My First Mutual! Can I Request Peter Walking In On You Playing Guitar And Singing And He Didnt Know You

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.”

So so happy you liked it!!

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

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

Love, Sunshine, and Beauty

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

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

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

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

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

He looked up and stopped in his tracks.

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

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

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

                                                                  -love, y/n

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

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

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

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

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

"Happy Valentine's day, baby."

"Did you see yours?" She asked hopefully.

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

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

Okay but the Peter Parker HP AU was beautiful 🥺 I’m a ravendor mostly ravenclaw but I could relate to Peter so well!!!!! AHHHHHH

Thank you for this message it was like a punch to the heart but a very good punch I’m so happy you could relate and that you like it 🖤

*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.” 

Oh Daisy, I’m sorry to hear how tough things have been. Sending you and your mom my love 🌻💛 —v

Thank you V 🖤 We’re all remaining very optimistic about the future and her treatment. I appreciate the message so much 🥺

Omg!!!! Luna and Peter!!!! So great! ❤️ keep writing! It’s really good ❤️❤️❤️❤️🔥

Thank you 🥺🥺🥺🥺 this really means so much to me! I’m hoping to have chapter five up in a few days

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

The Adventures of Spider-Man and Moonlight

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

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

Word count: 2.9k

Warnings: violence, brief mentions of sexual assault

Chapter 1 - No Going Back Now

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

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

New York was home and she was happy.

“Five bucks says he pukes.”

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

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

Cassidy groaned. “Cause Robbie cut you?”

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

“What’s that?” Cassidy was amused.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She was Moonlight. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That was so cool!”

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

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

“What’s your name?”

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

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

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

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

She smirked. “A lady never tells.”

