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botanicalbarnes · 5 years

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My Favorite Person

Prompt/box filled: “You are quite possibly my favorite person.” for @starksparker, “my dream wouldn’t be complete without you in it.” for @neverlandparker and @fairytaleparker

“You are so cute” for @goodthingshappenbingo, Proposal for @star-spangled-bingo, Halves of a Whole for @buckybarnesbingo

Fandom: Marvel

pairing: Bucky x Reader

Warnings: Doubt, so much fluff, passing references to sex

word count:3.2k

Summary: You start worrying over your wedding and your friends remind you of why you’re being dumb and of how far you and Bucky have come.

Masterlist

“Will you please quit pacing!? It’s your wedding day for christ’s sake! What are you so nervous about?” Wanda exclaimed sharply at you.

You turned to stare at her, “Everything! What if Steve loses the rings? What if I trip? What if Bucky bails? What if I forget my vows? What if-”

“STOP!” This time Nat interrupted with an incredulous look. “Y/N, first of all, everything will be fine, everything is already taken care of. Second, Bucky would never bail. He’s been in love with you and ready for this since the moment he saw you for the first time.”

The team and a few agents filed into the meeting room. Natasha, Tony, and Clint walked over to you talking about how good you looked and how long it had been since you’d last seen each other. You had been assigned to the London branch two years ago and had just been transferred back to New York to work with the Avengers.

A lot had changed since you left.

Everyone looked at the hologram showing the base you’d be infiltrating. On the opposite side of the room however, stood Bucky Barnes, who’d joined the team a little after you’d left. He stared wide eyed, mouth gaping at you from across the room. You saw his eyes wander up and down your body and you felt yourself bite your lip and do the same.

Even though the only light was coming from the hologram in front of you, you could see him blush when your eyes met. You held back a giggle, smirked, and winked.

You felt his eyes on you through the whole meeting. To say the least, it was very distracting.

The corners of your mouth twitched upward at the memory. “Hell, he even got shot for you that day! You hadn’t even officially met until then!”

You struggled with the Hydra agent. She evaded every kick, punch, and attempt to take her down.

Through the fight, you failed to notice the other agent aiming his gun at you, waiting for a clear shot. Until, you heard the two gunshots followed by a loud groan of pain. It was so sudden that the woman you were fighting looked away just long enough for you to knock her out. “That should keep her down for a while.” You muttered to yourself before turning towards the groans. You gasped when you say Bucky on the ground. You cursed and ran to where he had collapsed. “Shit shit shit fuck. Woah, hey, stay with me, I’m gonna get us out of here.”

His eyes were fluttering open to look up at you. When he tried moving he hissed and clutched his side.

You looked down towards his hand and saw his red with blood. “Wow, you’re beautiful. Hi, I’m Bucky.” You gave him a ‘are you serious?’ look.

“You are literally bleeding out right now. It’s really not the time.”

“Eh, I’ll be fine.” He opened his mouth to continue but you got up and tried to get him up too.

“Not if i leave you here. God, you’re heavy. C’mon you need to help me out here.” Finally, you were able to get him up and have him lean against you. “Guys, Bucky’s shot, I’m taking him back to the jet.”

You felt his eyes looking up at you as you made your way to the jet.

Laying him down as gently as possible, you pulled his gear and clothes off to see the damage, leaving him in his pants. “How did you manage to get shot anyway?” You gave him the strongest pain meds you had at hand and tried to patch him up best you could.

“He was going to shoot you. I tried to stop him. I went in front of him right when he took the shot. I had fired my gun already but I wasn’t quick enough. I couldn’t let them hurt you.” You stopped everything and stared into his eyes. He had gotten shot… for you. You didn’t know what to say. Without thinking, you leaned down to give him a lingering kiss.

“You haven’t told me your name.” He said softly when you’d parted.

“It’s Y/N.” You replied in a whisper.

“Remember how nervous he was when he finally asked you out? He wouldn’t stop asking us for advice on how to do it and then followed none of it.” Wanda added.

It was another Sunday morning at the compound. Nothing weird or off about it. You sat comfortably on a stool by the kitchen island in your PJ’s, eating cereal and scrolling through your phone.

Bucky walked in, rubbing his eyes and yawning, not noticing you watching him move about. He filled his favorite mug with coffee and took a muffin from a tray set out. With a sigh, he sipped his coffee and pulled out a chair across from you. He put his mug down and looked up. A tiny scream escaped his lips when he saw you and you couldn’t contain your laughs. “Y/N. Hey, um, good morning. I, uh, didn’t see you there.”

All through breakfast, you watched him silently twitch and shift uncomfortably. You finished your cereal, washed your plate, then left the kitchen. Maybe you’d go out and get a dress for that gala thing Tony was making everyone go to. ‘A red one’, you thought, ‘maybe Bucky will pick up on the hints and-’

Bucky’s voice called out your name behind you, bringing you out of your thoughts.

When you turned, Bucky caught up to you looking like he regretted it. His flesh hand came up to scratch his neck nervously. He opened and closed his mouth, searching his mouth for what to say. “Um, so, uh, You know th-that gala thing Tony w-want us to go to?” You nodded and he swallowed, taking a deep breath.

“Iwaswonderingifyou’dwanttogowithme.” He said all in one breath. You laughed lightly.

“What? Can you say that again please Bucky? A little slower this time?”

He took a deep breath, “I was wondering. I-if you would l-like to go to that gala. W-with me. Like a date. Y-ya know, t-together.” His eyes met yours and a broad smile spread over your lips.

You stepped forward to him and pulled him in for a deep kiss. After a moment he kissed you back and pulled you against him. “So is that a yes…?” He said against your lips. You pulled back and giggled.

“Yeah, Buck. It’s a yes.” He beamed (to put it lightly) and leaned in to kiss you again.

“Don’t forget when he told you he loved you. On your fourth date.”

You and Bucky walked down the street from the ice cream place. Your dress shone under the street lights. You licked and bit your ice cream cone until there was nothing left. You turned to Bucky, laughing at what what he was saying. “Hold on, you got ice cream on your chin.” He said. Instead of wiping it off with his thumb or a napkin, he opted for kissing you clean. You giggled as he kissed and licked your chin, then trailing along your jaw. Your face was scrunched up happily when he came up again.

“You are so cute. Ugh, I love you.” His voice was barely above a whisper but he knew you had heard it. His eyes widened and he winced slightly. “You, um, you don’t need to say it back. Uh, I know it hasn’t been long but, I meant it. I love you Y/N.”

You stood pleasantly shocked. You kissed him softly before saying, “I know. I love you too.” Of all the things he could have expected you to say, ‘I love you too’ was not one of them. Not that he had any objections.

“And his proposal.” Wanda laughed, “He planned that for weeks!”

“Where are we going? Bucky come on!” You whined.

“You’ll see. We’re almost there. Stop pouting.” He pecked your lips quickly, making you smile. “That’s my girl.”

“You better not be taking me out to the middle of fucking nowhere to kill me, James Barnes.” He rolled his eyes with a chuckle.

“Whoops, you caught me! I’m taking you, my girlfriend who I love more than anything, into the woods to kill you. When I know we both have trackers and everyone knows we left the compound together.” The sarcasm was practically dripping from his words. A moment of silence was followed by a fit of laughter from both of you. “Ok, we’re here.” He took your blindfold (that has more than one use when it comes to you two) off and you gasped at the sight in front of you. You were literally in the middle of nowhere. Trees were in every direction, but just ahead was a clearing, the sun lit up the small circle. A plaid blanket was spread out in the center, with a cute picnic basket on it and some pillows.

“Bucky! This is incredible! When did you have time to set this up? Or find this place?”

“Nat and Steve just left, they texted me that everything was ready like two minutes ago. And remember when Tony gave Sams wings an upgrade and Sam went flying for like two hours? Yeah he stopped to rest or something and he found this. Hey, lets eat, i know you’re starving.” As if on queue, your stomach growled loudly.

“Yeah that’s probably a good idea. So what’d you bring?” You said as you sat down and fixed your sundress.

“Well,” Bucky started, “Two days ago you said you would kill for a burger and fries. Sooo…” He opened the basket to reveal bags of Mcdonalds, “I had Steve and Nat pick some up for us.” You practically lunged at him. He landed on his back and you laughed gleefully. Ugh, you loved him so much. You peppered him with little kisses and thanked him repeatedly.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you! I love you, I love you, I love you!!! You. Are. The. Greatest.” He chuckled at your excitement. You got off of him and started stuffing your face, moaning at the first bite.

By the time you were full, you found yourself laying down on the blanket, your head in Buckys lap as he read softly to you. He stopped at the end of a chapter. “Doll, would you mind getting my phone for me? I think it’s somewhere over there.”

“Mhm. Gimme a kiss first.” You demanded. He let out an exaggerated sigh as if it was a chore. With a grin on his face, he leaned down to give you a chaste kiss on the lips. You hummed contently and jumped up. You took a few steps over to his phone, picking it up. “Why’d it end up over here.” Little did you know he’d done that on purpose.

When you turned and stepped towards him, you raised your head to look at him. Your jaw dropped to the floor and a loud gasp escaped you. You dropped Bucky’s phone and threw your hands over your mouth when you saw him on one knee in front of you.

“Y/N. The moment is saw you, I swear I was a goner. I’ve loved you since the beginning. Before you, if someone had asked me if love at first sight was real, I would have said ‘hell no’. But here we are. But I never thought that you’d love me too. When you told me you loved me, I think my heart stopped and started up again. And everytime you say it or kiss me, I feel like the luckiest bastard alive. There’s only one thing that would make that 100% true though. So, will you make me the happiest, luckiest, man in the universe, and marry me?”

He opened the small box in his hands and you nodded hysterically, tears streaming down your face. “Yes, yes, yes! Of course!” Your hand shook uncontrollably as he took it and slid the ring onto your finger. A perfect fit. Nothing could possibly ruin your happiness or wipe the smile off your face. Bucky wrapped his arms around you and pulled you in tight for a hug. Your arms snaked around his neck, and you admired the beautiful ring on your finger.

You were both laughing softly as you moved to kiss. Out from behind the trees came everyone. The whole team was there congratulating you. Peter and MJ stood a bit behind, cameras in hand capturing every perfect moment.

That same happy smile was back on your face from just thinking about that day. Tears of joy pooled in your eyes knowing that in less than an hour, you’d at long last be Mrs. Y/N Barnes. You blinked them away quickly so as to not mess up your makeup.

“There’s that smile.” Said Nat softly. A knock from the door made the six heads in the room turn.

“I’ll see who it is.” Hope said. You watched as she opened the door slightly and immediately said, ‘NOPE. Bad luck.” before closing it again.

“C’mon! Please Hope! I have a blindfold and I can walk in backwards! I just really gotta talk to her. Just five minutes, I promise!” Came Bucky’s voice. She looked at you with a question in her eyes. You grabbed a piece of scarf and wrapped it around your head.

“Let him in. Wait outside, all of you. And no eavesdropping!” You listened as Nat, Wanda, Hope, Valkyrie, and Morgan left the room. Your back faced the door just in case of anything. Someone guided him to you and you laced your fingers with his as you stood back to back.

“Hey.”

“Hey. What are you doing here, you know it’s bad luck.”

