Beautiful Edit And A Decade Later I Am Still Not Over Matthew Crawley's Death. Talk About Timeless.

Beautiful edit and a decade later I am still not over Matthew Crawley's death. Talk about timeless.

"Hundreds of years ago they fell in love like we did." TIMELESS by Taylor Swift

Independent Claws

Summary: You are lost in a cycle of avoidance caused by a painful past. Peter shepherds you towards a happier future.

Pairing: Peter Parker X Reader; written as mostly Fem!Reader

Warnings: Angst, Alcoholism (mention), Hurt/Comfort, Language, Mature situations, etc, etc Minors DNI

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Chapter One: Tense

Your skin appears orange under the glow of the street lamps as you chain the rusty bicycle to the fence railing and tread softly down the street. A mental image of black gloves, left sitting on a desk back home, taunts the only part of you uncovered. "Idiot," you mutter to yourself, looking down at your hands, balling them into fists. It isn't the weather for which the gloves are necessary, although your breath frosts in the night air. You need stealth. But at least the navy blue hoodie, t-shirt, and pants are dark so you keep on walking, head down, going over your plan in your mind. Going over it and over it as you had done ever since this afternoon when the devil of opportunity presented himself and then your stupid angel conscience sent by your late mother decided to make an appearance to even the score.

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You had been watching and crushing on Peter Parker since forever, and he often wore sweaters and hoodies back in high school, but over the last few years he seemed to grow warm so quickly and shed them as if he radiated thermal energy beyond what was normal. On the first day when he made eye contact, you'd given him a shy nod of recognition in the college class you shared, surprised he had even remembered the green-eyed classmate from long ago who hugged the walls and lockers always looking for a place to hide, to avoid interaction.

As the semester continued, you tried desperately to remain inconspicuous, unapproachable, but still watching him, wide eyed like a cat in the darkness under a bed. Peering up through your fingers while taking notes in class as he pulled a sweater over his head, watching his thick brown hair go awry and stand up as if he was touching a Van de Graaf Generator at the science museum. Yeah, it shocked you too because sometimes his t-shirt would ride up higher and made your own neck hairs stand up as straight as his hair. But the hoodies, Peter wore those hoodies the most often. They looked so soft, so touchable and when you heard the faint but crisp ziiiiip as he ran his hand down the front and shook his arms out of the sleeves it always made your head turn. Not too fast though. You had learned to be careful. Once, hearing the familiar sound you flicked your eyes up when he removed his navy blue hoodie, which happened to be your personal favorite hoodie, and caught his brown eyes staring straight at you. That was when you dropped your pen just so you could duck to the tile floor, missing his smirk and lifted eyebrow as he shrugged the hoodie over the back of his chair.

The disrobing, as you mentally termed it, became a regular habit and made worse by the quieter nature of the calculus course compared to the mayhem of high school. No class clowns making noise, no troublemakers. Just students watching the professor while taking notes, and you, despite the mental scolding you gave yourself, watching Peter. Any notes you took on him were seared to the back of your eyelids. You rarely spotted him outside of class, even though you had grown up not too far away from his street and you tried very hard not to see him outside of class anyway. What point was there to extend your martyrdom outside of the hour you spent within four walls? You were more than a little ashamed of yourself already. The devil on your shoulder often smiled and said just a little more time when you gazed at Peter's left ear and the brown hair that curled temptingly around it; but the angel on your right gave you that sad somber look that made it clear Peter Parker wasn't for the likes of you. Not when he had been in love with Gwen, who was an angel on earth and now an angel in heaven, and not now, with your feral attitude and your heart hardened against anyone who might try and lure you to comfort and safety. That was what that hoodie symbolized if you'd bothered to analyze it. Maybe you were aware of that in some remote way, but it was like the craft store heart-shaped cardboard box you had painted for your mother when you were a child. You kept those thoughts hidden away in a part of you that hurt too much to look at. Just like that paper scrap and photo filled box, the only thing you’d kept of your mom after she passed away. You couldn't touch either where you'd hidden them; you couldn't look at them, it kept everything remote and cold and manageable.

Perhaps, just perhaps, it was your mother sending an angel friend that placed the opportunity before you, although you scarcely believed in heaven, not anymore. Or maybe there was some cosmic electric charge that rearranged and short circuited Peter's brain so that he left the hoodie, the navy blue one, resting on the back of his chair when the class ended. You didn't notice at first, you were staring at the back of his head as he walked toward the door along with everyone else, while you were busy memorizing the muscles that ran across his shoulders. Shoulders and biceps that you just then realized you could see as his short t-shirt sleeves pulled tight across them. But most likely it was that wild devil that forced your eyes to cut to Peter's vacated chair and there was the hoodie, forgotten. A quick glance to the door of the classroom revealed he had disappeared.

