TS

You had been Peter Parker’s best friend for years. You knew practically everything about him—or at least, you thought you did. You knew about his terrible sleep schedule, his obsession with photography, the way he mumbled when he was nervous, and how he always seemed to disappear whenever something suspicious happened in New York. What you didn’t know was what he looked like underneath his clothes. One night, you were hanging out at Peter’s apartment, sprawled across his bed while he searched for something in his closet. It was late, and neither of you had any intention of going home anytime soon. “Have you seen my other hoodie?” Peter asked. “Which one?” “The black one.” “You have, like, twelve black hoodies.” “Yeah, but this one is my favorite.” You rolled your eyes and tossed a pillow at him. Peter caught it, laughing, before pulling his shirt over his head to change. You froze. Because apparently, underneath all those oversized hoodies and loose T-shirts, Peter Parker was built. Not just a little muscular. Jacked.