The Sun Is A Blue Moon

Omg your Peter Parker Hogwarts Au 🥺 I love love love it! Can’t wait for part 2 💛

Thank you bb 🥺 made my morning to read this I’m really hoping I’ll have part 2 up within the week I finally hammered out exactly how I want it to go I just need to start writing it

When I tell you I am OBSESSED with this like she’s everything and so cute? I love her? And Peter punching that jerk in the face for her? Just bury me and write on my tombstone that this was my cause of death

Here Comes the Sun 2/3

Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 3

Summary: Peter somehow is roped into a second date with Miss Sunshine. Why is it everything she does

Warnings: AFAB!reader, language, talk and description of depression and anxiety.

"So how was your date?" May asked. 

Peter didn't know why he thought May would say anything else when he walked in. He was hoping he could avoid it. Avoid talking about his date with Miss Sunshine. 

It was bad enough that she had started sending him good morning texts. Peter didn't understand how anyone had enough energy at six in the morning to send texts filled with emojis and a daily fun fact. 

Though he was finding the facts interesting. 

"It was alright," Peter shrugged as he continued to help unload the groceries. 

"Just alright?" May asked. Peter nodded his head. He could feel her stare burning into his skin. 

"Wow Peter, she must be pretty alright if you're going on another date tomorrow." 

"How did you-" 

May just smiled, "She told me. I asked her how the date went last night, figuring I'd get a more honest response." 

"Somehow she's never been to the night market in Queens. I'm just doing my duty as a resident to fix that," Peter explained. It was the truth. He wasn't doing this because he had a crush on her or anything. That would be ridiculous. 

Right? 

May shook her head, the smile remaining on her face, "I knew you two would get along."  

"We do not get along. I tolerate her and she thinks every other thing I say is funny," Peter defended. 

"Sounds like you tolerate her enough to spend more time with her." Peter wanted to say something snarky, something defensive in response to May's comment. 

But his mind was drawing a blank. So he just continued unloading the groceries and putting them away in the kitchen. 

"She's very pretty, isn't she?" May didn't even wait for Peter to respond. His red face was enough. Peter ignored her, hoping that would be enough to silence her. 

"You two would have the cutest kids. Especially if they get your hair and her eyes." 

"May, are-are you s-serious?" Peter sputtered, "We've been on one date!" 

“Well you’re gonna have to start thinking about it sooner or later Peter. I’m not gonna be young forever and I’d like to at least play with your kids." 

"I'm not responding to this," Peter muttered as he put the milk away. He stuck his head in the fridge, hoping the cool air would bring his body temperature back down to a reasonable level. 

He also hoped it would distract him from the image he had of a small child with soft brown hair and bright, familiar eyes that had popped into his head and was refusing to go away. 

"It's really warm out," Peter commented as he closed the door to the fridge. 

"Peter, it's sixty five degrees," May remarked. 

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How did he get here? 

Peter kept asking himself that as he walked up to her door. He had agreed to meet her at her place this time. 

What was he doing? He couldn't remember the last time he went on a second date. What were you even supposed to talk about? Why did it feel like there was more pressure now compared to the first? 

No, it couldn't be pressure he was feeling. Because feeling pressured would imply that he was nervous, that he wanted the date to go well. 

And that wasn't definitely not the case. It was probably something he ate. Maybe even May's cooking. She probably got distracted from talking about Miss Sunshine so much and didn't cook the meat all the way. 

Maybe he would get sick and he could leave early. 

Peter knocked on the door to her apartment. Within (what felt like) seconds, the door opened to reveal the dreaded woman of the hour. 

"Y-you l-look nice," Peter said before he could stop himself. It was just a pair of overalls and a T-shirt. It made no sense for Peter to be thinking about how pretty she looked. 

Granted, he could acknowledge she was pretty, right? Acknowledging you found someone good-looking doesn't mean you liked them. 

Right? 

She smiled, "Thanks. You shaved!" 

Peter put his hand on his cheek upon hearing the observation, nodding his head. He figured it was time for a haircut and a shave. It was bothering him. 

That was all. Nothing more.   

"You look good. Both shaved and unshaved," She quickly added. 

"Thanks," Peter mumbled, his hand finding its way to the back of his neck. He was hoping that by wearing a T- shirt, he wouldn't feel so warm. 

It wasn't working. 

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"So how is it you've never been here before?" Peter asked. The two were walking around the night market, taking in all the sights. Her eyes were perpetually widened ever since they arrived. 

She looked at him, shrugging, "I've only lived in the city for about three years now. And out of those three years, two of them were spent on just trying to get a fresh start and adjust." 

"A fresh start?" Peter found himself asking. She nodded her head. 

"I'll spare you the details-unless you're truly curious- but before moving here," She sighed, "I was working at a toxic, shitty place and on top of that was in a shitty relationship." 

"Oh," Peter was stumped at how she talked about it so casually. 

"Yeah, those two years I was telling you about? Where I didn't want to smile? Was too busy debating whether to crash my car on the way to work. It got to the point that I…quit my job, broke things off with my ex and asked my Aunt if I could live with her until I got back on my feet. And you know, went through a lot of therapy." She stopped walking to look at Peter, "I'm sorry, that was a lot of information to dump on you all at once." 

"No, it's…it's okay," Peter gave a small smile, hoping to reassure her. 

 He was jealous. Jealous of how she was able to talk about it so casually, like it weighed nothing. Like it didn't keep her up at night. Like it didn't affect every single decision she made. Didn't weigh on everything she did, every move she made. 

"Thanks," She smiled back, "Wanna go check out this Arepa stand?" 

It was like she knew that he needed a distraction. She motioned towards the vendor. Peter nodded, catching up with her. Not wanting to lose her (and face May's wrath as a result), he grabbed her closest hand.  