Without a word, you snatched the hoodie to your chest and left quickly, searching around the building exit for Peter but with no sign of him, the choice was made with no regret. You scurried silently down the hallway and went straight into the restroom where you stuffed the hoodie into your backpack. Five minutes later you were on your bicycle pedaling home with a hoodie, a backpack, and a devil of a grin on your face.

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Home is where you should be right now, not in the shadows creeping down an alley by Peter Parker's house in an attempt to do the right thing. After sitting in your upstairs room while your dad was somewhere out drinking himself into a bitter and vengeful stupor, you had lost the battle with your conscience. Your dad's worldview had always been finders keep, losers weep. Even if he was never around any more now than he was when your mom got sick, somehow he hadn't been quite able to make his the world owes you something kid type of logic stick with you either, another disappointment that he never failed to point out.

No matter how you tried to justify it, no matter how much you wanted just some thing to hold, to wrap around you, never mind some one, you could not keep what was never yours. Stupid old hoodie you told yourself as you put your arms on your knees and breathed in the essence of Peter in the soft fabric. That scent almost broke you... almost. It felt like what home could be when there were warm hearts and hands that comfort each other. When tired eyes were allowed to close because there was no need for a wild-eyed wakefulness that danger downstairs had crossed the threshold drunk and delirious. That thought, the thought of a different disappointment, that the example of how to do the right thing had been forgotten was why you were tiptoeing past a run down garage to reach an old beat up car so that you could return Peter's hoodie. It may have been a stupid plan by someone who couldn't seem to muster the courage just to hand it to Peter the next time class met, but then again it was academic not emotional intelligence that was supposed to be your asset anyway. Your intelligence being the academic asset that was to get you a degree and take you far away from the warm memories and cold reality. Far away from watching what the one you could never have. At least that is what you told yourself as you stopped at Aunt May's car. You had only met her a few times, crossing paths at the store, picking up medicine for your mother. May had asked after her and your look of surprise at her knowledge didn't go unnoticed but her eyes were soft and kind, not unlike Peter's.

The lights were on in their house; maybe in the kitchen and an upstairs bedroom. You were confident from years of climbing up and down stairs silently in your own home that none of the neighbors had heard you in the alley, and perhaps that made you careless. The plan was to leave the hoodie in Aunt May's car, a place where anyone might forget a hoodie. Since the car was an older model it probably didn't have an alarm, at least you hoped it didn't. You also hoped it wasn't locked, but that hadn't occurred to you until just now. Too late. You stood there for a minute, just a minute; the brief thrill of having the coveted hoodie and its symbolic aura now fading as you pulled back the hood and tugged the zipper down, not thinking about the ziiiiip.

One last soothing stroke of the soft fabric and the hoodie was in your hand, ready to toss in the front seat. One tug on the driver's side handle and whew, it wasn't locked when...

"In the future, if you're going to steal cars, you really shouldn't dress like a car thief."

Out of the shadows stepped Spider-Man.

Shit. You are in trouble.

To be continued...

A/N: Please let me know if I left off any warnings you think would better serve readers.

Absolutely loved her in so many works. Lovely actress to watch and so many memorable roles.

Olympia Dukakis, June 20, 1931 – May 1, 2021.

"Do we need eggs" .. Sweatergawd, your dialogue, internal and verbal, is just *chefs kiss * perfect for me.

Like where this is headed and I'm not even going to angst over the cliffhanger of a double booking because I've been there and argh.

Another Way to Fly-[P.P.] | Chapter Three

Pairing: TASM!college!Peter Parker x female!college!reader

Summary: You've been dating Harry Osborne for three years. You love him...but maybe not as much as you once did. Maybe not enough.

AU Where Norman isn’t as sick- he’s just an asshole- and Gwen doesn’t go to Oxford. Harry is functioning as an apprentice at Oscorp (He graduated with a master's in two years because of his studying abroad). You, Peter, and Gwen are all seniors at ESU. Because Peter isn't Spider-Man and Norman isn’t dying, the whole “Goblin” thing is scratched from the record, so Peter and Harry are besties.

Prompt: Based on an ask for my 200 Follower celebration

Word Count: 5.3k

Content Warnings: Swearing, Implications of sex

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As you walk in, Peter can tell that you are clearly irritated. You move stiffly, and your brows are furrowed slightly. To anyone else, they may believe you were just thinking about something, but Peter knew you really well. 

