Archive of Our Own

– So many aspects of life are fleeting … 

The beloved, pink sparkly jellies you’d worn through as a child that pinched your toes, but you’d loved anyway. Flowers that withered and died before you’d gotten a chance to fully appreciate their bursting blooms from the vase at the corner of your windowsill. Loves that come and are lost, that feel grandiose and historic in the moment, but are no more than brushes against lips and fading fingerprint bruises along hips. The seasonal changes that marked each year, autumn bleeding auburn unto the white of winter’s chill. 

Perhaps that’s why the permanent things never really scared you. No, you’d preferred the steadfast staunchness of things that stood the test of time. 

You’d accepted that certain aspects of life would come and go, with the next person none the wiser … Like when you returned a library book, and the next person to hold it would be blissfully unaware that you had beheld the same text. Your fingerprints invisible to them, save for a dated stamp on a card tucked inside the front jacket.

Was it right to say you feared fleeting things? Perhaps it was more accurate to say that you craved constants where you could get them. Keep them. 

You held, with great reverence, the concept of ‘forever,’ of love and lasting, and of something that would endure, beyond yourself and your finite time. You never started a job with the intention of leaving it. And you never took lightly any decision that would have a rippling impact. It just wasn’t in your nature. That said, the weight of a choice was not heavy on your shoulders; no, you held it in your hands with gentle certainty, as one might cradle a small, smooth stone. Before skipping it and watching the ripples extend outward with each touch to the water’s smooth surface, destined to touch and extend forever. 

So the prospect of getting a tattoo – something permanent by its nature – filled you with a thrill in the knowledge that your body would behold this piece throughout your lifetime, etched into your being. Something to remind yourself of who you were in this moment, as well as a piece of your soul you could share with others. Your heart literally on your sleeve, if you so chose .

Suffice it to say you were one to do your due diligence when it came to the permanent things. 

Diligence that had manifested in payoff as you sat cross-legged on your bed, steaming mug of tea on your bedside with the ambient noise of fall rain rap-tapping on your windows, endlessly scrolling through Instagram for local tattoo artists, when you had finally come across something promising –  @ink_by_spiderwebs. 

The grid on his ‘gram was, in a word, impressive. Shot after well-lit shot (seriously, was the artist a photographer , as well?) of ink adorning strangers’ bodies, expanses of skin in just about every conceivable style – swaths of watercolor splashed over collarbones, minimalist etchings delicately adorning fingers, impressive and imposing tribute pieces like a portrait along calves and biceps. Elegant, creative, kitschy, clean.

By style alone, you knew this artist would be perfectly capable of realizing your vision – something literary . Words to live by. To keep close to your heart. Perhaps adorned with some Thoreau-esque woodland details, a swath of greenery, or perhaps rivulets of watercolor ink so-like Walden Pond.  

The bio said the artist’s name was “Peter Parker,” with a link to his shop, “The Spider’s Hollow,” down on Sixth.   

And he was the only artist’s page you had seen thus far whose art filled you with something as you scrolled . The level of care and detail visibly present in each piece had you pinching the glass to zoom in on nearly every photo, your tea long forgotten as you entered the artist’s eye. Incandescent, indescribable feeling . A feast for your eyes, but a pinging zip in your heart. 

Peter Parker was clearly a man who honored the concept of ‘forever ,’ if his body art was anything to go by. 

So when you read, “books open – DM to inquire” in his bio, you found yourself tapping on the “Message” button, typing your pitch with eager, anxious thumbs. 

“Hi!” you cringed at your use of the exclamation point in your greeting – not wanting to seem too keen, but too late to unsend. “I came across your page, and would love to meet with you for a tattoo consultation. Do you have any availabilities later this month?”

There. Clean, concise, professional. Years of making your own appointments were paying off, if you did say so yourself. Even if you'd had to squash the wriggle of anxiety in your gut at messaging a stranger, sight unseen, and hope that he would consider you. 

You put your phone down.

It may take some time to hear back, right? There’s no way a guy with a collection as impressive as his is just going to immediately answer every DM that comes his way…

Until your phone chirped not a minute later, before you could even consider a snack to go with your tea, the instagram icon popping up in your notifications. 

“Hi!” the message said back, exclamation point and all – Thank goodness for the reciprocal energy. You felt a washing wave of gratitude – you certainly could appreciate his parroting of your opening message. (Maybe he was just that kind of person – that it was genuine. And hopefully not that he was poking fun at you, or about to tell you to go find another shop). You shuddered momentarily at the thought, taking a sip of your tea from your chipped fox mug, pressing yourself to read on. 

“I’m happy to talk consultation with you on here. A few things: What are you thinking, where, and is this your first tattoo?” 

He was friendly, but all business, you thought. You could certainly appreciate someone who was as serious about these big decisions as you were. 

You chewed your lip, mulling over your response – it’s not as though you hadn’t done your own research about placement, or thought hard about what you might be looking for. You had  been thinking about this for a while now. 

And you’d wanted something to commemorate the achievement that was you completing your Master’s program at the end of the semester. It seemed only fitting to wear something literary-themed to celebrate the achievement of your Master’s in Publishing and Editing. 

You pulled your thumbnail from your mouth, and turned their attention back to your phone. 

“Thank you for responding so quickly. I’m sure you’re busy,” you typed, sent. Ever conscientious, that was you. 

“It is my first tattoo, and I was hoping to work with an artist on creating something literary-themed,” you followed up. “I have general ideas about placement, but would of course defer to an expert once we have a more final idea. I want it to be someplace that makes sense – although for what I have in mind, my first choice is ribs." You marveled at the paragraph you’d just sent, hoping it wasn’t too much information, ever-anxious about how you came across in an increasingly text-based world. You didn’t want to annoy him before you’d started.

You saw the indicator that he was typing pop up, disappear, then pop up again in rapid succession – almost as though he’d wanted to say something smart-alecky and then thought better of it. The manifestation of hesitance causing a minor furrow to form between your brows.

Although you were hesitant to project – you were hyper-aware of the fact that you were sending messages to someone whose face you hadn’t seen, a man behind a glass wall of digital data in the palm of your hand. And that he felt he had to backtrack before sending you his reply. 

“Accommodating.” 

The single word was a quandary – was he mocking you? Maybe his tone was polite, teasing, playful. It was so hard to tell over text – a true new-age problem for the perpetually lonely-hearted.  But the fact remained – you didn’t know him like that. And he didn’t know you. Mercifully, you didn’t have to wait too long – 

“I’ve done some literary stuff before, so I think I can help. Although ribs are a tricky place for your first time. Are you sure you’re game?” 

If you hadn’t known any better – and you didn’t, not really – you would say he was teasing you, after all. Not unprofessional, just … playful. As though he was feeling out your seriousness while maintaining a tone of gentleness. 

Jesus. How much could you really read into through some scant Instagram DM’s?

“As I’ll ever be,” you replied. Hoping you sounded light and quippy in kind. “I really liked the watercolor pieces on your profile,” you complimented, tabbing back to his page and sending him one of the posts that had caught your eye – 

A piece that looked like a swimming sky – colorful fish floating amongst puffy clouds, their fiery tails bleeding artfully past the hewn borders of their fins, as though the ink had blotted that way, contrasting with the powdery clouds. 

It was a dream to look at, and made you wish you could float among them in the sky.

“I like that one, too,” Peter had supplied. “I called it ‘a bird may love a fish.’”

“But where would they live?” You quipped back, fingers flying. “It’s beautiful.”

Were you really flirting with the guy you were hoping would give you a tattoo? Girl, get it together. 

If he’d thought your response was odd, he didn’t say anything, choosing graciously to continue the conversation. 

“I’m glad you think so. So you like the watercolor style … tell me more about your ideas. Feel free to send reference pics, if you have any.” 

And so you’d spent the better part of the next hour going back and forth with the mysterious artist behind the illuminated glass of your phone – explaining that you were getting your Master’s. That you loved Emily Dickinson, Henry David Thoreau, and Oscar Wilde – the words of the flowery naturalists who had shaped your heart for as long as you can remember – molded your soul from pulped paper of Penguin classics and the color-drenched metamorphosis of autumn leaves. 

You’d sent him a few pictures of minimalist woodland etchings, of swaths of green and yellow leaves, of a few quotes you’d liked. You’d hoped it wasn’t overkill, but you couldn’t wait to see what he would come up with. 

And for his part, Peter had been charming, encouraging. Asking questions about the quotes you’d selected, chiming that he’d liked the colors in the art you’d sent, expressing confidence that he could capture them. Filling your already-brimming heart with the possibilities of a beautiful forever that he was helping you create. 

“Okay,” Peter had said, “I think I have enough to generate a few ideas for you. I’ll send you over some sketches for your approval in the next few days. Is Insta OK, or do you prefer text or e-mail? And, assuming you approve any sketch, I’ll send you a deposit request and put you in the books for three weeks from now? Does that work?” 

Not for the first time since you’d started this conversation had you found yourself wishing that Peter’s Instagram wasn’t purely a professional page – that he’d had a photo posted of himself somewhere. 

Conferring with Peter had been facile, almost as easy as, well, you wouldn’t say breathing , but as easy as conversing with someone you’d known for years (once you'd gotten past your initial anxieties concerning text-based interpretation, that is). You’d only hoped it wouldn’t be awkward when you met in person. That the ease of conversation would carry over. 

( Because it didn’t always, did it? You’d gone to a few stilted parties, standing awkwardly in some stranger’s kitchen with a sticky red plastic cup, conversing with casual acquaintances from class and finding you’d had little to discuss beyond exchanged emails, or small-talk from down the row bemoaning the course material in group projects. You weren’t eager to repeat those experiences.) 

You’d agreed to Peter’s proposed schedule and paid the consult fee and deposit he’d requested when he’d sent you his Venmo, creating an entry in your phone calendar that had you already counting down until the day – eager to see the proposed sketches. 

Eager for something that was created just for you – a piece of curated ‘forever’ you would wear for your eternity. Transferred intent from the amorphous wisps of your mind to the more permanent sticking place of your ribs. Words of another worn so close to your heart. 

For if you have built castles in the air, your work need not be lost; that is where they should be. 

—

Aaaaand … you were running late. 

Peter had messaged you a few days prior with a “Hey, let’s fucking do this! ”coupled with a few different proposals – of looped text, of literary symbols, lines designed to look like ruffling pages of dog-eared novels, of forest greenery and watercolor lakes. 

In a word, it was overwhelming to choose – Peter had gone above and beyond to provide you with options from which you could select what would adorn your body forever. 

You were flush with his enthusiasm, keen to respond in-kind, because what he’d done, even on a preliminary basis was stunning. 

As you’d tip-typed back and forth your thoughts on each choice, narrowing it down with the artist in question, you’d felt the cool relief of appreciation at Peter’s honest opinions of his own art. Telling you which ones would best suit your placement of choice, sizing options, the relative risk and reward of each tattoo, and above all else – whether his vision matched your own. 

Yes, you’d thought. It had. As though the two of you had seen the world through the same pair of eyes, felt the words with the same heart. 

It was magical to feel so seen. A little terrifying, too, if you were honest. It didn’t help that he’d furnished his proposed art with quippy little texts, belying his cleverness. Like when he’d sent you a decidedly Emily Dickinson-inspired proposed piece… replete with swirling flames and idiosyncratic lines of poetry, one of your selected verses. When you’d commented that you’d liked that he included lines of Dickinson’s sublimated puns, he’d been appreciative of the note, if not a little jokey: 

“It’s the unintended pun you have to watch out for,” he’d typed.

“And the intended?” you’d responded, biting back a smile. 

“Even worse,” he’d written back. “I can’t imagine going to a butcher for the first time and having them tell me it’s a pleasure to ‘meat’ me.” 

You’d giggled at that, though he wasn’t around to see it. Though your co-workers were quick to tease you in the breakroom that you’d had obviously-texting-a-cute-boy face. You swatted away the insinuation, with a, “Just my tattoo artist!” before turning back to the conversation at hand. 

“Ah, the horror!” you’d responded. “Would it be terrible of me if I told you as a tattoo artist, you really make your mark on a person?” 

“I’m suddenly inclined to cancel this appointment.” 

He obviously hadn't. Forgiving you for your wordplay, and continuing to work though his proposals with you. Though once you’d picked and finalized your design and paid the deposit, all you had to do was show up .

Which you were, apparently, woefully terrible at. 

You hurried down to Sixth, a train ride and a relatively generous walk from the coffee shop where you worked (you knew how it sounded – a lit-based Master’s candidate who worked at a coffee shop… you may as well have been a Nina George character). 

You moved briskly, cups of coffee sloshing in the corrugated cardboard carrier you clutched as you hurried to your destination. Dodging pedestrians had to be some kind of New York-based competitive sport, you thought, dancing on your tiptoes to avoid knocking shoulders, swimming through the upstream of foot traffic. 

Destination in sight, a little hanging sign above an all-glass storefront that proudly proclaimed “The Spider’s Hollow,” finally, finally in your eyeline. 

You burst through the door, shoulder-first, protecting the carrier of coffee – your peace offering (and reason for being late), the sole of your shoes squeaking a bit on the tile of the lobby area, causing the man perched behind the counter to look up at the intrusion, pushing his specs up his nose. His lips cracking into a smile at the sight of you, eyes darting almost imperceptibly up and down your form – almost as though you looked familiar to him.

But that couldn’t be possible, could it? You’d remember meeting someone who looked like him – honey-brown eyes glinting behind his rectangular frames. Dark, styled tresses that looked soft enough for page-turning fingers to card through. Full lips and a smart jawline. And ink that trailed along the visible portions of his skin, begging to be studied. ( And you were a student, after all) . 

You had been staring for what was probably a tad longer than necessary, as the guy slid off his stool and made his way around the counter to greet you. 

And he was tall, too. Jesus. 

“Hey,” he greeted. “You got an appointment?” 

His voice was easy . It was warm and even, with the present edge of a New York accent. 

You’d forgotten how to speak, you were sure of it. Say something, girl! 

“Uhhh, yeah.” Eloquent, that was you. “I have an eleven with Peter? S-sorry I’m a few minutes late, I was leaving work and thought to bring some coffee,” you held the cardboard container out in front of you as if to prove you weren’t late due to your own negligence, sheepishly scuffing your toe into the linoleum.