She stopped moving, looking down at Peter's hand and then back up to him. A small, knowing smile began to form on her face. 

"I forgot to bring the kid leash." Peter explained, as if that was sufficient. It should have been, in Peter's mind. 

"Okay," except the sly smile on her face was telling Peter she didn't believe him. 

"Look, I wouldn't have to worry if someone had eaten all their vegetables and grown a few extra inches." 

"You can't find me with that giraffe neck of your's?" She remarked back. 

Peter stopped, putting a hand over his heart, feigning shock and offense.  

"What if I told you I was super self conscious about that? I thought you were supposed to be sweet." He was unable to contain the grin on his face. 

She leaned in (or in her case, up) to Peter, "Who says something sweet can't have a little bite to it?" 

Peter felt hot all over his body. He looked down at the ground, not wanting to make eye contact.    

"You're really cute when you're flustered," Sunshine giggled. 

Nope, that was it. Peter had to put an end to this now. 

"I….I'm not flustered!" Was the best he could come up with.  

"Whatever you say, Parker. Now let's get an Arepa!" She began walking with him, still holding his hand. 

"You do not make me flustered," Peter mumbled, kicking a nearby rock. 

"I just make you feel hot and fuzzy inside, right?" Peter stopped dead in his tracks. How did she know?  

As if Miss Sunshine could read his mind, she remarked, "I feel the same way. Even when you're being Mr. Grumpy Gills."  

"Mr. Grumpy Gills? That's the best you can do, Miss Sunshine?"   

"It's what we call the stuffed fish we have in my classroom when we talk about different feelings," She explained, hiding her smile at his nickname for her. 

He could leave now. He could make up some excuse. Or Peter could just bolt out of there-wouldn't be the first time. He could leave and never speak to her again. 

He could go home, back to his apartment. Back to dodging dates from May. 

Back to being alone. 

Normally, that thought wouldn't bother Peter. He had become used to it. It was familiar, normal for him. It was safe. 

Not being alone for one night couldn't hurt. Right? 

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"These questions are all horrible," Peter laughed before taking a sip of his drink. 

"That's because you refuse to answer them!" She giggled, motioning to her phone. The two were sitting down, eating their Arepas. She had suggested twenty questions, as a way to learn more about each other.  

Of course, he found something wrong with the questions. Too deep. Too shallow. Too ridiculous. Too confusing. 

"Alright, I think I have one," She put her phone away, "Do you have names picked out for your kids? Like what would you want to name them?" 

"Why do you keep asking questions related to parenthood?" Peter asked. 

"Because it's important to me, and I see you smile whenever the idea of kids are brought up." 

Peter rolled his eyes, though the smile remained on his face. It disappeared once he realized that he had never thought about that. After Gwen….he assumed that opportunity was gone. 

Gwen. 

He braced himself for the gut wrenching feeling that would start in the pit of his stomach, then bubble up to his chest and throat-

"You okay?" Peter snapped out of his thoughts as soon as he felt her hand on his wrist. 

"Huh? Yeah, yeah…just never uh…thought about it," He quickly explained. 

Huh. That feeling was gone now. That was new. 

She smiled gently, "I can go first?" Peter nodded his head. 

"If I had a girl, I would name her Sophia. Call her Sophie as her nickname. Call her Sophie-Soph when she's a baby and a teenager," She grinned. 

"She's gonna hate that as a teenager, you know." 

"I'm aware. It's how I'll embarrass her when she's a moody teenager. You gotta start thinking of how you'll embarrass them!" She tapped a finger to her temple, earning a laugh out of Peter. It was then Peter noticed that whenever he laughed, her nose would scrunch up and the corners of her eyes would crinkle. 

Weird. 

After the laughter settled down, Peter spoke softly. 

"Benjamin." 

"Hmm?" She looked at him, as if she couldn't believe he actually gave her an answer. 

"If I had a son, I'd name him Benjamin….after my Uncle," He said softly.

She nodded her head, her eyes sad despite the smile on her face. Peter figured if she knew May, she knew what had happened. Or had been told the non-Spiderman version. 

"I've always liked that tradition," She said softly. 

She was good about comforting and assuring people. Peter would give her that. 

"Next question?" He asked, trying to force some lightness into his voice. 

"Favorite ice cream flavor." 

"These questions are all over the place." 

"I'm following up a deeper question with a lighter question! Now what's your favorite flavor? I went first last time, so it's your turn." 

"Raspberry sorbet." 

She snorted, "that's not ice cream." 

"It's close enough. Besides, you probably think mint chocolate chip is good." 

Her silence as she looked down told Peter the answer. He was about to make another joke when he noticed the shift in her body language. The smile was gone and her eyes were narrow and hard. He knew that look. 

A memory had been brought up. One that unpleasant and she'd rather not think about.

"Hey," Peter said, his voice now soft, "Sorry about that. I can see why folks like it, it just reminds me too much of toothpaste. But I shouldn't have been a dick about it." 

She giggled, the light slowly returning to her eyes, "Sorry, my….my ex gave me shit for that all the time." 

"He gave you shit over your favorite ice cream flavor?" Peter knew he wasn't perfect, he wasn't the living embodiment of joy. But he wasn't that bad. 

"He gave me shit for a lot of dumb things. And then would comment on how it made him sad that I had such low self-esteem," The chuckle she let out was bitter and cold.

"Wow that is….some strong cognitive dissonance right there," Peter paused, "I'm glad he's your ex." 

She looked at Peter, a soft smile on her face, "Me too. But he's part of the reason I spent my first two years in the city in therapy rather than going out and exploring. I had to figure out why I stuck with someone like that for so long." 

