Chapter Text
Peter was trying to figure out where on Earth he was supposed to go. He was on assignment from Jameson to cover the fashion section in the newspaper for a story coming up about something or an other. Peter wasn't entirely sure. He just knew that Regina - the person who usually took the photos for any Lifestyle, Image, or Style articles - couldn't make it because Regina's wife had finally had given birth, and now Regina was on maternity leave. So it was up to Peter.
And Peter was currently lost in a building that seemed to be made up of endless hallways.
"You there! With the camera! What size is your waist?"
"Wha- what?" Peter stumbled back in shock from the sharp tone suddenly directed at him.
"Yes, yes, you'll do." They carried on, heedless that Peter hadn't responded. And suddenly, Peter's wrist was grabbed and yanked along after the person who had approached him.
"Uhhh, can you, maybe explain what's happening here?" Peter hedged, uncomfortable with the way his day was panning out. Being lost, shouted at, and then bodily grabbed would do that to a person.
"No time. We needed a model practically yesterday. And Johnny, well." They snorted. "He didn't fit at ALL. And it's not like we have bigger sizes with one-of-a-kind garments!"
They turned a sharp corner down the hallway, which could, potentially, explain Peter's yelp.
It really was more the surprise than anything else, though.
"Model?!"
Peter was none-too-kindly pushed into a room. He tripped over the doorway and pinwheeled his arms to maintain his balance.
"This is what you bring me?" A voice groaned. "This is no model; this is an amateur!"
Peter would have been more offended, but he wasn't, in fact, a model. So the person was kind of right. Still, the harsh critique made him feel self conscious a bit.
Peter nervously chewed on his lip, turning his head away with lowered eyes. His fingers anxiously played with his camera strap that was hanging around his neck.
"Oh. Maybe - maybe he will do."
His head swiftly turned back to look at the room at the comment, eyes wide.
There was a someone eyeing him speculatively, as if Peter was a painting that they weren't sure where they wanted to hang it on the wall just yet.
"Send him to get ready. Have makeup give him nice, natural makeup - except I want the eyes outlined in gold foil graphic eyeshadow, eyeliner - whatever. And," Their tilted their head as they continuing eyeing Peter. "Sheer lip colors. Either a warm red or red plum. But sheer, and I mean sheer! Not lipgloss, just a really sheer matte. Have him dressed in what Johnny-" The photographer sneered "-was going to wear. Then send him back."
They had turned away finally to adjust their camera stand, and Peter sighed in relief.
"What about hair?" The person next to Peter demanded, as they latched on to his wrist once more.
The photographer waved a hand in the air dismissively. "Leave it mostly like that, and I'll take it from there."
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Peter wasn't quite sure what was happening. Suddenly he was swarmed by people. Some of them introduced themselves, but most of them didn't.
It seemed, also, that the majority of those that did introduce themselves were interns of some kind.
"Can I get you any sparkling water or coffee?" Intern 14 asked.
Intern 15 snorted disdainfully. "And mess up his lipstick?"
Which. Was a thing. Peter had never worn makeup before. And now a stranger was grabbing his chin and maneuvering his face in order to apply it to their satisfaction.
"Don't blink." They warned.
Yeah, easy for them to say. Their eyes weren't being roughly attacked by brushes.
Peter wasn't even sure where his glasses were anymore. An intern probably had them, he figured. He hoped.
Someone - probably an intern - began to unbutton Peter's shirt.
"Um! That's! What?" He managed to vaguely form words to resemble a protest.
"We need to get you into wardrobe." They explained nonchalantly.
"I can get dressed all by myself!" He protested.
"Oh, honey, I don't think you can." They sounded amused. And the intern gestured to something Peter hadn't noticed behind all the hustle and bustle of people.
On a clothes hanger was, was-
"What is THAT?"
"THAT is what you're going to need help with." The (maybe) intern took advantage of his shock and carried on unbuttoning his shirt, now that Peter was frozen in disbelief. Peter numbly allowed his arms to be slid out of his sleeves.