“I know, I know. I just had to talk to you before the ceremony. Can you believe it’s finally time?!” His voice was electric with excitement, then turned calm and soft again, “I wanted to make sure you weren’t freaking out or worrying about everything.” He knew you so well.

“I was.” You laughed. “Then the girls made me think about how far we’ve come. Our good moments together.”

“Yeah. Can you believe it’s been two years already?”

“To be honest, no. Ya know what they say: ‘Time flies when you’re having fun’. So is everything ready? Nothing’s gone wrong or anything right?” Your voice went higher towards the end of your sentence.

“No. Nothing’s wrong. Please stop worrying. I just went to check on everything and it all looks wonderful. The flowers are all where they need to be, decorations are in place, the cake is great, everything is great. Just half and hour and you’ll be my wife.”

You squealed happily. “I know! If only time could go by faster! I can’t wait another second to officially be Mrs.Barnes!”

“Me neither. I can’t wait to see you. In your dress… And without it t-” The doors burst open before Bucky could get another word in.

“Ok. That’s it. Let’s go. Get outta here.” You gave Bucky’s hand one last squeeze before the girls dragged him out.

You adjusted your dress, took a deep breath, and took your father’s arm. The doors in front of you opened one more time and you walked through them slowly. You lifted your head and as soon as your eyes settled on Bucky, whose back was facing you, everything stopped. You saw as his shoulders rose and fell before he turned and saw you.

You tuned out the gasps, the music, the whispers, and all the people. All you could see, was him. You saw him take a sharp breath when he saw you. Even from where you were, you saw the tears welling in his eyes. He didn’t even try hiding them or blinking them away. This only spurred on yours and made them stream freely down your cheeks. Thank god your makeup was waterproof.

Then, you were standing in front of Bucky, both of you beaming. You scarcely heard what the officiant was saying, and only registered when Bucky was asked to recite his vows.

“Wow. What to say? Growing up in the 40’s, I had an idea of what my life would be like. Before the war, my dream was to eventually settle down with a nice, calm girl and maybe have some kids. When the war broke out, I was sure that I’d die out there. For so long, I’d hoped that I would. Then, after everything that happened to me, I never thought I could have that. At best, my dream became to live out my days making up for everything I’ve done and all the time I’ve lost. But then I met you. You: the most beautiful, sassy, adventurous, insanely smart, fiery, spontaneous, strong, fun, cheeky, and confident woman who I’ve ever met. The one I fell in love with. Since then, I know that my dream wouldn’t be complete without you in it. I’m so happy that you chose me, and that my dream is becoming a reality. So I promise to be the best man I can be, to love you forever, and to be your partner in everything. I love you. Let’s do this.”

His words were almost whispers as he finished. Your hand reached up to wipe away the tears that had fallen.

“Bucky. I can’t possibly top that.” Laughter filled the space around you in a reminder that it wasn’t just you and him.

“All i can say, is that you have changed my life. Without you, I don’t know where I would be right now. You have saved me; literally and figuratively. I feel at home when I’m with you, because I am. I’ve been happier these past two years with you that I ever had been. You complete me. You’re my other half I never thought I’d find. You are quite possibly my favorite person. Actually, you totally are, without question. I’m so glad I met you. And so excited to start this new chapter by your side. I vow to take care of you, and be there for you even if, and most especially when that means getting into trouble together. I can’t wait to love you for the rest of my life. So yeah… Let’s do this.”

The rest of the ceremony blurs together with the stormy blue of Bucky’s eyes. You snapped back to reality when you heard: “I now pronounce you husband and wife… You may now kiss the bride.” And oh he definitely did. Very, very thoroughly.

You broke apart grinning ear-to-ear as the cheers and whoops electrified the air around you. Your forehead was on his and you looked into each others eyes. “Hello Mrs. Barnes. Have I ever mentioned I love you?”

“I think you might have once or twice, Mr. Barnes. You should probably spend the rest of your life reminding me though. Just to make sure.”

***

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rae-gar-targaryen · 5 years

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of retro-tech and rhapsody [p.p.]

A/N: This is my entry for @starksparker Summer Writing Challenge! Thank you for letting me do this, Kaylee!

Takes place while Peter and the gang are still at school. I’m ignoring “Endgame” and “Far From Home,” so it’s spoiler-free! Includes references to Peter’s Civil War-era scrounging.

Prompt: “For someone so smart, you’re an idiot.”

Pairing: Peter Parker x fem!Reader (I kept her vague enough, sans references to a few hobbies and musical taste).

Warnings: Language. Jumpy plot? So much awkward cotton-candy fluff you may just rot your teeth. Sorry.

Word Count: 3.4k of baked good simile, teenage awkwardness, and musical snobbery.

Summary: Dumpster diving wasn’t a good look for most boys. Most of them. But then again, most boys didn’t make you a good, old-fashioned loverboy mixtape.

**NOT MY GIF!**

–

Okay, so. Here’s the deal: You most certainly were not the type to gossip. You really weren’t. The clique-ish chatter of your classmates and passersby floating through your ears like the twittering of so many small birds, muffled like cotton balls in your ears.

It’s not that you were a bad listener. Nah. You actually considered yourself a good listener. You just weren’t that interested in the conversational equivalent of small-dick-energy. Small minds discuss people, so they say…

Besides, rumors were pernicious. Especially those perpetrated by bored teenagers, the girls’ perfectly-filed nails so much like demon’s talons, the boys’ whispering and snickering like the hissing of snakes. All attempting to perforate your uninterested sensibilities.

Whatever. Whatever the topic was today, you just weren’t interested. Until–

“I heard Flash threw him in. What other reason would he smell like a dumpster?”

“Maybe he just doesn’t, ya know, shower?”

“No way. Flash can’t toss him in alone. He’d need help. Besides, I think he went in there, like, voluntarily.”

“He doesn’t smell. You just saw him coming out of the alley.”

“Ew. You mean to tell me that Peter Parker is a– a dumpster-diver?”

The mention of Peter’s name caught your interest. Peter was a tech-type with a seemingly contradictory creative streak. You had often wondered where he had picked up the old school gadgets he sometimes had tucked under his arm as he hurried to and from the science lab or the A.V. room, Ned Leeds in tow, talking a mile a minute about – some thing or another.

You were almost certain the term “motor mouth” was coined with Peter in mind.

You turned your head to hear who was talking, only to be met with a table full of Flash Thompson’s hangers-on.

Of course. Flash Thomson’s weird hate-boner for Peter Parker was well known among your class. And probably the teachers, too.

You didn’t understand. What was to dislike about Peter Parker? He was perfectly sweet, sweetly smart, smartly perfect.

Okay, maybe you had a little thing for Peter Parker. But only just a little. You had, what? Two classes together?

Besides, you were too busy for boys. It’s 2k19, for God’s sake. You had soccer, studying for the SATs, you helped out your parents. You liked to read. It’s not that you weren’t interested in the pursuit of a certain sweet, stuttering boy with coffee curls and eyes flecked with gold.

Dear god. When did you become a poet? Scratch that. When did you become a terrible poet?? Be still your heart, Keats.

Rolling your eyes, you smacked your empty lunch tray for good measure as you got up, catching the attention of some of Flash’s “Mob.”

“Maybe you should chill on being trash who trash-talks? You sure you don’t belong in the dumpster?” You replied primly. Not chancing a glance back, or waiting for a snarky response, you turned, dropping your tray in the designated area and walked out.

Mic drop, assholes.

—

Peter stared after you from his corner table, basking in the glory of your grand exit. He didn’t hear what you had said. But judging by the disbelieving stares that followed you, it must’ve been good. Flash’s hangers-on looked after you, a few then turning their attention to Peter’s table before going back to their lunch, mouths agape.

Um, what?

Peter had no clue what that could have been about. Whatever it was, he was almost certain he didn’t want to know. Unless– unless it had to do with you. Then he almost certainly did want to know.

He would crawl over glass if it meant learning more about you.

Okay, maybe not glass. He did get beat up on the regular, and even super-fast healing and super strength didn’t mean that the sensations that came from small-time ass kickings was enjoyable.

Mr. Stark told him that finding the girl he liked would hit him like, what was it? Oh, yeah …

“A punch to the gut, Pete. You’ll never see it coming. Not even with that little, uhhhh, tingly little super-sense you’ve got goin’ on.”

Punch to the gut indeed. Just the sight of you was enough to make Peter stammer, even moreso than usual. Sweat a bit more than usual. Especially today, what with his latest acquisition burning a proverbial hole in his backpack.

His morning excursion had yielded a perfectly good Walkman. Who would toss that in the dumpster? A little fine-tuning and it should be good to go. He’d been acquiring retro stereo equipment for some time. A little trip to the junk store for a blank cassette, and he was home free.

His heart sang at the cleverness of his plan. Burning you an old-school mixtape seemed like the perfect way to tell you how he felt. How he’d been feeling since ninth grade bio, making a gradual mental catalogue of your band shirts. Of the books you thumbed through while waiting for class to start.

Yeah, he knew exactly what was going on that tape.

“Hey, loser.” Peter whipped his head at the dead-pan to the left, meeting MJ’s shrewd eyes and perpetually downturned mouth from her corner of the table. “What’s up with your stupid moon-face?”

“Uh, what?”

“If you stared any harder at her, you may burn a hole.”

“I don’t — who? Stared at who?” Peter panicked. Surely MJ couldn’t know. If MJ knew, did that mean he was being obvious? Oh, crap.

“For someone so smart, you’re an idiot. Lucky for you, I’m not. Just say something. She’s super nice, you know. She’d talk to you.”

“Thanks, MJ. I think?” Peter’s brow furrowed at the minor insult, which stung less considering it was wrapped in the warm velvet of MJ’s hyper-observant encouragement.

Just talk to her. Like it was so easy.

If he played his cards right, he’d let the tape do the talking. Peter loved it when a plan came together. Take down the bad guys, take down his homework, take down this special project, get the girl.

—

“Decisions, decisions, all of them wrong,” you hummed to yourself, perusing the sweet offerings through the bakery’s glass dessert case.

You stood under the ambient lighting in your favorite bakery. Post-practice you didn’t smell the best, but you’d put in work. You deserved a treat. RIP to the people behind you in line.

“I hear the chocolate chip cookies here are the best.”

You whipped around, only to be met with the cocoa-honey eyes of none other than Peter Parker. A true confectionary masterpiece. Suddenly, the items behind the case seemed less sweet by comparison. And–wait, was Peter Parker actually talking to you about something that wasn’t last night’s reading?

“Um, thanks for the tip!” You cursed yourself for your filler-word of choice. Um, um, um. You cursed yourself again for wearing your sweaty practice gear and grass-stained socks. Of all the times to run into him. “Yeah– I’m more of a lemon bar kinda girl.”

Shit. Why did you say that?

Peter just looked at you.

“Oh.”

Did he look— crestfallen? Did you offend Peter Parker? Shit, shit.

“What I mean is, I’ll go with your recommendation, but the cookies here are huge. Split it with me?” You offered.

Peter’s head whipped back up, his eyes cola swirls of excitement. His mouth split into a toothy grin.

Dear God. What you wouldn’t given to be the cause of that smile forever.

Was Peter always literal sunshine?