"And now you're on a date with me?" Peter blurted out. He wasn't trying to be mean. He was just confused why the living embodiment of sunshine was on a second date with him. 

"You're not a jerk, you're just guarded."

"I thought I was Mr. Grumpy Gills?" He said, wiggling his eyebrows, which got a genuine laugh out of her. 

"Again, you're not a jerk about it. I mean, besides that one time at the very beginning of our first date. But then you stopped," She said, smiling at the memory. 

"Well, I still feel like I was a jerk back there about your favorite ice cream flavor. So can I get you some to make it up?" He asked. 

"I would love that!"   

"You gonna stay in that spot?" Peter asked, grinning. 

"Pinky promise," She held out her pinky,  "What? It's a big deal in first grade."

"Yeah, I remember. That's probably the last time I did one." She continued to hold out her pinky, her bright eyes on Peter. 

"Fine," Peter mumbled, gently hooking his pinky around her's, "But only because I forgot to bring a balloon to tie to you." 

"I need you to know that I only tolerate your short jokes because they're clever," She told him, leaning in. 

"Oh please, like I would use 'what it's like down there'. I hope you think better of me than that." 

She leaned in, the scene of lavender filling Peter's nostrils, "I do." 

"Oh."

Peter lingered, his pinky still wrapped around her's. It was then he noticed how soft her lips looked. Which, in Peter's mind, was a weird thing for him to notice. Why did it matter if her lips looked soft? 

He needed to get up. All that sitting was doing something weird to his brain. 

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Peter turned around, ice cream in hand.

She had stayed in her spot, but she wasn't alone.   

Some random guy was standing next to her, trying to strike up a conversation. Her body language had totally shifted.       

It was cold, her eyes narrowed and looking away, avoiding eye contact. 

Through the crowd, her eyes found Peter's. He knew that look. He had seen it too many times while out on patrol. 

Help.

He was pretty sure he dropped the cup of ice cream. Not that he cared. His eyes were locked on her, refusing to look anywhere else. His stomach was all in knots. 

It lurched when that piece of shit gripped her arm when she tried to walk towards Peter. He knew where this was going. He had stumbled upon that ending one too many times late at night, the visceral image seared into his brain. 

That was not going to happen to her. 

Peter ran, all but shoving people out of the way. He caught a glimpse of the frightened look on her face and that was enough to justify grabbing the creep by the neck of his sweater and throwing him to the ground. 

"Touch her again and I won't be as nice next time," He spat, turning towards her. 

Peter softened when he saw how her hands were shaking."Are you okay?" He asked her. He reached his arms towards her, ready to pull her in and never let go, when the hairs on his neck stood up. 

Peter turned around, thankful his right hand was still balled into a fist. He pulled that arm back, releasing it as he turned around. His fist made perfect contact with the creep's jaw. In a way, Peter was thankful for the terror that was coursing through his veins. It was the only thing that was holding him back from using all his enhanced strength. Sending the guy right back to the ground was enough. 

"When I said I wouldn't be as nice, I meant I'd break ya fucking neck!" He stepped forward, ready to lunge at him, when a small, soft hand grabbed his wrist. 

"C'mon, let's get out of here, okay?" Her voice told him. 

Peter didn't remember moving to a more secluded spot. His brain was too busy playing images of what could have happened to her-had he not gotten there in time- over and over again. Every scenario that was played ended in him being responsible for her spilled blood. 

The air felt heavy, the weight making it nearly impossible to breathe. His heart was thumping against his chest. 

Peter wanted to sit down. But also stand up. He felt like he was going to throw up. He leaned over, his hands now on his knees. It felt like he was drowning, desperate to reach out for anything-

"Peter?" He looked up towards the calm, steady voice. 

"Are you okay? Did he hurt you?" Peter repeated over and over. He couldn't trust his own eyes. 

"Peter, I'm fine. You saved me back there." 

"I saved you?" Peter had a hard time believing it. 

"Yeah, you saved me. And then you almost broke that dude's jaw, which I honestly don't blame you, I was ready to-"

"I saved you?" She tilted her head in confusion at his question. Then her eyes softened. She didn't know the whole story, the truth of what actually happened at the clock tower. But even with the official cover version, it became clear why he was having a hard time believing it. 

"Yes, I'm fine. See?" She took one of his shaking hands and put it over her chest. He could feel it beating, confirming his eyes weren't playing tricks on him. 

"Your heart's beating fast," He whispered, his eyes locked on the hand she was holding.

"Because I'm worried about you. You're having a panic attack," She said calmly. 

"H-how do you know?" 

"Because I used to have them all the time. I mean, I still get them occasionally," she explained, like it was no big deal. Like Peter didn't feel like he was dying.      

"Just breathe with me, okay? You want me to tell you a story to distract you? Sometimes that helps me." Peter nodded his head at her offering. 

"Alright, geeze what story," She looked down, trying to think, "Oh!" Her eyes immediately lit up. Peter was certain if she was a cartoon, a lit lightbulb would have appeared over her head. 

"So, when I was five, I had a huge obsession with mermaids. Like any movie or book that had to do with mermaids, I consumed it. So at the beach my family went to, there was this women's boutique. Like, think beachwear your fifty year old Aunt from Jersey would wear." Peter found himself chuckling at the description. 

"So the store was called the Mermaid's Jewel and I would beg to go there. Not for the clothes. My mom and Aunts hated the clothes there, they thought they were so tacky. But I begged to go because it had Mermaid in the name and outside of the store was this really gaudy statue of a mermaid. I'd talk about the store so much, my family started calling me MJ. And that's how I got my nickname. Well, at least my family's nickname." 

Peter smiled, "MJ, huh?" She nodded her head. 

