♡ SpiderMan Imagines Andrew Garfield & Tom Holland♡

Peter Parker ♡Kickball

Author's Note: Takes place sometime when both Peter and the reader are in high school (after Peter becomes Spider-Man though). Gwen just kind of doesn't exist, or if she does, they're just friends.

"I hate kickball." You murmured, your words barely audible as you buried your head in Peter's chest.

"Me too." He said comfortingly, rubbing your back before pushing you in front of him. "C'mon, kiddo, you got this." He smiled encouragingly, flashing you a thumbs up.

"You're like two months older than me, you can't call me kiddo!" You argued before turning your attention to the ball.

The over achiever in your gym class rolled the ball towards you and you kicked it with the side of your foot, watching it sail into the air. It landed right in someone's arms, and you cheered slightly (you didn't have to run, score!), before turning around to go to the end of the line.

You, somehow (seriously, you had no idea how), tripped over your foot and landed on the dirty gym floor with a dull thud. You heard snickers from some of your classmates and you felt your face flush, cursing your __s/c__ skin.

"You okay, __y/n__?" You heard Peter ask gently and you shook your head.

"Nope. I'm staying here for the rest of eternity."

Peter chuckled, moving in front of you and sticking out both hands to help you up. You reluctantly took his hands and let him pull you to your feet, walking back to the end of the line as Peter moved into the kicker's position.

"Knock 'em dead!" You cheered, and you were thankful for the blush that was already coloring your face when Peter turned to look at you and winked.

Peter then looked back at the ball and kicked it with a great deal of force, right into the chest of the guy who had rolled the ball towards him. He stumbled a little bit, not in serious pain, but a bit of discomfort, and you had to bite your lip to hold back your laughter.

Regardless, the guy caught the ball and Peter was out, moving to the back of the line with you. He was grinning.

"Peter Benjamin Parker, you didn't have to do that." You said, shaking your head in mock disbelief (the fond smile on your lips kind of ruined the effect).

He shrugged sheepishly. "I know."

You glanced away from Peter momentarily (he was your best friend, but he was still stunningly attractive and it was hard to look directly at him sometimes), gazing down at your legs.

It was then that you noticed your tights had a rather large rip right on the left knee.

You groaned, slapping your palm to your forehead. "I hate gym. And kickball. And Mr. Hahn. So, so much."

Peter frowned, his eyes following the path to your legs. He noticed the rip and his frown deepened, before he hooked a hand behind your neck and pulled you closer, pressing a light kiss to your temple.

"Look on the bright side, there's only ten minutes left of this class period." Peter said, obviously trying to cheer you up.

"That is ten minutes too many." You said, burying your face in his chest again (unbeknownst to you, Peter's face was a light cherry color now, as well).

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Peter looked around the Wal-Mart, awkwardly trying to find tights. He was a teenage boy, how was he supposed to know where they were located?

He stumbled into the woman's clothing section, and upon realizing that they were not in that area, he moved to the women's underclothes area. He walked through three rows of lacy bras and tiny, barely there underwear (his face stained a vibrant red the whole time) before he, at last, found the aisle of tights.