The Sun Is A Blue Moon (Part 2)

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: y’all have no idea how excited I am for you to read this chapter! it’s a long one and full of emotions so make sure you’ve got some water with you. Likes and feedback of any kind are greatly appreciated! Thank you for reading!

Summary: In which we see how Peter feels about Moonlight and just how far Luna will go to protect the one person in the world she cares about

Word Count: 5.6k

Warning: violence, blood, gunshot wound, slight nudity

Chapter 4: Ditto

Time passed with the same routine but Moonlight and Spider-Man grew closer…and flirted more. Luna would always initiate it but Spider-Man would always follow. Sometimes if she was feeling extra spicy that night she would pull the zipper of her suit down enough to see the insane amount of cleavage the tight leather suit gave her. Out of the corner of her eye she would sometimes catch him looking for a second. It would only make her grin wide but she never called him out, not wanting him to stop looking. 

The pair were currently sitting in a very empty central park after having had a very slow night. It was nearing midnight which was usually around the time they would call it a night. They sat beside each other, Luna with her legs crossed and facing Spider-Man’s side who had his legs  stretched out in front of him as he leaned back on his hands as they talked about movies, specifically Ghost.

“Look, I’m not saying that it was a bad movie!” Spider-Man argued from his place beside her. “I’m just saying I didn’t like it!”

“That’s fine. You’re entitled to your wrong opinion.” Moonlight shrugged. 

“Name one good thing about it.” 

“The end when he tells her he loves her and he’s always loved her and she says ditto like c’mon!”

“That’s my issue with it!”

“What?!”

“I would never say ditto when someone tells me they love me.” He scoffed.

“What would you say then?”

Peter stared at the woman beside him and sat up so that he could lean in closer. The smile fell from Moonlight’s face but her doe eyes looked at him in a way that spurred him on to do what he wanted. 

“I would…I would cup her face.” His hands came up to tentatively cup Luna’s face, her mask grazing the edges of his thumbs. “And I would.” He breathed, hearing her heartbeat pickup just like his had. “And I would tell her that she’s my everything and I love you cannot compare to how I feel about her.”

Even though he stopped speaking, his hands never left her face. Luna leaned in, her hands finding their way to his chest, resting them flat against it as her eyes fluttered closed when their noses brushed together. Her hands slid up to his neck where the edge of his mask was. He could feel her breath against his mask and he could smell the sugary cotton candy she had had earlier in the night from a street vendor. It made his head spin and the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

His mask started to come up and Peter trusted her to know that she wouldn’t take it off and she didn’t. She let it rest on his top lip like she had seen him do before. 

Hands falling down to her neck, he brushed his lips against hers. They always looked so rosy and soft and pillowy and he wanted to kiss them so badly.

The sound of sirens had them breaking apart quickly. They couldn’t be seen like that in public and they had very much forgotten where they were, Peter especially. Moonlight made him forget a lot of things. 

“I should uh check on that.” Moonlight breathed as she ran a hand through her alabaster hair, her heart still beating faster than usual. “Just one cop car so it shouldn’t be anything crazy. Probably just a B and E.”

“Yeah.” Peter agreed. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Smirking, she nodded. “Of course. Night, buggy.”

Peter watched her go until she was out of sight before he turned and headed home. He replayed their almost kiss over and over again in his head. He could feel her hands on his chest and hear the way her breath hitched when he cupped her face. He wanted to kiss her so badly. But if they kissed then it would change everything. If they went beyond their partners in fighting crime status then eventually that would lead to finding out names and identities and becoming important to one another. 

But Moonlight was already important to him. Over the course of the last six months she had become someone that he cared deeply for. He wasn’t madly in love with her but he did love her. She was one of his people and he only had one other person, Aunt May, and he knew that if he were in the situation that he would take a bullet for Moonlight. 

He already loved her and he knew that if they took things further- if they kissed and learned names and identities then he would be in love with her. He knew that he would fall so fast and hard for her. Peter knew that he looked at her like she hung the damn stars in the sky when she was rambling at ninety miles an hour about wilted lettuce or some random ass topic. He knew that he was so physically attracted to her that he would have dreams about taking her skin tight suit off of her. He knew that it would be so easy for him to fall in love with her. It would be like breathing. They fit together so well. Their banter, their sarcastic remarks, the way they fought alongside each other like they always had been partners. He knew it would be so easy.