It was then Peter noticed that he could actually take in a breath of air without feeling like he was suffocating. He looked down and saw that his hand was still placed over her chest. He quickly pulled away, hoping that by looking away she couldn't see how red his face had become. 

"How ya feeling?" She asked, "Better?" 

"Yeah, you're…..you're really good at that," He admitted. Usually when that happened, he would just sit or lie down until the feelings passed. Sometimes it would take minutes. Sometimes it would take up to an hour.  

Peter didn't know how much time had passed since punching the rando and the end of her story. But he didn't care. 

"Thanks. I mean, I just did what I like to do when I have them. Everyone's different. I'm honestly surprised you let me touch you," She admitted. Peter didn't blame her. He hadn't been the most affectionate. 

Besides holding her hand. And that was just to make sure she didn't get lost. 

"Do you…..wanna get out of here? We can go back to my place?" She offered. 

"You….you still want to continue this date?" Peter blurted out. As soon as he said it, he knew how ridiculous it sounded. Miss Sunshine just coached him through all that. If she wanted to leave, the time to do so would have been when Peter was punching that creep. Or when they went to a more  secluded spot. Or when he was too busy trying to find a spot on the ground to focus on so he wouldn't dry heave. 

"That….that was dumb. Of me to ask! You're not dumb, far from it. That's the quickest I've gotten through one of those, those uh-"

"Panic attacks?" 

"Yeah." Realization then hit Peter like a freight train. 

"I dropped your ice cream." 

She laughed, despite the hint of sadness in her eyes. She took his hands into her's. It was then Peter realized that despite her hands being much smaller, they fit pretty well with his. 

Odd. 

"It's okay. I think I now owe you some ice cream." She laughed softly, bringing a smile to Peter's face. 

"I passed a bodega on the way to your place. We could stop there?" Peter suggested. 

"I'd like that," She nodded. Peter grabbed her hand as they began walking. 

Not because he thought he'd lose her. 

It was just nice. 

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"No, put it back." Peter ordered. A pout formed on her face, one that she probably learned from her students. 

"We came in for one thing! Ice cream, remember?" He motioned towards the basket he was carrying. Peter got a basket specifically because they were only there for one thing. 

"The pretzels are for the ice cream!" She explained, holding the bag up. 

"Pretzels would go terrible with mint chocolate chip and raspberry sorbet," Peter retorted. 

"They go great with chocolate chip cookie dough." 

"We don't have…." She motioned towards the basket. Peter looked down. To his surprise, a pint of chocolate chip cookie dough was there. He looked back at her, confused and also impressed. 

"How did you….." She giggled. Peter hated it. One person shouldn't be that fucking cute. 

"I'm sneaky like that." She shrugged with a coy smile, putting the bag of pretzels in the basket as she walked by Peter. 

"We're checking out now," He told her, despite knowing it would fall on deaf ears. 

"I need pizza rolls," She explained, like it was clear as day. 

"We did not come here for pizza rolls!" Peter felt like he was talking to a child. 

Why did he agree to this? 

"Ayyo!" The owner of the Bodega called from the register, "If ya lady wants pizza rolls, let'er get 'em!" 

"Oh, um she sh-she isn't m-my-" Peter tried to get out, his face bright red. 

"Thank you!" Sunshine called out before turning to Peter, "We should listen to Al, he's pretty great and wise." 

"Because he knows that once you put some pizza rolls in the basket, you're gonna get like five other things and then I'll have to get a cart!" He whispered, not wanting to face Al's scolding. 

After several minutes of whisper arguing, Peter and the little sassy ball of sunshine were at the cash register, letting Al ring up way more than one item. 

Al smirked, pointing to her while looking at Peter, "Ya learnin' quickly. She may look sweet but ya girl's a feisty one."

"She i-is…I mean, I-I'm-" Peter tried to get out. 

"He is learning quickly Al!" She said with a grin that Peter wanted to wipe off her face. Whether he wanted to accomplish that with his sleeves or another part of his body-

Why would he want to do that? Oh fuck. Did he want to do that? 

No. He didn't. Right? 

"He seems like'a good egg for ya" Al said to her. She nodded her head, running a hand up and down Peter's arm. The touch sent a chill up his spine. 

Why did this Bodega insist on making the store so cold? 

Peter grabbed the shopping bags, trying (and failing) to hide his flustered face. 

"He is," She said, motioning to Peter, "Have a good night Al!" 

"Do you know how infuriating you are?" Peter asked as soon as they were outside of the Bodega. 

"Are you that upset he thought I was 'ya lady's?" She asked, crossing her arms over her chest. Despite the body language, her face was relaxed. Just a raised eyebrow to indicate how curious she was to hear Peter's response. 

It was aggravating. 

"No!" Peter stopped, realizing now he has to actually think about why he was so frustrated. 

It was her, it had to be. She was so grating with her sweet, calm voice. So repulsing with her cuffed overalls, that had a stray flower sticking out from one of the pockets. So unbearable with her soft skin, kind eyes, calming nature, kissable lips-

Kissable? What an inaccurate adjective to describe her lips. They were soft (well they looked soft), and always tinted with a soft rosy hue. She did this odd thing where she'd bit her bottom lip when she was deep in concentration-

"Are you even listening or did you get lost in my eyes again?" Her words snapped Peter out of the daze her horrible, lavender perfume put him in. 

"I do not get lost in your eyes," Peter sputtered, thrown in the air out of exasperation. 

"Oh what? You space out and it happens to consistently land on my eyes when you face me at any angle?" She snorted. 

"Okay, so I look at your eyes sometimes! Eye contact is very important, or so they told me! I don't just look at your eyes-"

"Sometimes you look at my lips. I'll give you that too." She shrugged. 

"I do not…y-you are insinuating a lot here, Little Miss Sunshine!" 