He met you about four years ago in the campus library. It was finals, and the building was packed with students pulling out their hair and silently sobbing at tables crowded with colourful worksheets and laptop charging cables. He had almost tripped over you, walking through the shelves on the third floor. You were hunkered down in the 150s of the Dewy Decimal System. Papers and textbooks were fanned out around you, and you typed away on your laptop, oblivious to the world as a soft melody spilled from your wired earbuds. 

Your head shot up when you noticed a foot land on a piece of paper before quickly hopping off, but still leaving a large, dirty footprint on your notes. You pulled out your headphones and looked up, ready to use all of your pent-up frustration and stress to rip the offender a new one, but before you could even start, his panic started spilling out. 

“Oh, Jesus. I’m so so sorry. Shit, uhhh lemme just…” He picked up your notes and tried to wipe them off, but the dirt just smeared. “Shit, I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there. You can have mine.”

The boy standing above you was tall, his curls flopping over as he moved his head around. You could tell he was lanky under his layered shirts and baggy jeans. He was pretty. You blinked a few times, breaking your train of thought to focus on what he said. 

“Are you taking Intro to Psychology?” You asked.

His face reddened slightly, “...No.”

You quirked an eyebrow at the strange man. “Then how could I borrow your notes?”

His mouth opened and closed a few times before a dry chuckle left his lips. “I, uh, I don’t know.”

Your irritation melted at the sight of this awkward man. He obviously didn’t mean any harm, and it’s not like your notes were ruined, just dirty. 

“What’s your name?” 

“Parker- er, I mean Peter.”

You laugh at his uncertainty. 

“Did you get a concussion on the way over here?” you tease. 

Again, the man flushes, “No.”

“So which is it?” You ask, “Parker or Peter?”

He blinks a bit, pulling a face like he’s trying to solve a riddle, “Both.”

“You’re name is Parker Peter?” You ask, your confusion only building. 

He buried his head in his hands, shaking it side to side, then pulls his hands away and sighs. 

“Can we start over?” You nod your head, and he does a little spin, reappearing with a smile splitting his face. “Hi, I’m Peter Parker, and I’m so sorry for stepping on your notes and then making it worse by smudging everything and being incredibly awkward.”

You chuckle, then tell him your name. 

“Cool, well, it was nice to meet you (Y/n). I’ll leave you alone forever now.” 

He turns to walk away, but you call after him. He turns with a look of surprise on his face. 

“You can join me if you want. There’s not many places left to study, and if you’re working, it’ll keep me from getting on my phone.”

Peter smiles at you and takes you up on the offer. You sit in silence for about two hours before Peter gets a phone call. You are only mildly annoyed by the interruption, and Peter looks embarrassed to have disturbed the peace. He gives a “Harry” directions to find him and begins packing up his stuff. 

A few minutes later, you noticed a shadow cast over you and looked up to see crystal blue eyes. You hold each other’s gaze for a moment before he finally speaks. 

“Hi, I’m looking for a really annoying know-it-all with a skateboard.” 

His smile gleamed in the light as he stood over you in a well-tailored dress shirt and slacks.

“Hey! I’m right here, asshole.” Peter exclaimed. 

The polished man only broke his eyes away from you then, walking around you and looking to Peter with a teasing smirk. “Oh! Hey Pete. Sorry, I didn’t see you past this beautiful woman.” 

Peter slugs him in the arm, and they hug.

Boys, you think as you roll your eyes.

“And this ‘beautiful woman’,” Peter says, “is (Y/n). I stepped on her notes and then made a complete fool of myself. She took pity on me and let me study here.”

You stand as graciously as you can with your left foot asleep. “Yeah, he even offered to replace my notes for a class he doesn’t take.” 

Harry laughs, and then his eyes roam over your body. It’s a quick scan, but it makes your heart race. 

“Psychology?” He asks.

You look between them, a little surprised. Peter matched your expression. “Yeah, Intro. How’d you know?”

“You hunkered down in the physiology section,” The blond says with a coy smile, “...and I think I’ve seen you in class before. Room 3304 with Professor Markle, right?”

You confirm his memory, and he extends his hand to you. “I’m Harry.”

That day you formed a little study group. You agreed to meet at the campus coffee shop on Wednesdays. You met Gwen, who seemed really nice- albeit a little too put together. You guys all got closer, and you brought up the idea of trying different coffee shops until you found one you all liked. 

That summer, you discovered Cafè Luna, Harry’s last name and its significance, about Gwen’s dreams of studying abroad, and that Peter had really good taste in music. You guys would get together and have Harry get you into different bars to see the local shows and drink. Eventually, it became just your and Peter’s thing, as Gwen wasn’t big into the music, and Harry couldn’t get behind the whole “eat the rich” message as much as he wanted to. 