You paid for the cookie, breaking off a half and offering him the half in the bag. As you sank your teeth into a mouth full of cookie, the melted chocolate flooding your tongue, you asked, albeit not too politely, given that your mouth was full–

“So, what are you doing over on this side of town? Don��t you usually go the other way?”

Peter blinked.

Nice one. Now he’s gonna think you’re a creep that, like, watches him leave? God fucking–

“Oh, just running an errand for Mr. Stark. I saw you through the window and thought I’d come say hey!” Peter chirped.

Ah. The Stark Internship. Of course. Peter probably thought you were the biggest idiot for forgetting. Everyone knew he had the Internship after school. Mercifully, Peter either didn’t notice your slight, or he didn’t care.

“What are you listening to?” Peter gestured at the earbuds poking out of the collar of your practice jersey.

“Bohemian Rhapsody,” you shrugged. “Wanna listen?”

Peter nodded, vehemently. You slipped the buds from the bottom of your shirt, handing one to Peter, the opening piano keys trilling into your ears. Your eyes met Peter’s, and you felt your mouth form a little tip-lipped grin.

The two of you stayed that way for the duration of the song, munching on your respective cookie halves. You wondered if there had ever been a more perfect moment in all of history? Sure, this was a little rom-com for anyone’s taste, but, hey.

You would crawl over glass if it meant you got to listen to Queen while basking in the literal warmth of Peter Parker for eternity.

The song ended, breaking your Freddie Mercury and chocolate-induced haze. Shit. The Stark errand.

You decided to cut the string and let Peter escape this little interaction. You tugged the earbuds, effectively popping the one out of Peter’s ear.

“I’m so sorry, Peter. I’ll let you get back to it! Don’t want to keep Iron Man waiting,” you said. “Thanks for the tip, by the way. This cookie is, like, magic.”

Peter nodded, shuffling his feet a bit. He gave you a wave and bit out a truncated goodbye, shoving his mouth full of the remainder of the cookie as he exited the shop.

What in the literal fuck. No, not literal. Don’t go there. Did you just share baked goods and an actual conversation with Peter? Did you share headphones with Peter? What is happening today?

If your heart beat any faster, it’d be doing the Roger Taylor drum solo to “Keep Yourself Alive.” If your blood could sing, it would be thrumming a trilled little thrill of your sweet, sugary little interlude.

—

Peter blew back into his apartment like a hurricane, buzzing with whatever that was.

What had compelled him to speak up? He saw you standing there, looking a literal glowing angel in school colors and pulled-back hair, complete with beautiful post-exercise flush. And he just— he had to say something, MJ’s words ringing in his head. “She’d talk to you.”

Peter pulled the refurbished Walkman out of his bag, along with a packet of cassette tapes colored neon pink.

If he was giving you a little retro tech present, he was going full-stop, the neon piece of plastic screaming 1980s, screaming you.

Fitting the blank cassette into the stereo, he hit “Record.”

The following day, Peter hustled into school at a time that was, in his humble opinion, way, way too early, meeting Ned in the hallway.

“Okay, guy in the chair. Did you figure out which locker is hers?” Peter asked.”

“You know I did.” Ned pressed a slip of paper into Peter’s palm.

Glancing quickly at the little shred, Peter stuffed it into his back pocket and jogged down the hallway, jimmying the lock on the locker in question until it gave way under his super-strength. As if it would catch fire at any second, Peter tossed the Walkman and tape into the locker, slamming the door shut and taking off down the hallway as quickly as he could, Ned at his heels.

“Smooth, Spider-boy. Smooth,” Ned laughed.

—

Peter was going to die.

Days went by. Literal days. Those pressed on into a week, and then two. Peter had heard nothing since dropping the tape in your locker. God, this was a mistake. He’s made a huge mistake. A huge, tiny mistake.

His self-doubt crept in like so many webs, suffocating his better sensibilities. Not that he’d tangled himself in his own webs before. Come on!

—Okay, it was ONE TIME. And he’d had time to think about his carelessness while waiting for the webs to dissolve.

But this was different. He was drowning in his uncertainty. Maybe he’d misread that day at the bakery. Maybe you were just being nice. Peter knew he wasn’t entitled to your attention after once interaction. He wasn’t that much of a hyper-masculine dick.

Oh, shit.

—

“Yo!”

You turned, eyes landing on your teammate, Jessica Porter.

“Jess. What’s up?”

“Hey, I found this in my locker a while ago. I meant to give it to you sooner, but, well–” Jess reached into her bag, pulling out a rectangular hunk of plastic affixed to 1980s-esque headphones. “Your name’s on the sticky note, and on the tape inside. I don’t know how it got to me, but it’s clearly meant for you.”

You took the Walkman from her hands, turning it over. No “From” on the sticky note to indicate who had gifted you this little vintage gem. Affixed to the back with some Scotch tape was the plastic holder for the cassette, the jacket within scrawled with writing that you just couldn’t place.

“Uh, thanks, Jess. See you at practice?” You walked away, your brow furrowed, your mind moving at a mile a minute.

After school, you slumped onto your bed. You popped the tape off the back of the Walkman, freeing the case.

As you slipped the jacket out of the case, you hit “Play” on the Walkman, the keyed-up opening to Jukebox the Ghost’s “Everybody’s Lonely” meeting your ears.

You perused the scrawled writing on the jacket– it was a track list. Next to each track was a little handwritten note jammed into each line.

1. “Everybody’s Lonely”– Jukebox the Ghost. Because every song is about love. And because you like Queen.

2. “Radio Gaga”– Queen. Ditto.

Your heart stopped. No, seriously, should you call 911? This couldn’t be – could it? Did Peter Parker make you an actual mixtape?? Had you hit your head today at practice, or something? The stars in your eyes and little bursts like so many Pop Rocks in your belly were so like happy little interpretations of your veritable disbelief.

You had shared a Queen song and a sweet moment with Peter two weeks ago. Since then? Radio silence. But now? Radio Ga Ga. This had to be from him, right? Your eyes continued down the list.

6. “Hong Kong Garden”– Siouxsie and the Banshees. I’d reap the field of rice and reeds if it meant an afternoon with you.

7. “Humbug Mountain Song” – Fruit Bats. My heart thrums like a shitty hipster banjo solo.

8. “Left Hand Free” – Alt J. You looked so cute in your tour shirt Sophomore year.

9. “Cover Your Tracks” – A Boy and His Kite. Heart, cover your tracks, the blood that you spill will wash what you lack.

The last song on the list, replete with a mix of everything from Bowie to Fleet Foxes, was—

14. “Given the Chance”– The Kite String Tangle. The note?

“Given the chance, I’d go for it. One step at a time. Will you give me a chance?”

It was then you knew. Peter Parker was pure happiness. A zipping burst of citrus on your tongue with a zing that shot straight to your heart. A powdered sugar kiss-and-touch. Syrupy warmth enveloping your spirits. This gesture was beyond— well, anything. Your heart felt like so many folded paper birds, fluttering and faint, but solidified with purpose.

You had words for Peter Parker.

—

The next day you strode into school with purpose, only to be met with coffee curls awaiting you. Pacing at your locker was none other than Peter Parker. And he looked — panicked??

Before you could even say a word, Peter opened his mouth, a jumble of words flying out faster than his lips could form the words.

“I am so, so sorry. I messed up…”

I messed up.

Your heart plummeted. Was the tape for someone else? Before you could press, Peter continued, “I– I made you a mixtape. Y-you know, like, an actual mixtape. On a cassette and everything. The only problem is–” He hung his head. “I put it in your locker. Well, not your locker, obviously– I thought it was your locker. 1127? I put it in 1172.” He let out a huff of air at his rushed confession, refusing to meet your eyes, cheeks burning. “I’m sorry.”

You blinked.

“You’re sorry?!”

Peter looked up at you, quickly, flinching, expecting a tongue-lashing after your outburst. To his surprise, you just laughed. He blinked. Had he misread this so badly?

“Jessica Porter has locker 1172,” you explained. Peter continued staring at you, blankly. What did Jessica Porter have to do with anything?

“Jessica Porter and I have chem together. We’re on the soccer team. She’s super cool,” You explained. Peter remained unmoving, desperate to hear the point and why his apparent faux-paus was so funny to you.

“Don’t leave me in suspense, here. Because, I’m like.. really, REALLY sorry,” Peter pressed.

“The point is,” you slung your bag forward and over your shoulder, ripping the zipper open and withdrawing the Walkman. Neon pink cassette tape visible like a flash through the little plastic window. “I got your mix. Jess gave it to me. She thought it was cute, by the way. Sure you didn’t really mean to give it to her?” you teased.

“O-oh. Cool, uh, but did you think it was cute?”

“Peter,” you sighed. “For someone so smart, you’re an idiot–”

“MJ said the same thing…”

“– It wasn’t cute, Peter.”

His eyes got even wider if possible, the sting of rejection starting to set in– could he possibly have misread the situation so badly? What about your little date? Was it a date? Listening to Queen and eating cookies that day at the bakery? How had MJ steered him so wrong?

He had done so well on the reading comprehension portion of his PSAT. But reading paragraphs about the migratory pattern of geese was very, very different from reading between the lines when it came to girls his own age. Any girls, really– he had to stop himself. Maybe they were right, maybe he was an idiot–

“Peter, this is MORE than cute. This is the sweetest, nicest thing anyone has ever done for me. I love it. Your taste in music, you… you get me,” you explained, pressing your hand into Peter’s, pressing the point. He could feel the touch, tingly sensations running through his palm, up his arm, and he swore, straight into his heart.

Peter changed a glance at you through his lashes, lips splitting into a toothy, Peter Parker grin.

You hoped he’d only smile at you like that forever. He truly was like the sun, bright and warming the coldest parts of you with the greatest of ease. Filling any hollowness with golden light. His bright eyes sparkled, permanently etched within the golden hour and you swore you forgot how to breathe.

“Really?”

“I’d give you a chance, Pete. As many as you wanted.”

Before he could respond, you leaned forward, quickly pressing your lips to Peter’s. It lasted a brief second – a dusting of sugar atop something crisp, sweet and citrusy– before pulling back. Sweet, but all too short, panic splicing through your moment of confectionery bliss that was kissing Peter Parker.

“Sorry, sorry, Peter. I’m sorry. Was that too forward?? I–”

You were cut off by Peter, lips firmly meeting yours. Peter’s hands cupped your cheeks, thumbs tracing over the peaks of your cheekbones. Any trace of awkwardness gone, Peter slid his hands from your cheeks — back, back, back— to run his fingers through the hair at the nape of your neck, resting there. The tilt of his lips followed yours, sweet cinnamon heat – persistently welcome and welcomingly persistent. The golden hour indeed.

Breathless– you were breathless. Could Peter Parker kiss like this always? You wished he would. Look at you, smile at you, kiss you – always. But, um, not with anyone else. Decidedly not. Just you, you hoped. The ebbs and flows of your personhood, the sweet contrast of your personalities, like a discord of so many notes coming together into one cohesive piece. This….

This? This was what rhapsody was. You were just sure of it.

—

So that’s it. I do have a complete playlist made for this story, if anyone is interested, I can send you the link.

Tagging: @starksparker @nappingtopknot @ayeayecaptaingally @andallthatmishigas @ymeradonnadx @hey-its-grey

Special s/o to @tigerlilynoh!

284 notes · View notes

kashimos-hajime · 5 years

Text

the society | s.r.

summary: “He was there and then he wasn’t. Like I blinked and he was gone.”