"I think you're trying to insinuate I'm not your type. Which is hilarious considering how you look at me and hold my hand!" Peter began to walk away, but then she had to make a comment about him holding her hand and he turned around. 

"I hold your hand like anyone who forgot the human leash would!" 

"Oh, they squeeze the hand without thinking about it and brush their thumb back and forth?" 

"Y-You are s-so small and in-infuriating!" He managed to get out. 

Miss Sunshine leaned in, her lips dangerously close to his, "Really? You seem to like it a lot, Peter." 

The only way to shut her up, the only way to wipe that smirk off her face, was to kiss her. Simple as that. It was just a way to get her to-

Who the fuck was he kidding? 

Her lips were soft. They tasted like vanilla. First she smelled great, now she tasted great too? Peter needed to find out where she got the audacity. 

After he was done kissing her. 

She broke away to collect air. The smirk was still on her face. His hands were still cradling her neck.  

"Wipe that smirk off your face." 

"Make me." 

Kissing her was the best course of action. Besides, it felt really good when Miss Sunshine weaved her hands through his hair.  

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Somehow, they got back to her apartment. It took everything it had in Peter not to reveal his alter ego so he could pick her up and swing her back. 

It was rusty at first. The mechanics a distant memory. Soon it became familiar once again, like riding a bike for the first time in years. 

She somehow managed to put the plastic bags somewhere in her apartment. That was pretty impressive considering Peter was pressing her up against the kitchen wall. 

They broke away for oxygen, her hair tickling Peter's chin as she buried her face into his chest. 

The scent of her conditioner smelled of mint and rosemary. It was the cool scent that brought him out of the mile-high cloud he was in. 

He was kissing her. 

He. Was. Kissing. Her. 

Oh God, what was he doing? 

He stumbled backwards, letting go of her. He took in the sight of her, gasping for air and gripping the counter. 

Horror washed over him. No, this wasn't supposed to happen. He never intended to get this far. He never let it get this far, what had he done? 

"W-we can stop," She suggested, her voice small, "I k-know it's been awhile for-"

"You don't know me." It was true, not malicious. She didn't know him. She didn't know about what he had truly seen, what plagued his mind. What he did at night. 

She didn't know any of those things. So why was he doing this with her? 

"It's only our second date," She explained, her confidence faltering with each spoken word. 

"Then why are we doing this?" He whispered, trying to make sense of it. He had spent years successfully avoiding this. The last time he had genuinely done this was with-

No. That couldn't be it. That was impossible. Because he didn't deserve that and had accepted that long ago.

"Be-because we like each other?" She tried to make it sound like it was obvious. But by the way her eyes were dullening, she thought otherwise. 

"This was a mistake. I'm sorry. I-I….I never wanted to hurt you," the part was true. It was why he had been avoiding being in this situation for almost a decade. 

She scoffed, "if you're doing what I think you're doing…."

"I gotta go. I-I'm s-so sorry." 

He heard her call his name. He just ran out the door, desperate to get out and away. His breathing was shallow, coming out in short gasps. He wanted to vomit. He was suffocating-

Right. She called them panic attacks. 

He got back to his apartment, quickly putting on his masked vigilante ensemble. He could clear his head, he had to when he put on the mask. 

Peter swung around, desperate for a distraction. He noticed an odd, glowing light coming from an alley. He swung down, thankful for the interruption. 

He walked towards the light, it looking almost like a window with the way the source flickered. Each time he thought he was getting closer, he felt like he was moving further away from the alley. 

As he stepped through, his stomach, every bone in his body lurched forward. He felt sick, like he was on a rollercoaster. The sensation lasted both briefly and for what felt like an eternity. 

When he opened his eyes (when did he close them?), He was back in the alleyway. He slowly swung out, trying to keep his presence hidden. 

Something was off. Way off. 

It wasn't just the alert system that sent shockwaves through his body, a sensation due to a Spider bite he received years ago. 

It was the off-putting, mildly disorienting feeling you received when you saw a well known logos in the wrong color or font. 

It was New York City. 

But it wasn't his city. 

His attempt to take in all the differences was cut off when the hairs on the back of his neck pointed him towards the left. 

Peter turned, raising his hand out in time to catch a brick that was targeted towards his head. 

He heard his name called. Spider-Man. Parker. Peter. 

How would they know? That was impossible. 

"You think a new suit will make us forget about what you did to Mysterio?" An angry voice called out. 

Who the hell was Mysterio? 

Peter swung out of the way, needing to get further up between the buildings, away from the crowds. 

He pulled out his phone, repeating the ten digits of May's number in his head as the call went dead every time. 

Something was wrong. Awfully wrong.

He was in New York City. 

And yet he wasn't. 

And the face on the huge digital televisions in Times Square. The face the news had attached to his name. Peter Parker. 

That was not him. 

What the fuck was going on? 

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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Masterlist

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XOXOPETER’S MASTERLIST

I do not give permission for any of my works to be reposted. At this point I only have Andrew Garfield Spider-Man works but that’s subject to change. 

Last updated 2/16

ONE-SHOTS

BLURBS

- The reader gets Peter flowers for Valentines Day (fluff)

STORIES

- The Adventures of Spider-Man and Moonlight

SPIDER-MAN: NO WAY HOME (2021) + Letterboxd reviews (Andrew Garfield edition)

*clutches chest* I love every second of this 🥺

82 for kisses🥺🥺

From [this] A Hundred Different Kisses prompt list.

82: whispering ''i love you'' in-between kisses

"We're really not in the city anymore, huh?" Peter said as he looked around at all the trees. The two of you were surrounded by lush green forests as you hiked along the dirt path by a beautiful lake.