“Ah! Book-girl, right!” He crossed over to you, smoothly taking the cardboard carrier in one hand and offering his other to you to shake, clasping your hand in his long-fingered one, giving you a firm shake. “I’m Peter, by the way. ‘S nice to meet you face-to-face. Although I recognize you from your Instagram –,” he broke off his own rushed sentence like snapping a shared piece of a cookie – hurried and uneven, as if he’d recognized a slip he’d made in admitting he’d looked at your socials.

So he was a fast-talker. Smooth over text, but maybe a little less-so in person. The thought was somewhat of a relief to you, because this guy was… wow. 

“Sorry, was that weird?” He’d finished. 

You shook your head. 

“N-no, not weird,” though you were a tad eager to change the subject, lest you admit you were sort of… flattered he’d looked you up. You gestured to the cups of coffee where he had set the carrier down on the counter, “Please, help yourself, I, uhhh, thought you might like a pick-me-up? It’s just black, but the roast is good. I hope that’s okay.” 

The man before you nodded in thanks, turning to fix up his own cup, “Sweet of you, book-girl.” 

He handed you the other cup from the carrier, the one with your order written on the side and your name on the lid. Honey-lavender latte, oat milk. “I assume this one is yours, then? Honey-lavender?” 

You took the cup from his hands with grateful fingers, hoping the tad bit of jitters you’d felt upon meeting the guy you’d been chatting with was from the coffee you’d sipped, and not that you were being obvious about the fact that he was cute. Because, let’s face it, he clearly fucking was. Though you were determined to find your voice again in his presence, lest this entire afternoon become awkward. Even if he was a fucking smokeshow . 

“Don’t knock it til you try it,” you replied with a prim little sip. “We’re no Milk & Roses, but I make a mean latte.” 

“You made these?” Peter took the in the name of the shop on the side of the to-go cup between sips of his own, “Sweet Moments Roasting Co. Huh, never been. Suppose it fits – a lit-girl who loves coffee. Have you read Nina George, by any chance?”

You blinked. Hadn’t you had that very thought? Could he read your thoughts? Was this some sort of superpower gifted to the super-beautiful? The super-talented? The artists? Had you not felt like he was already in your head, with the way he had rendered your ideas so beautifully into proposed sketches?

Oh, you were so fucked. 

If he could read your swirling thoughts, Peter mercifully paid them no mind, beckoning you behind the counter with a jerk of his head, another sip of coffee deep, “Come on back, then, and we can get started.” 

As you followed him to his work station, you couldn’t control the little buzz beneath your skin at the totality of the situation – the nerves you’d already felt about getting your first tattoo, what it would be like… Everyone had said it would hurt, though you’d hoped for some exaggeration. 

And now, of course, the knowledge that had hit you in the face like an unwelcome ton of bricks ever since you’d skidded into this shop – your artist was basically a model who understood literary references. Like a dreamy male lead you’d ponder in early drafts for your creative writing class. 

So, this was Peter?? This was the boy who’d sent you your sketches between cheeky messages. Who’d sent you a post from the “historyinmemes” page that had to do with F. Scott Fitzgerald. Who’d apparently read Nina George. 

You’d taken the opportunity to study him in greater depth, including his ink, as he beckoned you to sit on the edge of the sterile, saran-wrapped cot, your legs dangling over the edge as you made yourself as comfortable as one could. 

The first piece you’d noticed was the cluster of spiderwebs adorning his elbow and the tops of his one bicep, as he’d bent his arm to slug some of the coffee you’d brought. Yes, spiderwebs. Silken and delicate. But bold and steadfast, creeping down to rest at his wrist. 

Weren’t spiderwebs a symbol of destiny? Of truths revealed? 

You’d ponder more on that later, you supposed. 

“This is good,” Peter breezed, breaking you from your thoughts. “Most clients don’t bring me midday treats. So, uh, score one for the book-girl,” his lips parted in an easy grin that should come with its own warning label.

Because something about the sunshine of his smile and his honey eyes beckoned you to respond in kind. To be cute and clever. To tease him back, perhaps? 

“If you clicked my Insta you’d know my name isn’t ‘book-girl,’” you quipped gently, taking a sip of your own, savoring the taste before taking Peter in again.

“Oh, I know,” he tapped the tip of his nose with his fingertip, almost as though the two of you shared some sort of inside joke – but if you were, you clearly weren’t in on it … yet . “I know your name. But it’ll have to be book-girl until I can come up with something else for you.” 

Something else? 

He put the coffee down and turned to his station, slipping on a pair of gloves and busying himself with preparing his inks. 

“You come up with nicknames for all of your customers, then?” You asked; though you’d built up a mild, DM-based rapport with the guy in front of you, the whiplash of finally putting such a devastating face to his name was making you feel like you’d needed to walk on eggshells with him, mindful of your own propensity for crushes.  

Because, damn. If he’d put photos of himself on his work-Insta, you probably would never have had the courage to message him. Not when he stood in front of you with one arm full of spiderwebs and the other full of… stars. Of delicacy and divinity. 

And that’s what was on his other arm, now that you could see them clearly working in front of you – a sleeve of constellations, the swirling blue and purple hues of a night sky smattered with deliberate stars, like a living Van Gogh … Was that Orion’s belt? And along a very well-defined bicep you swore you could see the tragic lovers themselves, Perseus and Andromeda the hero and the princess … tragically fated to love forever, but never to rest together. Among others that you’d need time and attention to study. Not to be weird, but you didn’t think you and Peter were quite there yet. Obviously . 

You wondered if the chosen stars had perhaps held certain significance for him. But that felt like a question far too personal – even if the man was about to see you with your shirt off… or, at least, up. 

“Ah,” Peter turned to you again, brandishing a packet of wet-wipes. “Just the ones who are fun to chat with, who give me a sense of what they’re looking for. I’m really excited about your piece today, by the way,” he nodded at you as though he could sense your new-tattoo trepidation. “How are you feeling?” 

“Ehm…” you puffed, your booted feet still swinging from where you sat on the edge of the cot, the mild-mannered nerves of a person who just needed something to do, “A bit… nervous. Nothing against you. I know what you designed is going to be amazing , I just… Well, you know, this is new for me. I don’t mean to be so anxious about it.” 

You sipped your coffee again, to stop your mouth from moving and more pathetic nerves to spill from your lips. 

Peter tossed the packet of wet wipes onto the cot next to you, stripping one glove and grazing his fingers along your tense shoulder, gripping gently in a reassuring grip. 

“Hey, no ‘sorries’ here, okay? It’s fine to be nervous,” He smiled at you, that honey-gold sweetness behind his eyes lightening once more, as though they couldn’t truly brighten without the accompaniment of his lips slipping into a sweet grin. It was beautiful, like watching a flower bloom by moonlight. 

A devastatingly handsome man, who holds the sky with an armful of stars. 

“Thanks, Peter,” you breathed, looking around for a place to stash your coffee so you could get comfortable on the cot. 

Peter, once more seemingly capable of reading your thoughts, took the coffee from your hand gently, setting it by his work-station.

“It’s right here if you need another fix,” he joked. “But if you’re ready, we can get started.”

You exhaled, nodding. This was it. You laid back onto your side, tucking your shirt up and into your sports bra so that Peter would have easy access to the curve of your ribs beneath your breast. 

Peter was patient, reverent almost. He turned to allow you privacy while you settled, fiddling with his phone and his Bluetooth speakers. He booted up a playlist, the sounds of Motown greeting your ears, causing a smile to draw itself from your pretty lips.

"I figured this would be fine? I'm in a Supremes mood today."

Peter Parker was apparently predisposed for premonitions.

Either that, or he was just … ridiculously intuitive.

Because there it was again. A little cool and disquieting, really, that you were either so easy to read… or perhaps it was warm and comforting… having so much in common with Peter that everything felt … not necessarily anticipatory , but complementary? 

"I love them," you nodded. Rewarded with a pearly smile and a nod from the boy in front of you, who began to work once more. At ease, now that you were.

As Peter sanitized and bic’d your skin, laying the stencil of your agreed-upon design along your side, you felt compelled to make conversation. Peter was concentrated as he worked, and you didn’t want to break it… but you’d always tended to babble a bit when you were nervous. And maybe it was the gorgeous man’s hand along the curves and ridges of your ribs. Or maybe it was the very real thought of a very real needle you would soon be faced with.

So you babbled. 

“Sooo…. the Spider’s Hollow,” you started. “You know, in Hungarian, the word for the spider’s web is pókháló , like ‘poke-hollow?’” At Peter’s silence, you continued. “I just think it’s neat how that turned out. Especially since when you tattoo,” you made a gesture like poking a sewing needle through fabric. “It’s a bunch of little pokes.” 

You gestured microcosmic jabs with your one free arm, faltering in your movements at the hesitancy you’d felt as to whether the boy in front of you found this funny or charming at all. 

Peter looked at you, a smirk quirking at the corner of his mouth at your rambling, at the way you dropped your arm back above your head, careful to steer clear of your side where Peter was now working. A chuckle escaped his lips before speaking again, 

“Are you Hungarian?” Peter asked, “Or just an ear for languages?”

“My Nana was,” you offered. “She used to teach me little phrases. I don’t know why, but ‘spiderweb’ stuck. But I do speak Spanish, by nature of, ya know,” you gestured at your form in a one-armed sweep. 

“Bet,” Peter affirmed. “I’m afraid I don’t speak a word, really. I’m good with Yiddish, though, being, ya know ,” he gestured at himself, mirroring what you had done with yourself moments ago. 

You snorted. 

“From Queens?” You prodded, gently. 

“Stalker,” Peter smiled around the word, gaze heavy upon you, coffee eyes glinting beneath the lights of his shop. “How’d you know?” 

"The accent?" You pondered. "Maybe it's your whole vibe. Or maybe it's the fact that your Instagram bio said so."

Peter chuckled at that, scrubbing the back of his neck before stripping the gloves he had been working with in favor of a pair of fresh ones.

"Suppose you did your research, then," he queried, more to the room than to you, selecting the inks for the text of your tattoo.

"I wouldn't be me if I hadn't," you replied. "I'm not about to chance something that lasts forever with some random guy," your eyes left Peter's form and trailed along the ceiling of his shop, a little sigh leaving your lips.

There was something vaguely left-of romantic, the way you'd said it.

"I get that," Peter scooted his rolling stool toward the edge of the cot now, confirming the placement of the outlines on your skin with gentle fingers and expert eyes.

He placed a gentle, even hand along the base of your ribcage, beneath where your new forever was destined to go. 

"Okay," he eased, locking eyes with you once more. “Take a deep breath, 'kay? You don't wanna fidget too much, ‘cos we don't want any extra lines that you and I didn't talk about. Breathe as evenly as possible. Ready?" 

You nodded.

He grinned, "Let's do this, book-girl."

The buzzing of the gun filled your ears, blending with Diana Ross's voice, giving the room sort of a hazy, blurred feel. Synesthetic, really. 

The first impact wasn't painful , per se. More like an itch you could feel in your bones. As sharp as the buzzing, but not awful.

Your breath hitched a bit when it met your skin, adjusting to the new sensation.

"All good?" Peter chirped.

You nodded again.

"That's my girl," he turned back to your ribs while you tried your hardest not to let yourself feel lightheaded – whether it was from the needle scratching along your skin or the words that had just left Peter Parker's mouth, you didn't know.

Whether the heat was blood rushing through your body from the now very-real beginnings of ink along your side, or from what the beautiful boy in front of you had just said, you weren’t sure. Though you were willing to bet a bit on the latter – pleased with yourself for how cool you’d managed to appear in the presence of someone so … devastating to look at. Or at least you’d hoped you’d been playing it cool. 

For his part, Peter was either very comfortable with people (he'd kinda had to be, right? To be in this line of work?) Or he hadn't realized exactly what he'd said, of the meaning it might carry.

Though you were willing to bet a little on the former, as Peter proceeded to fill the already-buzzing air with idle comments designed to put you at ease. What he was watching on Netflix – he was on his third rewatch of "Schitt's Creek". What he thought of the new Phoebe Bridgers song – favorable, of course. And would the Mets go all the way this year? –  It was unlikely.

"Dunno why I brought that up," he chuffed, "Noooot really a baseball guy." He shook his head at himself, glancing at your face to affirm you were still okay , before continuing. “This is looking really great, by the way. I’m glad you picked the colors that you did.”

He was sweet, if a little disarming, with how beautiful he was. How facile with his kindness. How easily he touched you. How easily he shared things with you. All while  simultaneously feeling like you were still at an arm's length. 

Which, of course you were . He was a professional. The fact that his fingers and his tattoo gun were currently skating the tender skin beneath the curve of your breast was novel to you; but another day at the office to him.

To distract yourself from the itch along your ribs, you focused on Peter. On the way his honey eyes were trained on your skin. On the lovely, deliberate curve in his nose – almost as if it had been broken before, or just was always meant to sit that way. Aristocratic in its imperfection. On the stubble that lined his sharp jaw, and the little stud in his ear. 

On the elegant slope of his neck, where rested another tattoo.

You studied it – eyes following the curling petals of a large, opened bloom. The flower followed the curve at the base of his ear to meet the strong column of his throat, petals lush, abutted by a leafy stalk. And just there , dangling from the edge of the leftmost petal and dripping his way down the ridge of Peter’s neck, a little swinging spider. Suspended from the plant by a delicate strand of inked silk. As though he would eventually make his way down to Peter's elbow, where the spiderwebs sat. His hollow.

You loved the complete picture it painted, this one side of Peter's body telling the story of this intrepid little creature who journeyed from one end of his world to the other, departing his home to explore something beautiful and unique – the flower. 

The other side of Peter, the side with his stars, remained a mystery to you still. One that you'd love to solve, had Peter's tattoo gun not drawn a very distinct line over a very distinct bone, causing you to emit a soft yelp, trying not to jerk away.

The motion didn't go unnoticed by Peter, who stopped the gun, allowing for a break.

“Hey, hey, you okay?” Peter's eyes traveled over you, searching for any signs of distress.

"Y-yeah," you breathed. "That one just caught me by surprise, is all." 

You glanced down your body from your lying position, eyes trailing over the irritated skin along your side, surprised to see it looked nearly done, your hitching breath causing you to wince with dull, residual pain.

Peter set aside his tools, bringing his one hand to yours and squeezing your fingers with his, smiling softly, “I think you’re doing great.” 