Peter hadn’t been with anyone since Gwen- not seriously any way. A year ago he had come back from another universe and found a way to get himself out of the grief he had been stuck in for so long. He had been stuck in Gwen’s death for years and meeting his brothers, seeing that he could be happy like them, changed him and gave him hope. Then just six months later Moonlight came along. It was like it was meant to happen. 

At the beginning his reasons for trying to tell himself they couldn’t be together was safety above all. He didn’t want Luna to end up like Gwen had. But Moonlight was already her own hero and fought the bad guys everyday. Whether they got together or not she would be on the front lines still, just like he was. She was already her own target and plus, she could take care of herself.  Moonlight was insanely powerful and he was in awe of that every day. 

There was no reason they couldn’t be together. 

As he got into bed, he couldn’t get her out of his head. Now that he was opening up to the idea of them he was wanting it more and more. He had half a mind to get out of bed and find her and kiss her. He wanted so badly to kiss her. To hold her face in his hands and feel her body pressed against his and taste the cotton candy on her tongue. Feel her soft hair beneath his hands. He had such a thing for her hair. It was so thick and voluminous and the way it moved in the wind; there was something about it that he loved. 

He decided then that tomorrow when he saw her he was going to kiss her and nothing was going to stop him. 

Well, other than quite literally everything possible. He found it nearly impossible to get out of work on time due to a small break through in the team he was overseeing. He couldn’t just leave in the middle of it which was right around the time he was supposed to leave for the day. Then when he finally did get out he missed his bus. Not worrying about it, he changed into his suit in an alleyway right by the lab only to be accosted as soon as he was leaving the alley by an elderly woman who had lost her cat. All the while Moonlight was probably already out on patrol and he wasn’t kissing her like he so desperately wanted to be.

After finding Mittens the cat, he made his way to the Empire State where Moonlight may or may not be. Of course, she wasn’t up there when he showed up and Peter groaned, pulling out his phone and opening up the police scanner to try and see if he could find out where Moonlight was. It took a few minutes but her name came across the scanner making him perk up. 

“Possible bank robbery on Fifth and Madison. Be advised Moonlight is on scene sans Spider-Man. Looks like it might be Kingpin.”

Before the last sentence was even finished, Peter was swinging off the building and headed toward Fifth street, excited to have another chance at maybe taking down Kingpin, kicking some criminal ass, and kissing the girl. 

The scene he walked onto was just starting to unfold, a shootout beginning. Moonlight was stationed behind a car and sending out blasts of energy to try and take out those shooting at her and the cops. As Peter landed behind the car a few feet away from Moonlight’s, he realized it wasn't the Kingpin but the Russian mob by the patches on the back of their jackets. They were nasty to deal with but they weren’t anything he and Moonlight couldn’t step on.

“You’re late to the party!” Moonlight called with a grin as she used her magic to remove a machine gun from some guy's hands fifteen feet away. 

“Sorry, long line for ice!” Peter snarked before webbing one guy to a wall. They were being shot at by maybe ten guys, all behind parked cars 

Moonlight couldn’t keep the grin off her face as they worked to take down those who were shooting at them. She was in high spirits from a great day at work, she got a wonderful tip that would go toward buying a new phone since her current one was starting to randomly make calls because it was so old and messed up. Last night when Spider-Man almost kissed her had really set the tone for the good day, though. She had decided that she was going to kiss him as soon as she had the chance. There was something between them and she wanted to find out what it was and explore it. 

Everything stood still when Luna saw Spider-Man get shot. 

It was at the hands of one of the mob's men who was too good of a shot and he got Spider-Man right in the chest. It made Luna gasp as she saw the bullet hit him, time feeling like it was moving in slow motion. Her eyes were wide with horror and her heart feeling like it had stopped. It made him stumble back from the force and fall behind a car. 

He didn’t move after that and Luna knew that if she didn’t get to him and heal him, she might very well lose the only person in the world she cared about.

Not worrying if she got shot, she ran out from behind the car that acted as a shield and into the open, covering her head with her hands and trying to remain low as he got behind the car Spider-Man was behind.

Luna dropped down to her knees in front of him where he lay unresponsive and bleeding too fast for her liking. She desperately searched for the bullet inside his chest, anxiety pouring off her in waves and tears gathering in her eyes as she searched frantically, her heart pounding in her chest like a jackhammer. Her gloved hands were making it more difficult so she ripped them off.

When she found the bullet she cast it aside and put her blood covered hands over the bleeding bullet wound and closed her eyes, letting it flow through her and heal. She unfortunately barely got started before she heard the sound of bullets hitting the car they were behind. She needed more time that she didn’t have. Not there, anyway. She needed to get them out of there. 