Slowly you grew to be very close with Peter. You began to confide in him, and he, you. You learned about how his uncle had passed, and that it was just him and his aunt. You told him about growing up in Brooklyn. You were invited to Hannukah and Birthday dinners. May also had a Christmas dinner, and Harry kissed you under the mistletoe after months of heavy flirting. It was a good year. 

And now, Three years later, Peter knew better than anyone when you were peeved. Especially when you dramatically plopped into your chair next to his, letting your bag drop to the floor next to you. Peter also knew that asking you what was wrong was dangerous. Sometimes you snapped, denying there was any problem at all, or you would rant for hours on end (that’s a bit of an exaggeration, but regardless) until you were blue in the face. And with your arms crossed firmly across your chest, he thought it would be more of a snapping response. 

He also knew that there were a lot of things that could cause your sour mood. Sometimes it was a simple fix, like a greasy cheeseburger or a walk in the park, but sometimes it was much more complicated. He sincerely hoped it was a simple fix. 

“Hey, Led Head.” He tried, testing the waters. This was a nickname he gave you because you love Led Zeppelin.

“Hey, Pete,” You said with a slight bite, but it didn’t feel directed at him. You could’ve been explaining the difference between fettuccine and fusilli, and the chill would remain the same. 

“How’s your day goin’?” His Queens’ accent dripped into his words. 

He didn’t miss the sarcasm in your “Swell, how’s yours?”

“Eh, can’t complain,” Peter shrugged, tapping his pencil on his desk, “but it looks like you can.”

Just then the professor walked in, and any remark you could have made was silenced as you all tuned into the upcoming lecture. 

You try your best to focus on taking notes, but Peter notices the way you’re constantly fidgeting, one hand scribbling and the other tugging on your shirt, your skirt, your socks, etc. This goes on for the whole duration of the lecture, and after watching it go on for thirty minutes, Peter can’t stand it anymore. 

You feel a nudge at your arm and look up to see Peter hunched over his desk, leaning in towards you. 

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” You huff slightly, annoyed and not wanting to get into it right now. You still had another hour left of class, and you just wanted to get through it. 

“Come on, Heartbreaker,” Peter said, charm skating off his tongue. He was pulling out the big guns now. Calling in the “this nickname always makes you feel special, but only certain people can use it, and I’m one of them” nickname. This was a nickname he gave you because you loved Led Zeppelin, that song specifically. “You know better than to try and lie to me.”

Your shoulders deflate as you give in. 

“I’m just…uncomfortable.” you settle on. 

Peter props his head on his hand dramatically, waiting for you to expand.

“I had a sweater, but now it’s stained– probably forever– with my latte that I didn’t get to finish this morning, and my breakfast is probably still sitting in the middle of the road covered with tire tracks, and my tits are out, and my clothes are tight, and it’s cold, and I feel like I can’t breathe!” You harshly whispered all in one breath. 

Peter stifled a laugh, and you slugged him in the arm, now unable to suppress your general irritation any longer. 

“Alright, alright,” He says, pushing you away slightly. 

“We can get you some food and caffeine after class, but for now,” He pulls off his jacket and hands it to you. “You can wear this.”

You gladly take it, and as soon as you bring it over your shoulders, you’re almost overwhelmed by the smell of his cologne seeping into the fabric. You take an unashamed, long sniff. 

“Peter, what cologne do you use? This smells fucking amazing.”

Peter doesn’t answer, just shaking his head with a quiet laugh. 

“Seriously,” You say more to yourself than your desk mate, “I need to get Harry some of this stuff.”

You turn your head and see him giving you an “I can’t believe you,” look- a “You say the darndest things” look- and you start snickering. In turn, Peter also starts snickering. This exchange compounds exponentially until you’re both swallowing down full bellows of laughter. Your hand is over your mouth as a few choked snorts seep through the cracks of your fingers. Peter’s fist is pressed firmly against his lips, trying to seal the leak of laughter. 

“Excuse me.” Your heads raise, and the laughter in your throat dies at the pointed glare from your professor. “If you’re done flirting, I’d like to continue my class.”

You feel the blood rush to your cheeks, embarrassment flooding you as you sank into your seat and pull Peter’s hoodie tighter around you, as if to hide. Peter mumbled out a sorry, seemingly just as embarrassed as you. Your professor looked as if she was holding back an eye roll before turning back to the rest of the room, and continuing her lecture.  

