Spider-Man Imagines I

My Life | Peter Parker [TH]

At the beginning of the school year, Peter griped about having to take an art class. He wasn't good at drawing, painting, or making things out of nothing. His creativity was strictly computer building, and although you insisted that building a computer out of spare parts was harder than forming a bowl out of clay, he didn't believe you.

And so Peter chose to take Photography, the most technological art class Midtown offered, instead of Art I or Painting or Cermaics, of which you took all.

"We're a science school," Peter complained on the first day, "so why do we only have one art class that involves technology?"

"Maybe to broaden our horizons," you said, smiling at him. "Try not to think about it too much." You took his hand and squeezed it. "You'll do great. Who knows? You might even like it!"

Peter was surprised when he did like it. He never admitted it, not as first, but he loved the feeling of a camera heavy in his hands and the capturing of a single moment, a bending of a branch in a tree, a man opening the door to the store he owned, a smile, wide and happy and in love. Your smile.

You and Aunt May both even pitched in to buy him a real camera for his birthday. It was expensive and heavy and he loved it more than anything else he owned.

And when it came time for his semester project, the assignment was simple. Turn in an album of photos, all edited in at least four different filters, of his life. No specifics.

When the teacher showed examples, she showed pictures of old family houses and beloved cars covered in bumper stickers with sentimental value, books and music and concert tickets, tea cups and shelves of things and shoes.

But the moment Peter stepped out of the class, the bell ringing loudly, he saw you waiting for him and knew.

"Hey," you said, smiling. "So I snagged a couple bags of white cheddar popcorn from the vending machine. We can stop at Delmar's and get a few sandwiches, and I can rent a movie. Sound good?"

"Uh, yeah," he said. He took your hand in his and looked down at it, pressing the pads of his fingers against your knuckles. "Uh, no. Actually, can we do something else?"

"Well, sure," you said softly. "Like what?"

"I have an idea," he said, smiling softly. He pulled on your hand. "C'mon."

...

An hour and a half later, you were at Central Park with Peter. He took you to the emptiest spot he could find and pulled his camera out of the front of his backpack.

"Peter," you said, eyeing the camera. You scowled; you hated getting your picture taken.

"C'mon," he pleaded, still smiling that soft smile that stole your heart every time. "Just a few."

"Peter-" You touched your hair, face unsure. "I don't look-"

"___, you look great!"

"But my hair-" You stopped. "And my makeup-"

"You look beautiful," he said.

You blushed. "Fine," you decided, "just a few."

He held the camera up in front of his face. "Smile, babe!" He snapped a couple of pictures. He looked at you in awe and shook his head as he fiddled with his camera. "Gosh, you're so pretty."

"Peter," you said, embarrassed.

"You are," he said.

You shook your head. "What do I do next?"

He pointed to the leaves around your feet. "Uh, pick them up and toss them." He aimed the camera again and you knelt to scoop up a handful of red and gold leaves.

Snap!

You straightened your back and tossed them up, looking up at the sky as they floated down around you. Some got caught in your hair, others in your scarf.

Snap! Snap!

"Great," he commented, sounding like a real professional. "Can you sit on the ground and-" He stopped, then handed you his camera. "Wait a second."

"What?" you asked. He was shrugging out of his Midtown sweatshirt. "Peter, babe, it's cold-"

"I want you to wear it in one of the pictures," he told you, an excited grin on his face. He handed it to you and helped it over your head. As you pulled your arms into the sleeves, he gingerly took your hair out of the back and ran his hands through it, eyes full of adoration and love.

"Peter," you said as he aimed the camera at you. "What assignment is this for?"

"Um..." He snapped a picture. "We have to take pictures of our life," he said, looking at what he took. "So I'm taking pictures of the most important things- well, people, to me." He shrugged, a little embarrassed. He hoped it wasn't silly.

You stood there, eyes teary and lips pressed together. "Peter," you murmured softly, making him look up at you. You walked through the thick floor of leaves and wrapped your arms around him, pressing your face against his chest.

"Was that okay to say?" he asked, voice a little high.

"Of course it was. That was the sweetest thing I've ever-"

"It's just, I don't want you to feel like I have to be your life-" he began, but you silenced him by kissing him.

"Peter," you said, "I love you. And you are my life."

He smiled and kissed your head. "You are my life, ___," he said back. After a moment of soft, warm silence, he rubbed your back. "C'mon. We can stop at Delmar's on the way to my place. I want to get a few of Aunt May too."

You smiled at him, settling for just holding his hand as you walked towards the exit of the park, still wearing his sweatshirt.

"I told you Photography wouldn't be bad," you said.

"You were right," he said, and you smiled triumphantly.

He clutched your fingers tightly, looking at you approvingly. He loved when you wore his sweaters - you looked so small, warm, and happy. He pulled out his phone and snapped a picture of you from the side, your hand in his, your hair raised up with the wind.

Later, he posted it to Instagram with one simple caption:

My life.