Peter moved in—keep an eye on things when the other had to step out. True, it was more often than not Peter watching out for your storefront while you were out on deliveries, but a deal was a deal.

“Like I said,” Peter sits back in his chair, meeting your gaze with cool indifference, “I was busy. Maybe you should ask your boyfriend to help you.”

“Oh my god,” you hiss, “You absolute asshole!”

“I’m an asshole?” Peter lets out a forced bark of laughter, that insufferable grin on his lips though you find nothing about this funny. “Guess you need to fall in love with me, since asshole seems to be your type.”

You gape at him, astounded, mouth opening and closing once, and then again, before you let out a huff, exhaling loudly. “I don’t have time for this!” You turn to leave, anger coursing through you, but Peter’s not finished.

“You’re being so stupid, Y/N!”

You whip around again as his words make you blink in surprise, their harshness at odds with Peter’s soft face, his arrogant smirk gone and replaced with something you can’t quite name.

“Stupid?” you repeat, “Stupid?”

“Yeah, fucking stupid. You deserve better than him! Why can’t you see that?”

“Oh,” you laugh sardonically, eyes narrowing, “And what? You’re better?” Your brain is screaming at you to shut up because you know this is going to end badly and your friendship with Peter has been strained as it is, whittled down to nothing but genial greetings every so often.

“That’s not what I’m saying—”

“You’re insufferable,” you continued, words falling from your lips because you’re so angry that Peter’s ruined your day but more than that you’re angry that he doesn’t love you and that if he’d just ask you to be his you would. “You’re actually a true nightmare, Peter! You don’t like Harry, I get it, but you fucked up my entire day because of it. Do you know how childish that is? How absolutely ridiculous! And then you have the fucking nerve to call me stupid? I must be, for ever trusting you. For thinking you were anything more than—”

“Shut up.” Peter has barged out from behind the counter and has you backed against the door, his face inches from yours, anger suddenly extinguished, replaced by something softer. Longing? Need? Whatever it is, you know it’s the same expression that washes over your face as he puts a strong hand to your cheek, thumb running across the soft skin under your eye.

And then, without a word, he’s kissing you, his lips warm and rough on yours as if he’s trying to communicate with you in a language neither of you quite understands.

He’s kissing you. And it feels like you’re drowning but you don’t ever want to come up for air because you’re so light that you could float away but Peter’s hands, one grasping the back of your neck, the other coming to rest on your waist, are there. Tethering you.

And you’re kissing him back, your lips molten where they melt against his, tongues rid of all their sharp edges as they find one another, give and take and give again.

Finally, as your chest begins to burn, Peter pulls away, his breath still warm on your face, familiar now.

“You taste so good, Sunflower.” His voice is little more than a whisper. You make a noise in your throat, something quiet and desperate. Peter breathes out heavily, his hands still holding you, keeping you grounded. “Let’s go get those urns,” he lets a small smile tug at his lips. “I’ll drive.”

hyssop for sacrifice

Your storefront is dark when you pull up just after midnight, tears still stinging at your eyes but shoulders feeling unburdened for the first time in weeks. On the passenger’s seat beside you is a backpack haphazardly stuffed with items that had collected at Harry’s condo over the last two months—a toothbrush, shampoo, a sweater, a few books, and a bag of decorative stones you’d forgot you bought for a personal arrangement you’d been meaning to work on.

It had been a week since you kissed Peter; since he had kissed you. For the most part, nothing had changed between the two of you. His gazes lingered a little longer on you, a little more hopefully, but he never pushed, not after that day. For six nights, you’d tossed and turned, avoiding Harry’s place as much as you could in favour of your own. For six nights, Peter’s words had echoed in your head, bouncing between your ears as you restlessly chased sleep.

When did this become your life?

Parking your car, you grab your backpack and unlock the shop door, only switching on the small pink lamp you keep in the entryway. You probably should have just gone home, but you knew sleep would be elusive and your brain had been so sluggish this past week you were behind on paperwork. Now was as good a time as ever to catch up, right?

Before you have time to even settle in, there’s a knock on the glass front of the shop that makes you jump, but when you look up, you see Peter standing and waving at you with confusion etched on his face. You return to the door, flipping the latch and opening it a crack.

“What are you doing here?” Peter asks.

