Spider-Man Imagines II

Gotta Save Her Anyway (part one) | Peter Parker (TH)

so y'all, my laptop is broken and has to be sent in for repairs and that is probably gonna delay updates for a while. hopefully not, but we will see.

in other news, thank all of you who stood up for me these past two days! you often remind me how blessed i am to have this platform, the ability to write, and to have so many wonderful followers.

i love you all so much!

this was requested by blakes-

//

Peter couldn't seem to find a grip on life.

His job was awful, college was miserable, May got sick with the flu twice in a month, and everyone stopped seeing Spider-Man as a hero and began seeing him as a public menace (thanks to the Daily Bugle). Because of all of this, his relationship with you was failing.

He threw his phone down on the bed. Another fight. He was angry and sad all at once.

How had life gotten this bad? He was only nineteen.

"Peter!" came a hoarse scream from the living room.

Peter got up off his creaky bed and walked out of his room. He sighed and scratched the side of his head. "Yeah, Aunt May?"

His aunt, looking miserable as she laid on the couch in front of the TV, reached her hand. "My prescription is ready. I need it." Her nose was stuffy and her voice was scratchy.

"Sure thing," he said, grabbing his shoes.

As he sat down to tie them, he looked up. May was watching the news, and on the screen was, of course, footage of him stopping Green Goblin from killing civilians in the street.

Peter had accidentally thrown a car at the side of a hospital when he was trying to stop the Goblin. It broke some windows but didn't kill anybody. One nurse had a giant scar down her arm. Peter felt awful, but he didn't deserve his new title or harassment:

OUR DEADLY NEIGHBORHOOD SPIDER-MAN

May grabbed the remote and switched the channel. Titanic was on. "Sorry about that, sweetie."

"S'okay," he mumbled. He got up and grabbed his jacket.

"I'm proud of you," she said.

"At least someone is," he said, lips pressed together. "Thanks."

She sighed. "Another fight?" she asked, but Peter was already gone.

...

"Thanks." Peter grabbed the paper bag with the bottle of pills inside and tucked it into his pocket. He decided to browse, because going home meant listening to A Series of Never-ending Coughs by May Parker.

At the far end of the store was a cool shelf of real flowers. Peter reached out and touched one of the pink roses. Your favorite. When he was fifteen, he brought you a single rose (all he could afford) and asked you out.

He sighed, then plucked one rose from the bouquet.

He took it to the check out counter. The lady, a brown haired woman with one glazed over eye, grimaced at the rose on the counter.

"Just one?" she asked.

"Yup," he said, digging out his wallet.

She shook her head. "Just take it, kid." She must have thought he was too poor to afford a whole bouquet.