You weren’t flirting. Of course you weren’t. And certainly not with Peter, one of your best friends and the best friend of your boyfriend since childhood. And he definitely wasn’t flirting with you. He was in a happy relationship with his high school sweetheart, who was truly an amazing girl- even if you two weren’t particularly close. The mere notion of you two flirting is laughable, improbable, and downright preposterous. 

You refused to look anywhere other than the screen your professor projected her slideshow on. You couldn’t focus on the presentation she had no doubt slaved over. You could see from your peripheral Peter looking over at you. You couldn’t meet his gaze. 

You were consumed by a tight feeling in your chest and a thought that made you sick. It was just there for a moment; it didn’t mean anything. It flashed across your mind the same way a “That’s a cool shirt” or “Do we need eggs?” might, but you felt guilty regardless. 

I want Peter to flirt with me.

It rang through your head- echoing and shattering the contents within. Your hand reached up towards your neck, where a thin ‘H’ rested above your heart. The metal felt warm to the touch; the edges feel sharp enough to slice your skin. 

I want Peter to flirt with me. 

You didn’t, obviously. That would be weird. It would ruin your friendship. It would ruin your relationship. You didn’t see Peter like that. Sure, he was pretty, and smart, and kind, and a tried and true “momma’s” boy, but you were never into him. And you’re not now. 

You took the jacket because he’s your friend. And as your friend, he offered it to you. To make you feel better, because that’s what friends do. They help each other and make sure they’re comfortable. And you were laughing because Peter made a silly face. And it’s funny when you’re friends make a silly face. It meant nothing more. Your professor called it flirting because she was upset, annoyed. Not because it looked like flirting. Not because anyone thought you were flirting. You certainly didn’t. And Peter obviously didn’t think so either. Because he wouldn’t do that. Because you’re just friends. 

The kind of friends that would force the other to sit down at a diner nearby because they have the best burger in town. And he’s completely right. Nothing in this world compares to Benny’s Burger Palace. 

You've probably seen a place like it though- a retro diner with rounded chrome trimmings on all the counters and tables. Checkered tiling, slightly yellowed from the years. Red, patched booths with the softest cushioning and well-worn vinyl. Benny’s got great shakes, is open twenty-four hours, and always sells breakfast. But they also sell- you guessed it- burgers. 

Benny had unfortunately passed away in the eighties. But since then, his son had taken over- Lenny- and the recipe was well preserved. Lenny was a big man with a shiny bald head, and a black apron folded in half and tied around his waist. He was always at the grill with a bright smile readied for every customer and a deep laugh that rattles through your chest. He recognized you guys as soon as you walked in and immediately threw some patties on the grill, telling you, “Your booth is open.” 

Your smile was lukewarm, though still appreciative. Lenny, of course, didn’t notice a difference. Peter did. You hadn’t said much since earlier when your professor called you out. You were very vocal, with your joy and your rage, so your near-silent brooding was nerve-wracking. The last time you were this quiet, you disappeared for a few days, then returned with bangs and a new tattoo. Then there was the breakdown a month later that resulted in you breaking up with Harry for two months. Neither of you liked to bring it up, and if anyone asked, you guys had been dating for three years. Peter didn’t even know why you had broken up. He just knew that you were mad, and you ended it. 

He had tried several times to spark a conversation with you and was confused as each attempt failed. You met each statement with a half-interested grunt or hum. And now he sat across from you while you played with your sleeves and stared out the window. 

“Hey, are you alright?”

You sighed, knowing he was eventually going to ask. You were never very good at hiding when you were in a bad mood. And your mood had worsened since that interruption in the classroom. Peter was your friend, but you realised you didn’t want to tell him what was on your mind- especially when you didn’t know what it meant. 

“Yeah, I think I just needed to eat something.” 

Peter didn’t quite believe you but accepted the answer, for now. 

“And some caffeine?” He offered. 

You gave him a small smile and nodded your head. Peter immediately flagged down your waitress to order a pot of coffee. 

She returned with a youthful pep in her step, ponytail bobbing and smile gleaming. Her eyes never left Peter as she dropped off the coffee and a small bowl overflowing with creamer, and then she reached across the table to move the sugar towards him. Peter politely thanks her, and she hangs around for a few awkward moments before she finally moves onto another table. 

You reach for the (single) mug she brought to the table, tucking your knees up to your chest as you fix your coffee. Once satisfied, you take a sip, the warmth travels from the inside out, and you can tell it’s a strong brew from just a small taste. 

You finished your first cup in silence, which was only broken now, by Peter, as you struggled to open more creamer cups. 