“Wedding,” you reply, the lie slipping easily from your lips, though you’re not quite sure the calm demeanour with which you speak reaches your eyes.

“Tomorrow’s Wednesday, Sunflower.”

“Right.”

“Why are you really here?”

“I, uh, I left,” you confess. “For good.” If Peter wants to smile or lay down an “I told you so”, he doesn’t let on, instead nodding gently as if he understands. “Why are you?” you ask, “Still here I mean?”

“I was sketching,” Peter shrugs, “Got lost in a design I dreamt up last night.” He pauses, taking stock of your red-rimmed eyes, the dark circles that stretch out under them, and your slumped shoulders. Tentatively, he takes your hand in his, his mind instantly flying backwards several months to when you first shook his hand. It almost makes him laugh to remember how cute you’d looked when he first called you Sunflower—all playfully annoyed, nose scrunched up. But it doesn’t feel like the time for laughter, not tonight. Instead, Peter squeezes your hand softly. “Hey, I’ve got a cot in the back of the shop. You can use it if you need the night. And if you need more than the night, I’m pretty used to falling asleep on my couch.”

You thank Peter and follow him back to his shop, looking around at the cluttered back room and realizing, for the first time, that Peter seems to live here. As though he reads your mind, he shrugs. “Rent’s expensive. And May keeps my bedroom the way it was when I was a teenager, for days when I need it.”

You nod and take a seat on the makeshift bed, the sheets cool and stiff beneath your palms. Peter stands nearby, watching you, not dragging his eyes away when you look up and meet his gaze—not this time.

“Do you have any weed?”

Peter snorts, surprised by the question, and cocks an eyebrow at you.“What, because I have tattoos, I must have weed too?”

You look slightly reproached and begin to mutter an apology. “That’s not what­—”

“I know,” Peter teases, turning toward the small cabinet where you know he keeps his candy stash. “I’ve got CBD oil—helps me sleep.” You glance at him, uncertain. “Anxiety,” he adds.

“Mind sharing?”

Peter smirks and grabs a small bottle and a stopper from the cupboard before joining you on the cot, the thin mattress groaning under the extra weight. “I’d be honoured, Sunflower.”

camellia for longing

“Hold your thumb just there.”

Peter obeys, sticking his thumb at the centre of a bow you’re tying, watching as you focus on measuring the ribbon’s edges just right. He has to swallow the impulse to lean over the arrangement he’s helping you finish and kiss you like his life depends on it.

The two of you have been at this nearly all night and Peter has long since figured out where to put his thumb, but every so often he enjoys having you remind him, guiding his hand to just the right spot. His mind wanders, thinking of all the other things he wants you to show him, all the other places he wants your hands to guide his.

“Peter?” Your voice calls him back to the present moment and, realizing you’ve finished with the bow, he smiles sheepishly at having been caught in his lewd thoughts.

“I want to take your picture,” he says without thinking, eyes going wide as the words tumble from his lips. You smile and Peter feels his heart skip a beat in his chest, his lips turning up at the corners.

“Maybe you can get some new ones of me for next wedding season?” You grin, sticking your tongue out as you strike a ridiculous pose that makes Peter roll his eyes before he shakes his head, suddenly serious again, quiet and composed.

“No,” he mutters, a red hue tinging his cheeks, “I mean I really want to take your picture.” He chances a glance up at you from under his lashes, shy smile still in place. “Get you all posed for me.”

There’s a hint of something suggestive in his words, at odds with the sweet and modest way that Peter’s hand goes to the back of his neck. You catch a glimpse of his eyes as they meet yours, their dazzling honey oozing with something dark and lustful. It makes you squeeze your thighs together under the table.

“And,” Peter continues, plucking an unused daisy from the pile of flowers you’ve been working through, “With you wearing nothing but this.” Gently, he fixes the flower in place behind your ear, his fingers brushing down your jaw as they return to his pockets.

“Peter—” you breathe, voice shaky. He looks at you, hope and hunger in his stare. In an instant, his lips are on yours, his fingers tangled in the hairs at the nape of your neck, tugging at them softly to tilt your head back so he can kiss down your neck, over your collarbone, each time his lips flit across your skin something in you coming undone.