WARNINGS: guns, death, violence, swearing, angst, injury, blood, implications of torture, revenge pairing: hitman!Steve Rogers x hitwoman!Reader word count: 11.2k

a/n: written for @starksparker and her summer writing challenge! sorry for taking so long, it’s been a rough couple of weeks, and i’m barely getting by at the moment, and even though i’m not 100% happy with this, if i don’t post it, it’ll never get done. this is, as usual with everything lately, really long for no reason other than i can’t shut up, and it’s meant to be full of blanks and a cliffhanger. it’s up to the reader to decide what happens.

my prompt was it’s just you and me. based on the poem by nikita gill, i. tiny stories and inspired by john wick. gif not mine

the saddest word in the world is almost

i. he was almost in love

“How do we always get stuck in these situations?”

“I wonder.”

The sarcasm is not lost on the man sitting against the hotel adjacent wall. You roll your eyes, hissing as you press your palm against the bruise blooming across your abdomen.

“I thought Pierce gave me Stane,” Steve says as conversationally as one can with a smashed face and potentially broken ribs. You shove yourself up against the hotel wall. The corner of your mouth splits when you smile wryly and a dribble of blood tracks down your cheek while Steve’s nursing a nasty black eye with an instant ice pack.

“He offered three times the amount.” Your eyes flutter shut and you want to down another glass of whisky, but Steve’s left the bottle on the nightstand and you don’t have the strength to get up and grab it. “I hate him.”

“That makes two of us,” Steve mutters, blond head knocking back into the wall and you laugh, letting it fizzle into a soft moan when your ribs pulse with your heart. Everything just aches. “But for what it’s worth, he got away.”

“Steve, that’s not a good thing. If you didn’t charge in like an idiot, this wouldn’t have happened.”

“If you weren’t there so concerned and everything, I would’ve been okay.”

“My bad.”

“Pierce isn’t gonna like this,” he sighs and your head rolls towards the sound of his voice, eyes peeling open. “He doesn’t like personal mixing with professional.”

“You were going to die, Steve. It was stupid and you know it. Besides, I'd rather have to fight you than watch you kill yourself.”

“Even if I nearly kill you?”

“You wouldn’t.” You shrug indelicately and feel like the whole weight of the world slams into your shoulders when they drop again. Slouching deeper against the wall, you try to unfold a leg. Your pants drag over the wood grain and you let out a sigh. “Look, it isn’t personal if the Society’s top hitman dies.”

He doesn’t have an argument for that, and yet still he wants to argue that this could be the final straw to break the camel’s back. “Are you sure about that?”

You stare at him for a moment, and then an incredulous smile crosses your face. You scoff, shake your head, try to shake off the crawling sensation in your stomach without letting it show in your shoulders. “Yeah. Why would it be personal?”

“Because I fuck you on the daily, doll.”

“Pierce never said not to mix pleasure with the professional,” you retort softly, but you can’t help the uncertainty in your voice. You don’t exactly like it when it comes to moments like these — the warm light in Steve’s eyes, the fire set in your blood without him even touching you. It causes an uncomfortable feeling to curl inside you, and your heart rate picking up higher than it’d be if you were in a firefight leaves room for concern.

Steve’s smile is brighter than the goddamn sun, but small enough that you can almost hold it in your hands, and your eyebrows knit together as you try to suppress the tiny smile fighting its way onto your face. “Yeah, well, the promise of pleasure is the way into your bed and heart.”

“Yeah, good to know.” You lapse into silence, the only sound the occasional crunch of Steve’s ice pack as he shifts it on his skull, your heart in your head, the sound of your breath rattling in your battered lungs.

“We needa get to bed.”

“I think you broke my ribs.” Eyes opening, you meet Steve’s bruised face and smile despite the blood and the sharp sting of your cut splitting open along your lip. “Did you have to kick me that hard?”

“It was my contract, first.” Steve gets up, and it’s almost like you can hear all the bones in his body clicking, every muscle screaming in protest. The faint golden light of your hotel room plays with his hair, dances on his skin, and when he pauses, stretching his bruised shoulder behind his head, you smile. Every little ridge, vein, crevice of his skin casts soft shadows over his skin and it makes him look dangerous.

You smile.

“Help me up, Steve,” you drawl, raising a lazy hand, knuckles just beginning to clot. You wonder what’ll heal first, the pretty bruise to his ribs, or the split skin along your hand. He lets his arm swing at his side, turning around to look at you, and you paste on the prettiest smile you can muster with a busted lip and a bleeding temple.

“What’s the magic word?”

“I’ll kick you in the balls.”

“That was actually six magic words, but they are accepted nonetheless.” The warmth of his palm sends a wave of heat down your arm and he pulls you up with a gentle tug. Despite your shoulder clicking, you let yourself collide with his chest, and his grin encompasses all you can see as he presses a gentle kiss against your mouth. You can taste the whisky on his tongue as his arm wraps around your waist, and your eyes slip closed as a wave of exhaustion crashes over your body, sapping what’s left of your energy from your limbs. Your knees feel like they’ll give in any time now, and you loop your arms around Steve’s neck to keep yourself standing. “Let’s get you to bed, doll.”

“Everything hurts.” He picks you up easily, setting you on the bed with another peck to the lips, and you drag him in after you, groaning when the bed bounces, jostling your bruised organs. “We need to move to different continents.”

“What? That’s not fun.” Steve pouts against your cheek and you sigh, threading your fingers through his hair as he presses his instant ice pack against your clothed side. Shivering, you reach down and take hold of it while Steve gets up to undress. You watch him pull off his shirt and roll over, smushing your face against the pillow. You can hear the sound of Steve’s pants dropping, the clink of his belt and the sound of him shuffling around the room as your eyes slip shut. A gooey heat oozes through your body and your mind drifts. “I’m taking the contract from you tomorrow morning.”

Instantly, you’re grabbed by the hair by what you’re hearing and dragged out of your sleep, hands pushing you up to glare daggers into Steve, who stuffs his bloody dress shirt into the laundry bag.

“What? He’s paying me more!” Your vision dots and you lower yourself back down, your shoulders screaming at you to let yourself pass out. Steve walks back towards the bed and chuckles, pulling the covers away and sliding into the bed beside you as you roll onto your side. You toss the ice pack blindly in the direction of the nightstand as he presses a sneaky kiss against your jaw and you hear it plop onto the ground. A scowl hard on your face, you know he’s grinning at how you struggle to keep your eyes open.

Oh, how you hate him.

“Go to sleep, doll.” His voice whispers against your cheek, and you push him away half-heartedly. The mattress dips underneath his weight as he rebounds back, and his hand runs along your bicep, fingers dancing across your bruised skin. “Never could beat me in hand-to-hand.”

Your scowl softens when he kisses the corner of your mouth. “I hate you.”

“Yeah, you say that,” he whispers back affectionately, before reaching to turn off the lights. “Get some sleep.” His hand runs up your arm and shoulder, and you smile when his thumb runs over your lips. The smell of whisky and sweat swarms your senses as you toss an arm blindly for him, landing over his waist. Tugging him close with all you can, you scoot into his chest. “Ow. Ow.”

“You deserve that,” you murmur and his laugh rumbles deep in his chest beside the drum of his heart. An inexplicable smile pulls at your mouth and you just want to sleep in his arms tonight. “That contract is mine.”

“Nope.”

“Yes, it is.”

“Go to sleep.” He presses a kiss to your hairline and you fit yourself against him, a comma to his body that lays snug beneath his chin. “And if you wake up before me, and manage to get yourself a head start, well, that’s a miracle.” His lips move in the words of things you can’t bear to hear and you find yourself kissing his jaw just once. “You’d tell me if you were in trouble, right?” he asks softly and you look at him, eyebrow quirked and eyelids heavier than elephants. You want to sleep so badly.

“Of course.” You want to say duh but you’re too tired to be too snarky, so you settle on, “If I needed your help, which is never.”

“Yeah, right.”

“And you can tell me if you’re in trouble, too,” you promise, kissing his chin. He smiles, fingers carding through your hair and you melt in his arms. “Promise me you’ll call me if you’re going to die.”

“I promise,” he says and it sounds an awful lot like another phrase that makes things too real.

“Goodnight,” you say, voice muffled, tired, full of things you don’t want to say.

“Goodnight,” he replies, because it’s easier to pretend than face the truth of the words that bubbles at his lips.

ii. she was almost good for him

“Hey, hold still.”

“It hurts.”

You pull back, holding the cloth in one hand and the alcohol another with an arched eyebrow and slight quirk of your lip. “You just broke into Stane’s flat, took out thirteen or so henchmen, and you’re complaining about a little cut?” Stepping close again, you kiss his head before running the rag through the blood dripping from the skin on his shoulder that had broken open.

“That doesn’t stop me from feeling things, doll. And I’m feelin’ so many things.” He nudges you with his head, and you set down the bottle of alcohol, wiping away the rest of the blood. Opening a non-adhesive bandage, you run your hands over his shoulder to smooth it out over the cut. “Thank you.” You press your palm into the side of his head and he leans against your stomach as you try to hide your smile. Your fingers play with strands of hair that brush against your fingertips like soft fur, and you wonder when he’s going to grab the strength to get out of here.

“I’m sorry I shot you,” you say, and his arm comes around you, hand against the small of your back. With a gentle nudge, you’re pushed into his space and he looks up with you with blue mist for eyes. You nearly laugh at how out of it he is, but you assume taking a few punches after the thorough beat down you had served him would make him a bit drowsy.

“Not your fault.”

“Well—” You shrug and Steve sends you an insulted pout. Your mischievous smile grows as you cup his face, fingers playing with the hair that falls into his eyes like golden sunbeams. In the gross light of the dock warehouse, he looks half a god— “kinda was.” “You shot me on purpose?” He sounds scandalized, almost shocked, and you almost laugh. You swing a leg across his lap and set your hands on his bruised shoulders. Your ribs still ache but it’s nothing compared to the squirming in your stomach.

“You were in the way of my shot, Rogers,” you quip, sinking onto his thighs. You settle yourself comfortably onto him and make sure he’s focused solely on you and your mouth. His eyes hazy, Steve barely mumbles a coherent word as you lean forward and press a soft kiss against his lips. His eyes close and your hand trails down his back, fiddling with the handcuffs he has hooked on his waistband.

“Didn’t have to be if you stayed home, doll,” he breathes and you press every inch of yourself against his battered body, breaking away from his seeking lips for just a moment. The heat of his body seeps into your sore muscles and half of your muddled brain wants to stay here for a moment or two, just to scratch an itch that bangs against your stomach. “And here I thought I’d get a reward for bagging Stane.”

But money is money, and like hell you’re going to let him steal your contract from you.

“Stane was my contract, baby.” With a short, succinct click, you cuff Steve to the legs of the chair and stand. Steve’s eyes open, startling clear lakes set in a porcelain face, and you grab his chin, smirking. “I don’t think I need to remind you who took the final shot.” He jerks out of your grasp, and you can’t help the satisfaction that sits underneath your lungs, tucked neatly between your bruised ribs. It pulls your lips into an insatiable smile as Steve lunges forward and to his complete surprise, is pulled back.