You felt a little curl of heat creep through you at his words of praise, however untruthful you felt they may have been. You were trying so hard not to squirm, but if you’d thought the pain had made that difficult, his throaty tone complimenting you was another thing entirely. 

His other hand trailing a cool, sanitary wipe over your ribs, another tickling prickle lacing through your veins at the sight of his long fingers skating over your skin.

You smiled at him in what you hoped was a charming quirk of your lips, but in all likelihood was a weak little thing, taking a deep, hitching breath at the pause of the needle over your ribs.  

“Thanks,” you murmured, not wanting to cause your ribcage to rise and fall more than necessary while the fingertips of his one hand were delicately tracing the bones, afraid that a sudden movement would cause him to retract his hand from its soothing path over your tender skin. Simultaneously reverential and hyper-aware of his other hand in yours, and of the way you could feel the heat of his fingertips through the thin material of his gloves. 

He really was good at this . 

“I don’t mean to be such a baby,” you sighed, shifting your hips slightly and causing the plastic-wrapped cot beneath you to crinkle. You caught the quirk of Peter’s lips out of the corner of your eye, glancing up at him through your lashes and releasing a sigh that would have been imperceptible had his hand not been resting where it was.

“And now you have to change your gloves,” you murmured. “Sorry.” 

Peter shook his head, a slow smile melting its way warmly across his features, squeezing your fingers again. You loved that he smiled often. 

“Good thing I’ve got extras, then,” he reassured, nodding in the direction of the box of disposable, sterile gloves at his cluttered workstation. “You have nothing to be sorry for. The first tattoo is different for everyone. And you picked a hell of a place to start.” 

Wipe discarded, his fingertips were now lightly, playfully tapping the unmarked skin beneath the area on your ribs where he had ceased working, causing a patch of goosebumps to erupt beneath his attentions. 

“We can also stop, if you want to. If you need a break.” 

At the noise of protest in your throat, Peter chuckled again. 

“I mean it,” Peter implored, his eyes finding yours and letting his thumb stroke comfortingly over your palm, as he continued to hold your hand. “You don’t have to sit here like a masochist if you’re hurting. We're nearly done. We can let this heal, and come back another day. But only if you promise me you would come back?” 

Your heart clenched a little at his words, at the desire for your return – and Peter must have realized how it sounded because he shifted on his rolly-stool, clearing his throat once more before saying,

“I just hate to have a piece of mine out there in the world unfinished,” he paused, “Although, if I'm being honest...I wouldn’t mind an excuse to see you again.” 

Well. 

If you had been uncertain about the seemingly preordained connection between yourself and Peter in this meeting, he had absconded with it in one sentence. You had thought perhaps he was just being nice, kind, supportive. Maybe he was. 

But perhaps there was truth to the thought that he also might just… like you. 

“You would, would you?” You arched a brow at Peter, glancing up at him from where you lay on your side, taking in the one hand with which he held yours. The other with which he was assessing your fresh ink. Letting the attraction that now felt mutual creep through your veins. 

“Come on, book-girl, don’t make me beg,” he mock-pouted. “Why wouldn’t I? Book-girl brings me coffee. She DMs like a novelist. She teaches me languages. She definitely checks me out while I’m working. But, hey, if you aren’t interested, I’ll back off,” he released your fingers, slightly rolling back on his stool as the song switched over on his playlist. 

You Can’t Hurry Love. 

You felt heat rush through yourself at his last point – were you so obvious? 

The fact was, that truths were etched into the very cells of you. Other truths, perhaps those less permanent, pressed there, too. Bruises from attentive lips and insistent fingertips that faded over time. But were still worth the feeling. 

“I think we can finish this today,” you said softly, demurely.

“Yeah?” Peter asked.

You nodded. 

“And then, when all’s said and done … maybe I’ll let you see me again? I don’t think I’d mind it so much, either,” the words were those of a stranger, dripping from your lips. “I won’t apologize for checking you out, either. If I wasn’t so sure you were kinda doing the same to me.”  You teased with a soft smile. 

You were never usually so bold. But something about Peter made you want to take a risk. Would it be forever? It was too soon to tell. 

“You’re not too uncomfortable?” Peter’s eyes raked your form, on your side on the wrapped cot, boots still over the edge where you’d curled your legs. 

Whether he was referring to the rest of the tattoo, or to seeing him again, you weren’t sure. But, then again, whichever he was referring to didn’t matter. Your answer remained the same – 

“What’s the worth of something permanent without a little pain?” You breathed. 

Peter’s eyes caught yours again, his big, amber-doe ones catching with a glimmer of something in the overhead light of his shop. He let a beat of silence pass, pulsing between you before clearing his throat mildly, 

“That’s pretty metal of you,” he breezed. “Let’s do it.” 

Peter’s hands left you as he re-gloved, allowing you a glimpse at his inked fingers before they were hidden once more. Perhaps you could find out more about those later, as well. 

As Peter made to resume the finishing touches on your piece, you piped up, gesturing vaguely at his neck, 

“So, uh, why the spider?” you queried gently. 

Peter shrugged, eyes focused on your side once more, "Kind of an inside joke,” he said. And while he didn’t elaborate, he looked up at you once more before adding, “Maybe I’ll tell you next time.” 

Allowing Peter to work in silence was its own reward, as you allowed yourself the indulgence of studying Peter in his natural habitat – his inked arms flexing as he worked, toiling over your skin as a lover would, you supposed. 

And when Peter was finally, finally finished – you allowed yourself to look down, to take in the piece he had gifted you with in its entirety, for eternity. 

Thoreau-themed, of course, the words " live, live deliberately " curling along the curve of your ribs, following the natural current of your body, the shape of the skin beneath your breast. Abutted by autumnal watercolor swirls, greens and yellows popped through with blots of white ink, bordering the borderless – outlines of minimalist trees, leaves, and blooms – a living forest, a garden, animated by your every breath. The words of the romantic naturalists sustaining you, now forever. 

The corners of Peter’s eyes had twinkled, his entire face alight with a grin when he saw your reaction – how you had assured him over and over that you loved it. Tears pricking the corners of your eyes when you took in the final product in its glory, Peter taking a few snaps for his work Insta, and wrapping it for you. 

“It’s beyond , Peter,” you assured, gripping his fingers with your own in your excitement, pressing your excitement into him through your fingertips. “Even better than you drew, if such a thing could even be possible.” 

“I’m glad you love it, book-girl,” he eased, visibly pleased with a job well done. “I’ll give you some treatment balm and the aftercare sheet we talked about. You just sit tight. And maybe I can put your pic on my Instagram? You just… you look like a muse right now.”

You could’ve melted at his words. What the fuck. 

All you could do was nod.

And as his playlist died down, fading into the weighted silence between the two of you, Peter had made sure you were occupied with adjusting your clothes and getting comfortable as he wrote his phone number on the side of your coffee cup, twirling on his heel to hand it back to you, phone number side out and without saying a word. The little plastic bag of aftercare goodies dangling from the fingers of his other hand. 

“Don’t be a stranger,” he’d called after you’d paid, “I really do hope I see you again.” 

As Peter watched you leave his shop, he was struck with a few thoughts:

Firstly, the sparking little glimmer of attraction, of – dare he say – chemistry he’d felt between the two of you he hadn’t felt since… well, best not to dwell on that. 

Secondly, that while you thought you were subtly checking him out as he worked, he had done the same to you. Whether you were aware of it or not –  Peter had noted, apart from the fact that you were obviously very pretty, the only other modification he could see than the one he was currently gifting you with. The twinkling in your right ear, he’d gazed upon appreciatively – a clustered, glittering constellation of piercings that looked almost like the belt of Orion, with rosy gold and cool gems, like stars in between.

He glanced down at his own arm, of the sleeve of stars, clusters of constellations for each person in his life, pieces of his heart exchanged with others now worn on his sleeve, mirrored with the sky. For who could contain their feelings for those they loved in anything smaller than the sky?

And here you had come, like a veritable garden of surprises – sprigs of witticism, blooms of honey-sweetness, a soft-petaled open heart. And a piece of yourself that looked like stars. 

Maybe you could be his starshine girl, after all. A muse. 

— 

In the days following your appointment, between shifts at the coffee shop and revising your papers for seminar, your mind was on veritable repeat:

Number one: You had never been this invested in antibacterial soap before. Sure, you were a clean person. But the repeated, gentle washing over your new tattoo became a ritual that would forever be associated with the smell of clean, gold Dial. 

Number two: Healing tattoos itch like a bitch. It’s not like you considered yourself particularly fidgety before, but the urge to scratch the healing, flaking ink on your side was more tempting than the fruit offered up by the snake.  Nevertheless, you persisted, lest you lift the ink from your skin, marring Peter’s creation. 

Number three: You were also itching for a reason to text your artist again – to capitalize on the moments of insane, bursting chemistry you’d shared with pretty, personable Peter Parker. 

Sure, he’d said he’d like to see you again – but, did he mean it? You’d never had much of a mind for the hard sciences, so what did you know about chemistry, really? And Peter carried himself like he was floating, clouds of smooth, facile charm. He flirted and bantered with you as though it was easy as breathing. As anything, really. 

And maybe it was easy for him. When it wasn’t for you. 

And he had tagged you in a photo that he’d taken before you’d left – the edges of your skin abutting the tattoo a little red and abused by nature of the new ink. But he’d captured something beyond your ink. You were leaned against the glass of his countertop, tilted at the waist and neck elongated, hair brushed back to allow Peter full access to the length of your torso, the full piece he had drawn on display. 

You’d looked unlike yourself. You’d looked like an indie dreamgirl through Peter’s lens – wan eyes staring into the distance (when really you’d refused to meet Peter’s eyes as he took your picture, too afraid he’d see what was behind your own). Your jaw was curved and sharp, the line of your neck long and elegant as the sloping curve of your form while Peter had captured the pop of color along your skin. 

It was almost romantic of him, really. 

As though he could read your mind – and there it was again – you were spared with the mercy of a DM notification from your Instagram. 

"This is a little uncool of me, I'll admit," Peter's message flashed onto your screen. “But I didn’t exactly want to wait to hear from you.”

You beamed at that, not that he was there to receive the benefit of your reaction. You very much doubted Peter Parker did anything that might render him "uncool" in the eyes of his beholder. 

“Uncool, huh? Here I was just working up the nerve to text you,” you’d replied, biting your thumbnail as you awaited his response. “Guess I wasn’t the only one.” 

Very smooth of you, really. 

“How are you healing?” he’d asked. 

This couldn’t be just a business call, could it?

“Perfect,” you answered, snapping a quick pick of your ribs so Peter could see the progress of your flowered ink, the text still popping against the beautiful backdrop he’d made of your body. 

Peter waited for an agonizing minute before replying. 

He wasn’t scrutinizing the photo too closely, was he? Of course he was , you thought – he was a perfectionist about his art. Had you messed something up with the aftercare?

“It looks beautiful,” he’d replied. “You’re doing a good job taking care of it. But I’d expect nothing less.’

You breathed a sigh of relief, pleased that he was pleased.

“You weren’t really reaching out to ask about the tattoo, were you?” Was this flirting? Honestly, you were trying your best. Ever-hopeful for a positive response. 

"You got me. I guess I was just eager to see you again," he said. Another bubble following the first. “Can I come visit you at work tomorrow, maybe take you out after?” 

God, this was playing out like one of your summer beach-reads. Quiet girl (you) meets cool boy (Peter). Cool boy inexplicably wants to spend time with quiet girl. How would it end?

But you’d liked him. You did like him. Which was why you’d agreed to his proposal – perhaps a little too-readily. Maybe you should’ve waited a few minutes to let him sweat. To seem cool. But, honestly, he’d had to know that wasn’t you. 

So when he’d breezed into your shop at the agreed-upon time the next day, you’d had a latte waiting for him. Honey, lavender, and oat-milk. Since he’d seemed to like it so much when he’d tried yours. And you’d told him as much, pleased at the smile he’d cracked as you’d offered him the sweet drink. 

“I brought you something, too,” Peter admitted conspiratorially, swilling the coffee as he leaned on the bartop, as though he was about to tell you a secret. 

Peter tapped his fingers against the counter as he put the now-empty cup down. 

Honestly, that had to be some kind of record.

"Should I cut you off?" You gestured at Peter's tip-tapping, fluttering fingers and the now-empty cup. "Do I make you nervous? Or just over-caffeinated?"

"Ah, no," he chuckled, the tips of his ears flushing slightly, immediately easing the rapid-fire motion of his fingers at your query. "Force of habit. Always have to be doing something with my hands."

You quirked a brow at that.

"Artist is a good occupation for you, then." You cleared the empty cup. “You were saying?”

“Ah,” Peter fidgeted for a moment before pulling a crinkled, faded postcard from his back pocket and sliding it across the bartop to you. 

You picked it up – greeted with the sight of a rendering of Walden pond. You flipped the postcard over to find a scratched “Wish you were here,” and a smudged-out address with no name.

You looked back at Peter, eyebrow raised. 

“I found it in one of the used books I’d just bought,” he said. “I think it was being used as a bookmark. But I thought of you … obviously. Think it’s a sign?” He waggled his brows at you, drawn and devastating. 

You could swoon at the flash of the carefree boy before you, so different from the smooth-operating artist who had flirted with you and taken your photo for his page. 

"It's fine to be a little silly, Pete," you teased. "You're really not doing yourself any favors with this whole 'brooding, starving artists stereotype."

"Oh no?" Peter wiggled his eyebrows. "The girls seem to love it. The boys do, too."

“I’m sure,” you giggled. “Love that for you. Just give me a few minutes and I’ll be ready to go.” 

You left Peter at the counter as you made to clock out, gathering your things and trying not to sway your hips a bit more than usual at the feel of his eyes on you…

As a child , you loved wishing on a dandelion. Clutching the crisp stem in your grubby fist in the wan heat of springtime, screwing your eyes shut to come up with the perfect wish before inhaling and blowing, letting the seeds waft and disperse on the lazy, warm spring breeze. You understood it was a weed. That the seeds may take root and spawn other tufty, snowy dandelions. Perhaps it was a nuisance to some. To you? It was the promise of an eternity of wishes. Of the oceanic potential of dreams yet to come true.

You always were a little idealist. 

“So, where are you taking me?” You queried, walking alongside Peter down the busy NY sidewalk, eyeing the bulky messenger bag at his side suspiciously. 