With some effort you sweep aside the clutter from the table, leaving a free spot for you to prop yourself up on, Peter giving you some assistance. Then you’re pulling him close, legs wrapping around his waist, your skirt riding up to your hips. Peter’s hands wander down toward your thighs but hesitate to slip beneath your clothing, instead toying with the hem. You tug at his shirt and he obliges, pulling it off and exposing his chest, which is surprisingly bare of tattoos, save for one over his heart—a circle of delicate ivied vines, done in white ink. You reach to run your fingers over it, but Peter tenses, so you pause, looking up at him for a cue as to what happens next.

“Sorry,” he whispers, ghosting over your waist, “It’s—it’s for someone I lost.”

“It’s beautiful,” you reply softly. Peter visibly relaxes, his fingers wrapping around your wrist and placing your hand over his heart. You feel the steady rhythm of his pulse beneath his skin and you swallow hard, words failing you. Peter kisses the top of your head and for a long moment you both remain still, his chin resting in your hair, your forehead pressed to his abdomen.

“Peter,” you whisper, placing a gentle kiss on his sternum, “Come home with me?”

poppies for pleasure

There’s a trail of discarded clothes from the door of your apartment to the bathroom. You know Peter’s nervous, he admitted as much in the car ride back to your place, his fingers tapping anxiously on your steering wheel while you stared at his hands, imagining what they could do to you, squeezing your thighs together at the feeling of wetness dampening your cotton panties.

Truthfully, you’re nervous too. Peter is somehow beyond your understanding—so marked by loss and grief, yet so giving and kind. He’s sheltered his heart, allowed it to grow weedy and windswept, and now he’s allowing you in, asking you to turn the soil and sow something new.

This excited anticipation is what makes you suggest a shower, warm water excellent for soothing nerves, the small space intimate and dim.

Pressed up against the cold glass door of the shower, you finally take a moment to drink in the sight of Peter’s entire body, desire bubbling in the pit of your stomach at the sight of him, lean and muscled and looking at you like you’re the only thing in the universe. His cock is larger than you’d imagined it, pressed between you as he leans down to kiss you, nipping at the place where your jaw trails into your neck. It’s enough to make you gasp, fingers curling around his biceps, nails digging into the inked skin and leaving tiny crescent moons in their wake.

“C’mon,” you whisper, unwillingly letting go of him for a moment to open the shower door and turn on the water, adjusting the temperature. Peter takes the opportunity of having you turned away from him to run a hand over the curve of your ass, up to your hip where he squeezes, making you giggle.

But under the water, your bodies intertwined, the laughter you’ve shared up the elevator and across the floor of your apartment, turns into a series of groans, a mess of hands and lips exploring skin, eyes roving over unfamiliar landscapes of dips and curves and lines and scars.

Peter has you pressed flush against the wall and he’s kissing you hungrily, as if you’re his last meal—a sacrificial feast to be devoured with zeal. But his hands remain tentative, slipping gently over your boobs, fingers pinching your nipples with care, drawing lines down toward your navel over the curve of your stomach, dancing over your waist and your hips.

“Peter,” you whisper, voice hoarse, “Touch me.” He groans in your ear and you seize his wrist, guiding it to the achingly empty space between your legs. “It’s okay,” you continue, kissing his neck. Your free hand tangles in his hair and you relish the way his eyes flutter closed at the sensation. “Let me take the lead.”

He nods, watching intently as you place his middle finger at your entrance, moving his wrist back and forth a few times so he’s grazing your folds. “Feel how wet you’ve got me?” you sigh in pleasure, the feeling of his calloused fingertip sending a shiver of delight up your spine. “Now, go slow. Listen to what my body tells you, okay?”

“Yeah,” Peter replies, short of breath. He continues to run his finger gently along your core, then uses his index and ring fingers to spread your folds, making your breath hitch in your throat. The sound spurs him on and his middle finger slips part way inside you, swirling gently and making you bite your lip.

“That’s good, Pete,” you encourage him, “Fuck, that’s good. Keep going.”

“Yes ma’am,” he chuckles low in his throat, finger slipping the rest of the way inside you. Peter feels your cunt clench around him and groans at the sensation, imagining how incredible it’ll feel around his cock. It takes Peter a moment to find his rhythm, to find the right angle at which to hook his fingers to elicit that perfectly tight squeeze again, but once he locates it, once he makes your squirm, he’s relentless.