“So…is there something particular bogging you down…or is it just…a bad day?”

You pause in your stirring, thinking through the best answer. 

“Norman stopped by, unannounced, for dinner last night.”

You took a sip, feeling validated by Peter’s sympathetic wince. 

You told him all about him ogling you and every passive-aggressive (and not-so-passive) insult he threw your way. You told him about the fundraiser and the fit he threw over the food you had made. When you got to the “Adult Film” comment, Peter interjected. 

“Yikes! What did Harry say?”

Your face twisted like you had eaten something sour, and in a way, it felt like you had. As you spoke, you felt the bitter taste the words left on your tongue. You cleared your throat, making sure to “speak with your chest.”

“He didn’t say anything. He watched the food for me so I could go upstairs and change.”

Peter made a face of disgust, but just then your overly bubbly server returned. She placed each burger in front of you, and you ignored that Peter received more fries than you. Again, she tried to speak a little while longer, trying to ignite a conversation not realising she was trampling over the coals already set ablaze. 

You took a bite from your burger and you can taste the love and history seared in. As juice starts to trickle between your fingers, you get lost in this perfectly flavoured, flame-grilled patty. It’s so good you could eat it plain. But you don’t because you’re not a psychopath that eats plain patties. 

You’re so lost in your delicious burger that you don’t see the distracted way in which Peter is picking at his fries. There’s a question hanging from his slightly pouted lips; confusion resting on his brow. He lets you enjoy a few bites before eventually he decides that he did hear you right and that he needed clarification. 

“Wait…Harry didn’t say anything?”

You shook your head no as you swallowed your bite.

“He didn’t say anything?” Peter asked again. 

You nodded your head, quickly grabbing a napkin to wipe and cover your mouth. 

“What do you say to that? ‘Hey! Don’t say that!’” You scoff, “Like Norman would listen.”

Peter gave you a sad look before muttering a “Yeah, I guess,” before encouraging you to go on. You told him about the rest of the night (or at least the rest of Norman’s stay), before skipping to this morning. You told him about the outfit conundrum and the coffee-breakfast fiasco and when you finished, Peter let out a sigh, letting your words wash over him. 

“Damn,” he finally said, “That sucks.”

You hummed an “mh-hm” as you bit into your burger, then insisted that he share about his day around a mouthful of cheddar, beef, tomato, lettuce, and some in-house sauce you desperately wanted the recipe to, but knew you would never get. 

As you ate, Peter told you all about how Gwen is getting ready for England- about how stressful it is to get her ready in just six weeks. But also how sad it is knowing that one of his favourite people would soon be living in a different country for a year, and the best he could do was visit. 

He told you about how he needed to find a roommate, and he was considering Ned, someone he met at the Bugle, who was apparently pretty cool. He told you about his nightly phone call with May, which was funny, to you, because they saw each other all the time. Seriously. If Peter wasn’t home or at work, he was with May: helping her out with groceries, with the laundry, or fixing anything that squeaked in the house. It was really sweet. 

Peter then starts talking about other things, and you chew along as you follow his train of thought down every broken track and blindsiding curve. You honestly feel a lot better with food in your stomach. You forget just how hangry you can get. 

But as helpful as that burger was, you knew it was the company you shared that made you feel better. Peter Parker had once again worked his magic, and you felt loads better. He’s making you smile and laugh, helping you forget all the shitty hours before now. Time is now at a standstill. There’s nothing here but you and Peter, in your own little world. 

You feel a nudge at your foot and Peter wears a face of faux-indignation. You make your own face that reads, “What do you want?”

Peter fights back a smile, “You weren’t listening.”

You swallow your bite, “Yes I was, you were talking about your essay on some bacteria in the metabolism.”

“No,” he says kicking your foot again, “I was talking about the differences between Acrocanthosauruses and Carcharodontosauruses, but you were too lost in your burger to care.”

He breathes a dramatic sigh, imitating “every woman in a period piece ever” and the very reason he refuses to watch any of them with you. You smack his foot, breaking him from his false wallowing. 

“Was there a reason you were ranting about dinosaurs again?”

Peter returns the smack with a kick of his own. 

“Well, you would know that I was studying prehistoric plants in my botany class right now if you were a good friend.”

His words hold no ire, instead, they are spoken in a nasally, mocking tone. You kick him back, defending yourself anyway.

“I am a good friend! I’m paying for lunch and letting you rant about dinosaurs uninterrupted.”

Peter kicked your foot again with dramatically furrowed brows but a smile he couldn’t hold back, “I give you dinosaur lessons for free. You should be grateful for all that I share.”