Not caring about the consequences, she closed her eyes and let the energy gather in her hands like a spring before she released it. She let it come out of her hands like weapons towards the shooters, sending anyone in its path flying back like a bomb had gone off. It gave her the time and clearance she needed to run at blurred speed to Spider-Man. He was all she was thinking about.

Using her magic she picked Spider-Man up and ran, damn near floating, to the one place she felt safe and was just two blocks away: her apartment. She didn’t care about anyone seeing them or Spider-Man behind in her apartment. She only cared about making sure he lived.  

She didn’t even know if Spider-Man was alive anymore by the time she was bringing him in through her window to lay him down on the tile floor. 

Luna ripped off her mask before bringing her hands to his chest and trying to heal him as fast as she could. There was so much blood and she was so terrified. If there was anyone who deserved to be saved it was him. Spider-Man was the physical embodiment of good. He was who she strived to be like. There was no purer heart on this earth than him. And she was falling in love with him. They would have nights on the top of the empire state building when they were waiting or on slow nights where they would talk for hours. He had come to learn her story; he knew things about her no one else on the earth did. He was so gentle when he was around her and no one had ever been gentle with her before. She was falling in love with him and if he died she might shatter. 

She didn’t know his name yet. She still didn’t know who the man behind the mask was. She didn’t know his favorite childhood memory or who was his favorite person on the planet. She didn’t know if had any pet peeves, like people chewing gum loudly. She didn’t know what his favorite season was. She didn’t know if he wanted to kiss her as badly as she wanted to kiss him. She didn’t know if he had brown eyes. She didn’t know any of it and it was breaking her heart.

Tears leaked out of her tightly shut eyes as she kept letting her powers enter his body. 

“Please don’t die.”

“I didn’t plan it.”

Her eyes flew open and Spider-Man was starting to wake up, shifting under her. 

Before anything else could be said she was throwing her arms around him, body crashing into his. He was surprised but wrapped his arms around her, welcoming the embrace.

“I thought you were dead.” She sniffed before pulling away, letting him sit up halfway. 

He stared at her and she wet her lips, looking down his chest that was most healed, nothing but pink skin left. “Are you okay? I can heal you some more.”

“You’re beautiful.” He breathed. 

Peter felt like he was seeing the sun for the first time. Even though she had tears down her cheeks and red rimmed eyes, she was more beautiful than he could have imagined. He had an idea of what the rest of her face looked like but the way her nose came to a sharp point was something he didn’t know about but thought was adorable. Her thin arched brows and red tinted cheeks were new to him and he loved every part of them. There was a small deep dented scar on her left cheekbone that made him wonder.

Looking at her like she was Aphrodite herself, she may as well have been with how beautiful she was, he smiled softly because he finally knew what she looked like.

Her hands flew up to her wet face, fingers feeling that the black cat eye style mask she wore was gone before remembering she had taken it off just minutes ago. 

“Well I guess I'll have to get a face transplant now.” She deadpanned in a breath, trying to ignore the butterflies in her stomach that he thought she was beautiful. “Can’t have Spider-Man knowing my identity.”

He reached up to the back of his head and pulled off his mask without hesitation. He wanted her to know what he looked like. He was ready for her to know Peter Parker. No one in the world, his world anyway, knew that he was Spider-Man and hadn’t since Gwen died. He was ready for that to change.

All she could think was how beautiful he was. Those deep, warm brown eyes looking at her captivated her and she had to blink to break free of their hold and take in his fluffy brown hair that looked like a purposely disheveled mess and the way his nose was rounded perfectly. But she kept going back to his eyes. They were so warm just like him. He was like a warm spring day with the sun shining down and the breeze hitting your skin and making you feel alive; that’s what his eyes reminded her of. 

God he was so handsome but in such a gentle way and everything she hadn’t expected but had dreamed off. 

Luna’s hand reached up, cupping his jaw and feeling the stubble under her palm. His hand reached up to cover hers before bringing it down to put on his chest. His other hand reached up to cup her cheek as he sat up fully and closer, their noses brushing together, just like the night before. Then he kissed her. 

Luna had been kissed before, she’d had a couple one night stands over the years, but she had never been kissed like that. It was with the same gentleness as he spoke to her with but the passion she had never felt from him before. They were a mismatch of lips before he gave a suck on her bottom lip before he pulled away.

“Peter Parker.” He breathed. “My name is Peter Parker.”