“You… You…”

“Me, me.” Your smile digs so painfully into your cheeks that you can’t help the laughter invading your voice. “You’ll get out eventually. I know you.”

“You have five minutes.”

“Oh, you’re so kind.” you can hear the gentle drip, drip, drip and a rat scurrying from one shadow to another. You turn around to table where the first-aid kit is cracked open, and zip up your black bag of rifle parts, knowing every piece is accounted for. “See you back at the hotel?”

“Go to hell, doll.”

“See you back at the hotel.” You shove your hands into gloves, pulling the velcro tight around your wrist and wiggling your fingers experimentally. You hoist the black bag onto your shoulder with a drawn out sigh. A warm rush of blood shoots down your fingers when the strap sits down on your shoulder, but you’re so used to the healing that you barely let it stop you. Walking back to Steve, you kiss his bowed head. “G’night, baby.”

“Night,” he mutters. You roll your eyes to yourself, your smile nothing more than the corner of your mouth tugging up as you walk to the exit. You know you’re in for some hot sex the minute he gets back to the room. Your hand digs into your pocket, retrieving a black phone that you turn on with a press of a button. When the screen lights up, you unlock it and send a drafted text to the unknown number you have memorized by heart by now. Behind you, you can hear Steve beginning to struggle against his confines. You don’t even give him a look back. You know exactly what his strategy is.

Brute force. As usual.

You yourself would’ve just dislocated your thumb and slipped out, but you’ve always had more finesse.

The gentle whoosh alerts you to the text being delivered and you glance down at the screen as Delivered shows up underneath your simple text. The gentle sea breeze swirls against your face and you look up, the full, pale moon staring back at you as you break into the night sky. The stars aren’t out tonight, nothing but a dark void staring back at you and you glance around the harbour. No activity, and all the lights are out besides the warehouse you’ve just left.

Perfect.

You toss the phone in your hand up into the night sky and watch as it falls into your hand again. Running your thumb over the button, your smile slowly fades and you look up to the moon. It makes you squint, or maybe it’s the smell of dead fish and bird shit, but it helps you think, and it keeps your head on straight, focusing on things so stable in a world of chaos.

“Getting bored?”

You tear your gaze away from the glowing thing hanging in the shadow above you and fling your phone into the sea, hearing the gentle plop as the waves usher your burner phone into its depths. Turning towards the voice, your legs move on autopilot towards Sam Wilson who smirks at your still-healing split lip and the cut taped together by butterfly strips along your temple.

“Hey, Wilson.”

“Hey. Rumlow wants to meet down by the dock.” You narrow your eyes at the man, who barely looks scathed, and you envy how he can probably move without feeling something protest, even just lightly. “Follow me.”

And so you do. You go to a little fishing shack at the end of the dock where the rank smell of fish intensifies and the puddles in the potholes of the dock reflect clearer than a mirror. Sam nods to the shack, inviting you in and you brush past him, pulling open the door with the most disgusting metal screech that reverberates in your bones.

You take one step in and immediately a gun cocks and presses against the back of your head.

“Sorry, girl, but you gotta drop the bag, too,” Sam says, and you let it slide off your shoulder with a thump, hands rising above your head. You swallow, eyes darting across the room that’s darker than black, and you wonder how many guns point at you from the too-many shadows in this little shack. It reeks of dead fish and melted ice and blood, and you can feel something sink beneath your foot as Sam nudges you forward. “She’s here.”

The lights turn on all at once, and you see Rumlow sitting behind a table, knives wedged in a block by his feet that are kicked up along the blood-stained wood, and you wrinkle your nose at the mold you can see he’s mussed up along the ridges of his combat boots. Hell, he looks good. Better than good, and you know that once upon a time, you’d have done anything for a mysterious suave motherfucker like him.

“Hey.”

“Hey. What’s up?” You can see the silenced pistol he has in his lazy grip, finger tracing the arc of the trigger. It’s aimed right between your eyes and you exhale softly. So it’s going to be that kind of exchange. Metal shifts, clacks against flesh, and you turn to see two others holding ARs aimed at you. One crouched at the door frame leading to another room, the other standing behind him. Turning around, you can spot another right behind Sam who still holds a Beretta to your head, but his face is stone, flat and unreadable. You swallow and turn back around.

“Pierce wanted an update on Stane.”

“If you read my texts, you’d know he’s dead.” You keep your hands high enough that he can still see them but lower them to ease the ache in your muscles. Brock doesn’t seem to mind, but you know it’s because he thinks he knows you and you still know him.

“You know I don’t read your texts.”

“I said I was sorry.”

“You started fucking Rogers behind my back.”

“You gave me chlamydia,”

“Oh, shit, really?” Sam whistles and if looks could kill, you’d all be melted puddles in the ground for Brock to splash in. “That’s rough.” You roll your eyes and cross your arms over your chest. Brock raises his head and underneath the gross, pale yellow light, you can see something glint in his eyes. Interest, arrogance, maybe both, but it makes his face light up in a way you’re not comfortable with anymore.

“What do you want, Rumlow?” you ask, words hissing between your teeth and he smiles like a cat who’s just caught the juiciest mouse.

“In a moment,” he begins and he swings his legs off the table, “a contract is going up, and I want you to take it.”

“What?” You frown. Friendliness between hitmen is rarely heard of, and coming from the handsome son of a bitch before you — maybe the world really is ending. You narrow your eyes as he stands, and he walks around the table until the barrel of his gun presses into your stomach. You can smell the gun oil on his fingers, the sweat tracking down his neck, the splat of blood he’s just missed along the cord of his throat. He just completed a contract, and here he is. Pierce’s fucking lapdog. The rasp of his voice strung like a violin between your ears, you try to gauge why he looks so fucking smug. “What happened?”

He smells like smoke and ash, too, like death has come, and when he smiles, you see the dozens he’s killed for the sake of money, the gold around his neck and the billion-dollar condo he lives in.

It’s a nice fucking condo and you’re jealous, but that doesn’t contribute to your suspicion.

“Nick Fury’s dead, and Pierce is more than confident Rogers’ the one who took the shot.” You scoff at his words but Brock’s smile flickers and so does your confidence. “Evidence points to him, dead and center.”

“Ballistics.” Because it can’t be true.

“Soviet slugs, no rifling, no trace.”

“Location.” Because Steve doesn’t use guns.

“His flat.”

“Autopsy?” Because no fucking way Steve killed Nick fucking Fury.

“Lacerated spinal column, cracked sternum, shattered collarbone, perforated liver. Ran off the road and killed once he got to a supposed safe house.” Brock grins. “Not like you to ask questions.”

“Like me to want to know all the facts.” You shove your face into his, noses bumping and he chuckles when three assault rifles line their sights with your head. You press your lips together and search his soulless eyes. You can see yourself staring back, and you pull back like you were burned. The honesty in his eyes is tired, weary, and beneath all his charm, you know Brock’s shocked, too.

“Your boyfriend killed the head of our little society, cherry. Get with the program.”

But then you remember he’s an asshole.

You take a step back, teeth bared as the beginnings of your protest, he’s not my fucking boyfriend, begin to ram against your tongue. Before you can say anything, though, Brock’s knifepoint grin softens and he pulls the muzzle from your stomach. It’s like an invisible weight immediately lifts from your belly and you suck in a breath as he backs off towards the table. Holstering the gun, he hangs his head like he does when he thinks and you count the seconds. His boots scuff against the concrete floor, and you look down to see you did step in something like fish guts.

Great.

“Alright, hold out your hand.”

So, you do, but not without analyzing every fucking muscle fibre of Brock’s body and as he slaps something into your palm, you nearly break his wrist. Your fingers wrap around whatever is and the ARs lower, which lets a little tension leave the tight little room. The thing you have in your hand — a sleek, plastic case that cracks open easily on its hinges — nearly makes you laugh as you run your fingers through the bills within.

“You keep your money in a case? You know a wallet exists, right?” you say to fill the silence as you reach the thousands, and your smile dies at how much Brock’s managed to cram into this stupid little thing. “What’s this for?”

He looks at you as if you don’t know, and you merely stare, silently asking him to just fucking say it. “It can either be a promise for more or a severance.” He leans against the table, crosses his legs at the ankles, and you let the case click shut as your hands fall to the side. Your lungs crushed, your heart crumbles to dust in your hands as you suck in a tight, quiet breath. “You know Pierce doesn’t like loose ends.” Your lips just barely parted, the softest of sighs slips from your mouth and you try to imagine putting a bullet through Steve’s skull.

It nearly frightens you at how easily it comes to you. After all, a job is a job, and money is money, and when your phone dings with the contract reward, you know you won’t be able to resist.

iii. he almost stopped her

You head to the dining room floor of the Tower, nodding to the other hitmen and women you know, your heels clicking along a polished tile floor. You can breathe in the sterile air that’s stained with perfume and cologne and blood all you want, but the fact that you’re not hungry for the first time in forever lets you know that you’re less than okay.

You’d read the email last night. Twelve billion dollars.

The net worth of fucking Tony Stark is Steve Rogers’ bounty.

Shit.

You’re half surprised, but not really. Nothing surprises you in this line of work. Not anymore.

So, when you don’t see him at breakfast, you’re not shocked either. You linger around the entrance, tapping away on your phone to pretend you’re busy, and Sam walks past you as nonchalantly as he can. Looking up, you catch his minute nod and pocket your phone with a bracing breath. You roll back your shoulders and walk in after Sam, not paying attention to the eyes that follow you.

They all got the contract, but you wonder if they were all offered the same price.

Sam walks to one of the tables by the floor to ceiling windows, and the seat you slide into is sun warm as a waiter comes by with two carafes.

“Tea or coffee?”

“Coffee.”

Two steaming mugs are filled before you, and you reach for yours when it’s done. You’ve always taken it black and you remember how Steve used to be completely offended. It nearly makes you smile behind your mug before you remember he checked out midnight without coming up to your room to grab his things.

His favourite suit hangs in your hotel room’s closet. You had made sure the pocket square — his favourite navy blue silk with white stars — had been tucked into the breast pocket should he come back while you were asleep. Disappointment bites at your empty stomach as you look at Sam, eyebrows raising.

“You’ve already got a head start. You know all the places he likes to hide in,” Sam says as he pours creamer and you watch as it stains black to brown, a swirl of white that sinks in a plume. It smells heavenly — it smells like Steve, just a bit. Sweet and bitter, and you press your thighs together as you set your mug down with a rich thud. Your elbows dig into the counter, hands clasped beneath your chin like you’re at church and you’re praying, and Sam smiles slightly.

“Yeah, and? Want me to share what I have with you in a room full of others trying to kill him? It’s twelve fucking billion, Wilson.”

“Not even if I use my smolder and charm you?”

“Not even.”

“Fine.” “Really?” You’re not impressed. “You’re not pissed or anything that I’m not opening up?” You set down your hands and play with the salt shaker, turning it between fingernails painted black. You want to know what Sam really wants. “You’re Steve’s best friend, and you have no problem with putting a bullet through his head, huh?”

“You’re the one he’s fucking.”

“Was fucking.”

“Whatever.”

You set down the salt shaker, tapping it against the wood and Sam eyes it like you could kill him with it. You could, but you won’t. Instead, you ask, “What do you want, Wilson?”

“Told you.”