“Your thumb,” you whimper, “Peter…”

He swallows at the sound of his name falling from your lips with breathless pleasure and presses his thumb into you, rubbing gently. “There?” he asks, gazing up at you with hooded eyes. Your legs shake as you spread them a little wider, glad for the way Peter’s free arm supports you.

“Just a little—a little higher,” you whimper. Peter’s hand is careful and steady—though you suppose that’s part of his job—as he probes around until he hears the telltale gasp that tells him he’s found what he’s looking for. He sets a pace that has you keening, panting, crying out because you’re so close, but you can barely stand any longer so you grab at his wrist and make him stop. You want to cum for him, with him.

Peter looks at you with eyes blown wide with lust, lips swollen with your kisses.

“You’re so fucking pretty, Peter,” you whisper, enjoying the way he flushes in response, though that might just be the warm water that’s rolling off his body, making his hair stick flat to his head.

“I want you, Sunflower,” he moans softly, “Please.”

“I’m yours,” you smirk, slipping out of Peter’s grasp and gently prodding him toward the wall, his back against the cool tiles, yours now under the shower stream. You take your time sinking to your knees, kissing down his chest, letting his cock rub between your boobs and over your chin as you settle between his legs. With one doe-eyed look up at him and a quick wink, you take his entire length in your mouth.

“Fuck!”

You smile around Peter’s dick, perhaps a little wickedly, as you begin to bob back and forth, feeling the weight of him on your tongue. He’s too large to fit entirely in your mouth, his tip already hitting the back of your throat, making it clench, so you use two fingers to stroke the parts of him your lips can’t reach.

Within minutes, Peter is mumbling nonsense, his knees shaking. You pull your lips off him with a lewd pop and look up at him with wide eyes, a string of saliva still connecting your lips to his cock.

“You’re so fucking yummy, Peter,” you grin, “I’m just gonna swallow you up.”

“Fuck, Y/N,” he pants out, groaning loud as you run your tongue over the sensitive slit at the head of his cock. Then he’s sliding down the wall, unable to stand any longer, the feeling of pleasure that’s rocking through him too much. Once he’s eye level with you, you press your forehead to his and he kisses the tip of your nose.

“I want to fuck you,” he whispers, breathless.

“I know,” you coo, kissing him again, this time between his eyes, “Gonna let me be a good girl for you and ride your cock?”

Peter glances at you with darkened pupils, but there’s a spark there that tells you he acknowledges the importance of what you just said. He smiles, helping you shift so that you’re straddling him, hot water rolling down your back.

“You’re a goddess,” Peter breathes, rolling your nipples between his fingers, “So pretty and all for me.”

You run your tongue along his jaw, nipping gently at the shell of his ear before you whisper to him. “Tell me what you want, Peter.”

“Be a good girl and let me inside you, yeah?”

It’s your turn to whimper as Peter helps you sink onto his cock, its length stretching you out as your body shapes around him, already clenching at the pleasure of the intrusion. Peter throws his head back against the shower wall as you grip his shoulders, balancing on the balls of your feet as you begin to bounce up and down on his cock.

Peter’s a quick learner because his hand slips between your bodies, finding your clit again, drawing sloppy circles around the little nub as you raise yourself almost entirely off of him before sinking back down. After a few thrusts, Peter is fully sheathed inside you and your legs, tired and weakening, need a break. Peter whispers your name, his free hand coming around to cup your ass, helping you writhe back and forth on him. Your chests are pressed together and the closeness makes Peter’s patterns on your clit tighter and faster. You can feel his cock twitching, feel your cunt clenching around him and you know you’re close.

“Gonna cum for me, Sunflower?” Peter whispers and that’s all it takes for you to cry out in delight, your head in the crook of his neck as Peter reaches his own high, spilling himself inside you with your name on his lips.

roses for love

Peter is perched on your countertop, eating out of the peanut butter jar while you’re snacking on crackers straight from the box, making a mental note that you really need to go grocery shopping.

“Remember that sketch I told you I was working on? The one from that night?” Peter asks, licking the spoon clean before shoving it back into the jar. You nod, tossing a cracker at him, which he catches deftly, smearing it with peanut butter before sending it back in your direction. “Do you want to see it?”

“Fuck yeah,” you exclaim, “I’d absolutely love to.”

Excitedly, Peter jumps off the counter and goes to retrieve the sketchbook in his bag by the door. It’s been a few weeks since you’ve officially considered him your boyfriend, but this is the first time he’s showing you a piece that he’s created himself—one that hasn’t been commissioned by a client.