"It feels nice to breathe in air that isn't full of smog," you replied. You looked over your shoulder at Peter. His eyes were wide with wonder as he took in his surrounds. When you heard that he had hardly ever left the city in his life, you made it a point to bring him out to some of your favorite hiking spots. All it took was a two hour train ride upstate and you could leave the city behind.

As a child, you grew up with your parents always bringing you on camping trips every summer. You loved the woods. Being surrounded by trees made you feel alive. You felt like this was where you truly belonged. It was impossible to convince Peter though. He needed to be in the heart of the city if he wanted to keep up his life of fighting crime. Unless he wanted to fight squirrels, the forest was not the place for him.

Having a life with Peter meant living a life of compromises. You could sacrifice your wild spirit as long as he promised to take you back to the forests a few times a year.

You had chosen the least traveled trail on purpose. It would lead you deep into the heart of the woods where you and Pete would pitch your tent and spend the weakened snuggled up by a fire together. He insisted on carrying most of the heavy gear on his back. All that left you with was a light backpack and a skip in your step.

"Come on, P!" You let out an excited laugh when a gust of warm, summer wind blew by you. You already felt more alive than you had in the past month. "I'll race you to top that hill!"

You scurried up the side of a steep hill with Peter on your heels. You could hear the clanging of all your gear on his back as he ran after you. Just as you were about to reach the top before him, a web shot out from his wrist and wrapped around your ankle. It jerked your leg back so you fell forward.

Peter caught you just before you hit the ground. He flipped you over and crashed his lips onto yours, pressing your backpack into the dirt as he leaned over you.

"That's cheating," you mumbled against his soft lips.

He snickered and pecked your lips once more, "I still won though."

You watched him carefully while his eyes scanned the cliffs above you.

"What do you see?" You asked.

He smiled down at you, "I have an idea. Let's camp up there."

You followed where his finger was pointing. It lead to the top of a sheer cliff face. There were clearly not any trails leading up there.

"Uh...sorry, I didn't bring any of my rock climbing gear," you said sarcastically.

He gave you an unimpressed look as if you had suddenly forgotten who he was, "...I'm literally Spider-Man."

"Oh, yeah!" You laughed. "Let's scale up the side of a cliff then."

Peter left you at the bottom while he brought the supplies up first. You took a seat on a fallen log and watched him climb. It seemed a long way up from down below but, actually seeing how small Peter looked as scaled the side, only confirmed how tall the cliff really was. He looked like a little spider scurrying along a wall. He reached the top and disappeared over the edge. You waited about three minutes until you watched him dive off the top and plummet to the ground. 

Your heart leapt into your throat at the sight. No matter how many times you watched Peter do crazy things like this, it still terrified you to be a witness to them. The second he caught himself with a web and landed safely on the ground, you were able to let out a sigh of relief. This man would be the death of you some day. 

He bounded over to you with a huge smile on his face. His hair was swept back from the wind. He looked so alive. “The view is amazing up there! Come on. Get on my back.” He turned around and bent down for you to hop up. You wrapped your legs around his waist and arms held tightly to his neck. 

“Hold on tight, spider monkey.” He joked. 

You rolled your eyes and suppressed a laugh, “Alright Edward Cullen, don’t drop me.” You regretted making him watch the Twilight movies with you. 

Peter easily lifted the two of you up to the top of the cliff. You inhaled a sharp breath at the view from up there. It was like nothing you had ever seen before. It was obvious not many people had ever been up here. The land seemed untouched by human hands. You jumped off Peter’s back and looked around. It was truly gorgeous. You felt like you were on top of the world. 

“Wow. This is amazing, Pet-” your sentence was cut off by a quiet gasp as he wrapped you up in his arms and spun you around. 

“Let’s live up here forever,” he beamed down at you. “I’ll build us a wood cabin and we’ll be king and queen of the forest.”

You giggled and pressed a kiss to his jaw, “What happened to protecting the city?” 

“That was before I saw how beautiful you looked out here. Look at you. Standing on the edge of the world. The wind in your hair. The sun on your face. You’re practically glowing!” He held you at arms length to simply admire you. His eyes feasted over your face and down your body trying to take in every inch of you that he could. He looked absolutely enamored with you.

You felt the embarrassment rise up inside your stomach, “Stop it, P.” 

“Never.” He pulled you back into his arms and brushed his lips over yours. “I love you. I’m going to marry you some day.”

“Do I have a say in that?” You smiled at him and closed your eyes, resting your forehead against his. 

He shook his head and gave you a lazy smile back, “No. You’re mine forever.” 

Sometimes, the way he looked at you, made you feel like you were the most beautiful person in the entire world. He had this special magic over you that made you feel so alive. You never once doubted that he loved you. His adoration for you was almost too much to handle. You felt the burn of happy tears building behind your eyes. 

Peter immediately picked up on them. His smile fell, “Hey. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you sniffled through a smile. “I'm just so in love with you that it hurts.”

You wrapped your arms around his neck and stood on your tip toes to kiss him. He returned the gesture with equal warmth and passion. The tears fell from your eyes and down your cheeks. You couldn’t stop them. You were too happy. They pooled around your lips to create wet, salty kisses. 

“I love you too,” he whispered, kissing away the tears on your lips. “I love you.” He trailed his lips up your cheeks, following the trail of tears. “I love you.” His lips brushed over your closed eyes. “I love you.” He kissed over every inch of wetness on your face until he fell back to your lips. “I love you.” 

my birthday is coming up and it just occurred to me to request tasm!peter birthday smut lmao. maybe sub!peter doing whatever the reader asks 🙏

all for the birthday girl

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing, nothing... Go on, keep going. Seduce me."