“I don’t believe you.” You pick off a stray thread on your sleeve and cup your mug, letting the heat sear into your palm. “Because you and your honor. You and Steve are cut from the same cloth and I don’t think you would even let yourself think about putting a gun to his head. So, what do you want?”

“Fine! I had a hint of his whereabouts, but you’re not letting me be secret about it, are you?” Sam growls, and his tone causes the clatter in the dining room that was already soft the moment you entered the room to cease all together. You swallow, lips pressed together as your eyebrows furrow together. “Now, do you want it?”

“Oh, now that you’ve assured my spot on everyone’s hit list, too?” You rake your burning gaze over the eavesdroppers and your lips pull back in a snarl. “Buzz off.”

And so the clatter, the clink of cutlery, the soft conversations, continue.

“So, what’s the hint?”

“Now, I don’t think you deserve it.”

You snort, your eyes still surveying the room. Maximoff is sipping her tea, sunglasses perched on her nose as she pretends to read the newspaper before her in the morning sunlight. “Fine.” Your list of places in your mind, you drain the rest of your coffee and push yourself up, throwing Sam the foulest glare you can muster. “Goodbye, Wilson.”

“See you around,” he mutters and you spare him one last glance before you walk past him. Something is shoved into your palm as you pass him and your fingers wrap around whatever it is, paper crinkling in your fist. You pretend not to notice and continue on your way, past Maximoff and her newspaper, and out the double doors.

Unfolding the paper in your hands, you see it’s some hotel stationary he’s ripped off. Four circles within each other, and a star within the middle.

Steve’s callsign. The Shield.

Turning over the paper, your eyes rake over the numbers, degree signs merely dots of black ink. Digging out your phone, you plug the coordinates into the map and watch the swirling icon load.

The moment it loads, you head to the front desk. The receptionist gives you a smile, and you clear your throat, tucking a hair behind your ear as you ask for a car.

“Of course, ma’am. A valet will pull up shortly.”

It’s five minutes before you get into a sleek, bullet-proof car and another twenty-five before you reach the coordinates.

The building before you is simple, red brick with white windows and a white door, and you almost smile at how old school it is. Clearing your throat, you give a nod to Mr. Hogan who speeds off as you unbutton your coat. With a hand on the pistol holstered at your thigh, you walk up the steps to the door. Now that you’re closer, you can see where the paint chipped and there's scuff marks, long black streaks stark against the white. Your jaw clenches and you raise your hand, knuckles rapping against wood thrice.

“In a minute!” You hear someone call and your hand slips off your pistol as the knob turns. Letting your long coat fall over your pistol, you paste on a smile just as an exhausted man appears behind the flaking-paint door. Plum eyebags hang underneath crystal blue irises and you barely manage to catch the twitch of his lip before you’re being pulled in and slammed against the wall. The door shutting with the force of an earthquake, you can hear it rattle on its hinges as a cold fist wraps around your bicep. Whipping out your pistol before his other hand can pin you back, you press the muzzle into the man’s abdomen and narrow your eyes. Dark hair falls over his face and you can taste the coffee on his breath as his arm clicks into place.

“Barnes.”

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“Wilson gave me coordinates and I followed them.” His iron fist lets go and you hear the mechanics within whir as he runs his flesh hand through his hair. He’s cut it short, and it makes him look much younger than all the years he’s spent working for Pierce.

“Sorry.”

“No problem.” He backs off, and you holster your pistol with a small grin. Covering it up with your coat again, you run a hand over the small ache he’s gripped into your bicep. “How’ve you been, Buck?”

“Let’s go to the kitchen.” He gestures for you to follow, and you let your arms fall to your side, slipping off your heels with a relieved sigh. “And I’ve been good. Thanks.”

“How’s…” You trail off and he doesn’t look at you, already knowing what you mean. You’re lucky to know about whatever Pierce did to Steve Roger’s best friend, but you also know that means you should keep a hand on your gun at all times around him — Bucky’s words.

“Better. No episodes since.”

“I’m glad you made it out, Bucky.” You smile when he turns to glance at you over your shoulder. Sitting at his kitchen island, you lean onto the marble countertop as he pulls out two glasses.

“Anything to drink?”

“Juice is fine.” “Cool.”

He slides a topped up glass of orange juice over to you and fills the other glass for himself. “So, why’d Wilson send you this way?”

“There’s been a contract.”

“Oh?” “On Steve.”

You wince when the glass shatters underneath his metal fingers and the orange juice splashes with sharp splats. Glass pieces scatter over the marble countertop and you raise your glass to your lips delicately. Bucky immediately mutters his apologies and you shrug. You’ve always known Bucky to be careful, too careful around those he cares about.

Except when it comes to Steve Rogers.

“You know something, Buck?” you ask softly as he turns to grab a rag near the sink and twists the handles. The hiss of water landing into the metal sink fills the eery silence as you sip your juice and watch the spilled orange juice drip over the counter. You know Bucky doesn’t want your help. He’ll snap at you for so much as moving to try and clean up his mess.

The muscles underneath his white tank top flex as he wrings out the rag beneath a stream of water. He turns off the stream and flaps the excess water from the white towel, bending over to grab a plastic bag from the cupboard beneath the sink.

“What do you want from him?”

“What anyone still in the Society wants from him,” you reply and you set down your drink on a dry spot of the counter.

“Don’t,” he warns, running the rag through the spilled juice and swiping the shards of glass into the plastic bag. “You know, it’s a bad idea.” You smile indelicately, a sharp smile only for yourself as translucent juice spreads farther over the countertop. He’s only making a bigger mess, and you want nothing more than to tell him that you’ll do it, rip that rag from his hand and tell him to sit.

You don’t.

“You want to know how much?”

“No.” “Twelve billion.”

Bucky’s hand freezes for a moment, and then he continues sweeping. “You need to think with something other than your pockets for once, kid. Fuck.” He ties up the bag and tosses it onto a counter beside the sink before he begins to soak up spilled juice, and you frown at the annoyance that flares between your lungs. “Not everyone’s like you, okay?” You let out a sigh, eyes cast to the windows, to the garden you can see just outside. Plants are winding around those garden sticks, green and leafy, and vegetables sprout, a plethora of red and yellow, and flowers too. Probably Romanoff’s idea, the flowers. “Not everyone’s been allowed to make it out, or get this life. White picket fence, all that other shit.” You’re almost jealous, looking at the pictures of Bucky and Natasha framed like they’re some perfect little family. In one they’ve got a cat, and you wonder if that little creature is lurking around now. “You and Romanoff are fucking lucky.”

“We just had the guts to leave.”

You blink, lips barely parted as you suck in a breath. Shaking your head, your eyes dart to the aloe vera on the window sill and you trace every little spike, every little ridge that catches the white sunlight.

“You know it’s not that easy.”

“Kid, I’m begging you. Don’t go after Steve.” Bucky stops with his cleaning — gives up really — and walks around to hold your wrist. Your eyes flicker up to the vastness of his blue eyes. They are hollow in a way you can’t explain, and the plates of his arm click as cold fingers touch your skin. “You know he won’t hold back.”

“He doesn’t have to know I’m coming,” you whisper and his lips press together, eyebrows knitting together. His eyes squeeze tight and he hangs his head. “Bucky, just tell me where he is.”

Your hand twists to grab his hand, and your fingers run over the edge of each piece of his arm, feeling the hum underneath of the wires, the gears bringing him to life. “He’ll kill you, and he’ll never forgive himself for it.”

“Why?” A bitter smile crosses your face, and you nearly laugh. “He doesn’t love me. And I don’t love him.”

“Kid.”

“Buck, if I don’t do it, they’ll kill me, too.” It had been an unspoken — unneeded — thing, but severance only has one definition.

“Steve would rather die than kill you.”

“I’m sorry I’m not the same.” You swallow the hard knot in your throat and you look to the spill to avoid Bucky’s judgemental gaze. “I’m not good for him.”

“You could be.” His fingers fall away and you close your eyes, blood spilling behind your eyelids. A quivering sigh shudders in your throat and you shake your head, raising your gaze to Bucky’s, which has burned a hole into your cheek, and now washes you in fire.

“I’m not.”

iv. she almost waited

No one claims the bounty.

Bucky left you with nothing but doubt and anger, and one last plead to not go after Steve Rogers.

Like you ever listen to Bucky.

So, you go through your list of places you think Steve would hide and come up with zero, zip, nada. You call Stark to see if he’s seen him. Nope.

Later that night, you receive a text just after slipping off your heels and you lay in bed for hours, his silk pocket square slipping between your fingers like water.

Meet me where the sky touches the sea. Wait for me where the world begins. -SR

You want to smack that dork. Quoting your favourite book series always brings the stupidest smile on your face. Google says the sunrise will be at 6:31 AM, and you let your hands drop from where they’re holding your phone above you. Sitting on your king size bed, you want to just sink into the comforters until they swallow you up, and although you nearly do let your hotel bed swallow you whole, you wake yourself up with a cold shower.

Slipping into a hoodie that hides the bulletproof vest strapped to your chest, you pull on some sweats and grab your gun, stuffing it in your waistband. With your phone and earbuds, you slip into the guise of some early morning runner, throwing your hair back into a ponytail and your new runners.

You jog all the way to Louis Valentino, Jr. Pier, music purring low into your ears as the morning breeze bites at your skin. Licking your lips, you let the thud of your footsteps thunder up your heart and your eyes dart to the Statue of Liberty, to the bench on the pier that gives a perfect view of the copper statue.

It’s where you first met Steve, and you smile, slowing down with a skid of your sneakers against the pavement. Touching the sun-warming wood, you sink onto the bench and watch the water begin to glitter like a hundred sapphires. You sigh, pulling out your phone to check the time.

6:24

So, you’re early. You’ve got time to kill.

The wind plays at your face, strands of hair loose from your ponytail kissing your cheeks and you cross a leg over the other, the gun shifting against your back. Pulling out one earbud, you sweep your gaze around the area. For so early, there’s a surprising amount of people taking early walks or jogs or coffees.

Whatever normal people do.

You watch the sunrise, and you decide it’s much prettier the first time. Sure, the colors are different — orange and yellow dominating the violet, rather than the other way around the very first time — and the seasons have changed (you remember the bitter snow crunching beneath your boots as Steve wiped the blood from your forehead) but it’s still the same sun you saw the day before.

6:35

Now, you let the sun burn into your corneas as you begin to count every minute Steve is late and wonder what he even wants, meeting up.

You inhale a lungful of brisk morning wind, coffee and seawater and pollution mixing in your sinuses. You want to get a coffee, but the closest coffee cart you know is decent is too far for you to stay in Steve’s potential POV and you slouch against the bench, lips twisting into a frown.

“Where are you?” The words, uttered beneath your breath, are carried through the wind and disappear like you never said them, and you start to contemplate your miniscule existence in such a huge universe to pass the time. “Fuck.” Taking out your phone, you open up your messages to the unknown number.

Where are you? Not like you to be late -x

You click your phone off and shove it into your pocket, but keep your fingers wrapped around it. A clawing sensation digs into your lungs, and you clench your jaw, eyes cast to the grey pavement. You tap the toe of your shoe against the ground two times before your phone buzzes in your hand.

You dig out your phone almost too frantically, reading his text on your lockscreen.

Just wait for me. Five minutes. -SR

7:02

It’s been more than five minutes.