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

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

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

~~~~~~~~~

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

“Fuck you, bitch.” He whined. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t know if I can do this.”

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

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

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

“You do that too?”

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

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

“I could tell.”

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

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

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

“W-What?! Why would I ask that?!”

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

“I-I would never!”

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

He groaned. “Sorry that men are pigs.”

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

“How does your mask stay on?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Can I ask another question?”

“Go for it, handsome.”

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

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

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

“Ever researched into it?”

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

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

“Can I ask a question?”

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

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

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

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

Luna beamed, letting out an amused hum.

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

“I think I’m gonna do the same.”

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

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

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

This trope will never get old and I love reading the way each writer does it differently and this one is by far one of mr favorites beautiful as always V!

Can’t find the request that came through for this one but it was along the lines of a “who did this to you?” with our boy, Peter Parker 🌻 tw: mentions of ab*sive relationship; implied violence, injury, mentions of food; reader has internalized victim shaming; read with care please and know that you are loved

You round the corner to Peter’s apartment with tears so heavy in your eyes you can barely see. The New York sidewalk is just a blur of vaguely human shapes that you carefully weave around, good at dodging, at avoiding.

When you press the button to buzz Peter, you half-expect him to not be home and just as you’re about to construct a slipshod Plan B, his voice crackles over the intercom, confused before you let him know it’s you and even more confused after you reveal as much.

Why didn’t you text? The speaker makes his voice gravelly and distant.

“Don’t have my phone,” you reply, rocking on the balls of your feet. You don’t add that there hadn’t been time to grab it, to take anything of value other than yourself, though you kept wondering vaguely what exactly that value was. You pull your sweater down over your balled up fists and swipe at your tears just as you hear the apartment door click open.

C’mon up.

You step into the cramped space between the door and a flight of stairs that leads to the apartments above the Chinese takeout place Peter lives over. The smell of oil and fried dough wraps itself around you and your stomach growls, desperate for an egg roll now that you realize you haven’t eaten since yesterday at lunch.

Then you hear Peter’s door open overhead, and his frenetic footsteps as he takes the stairs down two at a time, ever energetic. Blinking, you suddenly regret coming here at all, worry washing over you when you imagine what’s going to happen next. You can already see the shift in Peter’s mood unfolding in your mind, that leap from excited golden retriever puppy to guarded and dark.

“Hey Bug,” he greets you, about to wrap you up in a hug when he freezes, his face still save for a small twitch at the corner of his mouth. You know that look—it’s his Spidey sense kicking in. And you know it’s your fault. You take a small step back, giving yourself as much space as you can in the tiny entryway. Peter recovers with a shake of his head. If you were watching him, you’d see his gaze scanning you carefully, but as it is, you can only stare at the worn out toes of your sneakers.

“What happened?” Peter’s voice is firm, but when you finally look back up at him his eyes are soft. Until he sees the split lip you’re sporting. And the red-rimmed eyes that are dangerously close to hollow in your face. Then his eyes grow wide and there’s a fire in them you’ve never seen before, not even when those guys mugged the two of you coming home from a movie one night.

“Peter.” The way you say his name, so quiet and afraid, has him crumbling inside. He swallows the almighty rage that’s humming in his chest, forces his fists to unclench so he can get nearer to you. There will be time for anger later, so he bites it back and it tastes suspiciously like arsenic as it courses back into his stomach.

But you don’t step away this time, allowing him to pull you close, to take your chin in one hand and gingerly swipe a thumb over where you’re hurting. It’s not the only place you’re hurting, he knows, but it’s the only one he can see, the only tangible thing he can do right now that isn’t punching a hole into the wall.

“Who did this?” His question is a whisper of a threat because he already knows. Something about the new guy you’d been bringing around never sat right with him, but how could he tell you that without sounding like he was jealous, truly and madly in love with you? It was nothing but his sixth sense, he’d told himself. And suddenly he’s angry again, this time at himself.

“We…” you begin, tears lining your lashes again. Peter shushes you, pulls your face into his chest, but you break free, shaking your head. You want to tell him. You need to tell him. “We were arguing. It got…ugly. Peter…he’s never done this before and—”

“Fucking hell,” Peter blurts out, rough enough to make you cringe. He’s apologizing immediately, cooing soft words into your hair. “Bug,” he mumbles, “Don’t make excuses for him.”

“I’m not.” It comes out snappishly, a sting in your tone that is at odds with your bawling eyes. “If he…” you pause to sniffle, to wipe your runny nose on your sleeve. “If he’d ever done this before…I would have already left. I need you to know that, Peter. I…I wouldn’t, I’m not…”

You don’t know how to say you don’t want to be a victim. You don’t want to file a police report or have Peter beat the shit out of your now-ex, or consider yourself victimized. That’s not you. It was never supposed to be you. It would never happen to you…

But it did.

“Hey,” Peter whispers, and the pity in his voice sends another fresh wave of tears rolling down your cheeks. He sighs, pulls you in for a hug, knows there’s nothing he can say right now. He could tell you it’s not your fault. Tell you it’ll all be okay. Tell you that there are groups in the city who can help with this sort of thing—he’s brought enough women to them that he’s had to stop counting for his sanity. But none of that is what you need to hear right now. There’ll be time for anger later. Time for what comes next, but later. “I’m gonna carry you upstairs, okay?”

“Okay,” you breathe into his chest, making yourself small as Peter effortlessly scoops you into his arms and climbs the stairs back to his apartment. He doesn’t stop until he’s set you down on his bed and tucked you under the blankets. You’re exhausted, you realize, but your stomach growls again and your body feels like it’s at war with itself.

“I’ll go get some egg rolls, yeah?” Peter says, brushing a stray hair from your face. He pulls the box of tissues from his nightstand onto the bed and lays it on the pillow next to your face. Gently, he plucks a tissue and dabs at your streaked makeup. “And some ice for your lip.”

“Yeah,” you nod, eyes heavy. You feel safe here, as though you’re protected from everything that would harm you, even your own thoughts. “And then will you stay with me?”

“For as long as you want, Bug.”

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

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

Also, happy Friday!