Luna felt like she couldn’t breathe; Peter Parker. It fit him so well.

Her lips lifted. “Luna Carter.”

Of course her name coincided with her alias and of course it was something so beautiful. 

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Luna asked again, looking back down to his chest to make sure he didn’t have a scratch left.

Peter couldn’t tear his eyes away from her beauty. “I’m perfect.

“I should go back and clean up the mess I left.” She realized before jumping up and finding her mask that was on the ground by the couch. “Just stay here, I'll be right back.”

Peter was on his feet, ignoring how weak he felt, and grabbing her bloodied wrist as she made her way to the window. “What mess? Just give me a second and I’ll come with you.”

Stressing her bottom lip, she exhaled shakily, looking up at him. “I may have…gone to extreme lengths to get you out of there so I could heal you. Please just stay here, Sp-Peter. You’re not showing it but I know you feel drained right now. It's normal when I heal someone with an injury as bad as yours. I’ll be okay.”

Peter felt winded by hearing his name come out of her mouth and past her kiss bruised lips. His eyes searched hers and he worried that if he went he would only be a burden. He knew he didn’t feel right and he might put her in danger by going. She was strong and knew what she was doing. He had to trust her. He did trust her.

“Okay.” He conceded. “Just…” He cradled her face in his hands and dipped his head to kiss her deeply, drawing it out as their jaws moved together, Luna’s hands finding their way to thread into his locks.

Luna was the one to break the kiss, panting hard and resting her forehead against his, Peter’s chest rising and falling just as fast as hers. “You have one hour to wrap it up or I’m coming after you.”

“Typically that’s the most effective way to make sure she’s satisfied.” Luna deadpanned and Peter let out a breathy laugh before giving her another kiss, this time quick and chaste. He watched her jump out the window and take off in a blur before closing the curtain right behind her only to lean against the wall in exhaustion but with a beaming smile on his face. 

He took in her apartment and realized this was Luna he was meeting. There were parts of herself all over the place that he didn’t know a thing about. For starters, the place was covered in plants. There were some on shelves, some hanging from the ceiling, and some on the walls. The green velvet couch that was definitely thrifted was a few feet from him and a small glass coffee table in front of that with a few books and a mug that had what looked like a half drank cup of tea. 

Wandering further, he made his way through the very small apartment, taking in the small things like the ivy that looked like it had been in its place so long that it had taken over the wall it was against. Her kitchen had a bar cart with various liquors and wines and an entire station on the counter dedicated to coffee. There was a coat rack by the front door, also definitely thrifted, with a long black wool coat and a couple of purses hanging off of it. Below that was a pair of black Chelsea boots and a pair of worn out converse.

In the wall space between the front door and the bedroom was a bookshelf that looked like it had seen better days. It looked like Luna herself was trying to keep it alive with nails shoved into the planks at odd angles to keep the shelves in their place. 

As he looked through her books, he was surprised to see so many romance novels of all kinds. From classics like Pride and Prejudice to those very raunchy ones with shirtless men on the covers.

The bedroom door was open and he didn’t think Luna would mind very much if he just took a peek inside. 

Her bed was in the center of the room with a plush viridian comforter and black pillows against the gold metal frame of the bed. More plants filled her room but he took note instantly of the record player on a side table with a shelving of records beside it. 

He found artists from Coldplay to Taylor Swift to Bring Me the Horizon. There were at least two hundred different vinyl albums on the shelves. 

He looked down at the record player and lifted the lid to see what was underneath but he couldn’t tell so he turned it on. Have You Ever Seen the Rain started playing mid song and he stood there, taking in the fact that what she played last on vinyl was his favorite song. 

“It’ll rain a sunny day I know; shinin’ down like water.” John Fogerty sang.

He let the song play out as he looked around, smiling at the small things about her that he was learning. She had fuzzy black slippers by her vanity that was full of makeup and hair products. A hydroflask sat on it with various stickers on it. One was from a women's gym and there was one for the band Muse and another was for BLM and another that was of the Vine about the roommates.

Taped to the outer mirror of her vanity was an opened card and Peter read the message. 

“Luna, your service is always such a delight and Jerry and I always look forward to coming to Vetro’s to see you! You always give such a lovely smile and are always so kind to Jerry. We hope this makes things easier on you during the holidays. Love, Yolanda and Jerry.”

Peter smiled softly before pulling his phone out to google Vetro’s. It was a restaurant in Brooklyn which horrified him at first to think that Luna was working in an entirely different borough of New York until he realized it was on the border of Brooklyn and Queens and probably took her no more than half an hour to get home with the subway.