Pairing: tasm!peter parker x f!reader

Summary: by the end of the night, there's only one thing left to make this one the perfect birthday with peter

Warnings: SMUT!!! 18+!!! Oral (f and m receiving), fingering, birthday sex, unprotected sex, the absolute faintest sub!peter/praise kink, and all that good stuff

Words: 2.5k

A/N: happy birthday, anon, I hope I haven't missed it!!!! I feel like the smut I write is never really that explicit, especially compared to some of the stuff I've read, but for some reason this req was just calling for some shameless porn without plot and i thoroughly enjoyed it. hope you do too!!

p.s this is the first bj I've ever written, be nice to me <3

p.p.s, shout out to the above gif ^^^^ which i have now been thinking about for weeks.

request something! masterlist

Peter Parker is infuriatingly perfect.

As in, it's your freaking birthday and all you can think about is how thoughtful he is, how well he knows you, how he somehow complies a list of every offhand comment you make at store windows and never fails to find you the best gift.

He cooks you dinner, sets out your favourite flowers and plays your favourite songs, and by the time the night is exhausted, there's only one thing left on your mind.

"So, you still got a couple hours of this whole birthday thing left, huh?"

You're nestled comfortably into his side on the couch, his smile sly when you look up at him, so blatantly suggestive it makes you grin.

He takes offence at it, returns an amused smile and narrowed eyes. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing, nothing," You start, shaking your head, face never falling. You're fully turned towards him now, and, leaning against the arm outstretched along the back of the couch, you give his bicep a reassuring squeeze. "Go on, keep going. Seduce me."

It's Peter's turn to shake his head, rolls his eyes a little as he looks away, back at the credits rolling on the tv. "You're impossible."

"No! Come on." You move your arms around his neck, shuffle closer to make him look at you. "I'm sorry, did I foil your seduction? You know, after today it's really not necessary."

There's no response to that one, Peter's expression softening in the silence, slips an arm around your waist to hold you closer. Despite the teasing, there's no ignoring the intimacy of the moment, faces only inches apart, breath hot against skin.

It only takes a glance at your lips before he's kissing you, warm and soft and familiar, mouth slow against yours.

He pulls away first, smiles when he watches you bite your lip. "You've had a good birthday then?"

"The best," You whisper, impatient now, lean in to catch the kiss again. He obliges, free hand moving up to cup your jaw, helps him deepen it just a little. "I can think of one way it can still be improved, though."

"Now who's doing the seducing?"

You only smile at him, respond in the eagerness of the kiss when your lips find his again, let it flow like a dam bursting, like you've been waiting for this moment the whole night because you have. Because today even more than every other day has been filled with the kindness and the wit and the charm of Peter Parker, and every moment is just a moment closer to getting to kiss him like this.

The arm around your waist is pulling you closer, so much closer that you have to climb into his lap to achieve the contact, still somehow not close enough.

It only takes a few more minutes of you pressing into his lap before Peter's the one to get impatient. The hands gripping tightly behind your upper thighs should have been a clue, but soon enough Peter's standing, lifts you and holds you against him like it's nothing, one of the many perks of superhuman strength.

The sudden movement makes you gasp, the brief detachment giving him the opportunity to attach his lips to the side of your neck as he starts towards your bedroom, smiles against you when he feels the shiver the action earns.

By the time he's settling you onto the bed you're already breathing heavy, needy as you urge his face back up to yours, the kiss heavier, more urgent.

His hands are under your shirt now, grasping at your waist, sliding up and over your ribs, kneading at the covered flesh of your breasts.

You make the move to pull the fabric the rest of the way, toss it haphazardly on the floor before pulling him back down to you.

"Where do you want me?" With more open access to bare skin, Peter's lips travel down, find the dip at the base of your neck, kiss along one breast before he's sliding down a strap of your bra and taking a nipple into his mouth.

"Anywhere," You sigh, squirm under him at the sensation, warm and wet around the sensitive peak. "Everywhere."

"It's your day, sweetheart, all you gotta do is ask." He's watching you, your clouded eyes, the way your jaw falls slack when he circles his tongue around your nipple, and the sight goes straight to his cock.

"Want your mouth."

"Oh, yeah?" He asks, sly smile returning, kisses your sternum before looking up at you through those lashes. He slips his hand down then, cups your mound and presses his fingers against the seam of your jeans, the denim a torturous barrier between you and his touch. "Want it right here?"

All you can do is nod, the arch of your back involuntary, pressing against his hand, body chasing the slightest of contact he offers.

It's wordless, his movement down your body, kisses down your stomach before lowering himself on the floor, on his knees when his hands finally find the button of your jeans.

His eyes never leave yours, not as he's pulling down your jeans and your panties in one, or when he's hooking your knees over his shoulders, or when he's planting slow kisses along the inside of your thigh. It's a battle of nerve that you rapidly lose, because as soon as his tongue makes that first swipe over your clit your head is falling back against the mattress, his name spilling from your lips in a moan, eyes squeezed shut.

Normally, Peter takes his time with things like this, savours the taste of you, the heat, the way you squirm under his touch. Tonight, though, his mouth moves against you like you're his last meal, tongue swirling and tracing patterns over your clit, has your hand tangling into his hair and tugging at it sharply, the only anchoring force keeping your soul from ascending to a greater plane of existence.

It's an unexpected curse of his knowledge of your body, that all he needs is a few minutes of using his tongue just the right way to build up that knot in your stomach.

He has to hold your hips down when you start to move against him, jerk away, everything too good too fast, feel that burning ache spread through your entire lower half.

You were doomed from the beginning, but when he slips two fingers into you, curls them into the sopping velvet heat, you know you're done for.

"Pete-"

He wants to speak, wants to tell you how good you're doing for him, but he can also tell by the way you're clenching and fluttering around his fingers that you're right on the edge, and so all he does at the breathy sound of his name is hum against your clit.