"But what IS it?"
"It's fashion, darling."
They reached for Peter's belt, and he snapped back into focus.
"I can do that!" He squeaked.
"You're going to need help getting dressed."
"Yes, okay, you were right, but I can UNdress myself just fine, thanks."
None of the people that were adjusting Peter's makeup, or subtlety adjusting his hair, or folding his discarded shirt felt the need to turn around.
Peter's face burned red.
He handed his belt to someone's waiting hands. He took a deep breath. And then he took off his jeans.
"The shy models are always the cutest." He could have sworn he heard someone say.
Peter's blush extended from his chest to the back of his ears, and everyone could see it.
"Here. Give me your left leg." Peter obliged. Something almost like blue satin ribbon that had shorts attached at the top was pulled around his foot, calf, and thigh. "Right leg." The process of wrapping around and around was repeated. But then he had to lift from the seat a little as the intern hiked the shorts up over his thighs and to where they would actually cover something.
"Left arm." His arms were ribboned with a red velvety ribbon this time. Then they were secured in a looping knot under hid armpit and around each finger. "Right arm." Red velvety ribbon again. It was, he thought a bit hysterically, the Spiderman colors of blue and red.
"Now: Hold. Still." From the loops under his armpits, they started weaving both ribbons horizontally across his torso. When it was deemed finished, it was secured by connecting to the belt loop on the back of his shorts.
"What am I even modeling?" Peter questioned incredulously as everyone seemed to take a collective step back and just stare at him.
"This." A softly knit red and blue plaid scarf was wrapped around his neck. It reached the floor when Peter stood up.
"You're all ready." They decided.
"Go knock 'em dead!" Someone cheered. Peter thought it might have been Intern 14.
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It had went like this:
The photographer, after introducing himself, placed Peter in a brightly lit corridor, and told him to go.
Peter had just stood there, not sure what to do.
Frustrated, the photographer had yelled, "What are you good at? Show me what you're good at!"
And Peter, well, Peter was good at science and photography and at being Spiderman.
So.
So, he might have cheated juuust a bit by using some of his Spidey powers, but. Oh well.
And he knew about which way to face the lighting to look the best in a photo, about filling negative space, about interesting composures, and about other aspects of photography.
So if he had bent this way or that, it would make the photographer exclaim in joy. And he'd send in an intern to adjust his scarf or ribbons while yelling, "Hold that pose! Don't you DARE move!" And Peter, well, Peter could have held a single pose for a lot longer than anyone knew, thanks to his powers. But when Peter had started experimenting a bit, trying to be as visually interesting as he could be, the photographer had eagerly shouted, "That's it! That's IT!"
So Peter had figured he couldn't have been too terrible then.
Especially when, at the end of the photo shoot, as Peter was drinking sparkling water, someone in an expensive suit had approached him.
And offered him a lot of money for today and a whole lot more if he continued.
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"Whaddya mean that you didn't take the photos yourself?! What the hell am I even payin' you for then? What were you even doing - twiddling your thumbs? Did you even bother to show up at all?"
Peter didn't bother to point out that he was contractually paid per photo accepted and not through a salary; so, technically, he wasn't being paid at all right now. It wouldn't have made a difference to Jameson.
"Um, I did show up." He interjected cautiously before this could become a real Jonah rant.
"Go on, I'm dyin' to hear your excuse this time!" He barked.
"They decided to that they'd rather have me model instead of being their photographer."
Jameson laughed before he suddenly stopped. "You're not joking!"
"Uh, no?"
"You? A model?" He asked in disbelief. It seemed that that was going to be everyone's reaction. Jameson visibly mulled it over. "Who took the photos, then?"
"I don't know - they had some photographer they already had for the shoot give me some that you could use. He said his name was Brock?"
"Eddie Brock?!" Jameson choked out, his cigar trembling.
"Yeah!"
"Parker, Eddie Brock is a high-end photographer, exclusive for that one fashion magazine of willowy models in expensive clothing."