“You’ll see, book-girl,” he smiled, steering you off the beaten path to the hill at the top of a small, sloping park, tucked away in plain sight, the coppery, fire-orange hues of the sunset splashed against the skyline as you looked out over the park. 

Peter was unpacking his bag, setting out a blanket, a thermos, and pulling a few paperbacks from the depths of the canvas. He plopped down on the crest of the hill, patting the space of the blanket beside him. 

You blinked in surprise, looking at the sweet little spread of snacks Peter had busied him with, heart fit to burst. 

You eased yourself down at his side, unable to stop smiling as Peter offered you a paper cup of sweet, sparkling water, cool thanks to the depths of the metal thermos. You took it gratefully, happy for something cool after the walk over. 

“This is sweet,” you nodded to the setup. “Perfect, really.” 

Peter beamed at your reaction, leaning back onto the heels of his hands and crossing his legs in front of him at the ankle, content to relax now that you had approved of his little DIY date. 

“I mean it, Peter,” your hand grazed the top of his thigh, a thankful, brushing touch. “A picnic with books ? This is beyond.” 

Peter gave a little shrug of his shoulders, as if to say, “ It’s nothing really. ” 

“I can’t take all the credit. My aunt helped with the baked goods,” he admitted, sounding almost sheepish that she’d assisted with the date. “She wants to know when you can come over so she can cook for you, by the way. She’s already insistent , ” as said it as though it were the most casual thing in the world; as though it was nothing more than an invite amongst longstanding family friends. 

Peter smiled at you then, “She makes killer brisket,” he confided, like it was some kind of deeply-held family secret. Well, the recipe probably was… 

“I’d love to,” you nodded, picking up one of the paperbacks that Peter had brought with, trying to hide your bashful giddiness under the guise of studying the back of one of the books while Peter took a bite of fruit, hoping he hadn’t noticed the silly little grin you couldn’t help but crack. 

No such luck. 

“Hey, uhh,” Peter nudged you, “Sorry if this is weird, but can I take your picture?” He nodded over your shoulder at the sunset. “You just look … well, cataclysmic like this, if I’m honest.”

You blinked, feeling the heat rush through you at his words – was anything about this boy not designed to knock you back?? –  nodding as Peter held up an actual camera to take your photo, reaching forward to gently take the paper cup from your fingers and set it out-of-frame. 

Fixing your chin between his thumb and forefinger, studying your face intently, cola-bright eyes taking in your features as he gently tilted your face to capture the light casting along your cheekbones. 

“There,” he breathed, raising the camera to snap the picture, capture the moment. 

You couldn’t be the only one feeling the weight between the two of you … the romanticism inherent in the gesture causing the tension between the two of you to build. Blinking as Peter brought the camera down from his face, allowing the two of you to look at one another again, with nothing in between the two of you. 

“This one won’t end up on your insta, will it?” you teased, desperately clinging to the hope of levity that would make this moment a little easier on your poor, wasted, romantic little heart. 

“Nah,” he shrugged. “That one’s just for me. Unless you want me to post it? –”

“No!” you interjected, somewhat embarrassed at the outburst, before amending, “N-no.. that’s okay. I just… well it’s hard to know that it’s you on there, isn’t it? There are no photos of you. Just the ones you take. It’s like you have a secret identity,” you joked, knocking your elbow into Peter’s ribs. “I couldn’t find anything on you. And your Instagram is all tattoo pics.” 

“My work Insta is,” Peter replied, sipping primly from his own cup and eyeing you over the rim. “I’ll give you my private one if you wanna see the thirst-traps. But it’ll cost you.” 

“And what’ll it cost me?” You asked, your voice taking on a coy, flirtatious register.

If Peter could play the game, so could you. 

“I’ll let you know at the end of the night,” he supplied, not missing a beat.

Damn him . 

The evening passed in much the same manner – traded quips, undignified snorted laughs over bubbling, sparkling water, made painful by the carbonation. But you hadn’t had it in you to mind. You’d been teaching Peter some Spanish phrases, keen at his asking – and pleased that he’d remembered your conversation from the day he’d given you the tattoo. 

The two of you were walking back to your apartment. Peter had surprised you by taking your hand in his for the walk, not minding the heat of your hand in his on a warm evening, made even moreso thanks to your nerves. And listening to your needless babbling (also thanks to your nerves) – Seriously, was anything about him not designed to make you nervous??

– “I think eating noodles together is one of those unexpected, underrated acts of intimacy," you supplied, telling Peter what was on your list of underrated date activities, perhaps so he could plan for the next one.

Peter looked up at you from where he had been looking at your feet as you both walked, watching your strides match. 

"Really?" He asked, "Noodles? Why?"

You smiled coyly, "Well, there's no attractive way to eat a noodle, is there? It really bonds you as a couple. Er," you hesitated, covering the brief flash of your awkwardness at the insinuation you might make a couple. "Or … potential couple."

“You don't think eating noodles is romantic?” Peter asked, sounding almost offended at your position, “You know? Like ‘Lady and the Tramp?’”

You raised your eyebrows at him, pleased and surprised that he was indulging this conversation. But perhaps that was just Peter . Maybe he really did just get you . 

“I think noodles of any kind are very romantic, but that’s because I love carbs. And we're not cartoon dogs, so I don’t think it would be as cute when we try it.” 

“ When ?” Peter asked, his voice taking on a teasing lilt as he stopped you at your stoop. “I’m looking forward to it, then. This is you?”

You glanced up, disappointed to see your building. Not because you didn't like where you’d lived. But because it meant your date with Peter was over. 

“It is,” you conceded with a sigh. “Thank you, Peter. This was… perfect, really. I had a good time.” 

“Same, book-girl. Same.” He met your eyes, something flashing behind his as he glanced from your eyes to the gentle curve of your lips. 

“W- would it be… Can I kiss you?” 

Fuck. You were grateful he’d asked – praying in the way you so-often did when you were caught up in your own feelings and hoping it wasn’t just you feeling what you were feeling. And grateful for the hitch in his voice, a manifestation that maybe you’d made him a touch as nervous as he’d made you. 

Impossible, really .

You nodded, appreciative eyes already locked on Peter’s lips as he leaned forward to brush his against yours, a sweet, shy little slip at first. Testing you. Or teasing you. 

Peter drew back, taking in your starry eyes.

He must’ve been pleased with what he saw, because there was much less hesitance when he pressed his lips to yours again, full and purposeful. Heated and intentional. Peter’s lips were like a full-bodied dream; something you knew you would feel long after you had awoken that would linger in your thoughts throughout the entire day. 

He chased your lips with his own, tongue following to slip into your mouth at the sigh you emitted. 

Peter responded in kind, a pleased rumble in his throat before he broke away.

"I knew you would kiss like a…" Peter swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing before brushing his lips over yours once more, hotly. "Like a fuckin' dancer … twirling through my dreams?" 

Peter's honey-tar eyes trailing like the last lazy drop of sticky syrup as they roved over you, slow and heated, admiring the slight crinkle of your nose at his suggestion that you were capable of romantic ballet. 

“Not a dancer, then?” One of Peter's inked hands brushed along the peak of your cheekbone, cradling your face in a swatch of permanent stars. The other hand followed the line of his eyes as he traced your side like spiderwebs, leaving his touch to linger where he knew your tattoo to be – tracing the words, the leaves, the gift he had imparted you with. “No, not a dancer.” 

His lips brushed yours again, rendering you speechless at the absence of air, of space, of any semblance of time or reason between the two of you as his words caused your head to spin. 

“Not a dancer. You’re my Eden.” 

"Eden?” you breathed, “As in the garden?"

Peter was coy, his warm touch burning through the thin material of your shirt, pressing through  your ribs and settling somewhere near your heart – as though it could beat any faster. 

"Maybe,” he shrugged, traipsing his hand from your cheek, down your arm, and to your hand. Lacing his fingers with yours and pressing yet another kiss to the gentle skin of your fine-boned hand. 

"And why is that? Do I tempt you, Peter?" 

Was that throaty little register of your voice … yours? You don’t think you had ever sounded so … wanton to your own ears. But you couldn’t help yourself – Who could, with a man who captured beauty, who created hymns, pretty little promises with his own two hands… Who could, with such a man before them?

"Maybe,” he repeated, ever coy. Ever maddening. Ever twirling around you as though he was the dancer. Graceful and inauspicious. “After all, when I look at you, I think of ‘Wild Nights.’"

You spluttered. “What?”

Peter grinned, pleased with your reaction, swinging your joined hands down to rest by his side as he tugged you into him, impossibly closer on your stoop. Oh, your nosy landlady would have a field day with this, if she saw you on the steps of her building. Trading kisses and canoodling with a boy who whispered dirty, poetic promises. 

"The Dickinson poem? … ‘R owing in Eden - Ah, the Sea! Might I but moor - tonight - In thee ."

Was there any form of artistic medium that Peter wasn’t made for ? It was pure, the way poetry spilled from him as though the words were his, made to be repeated on the majesty of his lips. 

The heat of it all rushing through you, causing you to gaze at Peter through the fringe of your lashes – part in disbelief, and part in heady, wanton flirtation. 

"That may be the most forward anyone has ever been, Peter Parker," you murmured, squeezing his fingers with your own. "Baboso." Idiot. 

Peter’s grin was ever-present, million-watt. Pleased as punch to be wriggling beneath your skin in this way. "Don’t wound me, cariña . I’m paying you a compliment." The endearment rolled off his tongue, exactly as you'd taught him at the park.

You rolled your eyes good-naturedly, rocking up on tiptoes to press a kiss to Peter’s cheek, whispering in his ear,

“I should never have taught you any Spanish. You’re going to be insufferable about this, I know it.” 

Peter laughed – a rumbling thing that caused you to appreciate the movement in his chest, the way he laughed with his entire body. An infectious brand of joy. 

“Don’t be mean, Eden .” 

You loved the way it fell from his lips, the moniker. Like the stars falling from the sky to rest along the skin of the arm that held you, curled around you in an embrace that made you never want to kiss him goodnight, for fear that the night would end. Though leave him, you would, with a cloying kiss, a slip of the tongue like a sweet promise. 

And you didn’t want it to end. To keep this moment with you. Nothing but you and Peter and the little games you would play. Two parentheses with nothing in between, but space ... and your tongue’s imagination.  

— 

Time spent with Peter was like sifting for gold through a sieve – you were desperate to cling to every piece that you could, terrified of the feeling that something would slip through your grasp.

Since his visits to your coffee shop, since your date, since the world-melting kisses you had shared on your stoop the other day, you’d been unable to stop thinking of the coffee-and-cinnamon artist who was surely stealing your heart. 

So when you’d invited him to your apartment for drinks and a movie, you hadn’t anticipated it would end up like this. 

He’d remarked on the cozy appearance of your apartment, of the potted plants, of the stacked books and idling laptop on your dining room table. (He’d graciously not mentioned the collection of dirty coffee mugs stashed by your sink, waiting to be washed). Of the soft, tufty throw blanket on the back of your couch as he’d kicked off his boots and made himself comfortable. 

You’d poured him wine into one of your cheap little bell glasses, admitting to him in a blushing rush that it was nice to see him again. He’d kissed your cheek and was his usually-charming self. 

And then – well. 

How could you have known that the honey-eyed boy you’d been slowly investing pieces of yourself in would balk at your suggestion that “The Princess Bride” stood the test of time, and stood for the proposition of eternal love? That he would eye you with something like disbelief?

Peter had snorted at your suggestion, prompting you to pause the movie, turning to face him in the washed light of the TV and your one solo corner lamp. 

Red wine made you contemplative. You wondered if it did the same for Peter. It made your skin tingle and buzz, Cabernet and caprice. Which is perhaps why you’d felt the need to ask – 

"What? You don't believe in forever?" You queried gently, refusing to meet Peter's eyes as you'd pressed upon him a personal, philosophical question. You chose, instead, to not-so-delicately fiddle with the loose thread at the cuff of your loose waffle weave.

"As an eternal certainty? As in, the universe will continue to exist after I've left it? Sure." The shrugging of Peter's shoulders caught your eye, daring you to look up and meet his. "In an existential sense. In terms of, like, connections? Entanglements? Whatever you want to call them …" Peter's fingers brushed invisible crumbs off the wooden surface of your coffee table as though he were brushing away the very idea. "Hardly."

His final word was bitten. Punctual. Certain. You'd tried not to let the feeling of disappointment wash through you – estopped and brunt as his word had been. To keep it from flooding your veins, an inky sense of bleeding finality. Was this doomed before it could begin? Was this the same guy you’d been seeing? You blinked.

"Don't you trade in forevers?" You'd kept your voice light, daring to lock your eyes with Peter's glinting, honeyed ones. "You literally etch a 'forever' into someone's skin – the forever they choose."

Peter shrugged again, taking a sip of his wine and hooking a leg to turn and face you on the couch, studying your face for any lingering disappointment you’d hoped to keep out of your voice.

But Peter was percipient. Peter Parker perched, piercing eyes, perceptive, plinking away at your personal philosophies. 

“Sure,” he admitted, breaking the silence to agree with you – at least in part. “But that’s not my forever. Has nothing to do with me –  I like to keep my philosophical renderings separate from my business transactions, if I can help it.” His voice was airy, as though he knew he was treading onto something sensitive for you. 

“But they’re pieces of you aren’t they?” you prodded gently, leaning over to tap your nails lightly against one of the constellations inked into his forearm, “You’re an artist. You put a little bit of yourself into every piece – that’s something others will carry with them forever, whether you think of it or not.” 

“Yourself included?”

“Myself included,” you acknowledged, both of your eyes trailing to the space beneath your shirt where sat the leafy green Thoreau-inspired piece he had imparted to you. A gift of his hands on you, that had started the two of you down this path.  

“You’re carrying a part of me wherever you go, huh? … sounds almost romantic ,” Peter said, a careful edge to his voice – as though he was about to admit something to you that he wasn’t ready to admit to himself. 

“You see? I’ve changed your mind already,” you smiled, wanly. “ There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophies . And aren’t we romantic?” You faced Peter on your couch, now, allowing the palm of your hand to rasp up the skin of his arm, to cradle his cheek. “Some unknowable thing…" you trailed. "Maybe it's like love."

But the more you spoke, the more Peter seemed to bristle at your words. 

He shook his head softly, cracking your heart a bit as he did so. 