The song ended and Peter closed up the record player before making his way out to the living room and sitting on the couch, finally starting to feel his strength come back to him. 

It was two minutes before the hour mark and Peter was getting ready to put his mask on and head out, worry for his…whatever she was now, filling him. 

But Luna walked in through the front door, dressed in black ripped jeans and a vintage black t-shirt with a brown wig on. 

“Everything okay?” Peter asked, striding up to her, eyes scanning to find any injuries. 

“No- fine.” She rolled her eyes. “Neighbor was down in the alleyway looking for something he tossed in the trash by mistake so I had to improvise.” She pulled off the brown wig, hands clean of Peter’s blood, and then took her hair out of the bun, it falling down past her shoulders and to her ribs.

“And the crime scene?”

Her eyes met his. “Well, I don’t think I’m going to face charges for the damages I caused but the police chief was very clear that I can’t do that again.”

“What did you do?”

She inhaled, pressing her lips together for a second. “That entire block we were on looks like a bomb went off. I didn’t…when you were lying there dying, Peter…I just…” Her mouth remained open like she didn’t know what to say or how to explain it.

He pulled her into his chest, arms going around her and finally feeling at ease now that he had her in his arms. “Hey, I know. You don’t have to explain it to me.” He reassured her, dropping a kiss down on the top of her head. “You never have to explain it to me, Luna.”

“How do you feel?”

“Like I could run to Brooklyn and back.”

The silence was comforting and Luna was the one to pull away but her hands found his and she took them both and her eyes met his. “We should talk.”

“Probably.”

“Yeah it would be best.”

They stared at each other for a second until Luna couldn’t stand it anymore and pushed up onto her toes to kiss him, arms going around his neck. Peter’s hands found their way to her hips to grip tightly, nearly groaning at the way it felt to have his hands on them finally. They had teased him far too many times. 

Peter stumbled back, leading them to the couch and falling back onto it, Luna on top of him as they made out like two teenagers. Luna bit down on his bottom lip lightly and it wound send him into a fog for a second because of how erotic it was. If this was how it felt to be kissing her he couldn’t imagine what it would be like to do anything beyond that.

Luna pulled away with a gasp, chest heaving and eyes half open but Peter didn’t stop, only moved his lips down to her neck. The sucks he gave had her letting out soft moans, her hands weaving their way into his hair causing Peter to whine softly. The sound sent a wave of heat through her body.

“Peter.” Luna moaned, eyes falling shut and grinding down onto him where she could feel how hard he was under her. It made her head swim with pleasure and her body beg for more at the same time.

Breaking from her neck and panting, he looked to the goddess on top of him. “Say it again.” 

Knowing exactly what he was asking, she bit her lip, breathing still heavy. “Make me say it.”

Cocky was a term some would associate Spider-Man with but not so much Peter but he was very cocky when his hands slid up Luna’s shirt to yank it off as he sat up with her still in his lap. His mouth kissing down her bare chest and his hands pressing into her bare back sent a wave of goosebumps across her skin and he couldn’t help the small grin that came across his face. 

He couldn’t help but having spent a few nights wondering what Luna’s breasts had looked like under her form fitting suit. Would they fit in his hands or spill out? Were her nipples a soft pink or a darker brown? 

He found his answer was soft pink when he gave a suck to a pebbled nipple, feeling like he was living in one of his wet dreams. He was sure he had this exact dream too; sucking on her tits with her in his lap and his hands on her back clutching her close to him. He wanted so much more and feeling her press down onto his aching cock was making him crazy.

“Peter, fuck.” Luna moaned, her hand dropping from his hair to the back of his neck while her other gripped his bicep. “Peter.”

Peter sucked and kissed hickeys all over her neck and chest, feeling like was in heaven with her moaning his name and his mouth on her breasts. Maybe he had actually died and gone to heaven when he was shot. If this was it he didn’t mind. He was more than happy to drown in the angel in his arms. 

“Okay.” She cleared her throat, panting softly. “We should stop.”

Looking up at her with glistening lips, he worried he had gone too far too fast. “Did I do something wrong?” She hadn’t said anything and he feared he had missed a signal or a body language.

Her eyes softened, the corner of her lips lifting just a tad. “No. I don’t really want to stop but…I’m so tired and I’m not going to lie I was starting to fall asleep for a second because it felt so good and you’re so warm. You have no idea how much I want this. I’ve been thinking about it for so long.”