You wait eagerly as Peter flips through the pages of his book before stopping, running his fingers over the paper, that frenetic tapping ever present. Then, he holds the book out to you and your jaw drops, as does the cracker you’re holding in your hand, falling to the floor.

On the page, there’s an incredibly life-like sunflower, its petals large and swirling, its face detailed with speckled seeds. Wrapped around its proud stem are gossamer strands, a spider dangling from their ends.

“Peter,” you breathe out, “It’s stunning.”

“It’s for you,” he replies quietly, “If you ever trust me enough to let me ink you.”

You roll your eyes, picking your cracker up off the tiles and throwing it at Peter’s head.

sunflowers for adoration

Peter flips the sign on his shop door to Closed. He doesn’t want any interruptions for this. The blinds are closed and it’s just the two of you under the fluorescent lights. You’re in Peter’s chair, in your underwear, a freshly shaved spot on your upper thigh rubbed with numbing gel and stencilled with Peter’s beautiful sunflower design.

“Remember,” he tells you, kissing each of your knees in turn, “Tell me if you need a break.”

“It’s been a year,” you snark, “I haven’t needed a break from you yet.”

Peter scowls playfully at you, returning to your knees, this time to scrape his teeth over their surface, making you giggle. His lips flit up your inner thighs and to your clothed core, kissing you there once, ever so softly.

Then he’s straightening his back and he’s all business once again. “Ready?” Peter asks, grabbing his tattoo pen.

You nod, smiling as you look at your boyfriend in his element. He’s already marked himself into your heart permanently—it only makes sense to have him etched into your skin as well. “Ready.”

when can we except the HP piece

Working on it right now bestie! I’m thinking sometime Tuesday afternoon if all goes according to plan

My first mutual! Can i request Peter walking in on you playing guitar and singing and he didnt know you could sing???? And he’s floored???? Thanks!! 🥺 - justnotforbread🕸🍞

A/N: thank you for this request I loved every second of writing this! Hope you like it!

Beautiful Stranger

Y/N was someone who was naturally very artistic and creative. Classes would be spent by drawing little doodles in her notebook or on whatever piece of paper was on her desk at the time. Teachers would often discourage it, knowing it meant that she hadn’t been paying attention at the time. She took art as her elective several times over even though she had been encouraged by school counselors to branch out and try other things. She always customized whatever she could to her liking, especially the things she wore on her body. Her room had been a wall of posters and art she made and photos of things she liked and people she looked up to.

She had a notebook full of little thoughts she had and poems of all kinds. There were some poems about her parents and some about whatever boy she was crushing on at the time and some about how hard life was. It wasn’t until her later teen years that she started writing songs.

They were purely for her and used as her own creative outlet as well as a form of therapy. The navy blue notebook that she kept these songs in was buried in her backpack and hidden under the mattress, never wanting her parents to find it.

It wasn’t until she was nineteen and moved out that she picked up her first guitar at a small thrift store. It was older and had more than likely seen quite a few hands but she was drawn to it. Her little song writing hobby could become a song making hobby and she could do something with the dozens of songs she had written over the years.

Learning how to play had been harder than she thought it would be but she persisted, spending nights playing the same three chords over and over again until she had them down to a muscle memory. Deep Purple’s Smoke on the Water had been the first song she learned and was able to play without messing up once and that fueled her to persist with the goal of being able to craft her own song.

Months later and she was sitting on her bed, making her own music and writing down the chords as she went so she wouldn’t forget. More songs came after that and she kept them in the same navy blue notebook she’d had for years that was specifically reserved for songs lyrics, and now the music to go along with those lyrics.

Singing was something she enjoyed as well. She knew she could hold a tune but she didn’t think she was the best singer or anything, and it didn’t matter. She sang for herself so to her it didn’t matter if she wasn’t amazing. It wasn’t like American Idol was in her future dreams. So she never sang in front of anyone except her childhood cat who happened to be in the room when she was singing.

There had been a couple years that she went into a lull and didn’t write as many songs as she once had, especially not after her guitar was stolen when her apartment was broken into while she was at school one day.

Then she met Peter Parker.