Of course this wouldn't be as momentous to him. He was too easy with you. The practiced ease of someone who drifted in and out of meaningless romance. Couldn't he see he held your heart in his very hands? You were a forever girl. And you were learning quickly, piteously, painfully … Peter Parker meant what he said against forevers.

"But I would make it feel like love, beautiful Eden," Peter, leaned forward, breathed into your ear, his arms encircling your waist, the false promise of a temporary lover. “I like you. I do. And I could make you feel so loved … tonight .” 

He kept his voice smooth, pitched and low. Like he was imparting to you a great, romantic secret shared between eternal lovers. 

Except he wasn’t interested in eternity. 

It was clear now that you had touched a nerve. That this, your dates, were a passing fancy. And your subtly unsubtle suggestion that you were looking for more had prickled him. Turned him into this… smooth-talking nothing of a man . 

Your eyes pricked with swelled, aching tears, threatening to burst. Why had you put so much of your heart into him already?

You broke from his hold, cupping his cheek to offer him a wan smile.

"Ah, but doesn't that just sound like heartbreak instead? I'm not that kinda girl, Peter."

Ever-gentle. 

Peter broke the spell of your gaze upon him to glance instead at the partially-empty glasses on your coffee table, as you sat, curled toward him on your couch. Him … trying to look anywhere but at your tear-filled eyes as he felt a familiar tug somewhere behind his heart. The tug that would fester into an ache of a heart left too-long alone. 

He was familiar with that. With heartbreak. Which was why he couldn’t , couldn’t you see?

“I’m sorry, Edie, really, I am,” He implored, placing his hand overtop where yours rested on his prim cheek, the clustered stars on his forearm drawing your eyes as they so often did. Winking and twinkling at you through the glassy sheen of your tears. “But I don’t think I’m the man you should give your heart to. I can’t hold it forever. I won’t . And you don’t want me to hold it tonight .” 

Graceless , you thought . Peter was graceless. 

Over needled ink, bad puns, and noodles, you had slowly but surely been giving pieces of yourself to Peter Parker. You’d been reverent of his personhood– admiring and inquiring of his tattoos. Gifted him the small kindness of free coffees. Would offer to listen when the silence between the two of you became overstuffed with clouds of something. There was no mistaking the kisses you shared, the moments, the endearments.

So why wouldn’t he let you in? Had you come on too strong? This was possible; and it certainly had happened to you before. You were afflicted with the overwrought investment in emotion so frequently suffered by deep thinkers. 

Your boyfriend in undergrad had made it abundantly clear that he was willing to take your attentions and investments when it benefitted him; to the tune of nearly two years of your time. You brought him dinner when his practices ran long. You read books in silence while he played games, content to leave you in silence. You were a giver by nature. But when it came time for any hint at reciprocation, the energy was just … never there. 

You’d begun to feel like you had given too much of yourself away and received nothing in return. Romance wasn’t supposed to feel like this. 

Well, if the books you’d read were any kind of verifiable signpost. Wasn’t there something Aristotle had once said about true friendship, true love, being relationships based upon selfless reciprocation? 

Why couldn’t you find someone to reciprocate? Why couldn’t you stop giving yourself to people who only took, took, took? 

For his part, Peter had the decency to look sheepish. He shuffled his stockinged feet on the hardwood of your living room, dropping his hand from atop yours, prompting you to follow in kind. He scruffed the back of his neck, glancing at the room bathed in glowing candlelight, over the overstuffed pillows strewn about the room, drifting his gaze out of your living room window to the abysmal view of the building across the alley. Anywhere but at you. 

“I just, uhhh…” he cleared his throat, a hesitant, hiccuping thing. “I don’t really do this whole…” he gestured his hands between the two of you, mimicking the knot of a personal connection, “ thing. ” he finished lamely. 

“ Ah, ” you swallowed, cognizant of the full burn in your throat that accompanied the feeling of trying to stuff tears down before they could be allowed to fall. “I guess I just… misinterpreted things.” You were clean about it, almost brusque. 

You looked up from where you had locked your gaze on Peter’s constellations, only to find his eyes already waiting to meet yours. 

You'd began to wonder, as you swallowed down tears and a lump of emotion that felt like glass in your throat, whether Emily Dickinson could have possibly been more wrong. Hope was not the thing with feathers. It wasn't soft. Hope was a jagged betrayal, razors against the pulsing chambers of your heart, causing you to bleed with every traitorous beat.

You rose from the couch, eager to leave this moment. To no longer live in it. Turning your body from Peter’s as you looked for something to do. Some way to end this interaction and get him out of your living room.

Peter's brow furrowed, the barest hint of a frown as he rose, too. Following and stepping toward you once more, reaching a comforting hand to rest on your shoulder. A move he thought better of when he saw the flash  in your eyes at his movement. He clenched his fist for a moment, hovering above your skin, before dropping his hand once more to his side. 

“I’m s-sorry,” he sighed again. “Lovely Eden …  you are so lovely. And I think about you, you know? About what you mean . But I know how this … all goes. It’s just better to keep it simple. I could at least give you that. ”

You turned from Peter then, a lone tear having slipped from your eye and down the curve of your cheek. And you would be damned if you would let him see. 

You busied yourself with clearing the wine glasses from the coffee table, hoping the clink of gathering them together in one hand would mask your sharp, shuddering intake of breath. 

You’d started to pad to the kitchen, glasses in hand, calling back softly, “I think we may be a little too different there, Peter.” 

Trying, failing to keep the well of bruised pride and cracked feelings from the ink of your voice.

Placing the glasses in the sink and wiping your eyes quickly before turning around to face him once more, the benefit of distance allowing you to be  bolder in your hurt feelings. 

“And I don’t know who hurt you, but you have no right to –” 

Peter’s head whipped to yours, the barest sight of your tears be damned. Pointing an accusing finger at you as he’d walked around the coffee table to stand in your line of sight. 

“That’s a big assumption to make, Edie.” He’d sneered the moniker now, a stranger’s anger marring Peter’s features into a person you didn’t recognize. “And you’re right about one thing. You don’t know shit . ” 

The whiplash of Peter’s voice, his demeanor, was like a reeling slap to the face. Your eyes widened, holding your hands up in surrender, hoping to quell this outburst before it could begin. 

“P-Peter, I … I’m sorry, I – didn’t mean anything by it. I’m just trying to figure out what’s going on. I thought we liked each other.” You moved from the kitchen to apologize, following him as he began to move. 

“What’s going on is this,” Peter drifted from your orbit, stalking to the hall and shoving his stockinged feet back into his boots, leaving the laces undone. “This isn’t gonna work. You want something from me that I can’t give you. And what I can give you isn’t enough for you. So I’m just … stopping this before it starts.” 

You opened your mouth to protest, to apologize , to try and backtrack. You knew it was probably better at this point if he left, but you just couldn’t bring yourself to let the starry boy who’d made you feel sparkling, electric, and alive these last few weeks just… go. To return to a bustling world that you were trying to figure for yourself, always just out of step, and cursing yourself for your sheepish heart. 

Peter waved his hand, shoving his arms into his leather jacket and hitching it over his shoulders, covering the pieces of him you’d loved to admire – the stars now hidden from your view behind the clouded skies of Peter’s anger and the sleeves of his jacket. 

“No, Eden, I don’t wanna hear it, okay?” He waved you off again as he made his way down the hall to your door. “Just … go back to your books,” he’d called softly. “This… this is done.” 

Leaving you in your living room with the curt, snicking click of your apartment door closing.  Leaving you alone in the pressing silence of your living space with naught but the resigned cadence of Peter’s parting words left to percolate. Finally, finally allowing the tears to fall in the empty space in which you stood. Empty again.

Peter jumped the stairs two at a time, downward, downward. Too prickled to wait for the elevator.

Why, why did he have to sabotage this? Why had he been so cruel with her, with his Eden? Was she not more than the curve of her hips? Novel shine in her eyes and on her lips? Does she not dream, sing, live her own path? Could he really not give her the pieces of him that she had been so ready and willing to hold? Wasn't he tired of carrying the pieces himself?

Would it really be so bad to let her hold his heart in her gracious hands? 

Oh, Peter. What had he done?

—

Fucked up. 

That’s what he’d done. Here you were, a dreamgirl of taste. All smudged eye makeup and soft smiles. With bad puns and stacks of books. And he’d pushed you away at the barest suggestion that you might like to stick around – to hold his heart in elegant hands. Bruised weight, and all. You were a gift. And he’d bolted out of the store. 

He’d recounted the tale to Harry under the accusatorily-glowing lights of his shop. Harry, who crowed in laughter at Peter’s dismay – A true friend, laughing at his bullshit.

“--And then, I just left her ,” Peter groaned, scrubbing a hand down his tired face. He hadn’t slept particularly well since his hasty exit from your apartment. He sat behind the counter at his shop, idly sketching, having invited Harry down to fill the silence of a particularly slow Sunday. 

“I mean, that’s not great,” Harry admitted, drinking the coffee Peter had brought him from someplace called Sweet Moments. 

( Not that Harry had any reason to know, but of course Peter had gone by your shop. It’s not like you’d been working when he went in and bought these. Unfortunately for him. Whether he was actually hoping to see you, he wasn’t sure. But at least you hadn’t been there to throw him out before he was able to purchase some much-needed caffeine. Never mind how far out of the way he’d gone to get it. )

“But you like her.”

It wasn’t a question. 

Peter nodded, tracing idle lines into his sketchpad. “She’s … yeah , Harry. I do.” 

Harry was silent for a moment, leaning over the counter to clap Peter’s shoulder before taking a seat on his own stool, coffee in hand. 

“I know it’s been tough, since Gwen,” Harry conceded, anticipating the angry flash in his friend’s eyes as he brought up the name of the girl long-since gone. “But you know you deserve to be happy, too? If this girl is worth the existential angst you seem intent on drowning yourself in, then … I dunno, man. Maybe there’s something to that?” 

Peter nodded again, weighing Harry’s words in the silence of words mulled-over. 

“And how do I apologize for that? May’s already cussed me out when I started to tell her what happened.” Harry winced at that, Peter nodding in agreement before continuing, “Yeah, you know it’s bad when May swears. In Yiddish.” Peter shuddered. “She learned it from Uncle Ben. It’s terrifying.” 

Harry tapped his fingers on his chin, the glossed, posh boy deep in thought. 

“I mean, you gotta apologize, Pete,” he shrugged. “And, I dunno, maybe you could get her some flowers? Harry suggested. 

Peter frowned at that, at the suggestion that anything as fleeting as cut flowers would appease a girl with a wellspring heart such as yourself. 

Harry, the typical rich boy. Just buy her an “i’m-sorry” gift… It won’t happen again, promise.

Peter’s brow furrowing in frustrated concentration as he turned his attention away from Harry and back to his sketchbook. The rapid twist of his wrist causing his pencil to flip in his fingers, knocking at both ends of his hand, rapid, as he weighed Harry’s words, the ideas for pieces and sketches swimming through and itching his cloudy, overstuffed brain, just beyond his reach. 

As he weighed his thoughts and feelings for you. Stretching like taffy, taut and sticky within his mind. 

The coffeeshop girl. The client whose philosophies on the permanence of ink (and of life’s other facets) had bled beneath his skin. The grad student whose heart and belly were full with the words of others, waiting to tell her own story. His poet. His dime-eyed girl with a mind like gently-rolling lakewater. Clear and cool, yet confounding. 

And his. His muse. His, his, his. 

He’d felt it when he met you – that you could be something inspiring. Twinkling, sharp, crystalline and complete. You’d been gracious, quippy, lovely . 

The thought of you had his hand moving over the paper while his mind mused, cotton candy-hued thoughts of you. Of your gentle grace, like sunsets and orange groves. 

And for his part, he thought of his calloused heart and hands, so eager to bruise something beautiful. An arm of starlight and a punishing embrace. 

But how he wanted to cherish you. To behold you. Not to bruise. (Not unless you’d wanted him to, anyway.) 

“Nice,” Harry appraised, his voice cracking through Peter’s thoughts like eggshells, raising a haughty eyebrow at Peter’s sketch. And at Peter, whose mind was ever in the clouds, but his hand ever-present. “That her?”

Peter blinked, using the heel of his hand to gently nudge away the shavings and residue that had accompanied his etchings, to assess his own work. Of what his hand had engineered as his mind had run away. 

And there you were –  A silhouette of a girl holding a book in fine-boned hands, a flower pressed between the pages. So cleanly and clearly you; you were the aim of his hand. His muse.

“Uh, I dunno, man,” Peter dodged Harry’s latter question to address the former, a spider dancing on strands of silk. “She’s not really the flowers type. In the traditional sense, anyway.”

Harry rolled his eyes at his friend’s evasiveness, bored with this game. Sliding off the stool and swiping his coffee from the countertop, pushing his designer sunglasses back up his nose as he made for the door. 

“And what are flowers in the nontraditional sense?” Harry called back, chuckling at Peter, thinking him distrait, as usual. Peter’s mouth spewing half-baked thoughts his mind would churn out a mile-a-minute. “I think you know what you’ve gotta do – you’ve never needed me to tell you anything. ” 

But as for Peter…

If Eden was his muse … you were not to be sculpted by him. You were already whole – a woman sculpted by her own experiences and starry-eyed beauty. Your role was not to be molded by hands as imperfect as Peter’s, he thought  – It was to inspire his hands to make things more beautiful, everything molded in your divine image by Peter’s artist’s eye. Resonant and reverent. And that’s what you were, Peter knew – his muse. To be admired through the ages and in perpetuity. 

Though, he’d adhere a grain of truth to Harry’s suggestion. 

Because no one could truly appreciate his Eden as he could. No. Peter Parker pondered the possibility of picked pearls, of petals pertaining possibly. Pansies, peonies, poppies, primrose, prime primula. Perfect for passion. Persuasion. 

–

“I have a package,” your usual courier’s unfussy announcement coupled with the ding of the shop door’s bell reached your ears as he dropped a box onto the coffee shop’s counter. 

You look up from the sheets of seemingly endless inventory at him, waiting for him to continue:

“It says bouquet on the box, but it seems kinda … flat for flowers.” 

“Hmm, mysterious indeed,” You smiled at him, coming over to take a peek, noting your name across the top of the box. 

“I’ve got this, thanks,” you took his pen to sign for the box. “Want a scone to go?” 