It’s the only thought that circles your head, and you shift in your bench, knowing something must’ve gone wrong. The claws in your lungs tear down and your breath rattles in your chest as you glance around, trying to see if Steve is just hiding right under your nose.

He isn’t.

It’s 7:04 before you decide to get up and head back to the hotel. You walk to the intersection, past the line of cars parked along the meters.

It’s also 7:04 when a black car pulls up with a screech of its tires in the wrong direction and the car door swings open, nearly slamming into your kneecaps as a blond head bursts from the sleek black thing.

Steve.

“You’re okay?” The words come out strangled and he looks to you sharply, eyes nothing more than knives held at your throat and you suck in a breath at the distance in his gaze. His eyes are nothing more than dark bruises and your eyebrows knit together as you look up at his baseball cap. It casts a huge shadow over his pale face, and you frown. Was he always so white in the face? “Cap?”

“Disguise.”

“Right.”

So here you stand, your mark before you open and vulnerable. Steve closes the door with a slam, jolting you out of your daze. He looks lost, a bit mussed with blood on the collar of his tee that pokes out from his dark jacket and healing marks around his neck.

“Did Romanoff get to you?” you ask, gesturing around your neck and Steve lets out a breathless laugh, sounding more like a scoff of derision the longer it echoes in your head, and you press your lips together.

“No, I... it’s long story. Sorry I’m late.”

“No problem. I was going, anyway.”

“I’m sorry—”

“It really isn’t a problem, Steve. It’s not fair to kill you like this, so I’m gonna let you go.” You brush past him and his fingers twitch against your wrist like he wants to grab you, but you don’t feel any of his heat follow after you as you set your earbuds in.

You get to the intersection only a few meters away before your phone rings, interrupting your music. Pausing, you fish out your phone and sigh to yourself at the Unknown ID. Shoving your free hand into your pocket, you swipe to answer and look up to the blueing sky as another gust of wind sweeps over your face. Steve’s stare bares heavy on your back and you try to make sure your words come out biting.

“What do you want?”

Instead, they come out tired, and just a bit sad.

“You said to call if I was ever in trouble. To call if I’m going to die.”

“Steve—” You turn around to look at him, and it’s like he stands on the opposite end of the earth, standing there on the sidewalk with his wrongly parked car and his cap and jeans. Your shoulders slump into your chest as your stomach crushes your intestines. You swallow down a knot in your throat— “they’ll kill me too.”

“I didn’t kill Nick Fury.”

“You think I don’t know that?” The sign changes and the white pedestrian light burns in your peripheral vision. You can walk away if you want. If you could. “It’s twelve billion.”

“He’s buying your loyalty.”

“I’m saving my own skin.” His lost eyes imprint themselves into your brain and you want to burn him out of your head. But nothing ever can, ever will, ever could even try to. “I don’t want to kill you, Steve, but I will.”

You hang up and make to cross the road.

Instead, a bullet slams into the asphalt before your toe, and you spring back just as Steve sweeps you into his arms. Reaching around to grab your pistol from your waistband, you wrap yourself around the blond and spot Brock, colleagues, people you know, suddenly swarm you. They’re dressed as you are, like ordinary men and women, that to the screaming onlooker, it must look so strange.

As Steve runs, you manage to pin a man in the head and you duck into Steve’s chest as he reaches his car. He throws you in the back seat, sliding into the driver’s seat.

“Where’s your AR?” You shove your hands into the mess that is his car, frowning when nothing comes up beside some jackets and a pair of old socks.

“You think I keep guns lying around?” His voice syncs with the slam of his car door as bullets pelt the metal. You press against the car seat as the glass cracks and you throw his jackets to the floor. Fake IDs spill out of a box underneath the giant pile and you groan when the cards bounce everywhere.

“Uh, yes?” Popping out your head, you take a quick sweep before ducking again. The car revs to life and you let out a short grunt as you tumble onto the floor, onto the AR that slid out from underneath his front passenger seat. You crouch on the carpet floors as he backs up and jolts forward, trying to get out of his shitty parking job. “For fuck’s sake, just drive!”

“I’m trying to limit my destruction of other people’s property!”

“Steve, there are people shooting at us.”

“I got it!” The car purrs to life and you lay on the floor as a box slides out from the driver’s seat. Frowning, you sit up and grab it as the sound of guns firing after you fades to pops in the distance. You lean against the backseat on the floor, pulling the locked box into your lap as Steve sighs. Pulling out your phone, you take off the case to reveal the flat lock picks pressed against your phone.

With the right tools in hand, you set to the task of passing the time by picking the lock. Police cars rush past and you can see their siren lights reflecting in the cracked glass as you push yourself into the seat. The lock clicks as you twist the pick and you grin victoriously when it pops open.

Tossing the padlock aside, you lift the top off, prepared for the blackmail you might have. What’ll it be? you wonder with a smirk Porn magazines, betting stubs, or...

Pictures of you. Polaroid pictures of you laughing or eating, angry and covered in blood, in every way imaginable. Smiling with your new Berettas, snuggled up against him after a long day at work. You always wondered where those Polaroids went. A leatherbound notebook sits at the bottom of the box and you reach for it, pulling off the strap and letting the yellowed pages flip as you breeze through every single emotion Steve has managed to put to paper with his pen. Your heart stops at the tenderness in every stroke, the clear purpose you can see in his vision, and how much time he must’ve put. On stakeouts, when he could’ve been sleeping, when he’s been away.

Oh.

Shit.

“Steve, how long have you had this notebook for?” You look so much younger in some of these pictures that you wonder if it’s just Steve flattering you. Looking up, you try to get Steve’s attention with a half-baked smile. “Steve? Seriously, it’s... it’s crazy. These are life-like.” Still, nothing. You peer around the driver’s seat to catch Steve’s attention and your breath catches in your throat painfully. Steve’s head sways, dips as he fights to stay awake, and you toss the box aside, crawling into the empty front seat. Steve’s eyes are struggling to stay open and you glance at the cracked windshield as his hands slip from the wheel. “Steve!”

“What?” He jolts up and immediately, his face crumpled in pain. His back arches from the seat and you watch as his jacket sticks to the thing with a heart-wrenching squelch. He’s drenched in blood. Drenched in dark, sopping red that drips down his back and stains his fingers and your heart is nothing but ash in your mouth.

“Steve? Did you get shot?” You manage to swerve the car into a back alley and crash into a dumpster, and although the airbags haven’t been inflated, you still feel like you’ve been suckerpunched in the head. Crawling out of the car, you run around to his side and unzip his jacket, pushing him against the wheel. The jacket sinks between your fingers as you rip it off his shoulders, blood leaking like warm honey into the crevices of your skin. Pushing it down his arms, you find the grey of his tee stained by black.

“What the fuck is this?” Shoving the shirt up, your breath steals out of your lungs at the lashes down his back. “Oh, my god.”

“Doll?” His voice rattles inside your skull and you look to him for a moment before wrapping your arms around him. Blood seeps into your hoodie as you pull him out of the driver’s seat, dragging him to the back as quickly as you can and laying him stomach down. Scrambling to the trunk where you know a first aid kit is, you grab the huge thing and haul it to where Steve tries to push himself up. “Doll! Come back…”

“I’m here, Steve. Oh, god, what the hell?” You crack open the case, resting it on the floor as you crawl in. Snapping on a pair of gloves, you grab the scissors and snip his shirt off, staring at the angry, bleeding claw marks that have ripped him open. You press your lips together to prevent yourself from gasping at every hitch of his breath. “Where were you?” You tear open disinfectant packs, your medical training already running through your head as you gently press the wipe to his huge gashes. He shudders beneath your touch.

“Would it be crazy if I said Jersey?”

“Yes, you hate it there. What were you even doing?”

“Hiding? Big black thing tried to eat me? Didn’t fucking know those existed?” You scoff at Steve’s words. Delirious, you realize as you wipe away the blood from his back and he lets out a drawn out hiss, and he hid it from me. He hides a lot of things from me.

“Yeah? Yeah, they don’t fucking exist, Steve.” Wiping away his blood, you bite down on your cheek and watch as the blood streaks across what skin he has. It runs like vodka over him, and the smell of distilled alcohol half-reminds you of the first time Steve took you out drinking, the body shots he drank off your body. One of the best nights of your life. You lean down to kiss his sweating neck as he lets out a bare grunt, and silently promise to yourself you’ll take him out drinking when this is all over. “I’m sorry.”

“‘S okay. Just keep going. He said his name was Venom or somethin’,”

“Yeah, ‘course.” Tossing the disinfectant wipes to the floor, you reach for the first aid kit and shake your head, snorting at the mere idea that a big black monster can come and take Steve away from you—

The first aid kit splinters at the force of bullets spraying the red plastic and you grab your pistol from the car floor, your heart reaching your throat. Who the fuck has followed me here? Seriously?

At the end of your sights stands Brock, and you don’t know whether or not to pull the trigger.

“Brock.”

“Hey, girl.”

In his arm is the newly commissioned AR. You don’t need to ask to know that Pierce is field testing with his favourite lapdog.

“So I have a question,” he says like he’s holding nothing more than a cup of coffee. In ways, a gun is your cup of coffee in the morning.

“So do I,” you say warily, a nervous twitch crawling up your arm.

“Ladies first.”

“Why the warning shot?” You know it was him. There is no doubt in your mind that had Brock not been there, you would’ve been shot dead. “You saved my life.”

Brock’s grip on his AR falters despite the fact that a twitch of his finger will send an array of bone-shattering bullets into your body, and you swallow back the bruise blooming in your throat. “Hell, you know I’m sorry for shit I’ve done, girl. Lots of it to you.”

“Chlamydia.”

“Amongst other things,” he agrees with a shrug and then he’s strong again. His grip tightens and you can see his fingers turning white from how hard he holds his shiny new toy. “My turn. Who pulls the trigger first? ‘Cause I sure as hell don’t want to.”

You smile in apology — a soft, sad thing — cocking your head. “How long can you buy me?”

“A day? Maybe two if you’re careful.”

You sigh, and your smile shakes as his own smile softens. He looks like a tired man, tired of fighting, and you wonder if he sees the same in you. Battle-worn, exhausted.

“I forgive you, y’know? For giving me chlamydia.” And for so much more. Brock laughs but it comes out quiet and bitter. “And I’m sorry.” You pull the trigger before he even has a chance to respond. A rogue splatter of bullets goes flying and a body drops to the ground with a thud.

You grab the AR, tug it from his limp fingers, and it folds easily underneath gentle pressure as you run back to Steve’s car, shoving his feet in. Slapping gauze and tape hastily onto his back, you slide into the bloody driver’s seat and twist the ignition.

You have a few minutes before hitmen swarm to the sound of the shot and you don’t want to be here when they arrive.

v. he almost lived

You manage to get to the hideout and sneak in some time to wonder how one man has managed to turn your whole life upside down. The bunker you’ve driven to is discreet, near-bomb proof, and stacked with supplies fit for the apocalypse. As you help Steve in and let him flop onto a table, you begin the mundane task of sewing flesh together.

Except this isn’t just some nameless face.

And it isn’t mundane.

“Why the fuck did I ever think meeting up with you was a good idea?”