Peter felt like that described ALL fashion magazines.
"Kid," Jameson sounded impressed. "Give me the photos and get out of here before the modeling agencies come knocking on my door lookin' for you."
"Um." Peter felt like now was a prudent time to awkwardly admit this, "I've already signed with an agency. I probably won't be back at The Bugle anymore."
Jonah J. Jameson froze. "Huh." He said gruffly. "Well. Good luck, I guess. I mean - you'll probably be a decent model, Parker, since you're a twig and all."
Unsure if that was supposed to be a compliment or an insult, Peter just nodded in reply.
He gave a short wave, and left his office.
Well, that could have gone worse, he decided.
The next morning, Peter's mailbox had a paycheck from The Daily Bugle in it, with no stamp on the envelope. So someone had taken the time to hand deliver the package to Peter's address instead of just sending it through the mail. And Triple J acted like he didn't care! Peter's also had been given a copy of the day's paper.
He blinked. And blinked again.
In black and white, right on the very front page, it still read:
"Photographer Gets Photographed!"
Below the headlines, it had a smaller print that was still larger than the rest of the article that read:
"Bugle's Own Peter Parker Debuts As Vogue Model!"
Of all the photos that Peter had given to Jameson, they had just selected one and blown it up across nearly the entire page. It was his face, looking serene as he stared over his shoulder with eyes outlined in a brilliant liquid gold, his ribboned arm dangling mid air. His body hung high in a contorted arc between the hallways artfully, supported only by one ribboned leg and both shoulders holding his weight; the rest of him dangled gracefully down - making him look impossibly tall and elegant. Some of his fingertips grazed the floor. The ribboned leg that wasn't braced against the wall extended down in a long curve and filled some of the leftover negative space with an interesting shape.
The knitted scarf - the whole point of the editorial - was wrapped loosely a few times around his extended neck. It trailed over and behind the right shoulder farthest from the camera, pooling in an attractive heap across the floor's surface. It also danced over his hipbones, wrapping a couple times around his elevated left thigh, before it trailed down his calf to his ankle, where the end of it balanced delicately.
He looked - he looked -
Like a model.
Peter couldn't believe it. Was that really him? Even in a newspaper quality, the photo looked good. He looked like a professional. Peter had the urge to buy whatever magazine it was featured in and see it on a glossy page. He stared for a long time before a sudden thought made him tear his eyes away. He read what The Bugle had written. And then he read the sub-headline again in astounded disbelief.
"Vogue?!"
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Peter briefly wondered whether he should go tell his aunt.
Right after a couple rounds of lip-syncing "Uptown Funk" he decided.
And if his aunt discovered him hours later standing on his bed, passionately singing along with wild gesticulations, well, she forgave him.
Because Peter was so hot - hot damn! - that he had modeled for Vogue.
With his hefty check, he would take her out to dinner and would leave a generous tip for the waitstaff.
Yeah, Peter thought as his aunt excitedly swapped stories with the renowned chef who had cooked their food, Peter could get used to this. Aunt May beamed at him, and Peter smiled back widely.
If he kept on modeling, not only could she stop working so many shifts - she would be able to quit her job if she wanted to. Aunt May deserved that and more.
Peter would give it to her.
On their way home, Aunt May insisted that they stopped at a bookstore. She bought ten copies of the - surprisingly pricey -magazine that featured her boy, despite Peter's offer to buy then for her.
When he asked why she needed ten, she replied, "The first one's going in the photo box. The second one's staying on our coffee table. The third one is going in my bank account, as precious goods. The fourth one is going to go in your room. The fifth one is going in my room. The sixth one, I'll take to work and show off. The seventh and eighth, you'll sign and I'll keep for when you're famous. The ninth one, you can give away to someone. The last one, well, you and I will give that one to Ben together."
Peter hugged his aunt, taking her by surprise. "Thank you, Aunt May."
"You're welcome, Peter. I'm so proud of you, you know? I always have been."
"Yeah," Peter breathed with an easy smile. "I knew that.