One orange-cranberry treat later, and the courier had bid you farewell, leaving you once more in a mostly-empty shop, the late afternoon never really known for its coffee drinkers. A drunken-orange sun spilling syrupy light through the glass windows as you tapped your fingers along the sides of the box. 

True to his word, the courier’s square box had your name on it, and an inconspicuous, unfussy label with the words, “The Literary Heroine’s Bouquet.” 

But it was unlike any box you had ever received flowers in before. Those boxes were tall, narrow and structured, meant to house willowy, fresh-cut blooms. 

This box? This box was small, square. Like a cake box, replete with a simple cord tied into a bow. 

Furrowing your brow, you plucked the cord and peeled the label, a sneaking and wriggling, disdainful suspicion as to who would refer to you as a “literary heroine,” and who might be seeking the cool blue balm of your easy forgiveness after a weeks’ worth of stony silence.

Was this from Peter Parker? God help him if it was. A cake wouldn’t make up for the vitriol he had spewed at you.  

Because here’s the deal: He hadn’t bothered to text you in the days following his hastened and heartbreaking exit from your apartment. Though you had suspected in the days since that perhaps he’d walked by the window of the coffee shop a time or two. Which was saying something, given the distance from his shop to your own. Or maybe it was self-important to feel that he had been surreptitiously scrolling your Instagram in the observant silence allowed by the internet, careful never to touch your story, lest you become aware that he was watching you through the safety of a glass screen. Call it a hunch. Or maybe wishful thinking. But you weren’t sure if you were hoping to hear from Peter again after he had bruised your heart and your ego with such punching precision.

After he told you he’d fuck you, but he wouldn’t love you. 

Perhaps giving more of his heart and revealing more of his hand than he’d meant to. Obviously drenched in the thought and lingering pain of a past hurt. Was this Perseus and Andromeda? 

And here you had thought you had made an impact. Had thought maybe his heart craved the complementary pieces that yours did – yours seeking adventure and something brash, bold, beautiful; his seeking comfort, a place to rest his head, some synchronicity and synecdoche. 

At least that’s what you had thought. 

And it’s not as though you could now forget him. The constant reminder of him was literally etched into your side, in what now felt like careless and unfeeling ink. This is what you get for trying to fuck your tattoo artist. For thinking you could fix him. Come on, girl. 

You shook your head, eager to free yourself from the debasing, black-coffee bitterness of your own thoughts. Thoughts of the boy with a black-coffee bitter heart of his own. So masked in facile, careless charm. Masking hurt with easy flirtation and heartbreaking nothings.

Plucking the mail opener from the pen-cup on the counter, you gripped it, knuckles taut with anxiety at what Peter might have to say to you, to give to you, after a week of nothing but silence and your own thoughts and feelings of inadequacy. 

You popped the string on the box, slicing cleanly through the taped edges and lifting the flap to discover – 

Not flowers. 

Or, at least, not flowers in the traditional sense. 

You reached into the box, running your fingertips along smooth, embossed spines. Feeling the ridges of pulpy pages beneath your touch. 

You took the first book out of the box. 

“Dandelion Wine,” by Ray Bradbury. 

Ah. Flowers.  

Had he known this was a perennial summer favorite? Evoking the tart bite of crisp, verdant apples. Of packing the joys of childhood summers into a green-glass bottle, waiting to be uncorked and revisited. A beloved story and now a beloved folk song. 

Its sage green cover so like the stems and leafy bunches that abutted the snowy, buttery puff of a dandelion. You’d always loved dandelions, after all. But how could he know that of you?

You cracked a smile in spite of yourself, placing the book reverently at your side and slipping your fingers in the box for the next “flower.” 

“White Oleander,” by Janet Fitch. Of course, a coming-of-age novel. An ushering of a girl out from her cocoon and into the world. Of outgrowing the disappointments of men. Adroit, adept. A flower to bloom if only she is brave enough. 

A bloom ushered forth in the late-summer-come-autumn. Of honeybodeyed romance in the golden heat of late summer. To know beauty can bloom from heat.  

To know I was beautiful in his eyes made me beautiful. 

An apology and an urging, simultaneous. Peter had told you to be brave. To be bold in the world. To let your wild heart sing to others, to share pieces of yourself. At the same time, you certainly could do better than the disappointing heart of a man you could exist independently of. 

You chuckled at the thought. Trust Peter – precipitous, impulsive Peter Parker to tell you to “just take a risk, already” through a book, while managing to be somehow deprecating of himself. And maybe he deserved it. 

He did.  

You tapped your fingers anxiously against the side of the box, each book was becoming more personal. Each flower, closer and closer to the edges of your heart, filling your lungs with soft, personal petals until you choked on the sentiment.

Perhaps he really did know you? 

The next, “Daisy Miller,” by Henry James. Not exactly a flower, but a name. You’d let it slide, for its cleverness alone. T he story of a beautiful fool, long before Daisy Buchanan would put it into words. A woman who would challenge society’s ideals of feminine autonomy over sex and romance. 

“Clever, Peter,” you murmured, pleased, in spite of yourself, with the clutch of literary blooms he had gifted you. Feeling simultaneously accepted and called out – beautiful but trepidatious though you were, you couldn’t help but feel that each book was a call to live beyond yourself and your comforts, or at the very least, to extend them to another. Another who was, in their own way, imperfect. 

And a tad anxious. Anxious as to the last book in the box, and what it would mean for you. You steeled yourself. 

Reaching into the box for the final floral book with a mind made up of seaglass resolve, but the trembling fingers of a helpless romantic.  

“The Black Tulip,” by Alexander Dumas. The crown jewel of the box, no doubt, given the meaning of the story. 

The black tulip was elusive, a prize to be won, yet ever evasive in the face of conflict. A story of treason, deceit, greed, love, compulsion. Desperately romantic. – “To despise flowers is to offend God. ”

Tears pricked at your eyes at the gesture, of its meaning. Of romance buried in storied history, and very nearly lost to traitorous hearts. Of devotion in the face of conflict.

A little on the nose, perhaps, but you’d appreciated the meaning nonetheless. Not everyone cared for Dumas beyond “The Three Musketeers,” or “Le Comte de Monte-Cristo,” and it appeared that Peter – ever the researcher himself, had done his homework . 

You could just imagine him, bent over a keyboard, slugging bad coffee and swiping fingers through stress-stuck hair, fastidiously googling the books he had now gifted you. Or perhaps he had read them for himself? And wasn’t that a thought. 

You weren’t sure which idea was more romantic. 

Peter had given you not just flowers. But flowers as you would love them. In the pressed, pulpy pages of literary paragons, of the Romantics. 

And in the bottom of the box, scribbled on a folded piece of sketchbook paper – the words “text me?” abutting an arrow that beckoned you to open the page … 

Only to be met with a rough-hewn but beautiful rendering – of raw, honeyed talent in penciled  charcoal. The silhouette of a girl that was obviously you, bent over a book, with inkstains bleeding from her ribs and her fingertips, with flowers pressed flat into the pages of the book she beheld, clutched and ink-smudged from her touch.  And, and…

And a sky full of stars above her crown, spread to the hewn edges of the paper, constellations dotting themselves above her head like thought-bubbles – Was she thinking of the boy with arms full of stars?  

And, goddamn it, you were. 

You sat atop your stool behind the counter, fingernail between your teeth – a terrible habit borne of nerves. The covers of the books Peter had gifted you felt as though they were staring at you – pleading faces begging forgiveness. As though you could smell the smoky cinnamon and clean linen that you had come to associate with said gifter. 

No one sent a message like that unless they had something to say – and, in an added layer of apparent generosity for your introverted heart, he had allowed you to make the first move to speak to him again, assuming you were ready…

Damn him. 

You reached for your phone. 

—

It really was a goddamn trust exercise that you were letting Peter Parker back into your apartment. 

You’d told him he could come by on Thursday after your shift, provided you were finished with your assignments, and that he bring dinner.  But here you sat, food long-forgotten as you’d let Peter get comfortable on your couch once more, ignoring the prickle of betrayal at the sight. He’d let you down this way before, hadn’t he?

But Peter had come to talk, he’d said. Taking in the sight of you, the picture of comfort and ease in your own home – replete with an oversized, soft cotton shirt and well-worn joggers. There was something angelic about the way you’d looked like this – stripped-down and utterly yourself. 

How could he have brought himself to hurt you before, when you were so perfect before him? 

You’d sat – agreeing to hear Peter out. And he’d thanked you for texting him, for agreeing to meet. For letting him explain .

Which is what he’d been doing for the past… oh, ten minutes? A rush of  fingers tugging through hair in frustration (his, not yours), and exasperated explanations of commitment-phobia, until… finally, some truth – 

"She’s not you,” Peter breathed. “And you’re not her. And she’s gone. And you’re here ."

You hated the lump that formed in your throat at the admission. 

“I know that,” you sighed, prickling with your hesitance to be sitting on this couch with him again after what had happened last time. 

But Peter was penitent. And you were clement, merciful. 

“I wouldn’t dream of replacing anyone, Peter,” you murmured, reaching hesitantly to draw your fingers down along the inked arm containing the constellations of his loved ones, thumb drawing slow circles over Andromeda, reverential. Ever-mindful of the woman who had come before you. “Maybe I came on too strong. And I’m sorry if I made you feel that way. I’m not her, and I’m not trying to be her. But if you want me, choose me. ” 

Peter’s eyes followed the movement of your thumb, of its journey over the loved ones in his life. Over Andromeda – over Gwen . 

“I do, cariña,” he breathed the endearment you’d taught him, halting your journey to take your hands in his own. “I do, my Edie . And I’m sorry. I just … it’s crazy, isn’t it? I don’t … I don’t want you to doubt here. Not me. Not the time you’re spending. I just …” he sighed. 

“It’s not easy?” you supplied, softly. 

Peter’s eyes met yours, melted chocolate and crushed stonefruit, like bloodied cherrypits and glistening tar. Sweetbitter. And bittersweet. 

“How do you always do that?” He asked, a lilt of awe in his voice.

“Do … what?” 

He pulled his hands gently from your own, inked fingers coming to cup your cheeks as he faced you, full-bodied on the couch, leg crooked to accommodate being as close to you as he could muster. Had you forgiven him? He wasn’t sure. But he’d get as close as you would allow. To absorb your syrupy sweetness, bask in your late-evening glow. A perpetual golden-houred goddess. His muse. 

If only you’d let him.

“Read my thoughts, Edie, I swear,” Peter chuckled, pitched and wan. “Since we met I swear you’ve been inside of my head. You say things a beat before I can. You’re … mindful. Even. ‘S like you hear the words before I’ve said them.” 

You sighed at the warm, scraping brush of Peter’s palms along the apples of your cheeks, allowing your eyes to close, to feel his touch. Feel his words.

“It’s funny you say so, Pete,” you opened your eyes to meet his once more, a smile quirking your lips. “I’ve been thinking the same of you. Like you read my thoughts. Like some kind of ...” you tapped your finger against his temple, “ehm, a super-sense?” 

Peter cracked a grin at that. 

“Like a spider?” He queried, quirking an eyebrow at you. 

“Is that the inside joke?!” You asked, shaking your head. “You’re ridiculous, Parker. Utterly ridiculous.”

He could kiss you, then, he really could.  But the air between you was still heavy , laden with unspoken words and goodbyes of the people you used to be, beckoning in acceptance of who you are now . Beckoning, urging one another to share, to be open. To be something real. Because isn’t the truth stranger, but always better?

Show me yours, and I’ll show you mine. 

“But, Peter,” you sighed. And there it was .  “It doesn’t fix everything, you know? You were… the other night… you were cruel. And I don’t have space in my heart for cruelty to bruise it. I won’t. Not even for someone I like as much as I like you.” 

Peter withdrew from you then, sitting back into the couch cushions and into his own space. Basked in the low-lighted glow of your living room, shadowed and mindful. 

“I… I know, Eden,” Peter admitted. “I do. And I’m sorry for it. God, I’m sorry. I know the gift doesn’t make up for it, not nearly. I just – I got a little … freaked, ya know?” 

At your nod, Peter continued, “With Gwen, everything was so sure. Until it wasn’t. And now she’s gone, and I … It’s been strange to find someone I want to open up to in the way I did with her. And I’m sorry for taking that out on you. Because you’re not her. And I can’t decide if that pissed me off or not. But I know what I want, Edie. I want you.” 

He shuffled in his seat, a sweeping exhale at his confession. 

“ Oh , Peter,” it was your turn to cup his cheeks now, edging into his space after he’d retreated, extending the olive branch of your understanding, your warmth. "Who of us has the strength to carry the weight of other people's choices?" 

At Peter's silence, you continued ,

"You don't have to let go of her … not entirely. But there's grace in acceptance. Especially in accepting your own limitations. And I can accept your apology; accept you . And you’ll always carry her ." You leaned forward, tilting at the waist to brush your fingers, first along the skin of his arm. Over Andromeda once more. And then to tap his chest, his heart. 

Peter blinked at you with starry eyes, swirling in the low light of your candlelit living room.

“And is this what a lit degree gets you?” he queried. A poor attempt to keep his voice light beneath the weight of this conversation. 

“Maybe,” you shrugged, folding your hands in your lap. “If it helps, I minored in philosophy in undergrad.” 

Peter snorted. 

"All I’m saying is, you can long for things as they once were … but then you'd be missing things as they are. You can hold onto your ‘forevers,’ Peter. Just make sure your heart is open to more .” 

And wasn't that true? Evenings spent in the glowing, warm comfort of your childhood home on squishy sofas become less and less frequent over time. The facile innocence of childhood friendships are harder-won in the frosty sphere of adulthood. Family recipes don't taste exactly the same when you make them as when your bisabuela did – no matter how many bay leaves you add, or if your measurements are exact, or how much love you felt  in your heart when you stir.

And Peter didn't want to miss the experience that was you . A potential forever , as you’d put it.

You made to stand then, clutching Peter’s hands in one of yours, urging him to follow. And he did. Of course he did. As Peter stood, he found himself more and more certain that he would follow you anywhere. 

Now – pressed chest-to-chest in your living room, you raised his hands to your eyeline, observing the geometric shapes and symbols that dotted his elegant, fine-boned fingers, the swirling patterns on the backs of his hands, edges lightly blurred with time and wear. 