It's the final straw, only takes one more curl of his fingers before you're coming apart, orgasm white-hot through your veins, hand fisted deep in his hair.

It leaves you so tight around his fingers he can hardly move them, keeps them deep inside you as he slowly crawls back up your body.

You kiss him as soon as he's close enough, drunk on the taste of yourself on his tongue, gasp against his mouth when he presses his palm against your over-sensitive clit.

"Wanna touch you."

He pulls away then, catches his breath as he looks at you, free hand brushing a loose lock of hair out of your eyes, touch feather-light across your face as he tucks it behind your ear. "It's your birthday, not mine."

You're still breathing a little too heavy, have to take a moment to regain your composure, not aided by the way he slowly slips his fingers out of you, feel the warm, sticky trail along your inner thigh. "Then you clearly have no idea what you do to me."

The sentence stops him in his tracks, makes him hold your gaze for a long while, mostly because he's so hard he's throbbing in his pants, and the thought of you still wanting to take care of him even on your birthday makes him impossibly harder. "Okay."

It makes you smile, twist your fingers into the collar of his shirt and pull him down into another kiss. "C'mere."

The same grasp on his shirt makes him follow you as you shuffle up the bed, finally pull it over his head when you tug at it, urge him to sit with a hand against his chest.

Back flush against the headboard, Peter once again finds you in his lap, bare this time, feels the wet patch that soaks through the fabric when you press against the tent in his jeans.

He only just has time to reach around and unclasp your bra before you're sliding down his body, letting the fabric fall from your arms and busying yourself with the button of his jeans.

You're on your knees, back to kiss him as he shuffles out of his pants, don't break away when your hand slips into his boxers, finds him just as hard as you had imagined.

The touch makes him groan into your mouth, that touch he's been craving, can't help the way he bucks into your hand as you start to stroke him achingly slow.

"Good boy." Your smile is devilish when you say it, moving back to bend down between his legs, revel in that slack expression on his face because you know what saying things like that does to him, keep that knowledge in your back pocket for nights just like this.

Peter never quite succeeds in bracing himself for the feel of your mouth around him, for the way you take him so firmly yet so softly in your hand, press the flat of your tongue on the underside of his cock, lick your way up the bulging vein there until you reach his tip, already leaking precum.

And then you're taking him all the way into your mouth, so warm and wet and all-consuming that it makes him throw his head back. You bite back the gag when you feel him hit the back of your throat, and then he makes that sound, the one you vye for whenever you start to touch him like this, the breathy whine that tries and fails to shape your name.

Peter thinks he sees stars when you start moving, hollowing your cheeks as you bob up and down his length, slow at first, sure to deftly stroke what you can't manage in your throat.

"Holy shit."

His hand's on the back of your head now, helps to guide your movements, fists into your hair when you start to speed up.

It's not until he musters the will to look at you that he knows he's a goner, finds you already looking at him and feels that familiar warmth spread through his stomach at the sight.

"Hey, hey, hey. Come up here." Peter's panting under you, grasp in your hair tugging lightly, hears that obscene popping sound as you pull away and moves his hand to your jaw. He brings you up to him, kisses you hard as you settle back into straddling his lap. "Can't expect me to give it up that quickly."

You smile into the kiss, satisfied by the flustered flush in his cheeks, hum at the way the taste of both of you melt together on your tongue.

"Gotta save it all for this pretty pussy."

It's so crude you have to breathe out a surprised laugh, smile wider against his own. "What a mouth on you, Parker."

He's already taken himself in his hand, feels you adjust over him to line him up with your entrance when he's pulling away to look up at you. "I thought you loved what I do with my mouth."

Any quip you had started to form dies away the moment Peter presses into you, watches your silent gasp as your mouth hangs open, lets you sink down onto him at your own pace.

The stretch of him is something you've never quite gotten over, the way he fills you up just right, like you're about to burst at the seams.

You sigh when you finally settle back into his lap, wrap an arm tightly around his neck as you feel him brace a hand against your back.

Peter groans into your shoulder when you start to move, the slow, languid rock of your hips against his.

The arm around his neck gives you purchase, leaning against him, bare chest flush against bare chest as the roll of your hips back and forth starts to speed up.

He kisses your neck, your collarbone, your shoulder, murmurs incomprehensible against your skin, sucks and nibbles and paints you in love bites, the sting the perfect contrast to the blooming pleasure in your stomach.

And then your hand is slipping back into his hair, tilts his head back so you can kiss him as you speed up yet again, gasps and open mouths.

"So good, Pete. So full, so so so-"

His thrusts are meeting yours now, makes you forget how to speak for a second, his free hand firm at your hip helping to glide you up and down his cock. The slap of skin against skin, the slick squelching, the gasps and the moans echoing around the room, everything pushing you further and further.

The feel of him twitch deep inside you is accompanied by the brush of his thumb against your clit, circles it and makes you throw your head back, adds to the way each thrust finds that perfect spot, nails digging into his shoulder.

"Fuck, Pete-"

"I know, baby," He cuts you off, makes you look down at him, and that blown, fucked out look in his eyes is enough to bring you impossibly closer. "I'm right there, sweetheart, want you to cum for me."

You don't need to be told twice, let one last roll of your hips bring you crashing down. The clench of you around him, pulsing and fluttering and moaning his name is all he needs to pull you firmly against him, stilling as his orgasm rakes through his body, cumming hot and deep inside you.

He buries his face into the crook of your neck, both arms wrapping firmly around your waist, fingers splayed wide against your back, feels the way your chest heaves against his.

It's a long while before either of you have enough composure to look at each other. You smile at each other when you finally do, breathe laughs into the next kiss.

"Happy birthday, baby."

request something! masterlist

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

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.