Reaching up to brush his thumb across her bottom lip, he took in her tired eyes and remembered that she had almost quite literally brought him back from the near dead and then had finished everything where the shootout had taken place. Of course she was tired.

Giving a gentle kiss to the middle of her throat, eyeing the splotches of red and purple that littered her neck and chest, he pulled away. 

“You should get some sleep.”

Luna found her shirt behind her and slipped it back on before getting off of Peter, hands running through her hair. She watched Peter pick up his mask and start to put it back on but she was quick to grab his wrist to stop him. 

“Are you leaving?”

“Did you want me to stay?”

“I watched you almost die tonight. I…really want you to stay.”

“Then I’ll stay.”

She eyed his bloodied suit. “I think I have something you can wear.”

Luna, ever the thrifter Peter was learning, had a shirt that was three sizes too big on her but fit well on Peter along with some sweats that were only a little tight on him. Both items were black and he wondered if she owned anything other than black clothing. He’d never seen her in any other color; even her suit was black.

“My fucking god, Peter.” Luna laughed as she stared at her chest in the mirror in the bathroom. 

He smirked from the bedroom, stepping into the black sweatpants. “You said make me and I take that very seriously.”

“I look like I was attacked.” She shook her head with a smile before sliding her shirt back on and switching the light off. 

Peter was sitting on the bed, waiting for her and she stopped walking, eyes lit up at seeing him there waiting for her. She looked at him and it really hit her that she knew the man behind the mask now. The man she had been daydreaming at work about and fantasizing about when she read anything by Nora Roberts. He was waiting for her and they were going to go to sleep together. It was a daydream come true.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.” She breathed. 

Luna got in bed and Peter followed, unsure of how wanted to do this. If she just wanted him to sleep beside her he was okay with that. He wanted to make sure she was okay after such a long day and after such a big step was taken.

He didn’t get the chance to ask what she wanted because she was curling right into his chest, arms tucked up and hands pressing against his chest. He noticed that she liked having her hands on his chest and made a mental note to ask about it later. For now, he draped an arm across her and pulled the blanket over them. 

“Peter?”

“Hmm?”

“I’m really happy right now.”

He dropped a kiss down on her forehead. “Ditto.”

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.”

Live footage of me writing this for V and V only

What if I told you I was working on a prompt for Ravelclaw!Peter and Hufflepuff!reader? What then V?

Well Daisy, I’d have to scream and jump and worship the very ground you walk on because YES PLEASE

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.

Literally me the entire time I read this 🥺 thank you V

The Sun is a Blue Moon

A/N: So this started out as a headcanon thread that was hella long until I eventually decided to just write the thing. This may be one of my favorite things I’ve ever written. Let me know what you guys think. Oh, and yes there will be a part 2 ;)

Summary: A Hogwarts AU where Peter Parker falls in love with a Hufflepuff and it’s just tooth rotting fluff the whole time really.

Word Count: 4.7k

Warnings: social anxiety 

“Just breathe.” y/n exhaled, staring at herself in the mirror. 

It was her first day of sixth year at Hogwarts and she was a tangled knot of anxiety and nerves. Part of her still couldn’t believe she was actually there once again. It seemed like just yesterday someone was knocking at her door and telling her parents that she was a witch and was accepted to Hogwart, a school for witchcraft and wizardry. It had been a bumpy ride at the beginning, her parents not fully believing it for quite some time but eventually couldn’t deny the obvious. It was true and they all knew it. Y/N had always been different her entire life, with strange things happening around her that always made people stare at her. It was what made her such an anxious child and what made her social anxiety bloom into what it was. 

Smoothing down her robe and adjusting her yellow tie, she left the restroom and headed for her first class, keeping close to the walls and head down and continuing on with the same routine she’d had for the last several years. Sometimes she wished she could blend in with the walls and go unseen.

Keep reading

Requests are open! I write for tasm!Peter so send me prompts and or requests

Omg part 2 of the Peter Parker Hogwarts AU is amazing! I was so sad when I got to the end of it because I wanted more 😂 Great job!

Omg thank you bestie 🥺 Lowkey I wish I could have kept doing with it I just loved the concept so much but honestly I truly felt like it wasn’t meant to be more than it was anything else would have been overkill ya know? But thank you so much for loving it and taking the time to send this it means the world to me

Andrew Garfield as PETER PARKER The Amazing Spider-Man 2 (2014) dir. Marc Webb

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

just andrew in the background of this conversation