You pressed your lips to his hands – first to the backs of his palms, then along the tips of his fingers. Doting. 

“I forgive you, Peter. I forgave you as soon as you texted me back to meet. And I want you, too.” 

Peter’s breath hitched at your admission, taking in the creeping smile over your soft features – adoring. 

You tugged him along behind you, then, into the sanctuary of your room – leaving the heaviness of your conversation (and your long-abandoned dinner) in your living room.

Peter observed the low-light of your room, shadows dancing by spitting candlelight from your bedside table. A stack of books at the corner of said table. The four he had gifted you – a bouquet of expressed adoration. 

Of a clutch of flowers that would never die, as permanent as the words in their pages. 

Another gift of ‘forever’ from Peter Parker. 

You brushed your fingertips over your ribs, almost unconsciously, as you observed Peter observing your room.   Observing the cool grey-blue of your comforter and the Monet prints you’d framed on your wall. 

“Pretty things for a pretty girl,” Peter admired, turning to face you; noting the way you’d brushed your fingers along your ribs through the soft thinness of your shirt. Feeling the part of him that he had already etched into you. 

You crossed the room, padding softly to meet him by your bedside. 

“Yeah?” you asked, “You think I’m pretty?” 

God, yes, he thought. Your face could launch warships. Your voice was what they tried to write songs about. 

“You know I do, Edie,” Peter chided, “but I’d be happy to show you, if telling you wasn’t enough.” 

You looked at Peter then, tilting your chin up and staring down through lidded eyes, hoping to convey gentle flirtation, acceptance of his proposal. To cross a threshold you’d felt he now understood of you.

And Peter responded in kind, tilting his head back in a similar fashion, chin up. 

“I like the ‘flowers,’ Pete,” you admitted. “Love them.” 

The silk of your words were a balm to his ears. With the advantage of his height, he looked down his nose at you, a teasing smirk playing at the edges of his lips, the long column of his neck now even more on display than before, the spider swaying from his silken strand.

Fucking cruel, is what it was . To have him to yourself like this, in basking, low honey-light, if only for a moment in the grand scheme of the cosmos. A moment where you would have to decide how much of yourself you would give back . And would you let him hold your heart – and the other parts of you?

You'd let him , you decided. You'd let him hold you. Touch you. Brush his lips along you. Tease you. Taunt you. Fuck you. Wrap you, up and away from the eyes of others, like a gift folded in a bolt of stippling silk, or perhaps spun gold. Hide you away from prying eyes like a gift for himself alone. You'd let him. Lest you crumble beneath the weight of a moment bigger than either of you.

Because, you realized, as you stepped even further into Peter’s space, bathed in the glow of your apartment, meeting him in an embrace too wanting to be casual, that s ome things just went together.

Peanut butter and jelly. 

Coffee and a well-worn novel. 

Peter Parker and your desire. 

Smoldering, low-heat that burned along your skin and beneath your fingertips. Or was it Peter’s fingers that were doing the burning? It was hard to tell where he ended and you began, one arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you bodily into him.

One hand fisting through the hair at the nape of your neck, thumb teasing the column of your throat. Your hands splayed against the firmness of his chest, fisting into his shirt. Sighs exchanged, tongues tangled, as you kissed once more, more magical than the time on your stoop, if such a thing were possible.

Peter’s lips were a blessing. A curse. A prayer. A promise. 

He kissed you as though it was the last thing his lips would do, hands cupped firmly along your cheeks, sliding to the back of your head to cup there, tangled into the hair at the nape of your neck. 

Tilting your head, Peter trailed his lips along the newly-exposed slope of your neck, reveling in the soft skin there, determined to mark it as his.

You turn your attentions to undoing Peter's jeans, the frustrating things. Of course he would have jeans with a front that's all buttons. No zipper. You kiss Peter's neck while you trail your fingers down the front of his pants, feeling the rounded, cool buttons beneath your fingertips and getting a sense of just how many obstacles lie between you and your goal.

Peter felt himself begin to harden at the ghost of your touch through the fabric. At the promise your touch beheld. 

You start at the top, flicking open the first button with ease while turning your head in his grip and standing tip-toe to place a particularly-practiced sucking kiss to the point on Peter's neck beneath his ear, right along the petals of the bloom inked there. Reveling in the sharp, shuddering exhale he makes that you can feel in his chest, pressed go yours as it is, and beneath your lips.

The feeling of his own desire thrumming through the pulse point at your tongue, and beneath the garment where your fingers are currently working is enough to trigger desire of your own, wetness beginning to dampen the fabric of your panties.

You continue, trailing your finger to the second button, then the third, traipsing a teasing fingertip through the jeans as they open, meeting Peter's abdomen and the soft cotton blend of his boxer briefs with a soft touch.

The fourth button, second from the last, is what gives you trouble. You halt your teasing kisses, huffing a sigh into Peter's neck after giving the offending button a terse tug, hoping to loop the denim over and away.

Peter chuckles at your frustrated efforts, a teasing noise from within his throat that you swear he plucked from your dreams just to frustrate you even further. Honestly, it was embarrassing how turned on you were now , heated cheeks pressed into the crook of Peter's neck, fiery fingertips with pent-up want. And now the frustrated inability to realize your goal of getting Peter naked as fast as possible , all thanks to a stupid little coppery button.

“Aw, baby,” Peter teased. “Don’t you worry.” 

Gently batting your hands away from the fly of his jeans, nudging your face out of its resting place on his shoulder, he rushed to press his lips to yours, an all-encompassing tangle of tongues, as though he meant to swallow you where you stood, feeling a pinpricking column of fiery heat blaze through you at the kiss alone. 

He deftly undid the final button, shucking his jeans down and absconding himself of his shirt in a fluid motion that you could feel but not see, scooping you by the backs of your thighs and dropping you smoothly onto your bed, where his body surged over yours like a wave. 

Oceanic desire, the twinkling of stars off water. Peter’s desire and yours destined to meld.

Your hands cupped his jaw as he kissed you, kissed you, kissed you … as though if he stopped, he would perish right here and now. 

You reveled in the feel of Peter’s body over yours, the way he rolled his hips into yours as he kissed you, pressing you into the pillowy-softness of your down comforter. 

Peter’s hands trailed their way beneath the softness of your shirt, tickling touches over the skin of your ribs – stopping to cup the area beneath your breast and along your ribs where he knew he had etched your tattoo – fingers trailing along the lines he knew were there, sight unseen, as though it were second nature. 

“Peter,” you breathed, trying your best not to wriggle between him, lest he know how impatient  you were in this moment. 

“Yeah?” He looked down at you – coffee eyes glinting in the warm light of your bedroom, taking in the sight of your kiss-swollen lips, the landslide of teeth marks he had pressed into your neck. But still, still frustratingly clothed. 

Your eyes flicked down to the top of your t-shirt and back to Peter’s. 

“Off?” You questioned, shyly. Or perhaps it was sly. 

… You were coy that way. 

“You read my mind again, Eden,” Peter grinned through his words, ready to bite yours from your lips. Slipping his fingers from beneath your shirt to hook into the hem. You lifted your shoulders from beneath him to allow him to slip the soft fabric over your head, Peter groaning at the sight of you now – had you just not been wearing a bra this entire time? 

You giggled at that – Peter having asked the latter bit out loud . 

“Exasperating, Eden, you tease, ” he breathed, admiring the quirk of your lips at his praising admonishment, at the bare skin of your torso, the lines of you, your tits exposed to his gaze. He drew his hands along your body, fingers traipsing a heated trail up to cup your breasts, leaning down to press his lips to your nipple, tongue swirling over the peaking flesh. Pleased at the goosebumps that erupted in the wake of his attention. 

“You like that? Yeah, you fucking do.” 

You felt as though you might melt into the cloud of your comforter – Peter’s touch was one thing. But coupled with the heat of his words? 

You may not survive the night. 

While he continued to tease your breasts, Peter guided his other hand down your side, pausing to squeeze your hip through your joggers, spidery fingers trailing over the top of your thigh as a practiced finger made its way over your clothed cunt, pleased with the jolting shiver the motion elicited from you, at the friction of his fingers rubbing the fabric along the seam of you – causing you to wiggle, to roll your hips into his touch. A broken whine stuck in your throat at the feeling.  

“Oh, I know, baby,” Peter cooed, mocking, teasing, taunting, a slight edge of meanness to his voice, “I know. You ache, don’t you? I can make it better.” 

Kneeling over you, he hooked his fingers into the waistband of your joggers, deftly tugging them, along with your panties, down your legs. Tugging, tugging over the fine bones of your ankles until you were freed from the confines of fabric and bared to Peter’s gaze – 

A poem of bared skin, a bared soul – hearts longing in the climbing heat of your bedroom. 

Peter’s gaze lingered over the swirling colors along your side, fingers following his gaze to touch you there once more, gaze full of starry adoration at the Venus before him. 

No. Not Venus. His Eden. 

You were doing studying of your own, taking in Peter’s boxer-clad form kneeling before you, the long, lean lines of his torso, the firmness of him, everywhere it seemed. Solid and clear as your desire for him.

You noted the tattoos on his chest, his sides, that hadn’t been bared to you before. Taking, once more, the opportunity to study the man before you. 

A minimalist etching of a camera below a collarbone. Cramped, swirling text too small to make out from your vantage point along one pectoral. A double-helix adorned the skin of his left side, abutted by what looked like chemical equations. 

“What’s this?” you allowed your fingers to touch the inked, twisting genetic strand. 

Peter looked down, his eyes following the path of your soft fingers as you followed the braided twist. 

“Double-helix?” Peter lilted, “I … uh, I had a science background before opening my shop.” 

“Yeah?” you asked, “And is this…,” you sat up to kiss the ink, lips silken along the strand of DNA that adorned his side, 

“...Is this where you show me what you're made of f?” 

Peter groaned, the sound stuck in his throat, equal parts exasperation and a frustrated growl, hands coming to cup your jaw. Tugging your lips away from him to force your gaze upon his now. 

“You can’t do that, Eden,” he admonished, pressing his fingers into the skin of your jaw just a tad this side of forceful. “Can’t make bad puns when we’re like this. My heart can’t take it.” 

Your skin was prickling now; at the heat of Peter’s words, that you were able to get under his skin, the promise of what was to come. 

“Yeah? And what’ll you do to me if I keep going?” You raised an eyebrow at the boy before you. If he could tease , so could you. 

Quick as a flash, Peter darted forward, pressing you into the mattress as he pressed his lips to yours again, hand coming up to your neck, thumb trailing along the column of your throat as he kissed you breathless. 

Breaking his lips from yours, he drank in your gasping piteous form, “I’d make you beg , baby,” he hummed, coming forward once more to invade your space, nuzzling his nose along your own and pressing his full lips to yours with the thundering, weighted promise of heated summer clouds, of cracking dry lightning and pressure fit to burst. 

“I'm in knots just thinking about it,” you breathed, taking Peter’s hand from your throat and trailing it along the planes of your body, guiding his hand along your form with his own, reveling in the visible way Peter swallowed, throat bobbing, as his eyes followed your joined hands. 

He found his voice, the low timbre a stipple of velvet through your wanting ears,

“ Not yet you're not , but if you’d like to be – say the word,” Peter slipped his fingers from yours to finish gliding his palm down the ridges of your body. Coming to rest at your bared cunt, glistening in the dim, blurry light of your bedroom. 

And oh , as he slipped them inside of you, your eyes rolled back, tilting your head into the pillows beneath you, eyes closing at the revelation that was Peter Parker and his artist’s hands.

And if you thought he was teasing you before , Peter’s fingers inside of you were their own type of mocking punishment, well aware of his effect on you and the way your cunt throbbed as he stroked inside of you. “Don’t worry, I’ll make it all better. ”

You could do nothing but wriggle your hips, whimpering piteously and attempting to roll your hips to follow Peter’s fingers on their slide, out and away from you. 

Kissing you once more, golden and slow, molten and revelatory. A verse, his lips prose just for you as he worked his fingers inside of you, your thighs parting to accommodate him. Peter’s thumb rolled over your clit, in awe of the way your body responded to his touch.

Almost as though you could read his mind, remember? 

Peter slipped his fingers from your velvet heat, noting, pleased at the silvery, sticky evidence of your desire that coated and webbed between his fingers. Without so much as an instruction, you leaned up, eyes fixed on Peter’s now as you wrapped your lips around said fingers and sucked , taking in the taste of your own desire for the boy before you.

“ Fuck, ” Peter groaned, “You’re a dream, Edie, an absolute dream.” 

He gripped your cheeks with his other hand, pushing your mouth into a pout that caused you to release his fingers.

“Good girl,” he crooned, “But I’m not done with you yet.” 

Peter covered your lips with his, licking his way into your mouth behind a hot, open-mouthed kiss that stole the little air you still had in your lungs. 

Peter guided you down once more, taking mere moment to shuck his boxers off and somewhere into the abyss of your bedroom – a problem for later. 

Now bare before you, you took the opportunity to appreciate Peter’s full form, his impressive length, hard and curved and the last piece of a very complete picture. His strong thighs flexed as he crouched before you once more, inked hands and toned arms slipping beneath your bare legs to guide them where he wanted them, coaxing your legs over his shoulders as he lay along the length of your bed, between your thighs.

“ Wild nights, wild nights, ” Peter murmured, more to himself than to you, pressing lingering kisses along the insides of your thighs, chuckling darkly at the wriggle of your hips, at your unsubtle urging of suggestion – the desire to put his mouth on you, where you desired him the most. 

Okay, second-most. You were sure your heart would win this battle, if you could hold Peter Parker there for eternity , for you and you alone.

You aren't meant to go to war with your own heart. So why start now, when all signs point to Peter, Peter, Peter … The boy with a body's worth of stories inked into his skin, and lifetime's worth of love to give, even if he may not know it yet. Set beneath soft starlight.

“I’ll give you what you want, Edie. My insatiable thing,” he gripped your thighs now, pushing them apart to better bare yourself to him, as though he were praying to you alone. 

He buried himself in the cleft of your thighs, the flash of his hot tongue like cracking summer lightning, jolting through you from the very center as he licked a long, loving stripe along the seam of your cunt. 

And if you’d thought the first taste of his mouth on you was heavenly – And how was that, when it was him who was tasting you? But you had never felt anything like this before – The repeated, lavish, attention with which he was now devouring you was enough to make you infatuated. 