Peter with those eyes that reminded her of fall leaves and warm sweaters and baked goods and his hugs that made her feel like she was stepping out into the sunlight and the way he called her sweetheart in the middle of the night when he was getting into bed after patrol and she was half awake and welcoming him into their bed. Peter with his desperate need to do good and a hero complex that was so strong it put the weight of the world on his shoulders. Peter who kissed the tip of her nose when it was red from the northern cold and woke up early before her to make her coffee for her so that it would be ready when she woke up and always let her have the last Oreo.

Peter Parker had y/n writing songs again. They ranged from the way he made her wanna crack her chest open for him and give him her heart and how he was like a sun drop that slipped from the sun itself to light up her world and how his pleasurable touch made her wonder if that was what dying felt like. Some got specific like the one titled His Jacket about the night they went out and she didn’t bring a jacket but got cold and he gave her his green one. It had been far too big on her and the sleeves went past her hands but it was so warm and smelled like him. It made her feel oddly safe even though he was right next to her and she hadn’t wanted to take it off. When he wasn’t home she would sometimes wear it and just feel so warm and safe. Some weren’t as specific and more about their relationship in a broad sense, going on about how they would sometimes just look at one another and know what the other was feeling. Some of the songs were proper songs with three verses and three choruses and some were quite short with just a short verse and a chorus and a repeat of the chorus once more before ending.

It was late February when y/n got her tax refund and she eagerly made her way to the pawn shop down the street after work, buying a used acoustic before heading home to the empty apartment. Peter had plans to go on patrol right after his work day was done due to a serial rapist who had started upstate and in the last few days made his way down to the city. It had kept Peter up at night. She was worried about him but trusted Spider-Man to make sure Peter Parker came home to her every night.

As soon as she was home she was grabbing her notebook and fishing a new pick out of the pack she had just bought and made a workspace out of the living room floor, notebook out and open.

The feeling of the strings on her fingertips was so familiar but still a little out of place. It was like visiting somewhere that you once frequented but hadn’t been there in years so it felt different yet the same all at once.

Forming the song only took a couple hours or so before she was running through her first play through. It took a few more run-through's before she felt comfortable with the order of the chords.

After a short break to get a drink and make dinner, she was sitting back down and putting the acoustic back in her lap, pick between her fingers. She knew it was getting late but she felt like she was just getting started and she knew Peter wouldn’t be home for a while longer.

Peter landed gently on the fire escape, not wanting to wake y/n if she was already asleep. It wasn’t very late but she was known to have early nights and be out by ten so on nights that he didn’t know if she was asleep already he was extra quiet.

Slipping in through the unlocked bedroom window, he found their room empty but he had already heard her moving around in their living room when he started opening the window. Sliding past the curtain, he was in the bedroom and closed and locked the window behind him before taking off his mask.

He had had an early night, catching the upstate rapist much earlier in his shift. He had been trying to catch the guy for the last week and finally got him before he could ruin another woman's life. He felt relief in knowing he wouldn’t be going to bed that night wondering if the serial rapist was out there and hurting someone. Spider-Man had made New York a safer place for at least tonight and that would grant Peter a good night's sleep- if just for tonight.

As Peter was heading to leave the room, he heard the strum of a guitar and stopped, listening and wondering why he was hearing a guitar. He only counted one heartbeat so it wasn’t someone else playing. It had to be y/n.

The strum turned into a song and he took the remaining steps to be able to see out into the living room past the corner. Y/N was sitting on the floor with an acoustic guitar in her lap, looking down at it and fingers moving nimbly across the strings.

Leaning against the door frame, Peter watched and wondered why she had never told him she knew how to play. How had they been together for an entire year and he didn’t know this about her? The guitar had to be new because she didn’t have one before. He had personally moved most of her stuff when they were moving in.

Peter’s breath fell from his lungs when she started to sing.

“I grab your hand and then we run to the car, singin’ in the street and playing air guitar. Stuck between my teeth just like a candy bar and I wonder if it goes too far to say I’ve never recognized a purer face. You stopped me in my tracks and put me right in my place. Used to think that lovin’ meant a painful chase but you’re right here now and I think you’ll stay.” She sang.

