Tom Holland imagines

As Many Times As You Want

Basically everyone glows up in high school; the transition from pre-pubescent teen to being almost-kind-of an adult hits everyone, boys and girls, alike. The shift is gradual and occurs over a length of time, making it less obvious until you look back at old cringy pictures and see just how little you really were. For Peter Parker, however, this 'transition' seemed to happen over the weekend. Last Friday, you swear, he looked like his regular, nerdy self: the collar of a flannel shirt peeking out the neckline of the loose sweater hanging off his thin frame, big brown glasses atop his nose, rounded cheeks and jawline, the epitome of soft. I don't know if soft is how you'd describe him now.

Your classmates have formed four lines, each line standing by one of the ropes that hang down from the gymnasium ceiling. "The aim of the challenge is to reach the top of the rope and touch the ceiling before sliding down," explains Coach J, "try not to fall, but if you do I'm sure the mats will break your fall somewhat." Groans escape the mouths of your peers, causing the teacher to let out, "I'm kidding, I'm kidding, it's perfectly safe." Peter stands a few people ahead of you in the next line over, his newly chiselled jawline being the concentration of your gaze.

"Stop drooling," MJ says, elbowing you.

"I am not drooling!"

"You totally are." You huff and go to refute her claim but your words get stuck in your throat as Peter lifts his Midtown High sweater over his head, pulling his t-shirt with it, revealing the lower portion of his six-pack and the faint 'v' that aimed into his shorts. He definitely didn't have those last Friday. He definitely didn't have those veiny arms or toned biceps, either. You continue to watch as he steps up to the rope, grabs it with both hands, and pulls himself up it with ease. "Been workin' out, have ya, Parker?" asks the coach after he slid down. "Uh, yeah, a little," mumbles Peter before heading over to Ned to retrieve his sweater. "(Y/L/N), takin' our time, are we?" yells the coach, removing your focus from the attractive boy and towards the rope.

"Why don't you just talk to him?" MJ whispers to you in AP Chemistry. Your stare is trained on Peter; he's holding his head up with his hand, elbow against the desk, obviously bored out of his mind. With his free hand, he doodles little spiders and lab equipment in the margins of his half-written notes. "I can't do that, MJ, I could barely even talk to him before without stuttering, do you really think I'd be able to even get a word out now that he's built like a Norse god?" you quietly complain. "Whatever," she replies, "but you're going to get in trouble if you don't take notes soon."

MJ has never been wrong in her life, you decide when you hear your teacher's call for your attention. "Ms.(Y/L/N)," you whip your head in her direction, "would you mind paying attention to my lecture rather than Mr. Parker over there? I assure you his profile will not be on the quiz Wednesday." A scarlet blush spreads across your face and down your neck and you try your best to avoid the gazes of your classmates. You just mutter a guilty, "sorry," and attempt to keep your eyes glued to the whiteboard. The one time that you glance in Peter's direction, however, his eye catches yours and he sends a shy smile your way. Your cheeks darken once again.

A few hours later at lunch, MJ brings it up again. "You should really just talk to him."

"I can't MJ. I'd make a complete fool out of myself, especially after what happened in Chem. Plus, I have nothing to even talk to him about."

"You could always ask him for help in Chem," she suggested.

"But I don't need help in Chem though. I have a ninety-seven as my final grade."

"Dude, really?" she says, exasperatedly. "Pretend you need help in Chem and ask him to tutor you. It's not like it'll be difficult to convince him seeing as you're always distracted."