The feel of him was like the slow drip and drizzle of honey in tea – warm, sweet, tingling. 

Your fingers twined their way through soft, thick locks, burying themselves in the silken, chestnut tresses you had admired since you’d met him. When had you gripped his hair? The keening moans in the room sounded unfamiliar to your own ears, but you knew, distantly, that they were coming from your own mouth, building within the finite space of your bedroom. 

Peter Parker fucked you so well, he made you a stranger to yourself. 

“I knew it,” Peter breathed, somewhere between firmly sucking your clit and another determined lick through your folds, “I knew I’d find paradise between your legs, Eden.” 

And he kissed through your folds like he was reciting a poem … and maybe he was. Repeated stanzas of burning, intentional desire. No, no… that wasn't entirely right, was it? 

You tossed your head back against the pillows, buzzing with your own musings and Peter's clever tongue. Fingers twined in his messy tresses, you were unable to stop yourself from mewling at these artistic, amorous intentions.

And that was it. Peter licked your cunt like an artist , with painted brush strokes of his saintly tongue, repeated, yet novel each time. Creating a masterpiece of you.

You noted, pleased, through heavily-lidded, pleasure-glazed eyes, the way Peter rolled his hips into the bed beneath him, in time with his ministrations to you. Working himself as he worked you. The sight was erotic , the idea that pleasing you pleased him . 

You’d wished you’d had a camera – the borderline pornographic desire surprising to yourself as you decided that a mental picture would have to do in this moment, enjoying the flexing slope of Peter’s back, the firmness of his body as he rocked slowly.

You felt the tidal wave, your cresting orgasm building through you – the game was exquisite. And Peter played it well. His fingers, his mouth along the very essence of you, his kisses, his touches. A composite painting that became positively overwhelming to your senses as you felt yourself edging closer to your end, Peter’s lips now sealed around your clit, sucking, while his fingers curled their way into you, beckoning you closer, closer closer. 

The heated wave curled through you, pinpricks darting along the surface of your skin, tingling from scalp to tiptoe as you came. A broken cry leaving your lips at Peter’s lips softly kissing your cunt, tender after having devastated you.

It was all you could do to blink at the boy before you, backlit and heavenly in your bedroom. You found yourself feeling positively blurred at the edges, yet still wanting more . 

And you knew the feeling was mutual – Peter looked positively in delicious, delightful agony . Hair mussed, lips and chin glistening with your desire, eyes glossy. His cock was painfully hard now, having built himself to the point of frustration while he pleasured you. 

His ever-busy hands looked positively itchy with the prospect of getting his hands on you once more. 

"So beautiful," he murmured, his lips trailing and traipsing along the ridges of your ribs as he made his way back up your body, his tongue following through and meeting your skin between his pressing kisses along your side, he brought himself upright. 

“ Peter ,” you breathed, guiding his hands to your hips and wriggling yourself down the mattress to meet him. “ Fuck .” Your voice was a stranger’s – a cracked thing laced with desire no one had yet been able to draw from you – he was as he made you feel, wild. 

You laced your fingers through his over the skin of your hips, rolling them upward to catch along the curve of his cock. Bringing your legs to lock behind his waist and urge him forward to allow you to grind yourself on him more fully – a desire he was all-too-willing to yield to, drunk on the feeling of your slickness along his shaft. 

“ ‘Cos you asked, Edie, ” Peter breathed, leaning down to kiss you once more, a sinful slip of the tongue, before turning you over and bringing the flesh of your backside to meet his hips, back arched to accommodate the way he was bending you. 

“Say my name,” Peter pants into the slick skin on your back, kissing a line up your spine, his body covering yours like he means to possess it, whole.

"Pete," you sigh, content to be overwhelmed by him. "Peter. Petey."

Peter groaned, eyes closing at the sound of his name on your lips like that , slipping himself inside of your heat with a slow, rolling thrust. Bringing his hand to your neck to turn your face toward his as he loomed over you. 

"You're devastating," Peter gasped, nipping your already-abused lower lip with sharp, deliberate teeth. “Cruel thing.” 

His long fingers cupped your cheeks, fingers ghosting over the peaks and ridges of your cheeks like the legs of spiders, before settling below your jaw to loosely grip the column of your throat as he continued to thrust into you from behind.

You’re out of his league, out of this world , and it's not as though Peter is known for being overly-dramatic. But the movement of your hips rolling back to meet his, the feel of your lips, of what you're doing to him right now are making his brain a little cloudy. More than a little foggy with his feelings for you. But Peter's never been one to be put off by an overcast sky.

As for you – His thrusts are sweet inside of you, cloying and heated. They drag in a way that leaves you tingling, aching at the weighted memory of fullness, of him seated inside. Only for him to draw his hips forward once more, to be fully inside of you, as if to say how could you ever have forgotten this?

If he'd wanted to fuck you dumb, you'd let him. You'd do what he wanted. 

“Ah.. ah, h-hang on,” Peter could feel his own skin burning in the heat of the room. Could feel himself nearing an edge he couldn’t return from – the idea of shattering alongside you – he wanted to look you in the face as he did. 

After a few more forceful thrusts, Peter withdrew, a tsk of admonishment in his throat at the noise you’d made at the loss. 

“Don’t be greedy, Eden ,” he admonished, guiding you with firm hands but a gentle heart, once more onto your back. “Wanna see your face when I come,” he sighed, nuzzling his way into your neck as he thrust inside you once more. 

“O-oh, God, Peter,” overwhelmed by the fullness of him inside of you once more and at his words, rolling your hips to encourage his forceful thrusts. “I want that, I do.”

Kneeling in front of you now, still buried inside of you, Peter gripped your hips once more, lifting them from their place on the bed and holding them aloft, suspended, as he took in the curving arch of your back that it created. 

A smirk was all you were rewarded with, as Peter began to thrust once more. Rocking you back and forth over his length to meet his own rhythm, your gasping breaths a gift to his ears. 

Being with Peter was like bottled felicity – concentrated, sacred. 

"Pete," you whined, bringing your hands to cup your own breasts, to play with yourself as Peter  guided you over his length. "I'll be your girl. Just, please … Can I come again?” 

Peter makes you feel dizzy, tipsy. Love-drunk and dehydrated.

You tilt your head back burrowing further into the pillow, chin jutting as you look up at Peter through the fringe of your lashes, clumped with your tears of exertion, arousal. You watch his Adam's apple bob as he swallows, working his way through working you over. 

You observe the strain in his neck, the stray line of sweat that travels slowly from his hairline and down the curve of his jaw. Now overcome with the desire to lick a stripe along his face, to lick it away. You can practically taste the salt, taste Peter on your tongue at the thought. 

You feel drunk, cloudy-brained at the heated haze you're shunted into at the very thought of Peter Parker. 

A particularly wicked thrust of his hips has you mewling, groaning, turning your head with a twisting of your hair against the pillow.

"She knows what she likes," Peter chuckled. “Yeah, Edie, fuck yeah , you can come.” As you crested once more, you drank in the groan that left Peter’s lips at the feel of you tightening around him the pinch of his eyes closing; you knew he was right up against his own edge. 

“Pete,” you breathed, “Pete, p-please, can you come in me?” 

Fuck. 

And who was he to deny you when you asked so pretty? 

Your words, your body, the feel of you, your very self – all culminating in Peter’s mind, frayed nerve endings and tingling skin as he let your touch wash over him, finishing inside of you with his final thrusts. 

Allowing himself to withdraw from your heat, coming to rest beside you and bringing an arm around you to pull you close. 

"My wild-hearted girl," Peter sighed, bending his head, kissing along your torso, holding your hips as you attempted to squirm and wriggle from his grasp and his teasing, tickling attentions. 

“You’re impossible, Peter Parker,” you lilted, allowing yourself to be brought into his embrace as he tucked you into his side. 

You perched your chin softly along the ridge of his chest, allowing yourself a closer look at him as he lay in your bed. 

Another mental picture for later . 

And wasn’t he just perfect? His skin shone with a light sheen of sweat, the evidence of your collective exertion. The hard planes and lines of his body melded with yours, with the softness of your comforter beneath him, as though he made to sink beneath your skin. Toffee eyes closing beneath the blinking of a full fringe of lashes. Soft breaths puffed from full, swollen, well-kissed lips. 

Peter Parker may well be an artist. But he was a masterpiece to you. 

“I can feel you staring at me, you know,” He opened one eye to look at you, lips curling in a smile as he squeezed the skin of your hip. “You know, if you sleep now, the sooner I get to see you when we wake up.” 

“I’m seeing you now, ” you retorted softly, pressing a kiss to his pec, taking in the curved ink there. “May, she will stay?” You trailed a nail along the letters, Peter watching you as you went. “Like the Simon & Garfunkel song?” 

Peter nodded, head nestled among the cloud of pillows, the very picture of post-coital, hazy comfort. 

“Exactly like the song.”

“And May, like your aunt?” 

“Exactly like my Aunt.” 

"That’s lovely, Peter,” you curled in his arms, the exhaustion enveloping you as you allowed your body to press alongside his, enjoying the feel of your skin on his. “And what about ‘July, she will fly?’" 

"I hope not," Peter pressed a kiss to your forehead. “I hope she stays right here, a garden for my own heart to grow.” 

And you would. Wouldn’t you?

– 

Peter Parker was perfect. Practically, perpetually perfection personified. Preternaturally predisposed to providing purposeful preciousness, proper and precise. 

Months pass. And dates with Peter become extended weekends. Trips to the beach. Movie dates to the indie theater you like. Concerts where Peter would put you on his towering shoulders so that you could see.  

Honeyed months tinged with the red-burning hue of ardor, of romance. 

Even now, despite countless dates and hours together, your boyfriend of nearly six months never seemed to tire of visiting you at work. Even if you were working on papers between catering to demanding customers, vacillating between frazzled (with your paper) and friendly (with customers) – even if said friendliness was forced. Peter watched you with loving, caramel eyes from his favorite corner seat by the window, grateful for the proximity to you and for the free refills. 

As you’d come by on your break to refill his cup with more freshly-brewed nectar-like caffeine, your eyes lingered on the sketch he was working on for a prospective client. His star-studded forearm wrapped in the opaque plastic-wrap of a fresh tattoo – A new addition to his sleeve of galactic starshine that he’d flatly refused to share with you. 

Peter took you in, makeup smudged in a way he’d found devastating , your eyes shining despite your tiredness as you took him in. 

"All work and no play…" Peter said by way of greeting.

"... Gets me a goddamn Master’s," you quipped back, the lamentations of your studying predicament apparent through the strain of your voice.

"I was going to say makes you a fucking nerd," Peter quipped back. “An exhausted one at that.” 

“Thanks,” you deadpanned. “I’m off in twenty – can we please get Thai delivered and not talk to people who aren’t each other for the rest of the day? I’ll make you birria this weekend if you say yes.”

Peter stood from his space, sweeping you under his arm to press a kiss into the side of your forehead before ushering you back to the counter, “You don’t have to bribe me with cooking to get you home, babe. Now go – the faster you get back to work, the sooner you get off. ” 

You raised your eyebrows at the entendre in his words, a smirk playing on your boyfriend’s beautiful lips – knowing full well it was intentional. 

“ Promises, promises, Petey,” you patted his cheek, drifting back to the counter, already counting the minutes in your head until you could go home. 

Finally, finally , you and Peter were able to relax. Having gorged yourselves on pad thai (honestly, what wasn’t romantic about a good noodle?), now cuddled on your couch with wine and Netflix, more content to watch the boy next to you than the movie he’d put on. 

"I can feel you staring, Eden,” he’d intoned. 

“Well, I like to stare at you,” you countered, “It’s not my fault you’re so pretty.” 

Peter turned to look at you then, eyes wide in mock surprise, “ You think I’m pretty? ” His voice high-pitched with faux flattery. 

“Shut up,” you shoved his shoulder with yours. “You know that I do. I always do.” 

“Always, huh? And did you think so when we met?” Peter queried, almost breathless now. “Did you, when you met me? That we'd end up here?"

You snorted into your wine glass, kicking at Peter gently with a socked foot. 

"How could I have known? I never could have dreamt anything like this," you sighed. "You're the man of my dreams, loverboy."

Your love for Peter, and his for you – one of life's permanent truths, as opposed to the fleeting things you despised. You wear your love for him as plainly and permanently as the ink on your ribs. Imprinted, etched into the space near your heart, caging and enclosing it with every beat. Something eternal, something incalculable.

If only you’d known he was now wearing something of you – a forever. 

“My shy girl,” Peter murmured into your hair, lips near your ear, tickling the sensitive skin there, and causing your heart to prickle. He brought his fingers to your side to gently grip your waist, to hold you as though he’d never let go. 

“Peter,” you breathed through a giggle, “Please. My heart can’t take it.” 

You leaned forward to press a quick kiss to the column of his throat as best as you could with the awkwardness of couch-seating and the difference in height between the two of you, pleased with the flush of Peter’s ears at the endearing gesture. 

“That’s what I love about you, Edie. Every time I touch you may as well be the first.” 

You felt the heat flush through you at his words.

There's something so daunting about the act of wanting. But even moreso to pursue said wants. Perhaps you wouldn't have called yourself a brave girl before. You would make yourself sick with desire, but too afraid to reach for the heart of another. Until Peter had reached back. 

“I have something to show you, you know,” Peter started, unwrapping the plastic around his arm. A fresh set of stars inked into the sky there, below Perseus that personified himself,  and near Ben’s belt of Orion – a cluster of stars, arced like a sweeping crook. 

“It’s beautiful, Peter,” you breathed, tracing your thumb near the area – but careful not to touch the fresh ink. “What is it? Who’s it for?” 

Peter took you in, his forever girl.  

“It’s ‘Carina,’” Peter said, using his free hand to hold yours, his fingers lacing their way through your own, his eyes seeking yours once they’d finished tracing the trail of stars along his arm. “It’s the keel of the Argo – Jason’s ship. The backbone of the vessel that guides him on his journey.”

Your eyes searched Peter’s, equal parts puzzled and filled with wonderment. 

Carina. Did he mean –

“For my carina. For my Eden,” he finished, bringing your locked fingers to his lips, pressing a kiss to your joined hands. 

The constellations mapping their way to Peter's heart were a trail you'd follow. You were the keel of the ship, after all… 

And the two of you could sail through life’s unknowns together. 

For forever, or something like it.