You return the kick, “I am! I loved last week’s lesson on cephalopods-”

“The ​​Nautiloids, specifically.” Peter corrects, swatting at your foot again, “Cephalopods include a lot of things, such as squids, octopi, and cuttlefish.”

You roll your eyes at Peter’s triumphant grin. With no whitty remarks left you smack his foot again, this time a little harder, and stick out your tongue. Peter takes that as a declaration of war, and soon, a game of footsie breaks out. Towards the end of it, your pumping both of your legs as if biking while Peter does the same. 

You call a truce when Peter notices the waitress coming back over. Her uniform had changed since you first walked in. Now she wore her hair down, the chestnut waves falling over her shoulders. Her apron was folded over, much like Lenny’s, and her shirt was unbuttoned just enough to show she had cleavage without really showing it. 

“Hey, just wanted to check on you.” She says through a smile with way too much teeth, to Peter. Not you. She has only been looking at Peter, this whole time, who is of course, oblivious.

“I think we’re ready for the check.” You say shortly. 

The girl doesn’t say anything, just nods her head and promises to be right back. You pull out your wallet, card ready for when she returned. She passed the check to Peter when she returned, once again, ignoring you completely. Peter made a confused face before passing it to you. While you filled out the receipt the waitress tried once again to drum up conversation. 

“I’m Margot, by the way.” she stutters out. 

Peter is polite as ever, offering his name and his hand to shake. 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but I overheard you talking about dinosaurs.” You notice the way she’s leaning forward, all but shoving her boobs in Peter’s face. “I just think they’re so cool. What’s your favourite one?”

You felt an anger rise within you. Margot looked to be a few years younger than you, maybe eighteen or nineteen. She’s young and pretty and way too obvious. Couldn’t this girl just leave you guys alone? Were you just fucking invisible? Why couldn’t you just talk to your friend in peace? 

Before sweet, oblivious Peter could answer her, you snap, “He’s taken.”

The young woman looks at you with a sort of horror on her face as she straightens back up. She looks between you guys a few times as her cheeks begin to redden. 

“Oh, I’m so sorry I didn’t realise-”

“No, not by me!” You almost shout.

 You want to slam your head against the wall. Why is it that everyone thinks you’re a couple, or want to be? Is being friends so crazy?

“Just in general. He has a girlfriend.” You lamely explain. “Who isn’t me, but is very real.”

She looks at you with a look that could be confusion but you take it as disbelief. 

“...okaayyy…” she says as she awkwardly steps away from the booth. You fell back against the cushioned seat, sipping on your coffee as you avoided Peter’s wide eyes. You couldn’t avoid his laugh though. He very obviously thought your behaviour was hilarious. In fact, he voiced just how funny it was that you “defended his honour.” That you chased off the waitress he was too oblivious to notice was flirting with him, all on his behalf. 

“You pulled a ‘me’ at the bar!” he choked out between gasps of laughter, clutching his stomach as he fell deeper and deeper into the seat of the booth, referring to all the times he’s had to step in when a guy just couldn’t take a hint. 

You didn’t say anything, just stomped his foot under the table until he got the message. You weren’t truly cross with him, merely embarrassed. But Peter got that, because he always did. 

And you were always grateful for that. Especially now as your walking Peter back to class as he tells you all about the dinner May is planning next weekend. She was making a five-course dinner to celebrate Gwen getting into Oxford and was super excited about it. It warmed your heart to hear Peter’s impression of his Aunt as she insisted all of his friends were in attendance. 

“Seriously dude,” Peter says with wild eyes and a finger pointed in your face, “you have to be there, or I’ll never hear the end of it.”

You swat his hand away with a laugh and check his shoulder as you walk across the street, and passed the library. Peter laughs along with you and he’s happy to see you feel a lot better. 

Your smile is back and radiant, and your sass has returned. Along with that twinkle in your eye, the setting sun makes your irises glitter like river stones. There’s a slight rosiness to your cheeks from Jack Frost’s ruthlessness in these November days. And Peter was tracing the constellations he found on your face- mesmerized by the fables they told. 

Halfway through the story of when you stopped believing in Santa Claus, you got a call and both of your wonderment was broken. You can see the health and science building in front of you. But you feel it. A force that pulls you. Like a marionette on a string, you pull your phone from your pocket. 

“It’s Harry.”

You don’t know why you sound so sad when you say it. You didn’t mean to say it like that. Through a dead sigh and slumped shoulders. With a subtle drag at the corners of your mouth and a tightness in your chest. But you do feel bad, for not being excited to talk to him. You should be. 