He was just in awe; he was wonderstruck. Her voice was so soft and so beautiful and steady and he hated that he hadn’t been graced by it for the last year. Then there was the matter of the lyrical content that made his heart feel like it might turn into goo. It was absolutely her own original song that was about them because a couple months ago they had been at one of y/n’s friends’ parties and they were leaving when a song that they both loved came on. The music was so loud they could still hear it from outside and had jammed out to it together, air guitar having been part of that. It was one of his favorite moments in time with her and now one of his fondest memories.

He didn’t understand why she was working her current nine to five job when she had this talent.

He tried not to be a little hurt that he didn’t know anything about this but he also knew that he had hidden Spider-Man from her for the first six months. He couldn’t exactly judge her.

“Oh we’re dacin’ in my livin’ room and up come my fists and I say I’m only playing but the truth is this: I’ve never seen a mouth that I would kill to kiss. And I’m terrified but the truth is this: I said beautiful stranger here you are in my arms and I know that beautiful strangers only come along to do me wrong. And I hope, beautiful stranger here you are in my arms and I think it’s finally, finally, finally, finally, finally safe for me to fall.”

Peter’s eyes pricked with tears as he leaned against the door frame, throat tight and wanting nothing more than to drop to his knees in front of her and kiss her so hard that it would be able to make her feel what he was feeling which was awe, astonishment, adoration to name a few. He was also incredibly overwhelmed by how beautiful she was; sitting there in that black NYU hoodie that he knew she’d gotten on her first day with a strand of her hair falling in her face from the bun that was piled on her head and her face clear of any makeup and singing about she felt safe enough to fall because she knew he would catch her. He would always catch her. At the end of the day his most important job was protecting her. Spider-Man meant nothing if he couldn’t keep y/n safe. The final strum made him wipe at his glassy eyes and he eyed the blue notebook that was open in front of her. He had seen it a couple times but assumed it was something to do with work like a planner or a calendar. It apparently harbored every feeling she had ever felt about him, about them.

Not wanting to startle her, he breathed her name.

Still, she jumped and her head whipped in his direction. “Jesus.” She gasped. “What the fuck are you doing home so early?”

“Finished early tonight. Thought I might come home and try to see you before you went to sleep.”

Y/N was silent for a moment before nodding. “How long have you been standing there?”

He smiled fondly. “Long enough to hear the most beautiful song I’ve ever heard in my life.”

Y/N groaned and buried her face behind her guitar in her lap.

Stalking forward, Peter sat across from her. “Why didn’t you tell me about…any of this?”

She looked up, ears red with embarrassment and lips pursed. “I’ve never shared it with anyone.” She shrugged. “Not even my parents. It’s something I do for me and when I met you…I was more inspired than I ever have been in my life. I may not be the best singer or songwriter but it’s so therapeutic.”

Cupping her face, he brushed the strand of hair away with his thumb. “I feel like I should have paid admission to see that that’s how beautiful your voice is. And that song? You wrote that?”

She smiled sheepishly. “Wrote it the morning after Anna’s party. You were still sleeping and I just…you make me feel so safe, Pete.”

“Well, I am Spider-Man.” he chuckled.

“That’s not it. I know you’re not gonna break my heart. I just know it. I don’t know how but I do. You have no idea how many songs I’ve written about us and-and about you. Last year this thing wasn’t even halfway filled and now it’s only got a few blank pages left.”

He closed the gap and kissed her hard in a mismatch of lips and the need to show her how much he loved her in a way he could. He didn’t know how to make a song but he wanted to so badly in that moment just so she could truly understand how he felt about her because what he just heard made him know truly how she felt about him.

“Play it again.” He breathed against her lips.

“I’ll play it as many times as you want.”

I don’t think you understand how just gosh darn slap your knee excited I am for this

Bro I woke up sad af - BUT imma write a fic where Peter busts down a door at a party saving reader from a handsy jerk. I’m very excited. Protective Peter does something to my insides….

Also, happy Friday!

Do you have a best friend too? I did. You did? He died in my arms… after he tried to kill me.

just andrew in the background of this conversation

The Adventures of Spider-Man and Moonlight

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

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

Word count: 1.2k

Warnings: none

Chapter 3.5: Too Cool to Be From the Moon

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

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

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

“It does.”

“Heathen.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Just answer the question, Spidey.”

“Tequila.”

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

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

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

“You’re actually joking right?”

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

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

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

“Yeah.”

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

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

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

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

Moonlight stared off at the city. “Florida.”

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

“What?”

“I sleep like a baby.”

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

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

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

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