You tuck your phone back in your pocket, deciding that you just like spending time with Peter, your friend, and you haven’t gotten to do that often. It’s not that you don’t want to talk to your boyfriend, you’re not avoiding him, you just didn’t want to say goodbye to Peter just yet. 

“He can wait,” You say more for yourself than Peter, but you feel like you’ve made the right decision as his smile stretches across his face. 

Peter beams and gives you a small thank you as you continue to walk Peter up the stairs. Once to the top, you stand across from one another, just smiling. You wrap your arms around your friend and he returns the favour. You bid him farewell, promising to see him next weekend and he promises to text you later. 

You can’t fight the smile on your face. Not when you open your phone again to see four missed calls and two text messages from Harry. Not when you pick up the phone and he lightly scolds you for not answering. Not as he tells you he has the driver circling around the campus because he got out of work early, and wanted to surprise you by picking you up. You can’t fight it when you finally get in the back seat. 

Harry grabs at the side of your neck once you’ve settled and pulls you closer to lay a strong kiss on your cheek. 

“Did you have a good day?” He asks. 

You can’t help but laugh as you tell him that you actually had a terrible day, “But I got lunch with Peter and that made up for a lot of it.”

Harry agreed, “Ole Petey Boy can turn any day around.”

You laughed along, “He sure can. It’s a gift.”

Before you can tell him what went wrong in your day, Harry is telling you about the amazing breakthrough they had at oscorp with a regenerative plant species. You don’t quite understand what he’s saying, but you know it’s good because of how excited he’s getting. And it’s rare to see him express excitement. 

He stops talking and looks to you for a response. You gasp, then tell him all about how amazing he is and how smart he is. He smirks, thanking you but trying not to let you see the compliments inflating his ego in real time. 

In an attempt to not look so big-headed, he said, “Well, I couldn’t have done it without my researchers- Gwen included. Which reminds me…My father wants to host another gala next weekend, to promote our breakthrough and announce the Marathon.”

Suddenly everything is bad again and you wish life would give you some kind of warning before your neck breaks from the whiplash. Harry notices the way your face falls and offers you comfort in his arms. You curl up against his chest as he absent mindly strokes your hair. 

“I’m sorry dear,” he offers, “I know you don’t like the Galas.”

“No, No, it’s not that,” you say with a sigh. “It’s just….May wanted to have this dinner, for Gwen, and she really wanted all of us there. And I promised I would.”

You rest your chin against his chest, batting your eyelashes over your hopeful gaze. 

“I’m sorry dear, I’ll be sure to send her flowers and a nice Piedmont.”

Your hopes are dashed. It seems you're going to a gala instead of a Parker family (and friend) dinner.

Tag List: @actuallypeterparker, @andrews-lovr, @barbecuetiddy @cherriescherriesred25, @heejinw0rld, @ilovemoonknight, @Isshecrazyorissheclever, @negasonic-teenage-asshole, @preciousbabypeter, @princesskittycatofmeowland, @purple-amaranthe, @raajali3, @rudy-the-winged-wolf, @scorpiolystoned, @supernerdycookietrashblr, @tayswiftlovebot, @wannapizzamymindposts, @whoreforklitz

Well, well, well. They say the clothes make the man but there's an exception to every rule now isn't there? The man makes the...well you get the picture and what a couple of pictures that is.

ANDREW GARFIELD's magazines covers

Andrew Garfield for Modern Luxury Manhattan, Boston Common, Angeleno & Orange County - December 2018

Photo credit: @cypherdecypher via public domain

That Defining Characteristic

S.O. and I were watching Yorgos Lanthimos' film The Lobster and we happened upon the scene where Ben Whishaw's character stands up and talks about his defining characteristic.

Completely ignoring the meaning of the scene and yet embracing it in a different way, I mentioned that my defining characteristic appeared to be a net. A mesh if you will. Or perhaps a cage. I see the many chapters long Peter Parker/Spider-man epics, the long-standing projects waving futilely from the island across the sea where they are stranded. I would need to be a long-lived lobster with incredible focus to complete them all. Or perhaps a fisher scooping them up to carefully and devotedly tend to them one by one and then set them free. Meanwhile the short drabbles, the insignificant tasks, and the side tangents frolic on the beach next to me, unaware of the tragedy beyond the mesh.

Aaaaand I just realized I somehow joined in crossover The Lobster and Free Guy and if that doesn't define me, then I don't know what does. My S.O. didn't even bat an eye.

What is your defining characteristic? Then perhaps tag a few people and learn more about their own perspectives...

@sincericida, @periprose @blooming-violets @withahappyrefrain @ficthots @p3mybeloved