“I’m sorry,” Steve mumbles, not quite asleep yet not quite awake despite your needle digging into his muscle every few seconds. He’s so hopped up on painkillers that he’s barely lucid already, and as you continue down his back, you can hear his voice fade mid-sentence as he slips away from you. “I’m… I’m sorry…”

“Sorry? That’s all you can say? You were fucking late. I thought something happened to you!”

“Well, something did.”

“I hate you so, so much.” You shake your head to yourself, bending the light so it shines against the patch of skin you’re working on. “Shit.”

“What is it, doll?” He lifts his head but you shush him quietly, telling him to rest on the pillow. “But I can do it!”

“I’m sure you can, Stevie,” you whisper, and your eyes drift to the gun resting next to your scalpels and a pair of forceps. Pulling the thread through, you snip it clean and set down your tools with an exhausted sigh. Wrapping up Steve’s back with bandages, you secure it with a safety pin with little to no trouble before you’re turning off the intense surgical lamps you have in the room. Your gloves get tossed in the trash before you even think of wiping your sweaty brow with the back of your hand.

You haven’t had the time to change out of your hoodie and sweat has gathered uncomfortably in the hollow of your throat and the arch of your back against your vest. Pulling down your shoved up sleeves, you tug the hoodie over your head and drop it over the back of the chair. You grab a spare set of clothes you have that fit Steve and the smell of fresh laundry fills your nose. It smells clean and wonderful and everything that reminds you of the king bed back at the hotel.

You’re exhausted. It hits you all at once when you look at Steve, so hopped up he can only smile loopily at you when murky blue catch the bright white of your vest.

“Doll?”

“Hey, Stevie,” you whisper, helping him sit up. Kissing his lips chastely, you pull the shirt over his head, guiding his arms gently through the holes before pulling down his pants. He pitches forward and his forehead collides with your shoulder, his hair tickling your jaw as you work on pulling off his pants. “You tired?”

“Yeah. I think ‘m gonna nap before I get to work/”

“Work, huh?” You manage to kick off the pant leg stuck to his ankle before crouching down. He immediately begins to fall forward and you shove your arms up against his shoulders as his groan reverberates inside your skeleton. “Stevie, you gotta sit up.”

“‘M tired.”

“I know, baby,” you sigh, the pet name slipping off your tongue so naturally you almost forget that the guy you’ve been hooking up with for at least five years has barely avoided death’s grip. But you do remember, and his hands, limp in his lap, drag over the table as he manages to prop himself up against the metal bed. You pull sweatpants up his legs, and smile as his lips try to press a soft kiss against your throat. “Come on. Up?”

“No. I can sleep right here.”

“There’s a bed over there. Two steps, I promise.” Steve’s hand raises lazily to reach for your face and you offer a small smile. He drags himself off, crumpling in your arms as you haul him into a standing position, fingers yanking the sweatpants over the curve of his legs and settling them comfortably on his waist. “C’mon.” Your arms straining against the pure muscle mass that is Steve Rogers, you urge him in the direction of the fold-out bed. He falls into it as gracelessly as he can and you can’t help the laugh growing in your chest.

You tuck him in, making sure he’s comfortable and his stitches haven’t broken before you move to leave and his hand snags yours as you go towards the shower. You want to rip off the bulletproof vest strapped to your chest, you want to let hot water pellet your brain, you want to sleep for eons, you want to never leave this little safe haven, you want…

“Doll?”

Oh, god, you want Steve.

“Yeah?” you whisper, turning and twisting your hand to grab his wrist. His finger traces tiny circles on the inside of your wrist and you smile, taking the small steps towards his bed as he reaches up to grab more of you.

“It’s just you and me now,” he murmurs and his voice cracks as his fingers tighten around you, enough strength to break bones and yet gentler than anything you’ve ever known. You crouch by his bedside, and his eyes peer up at you from the stark white of your pillows, all at once sober and sad. “Please don’t go.”

You press your lips against his knuckles, hand slipping into his as your fingers interlock. “You roped me into this, babe. I’m not going anywhere.”

You sit by his bedside, on the floor and simply holding his hand until he falls asleep before you remember you have to take care of yourself, too. Your bones groan as you push yourself up and your fingers slip from Steve’s limp ones all too easily. Gently lowering his hand to the mattress, you card the golden hair brushing over his face back and gently kiss the apple of his cheek.

“You and me,” you repeat to yourself, and Steve stirs for a moment, the blankets twisting around him. “Yeah, ‘course it is.”

When you wake up two hours later to change Steve’s bandages and check up on him, you find his bed empty.

There’s a note, a rose with a black ribbon, and a card with his callsign inked in blood, and you don’t know what hurts more: your pride or your heart.

Walking over, you feel a chill brush against your thighs and neck, a shiver running down your spine as you crouch next to the bed, picking up the rose and twisting it carefully between your fingers. The smell of antiseptic and something cool clings to the sheets and you grab a fistful of the blankets, dragging it towards you. Blood dots the white sheets where the bandage had leaked, and you read the card with a clotted chest.

You forced my hand, agent, but do not think that I’m afraid of you when the Winter Soldier stands by my side, ready to comply.

-AP

Hot, gushing waves flood your arms and you rip the card in half, the dried blood flaking onto your skin. The heat rushes to your head and you’re nearly blinded by how much you want to rip something more apart, by how much you want to sink your fingers into something, to pull the trigger on someone. Standing, your heart thumps violently in your head just as a piercing click fills the emptiness of the room and something cold presses against your head.

“Don’t. Move.” It is a voice you don’t recognize, and you catch a flash of blue in face of smoke before it happens. You hear the sound before your skull cracks. Something hard slams into your head and black erupts in your vision, blinding you as you collapse against the concrete ground.

You wake up with dried blood caking your cheeks and a bullet to the stomach.

Wilson’s the one you call, and he cauterizes the wound while you lay on the same table Steve had rested upon hours earlier.

He shows you the picture. Steve’s brains painting the walls of some riverbank by a bridge and the water lapping at his ankles. You don’t believe it.

“Twelve billion already transferred,” he says as he pulls the thread through you. You hiss, glancing away from the phone to stop the burning in your eyes. “They said it was some secret agent. Like the Winter Soldier or something. He’s the one who shot you, too.”

“Oh?” You swear your heart stops beating and it does not start again. You swear it on everything you know that it can’t be Bucky. Bucky with the cat, Bucky who’s been dating Natasha, Bucky with the backyard and pet plants, and—

Shit.

“Yeah. Thought he was a myth, but people are saying he isn’t, and the whole Society is fucked up right now. It’s been a fucking mess.”

“Why?”

“Because Pierce put an APB on you, too, and people are thinking who’s gonna be next.” You nearly drop your phone when Sam tugs a little too hard as he pulls the thread through. “Maximoff isn’t convinced Steve’s dead.”

“This picture’s pretty solid proof,” you murmur, forcing yourself to look at the image. You can barely make out the shape of his lips, the apple of his cheeks. The clothes you’d given him are drenched in his life’s blood, and you feel the same bullet that tore through his skull wreak havoc on your heart. “Sam?”

“Yeah?”

“Did anyone ID the body?”

“Couldn’t.” Sam ties the thread and you glance down at his patchwork, a black criss-cross across your skin and you want to poke at it, despite the agony ripping through your core. “By the time our coroners got to him, face was already bashed up, but we had—” He clears his throat and you arch an eyebrow, trying to look as unimpressed as possible despite the tears dripping down your cheeks— “people look at the rest of him.”

“Great.”

“Sorry.”

“Whatever.” You turn off the phone and hand it back to Sam. “Thanks for coming for me, Wilson.” The man looks exhausted and you let your shirt fall over your covered wound, gently scooting off the table. “I should’ve listened to you.”

“If you weren’t there, Steve would’ve died.”

“He was there because of me.” You limp over to the blood-stained sheets of the fold-out bed, and sink into the mattress. It’s harder than you remember, and colder, too. “And I’m going to make it up to him. No matter what.”

“What are you gonna do? Something stupid, I hope.”

You reach underneath the fold-out bed, to the black metal framework, and pat blindly for the strap. Your fingers brush against the velvet of a rose stained with blood and you ignore it in favor for something else. When your fingers drift over leather, you reach further to pull out pistol with the grace of a swan. The magazine slips into your open hand, and your eyes scan to check if it’s full before sliding it back in with a satisfying click.

“Kill Alexander Pierce. It’ll be a start.”

vi. they almost made it

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breathinginthevapor · 5 years

Text

“Sorry I’m late”

Summary: Your best friend Tom Holland has agreed to be your date to your high school reunion, but when bumping into your ex, you might “accidentally” tell him the two of you are dating...

A/N: This is for @starksparker‘s summer writing challenge, and it’s my first time writing Tom Holland (besides a long-ass piece that I’m still working one) so I hope I did alright, please let me know what you think! I used the prompt “sorry i’m late” because it’s what gave me the idea, but really, it isn’t such a big part of the writing, oops...

T/W: cursing, I think? Oh, and mentions of cheating

Masterlist

“Sorry I’m late! Traffic was terrible,” he apologises and presses a light kiss against your cheek.

His hand immediately finds the swell of your back as he sips on the cheap champagne. You easily see through the cough he lets out to conceal the sour expression on his face, clearly used to alcohol of much higher quality.

You giggle, “Made a few movies and now you’re above the rest of us, huh.”

He chuckles, cheeks slightly reddened, probably a combination of hurrying to get here and the fact that he exposed himself.

“What can I say, only the best is good enough for me,” he jokes and winks at you.

You shake your head as to show him he’s being dumb, but you can’t keep a smile off your lips. Then, you remember the presence of the man awkwardly standing opposite you and clear your throat, “Well, you remember Oscar, right?”

Within a second, Tom’s expression changes, jaw clenching and eyes spitting fire. “Oh yes, Oscar.”

He nods his head in Oscar’s direction, and you can see the veins on his neck appear, a clear sign that he’s on his guard.

Still, the coldness of his tone when greeting your ex surprises you, although it’s no secret that they don’t like each other. You just hadn’t expected Tom to be so blunt about it as he’s always the perfectly polite gentleman, only to you admitting whom he dislikes.

But if he makes any attempt of being charming right now, it’s definitely failing.

“Tom,” Oscar addresses your best friend, running his hand through the long blond locks.

You used to love how it made him look like a lion with a big mane, but now, he looks far from the confident man you knew. He is still crazily attractive, though, and you don’t doubt that every single woman in here glances at you with envy for being surrounded by the two most handsome men in the room.

There’s a part of you that feels bad for him, not liking how out of place he looks, while another part of you just wants to hurt him as badly as he hurt you. You wouldn’t know how, though.

That is, until he bitterly acknowledges, “Oh, so you two finally got together, huh?”

For a second, you’re confused about what he possibly could be talking about, but then you notice how Tom traces patterns on the skin of your back with his thumb and the protective way he stands beside and realise that Oscar must think that you and Tom are a couple.

And that it’s, judging by the sour expression of your ex, bothering him enough to be your chance to get back at him.

Pathetic? Yes.

But do you care? Definitely not.

“Together? No,” Tom denies at the exact same time as you lie, “Yes! Yes, we are together.”

Tom looks at you like you’re mad, but you ignore him. This isn’t about him; besides, he should be thankful that he gets to practice a little acting in his free time.

“Tom, baby, we can tell Oscar, he won’t say it to the tabloids,” you chirp, cursing yourself for not forcing Tom to teach you about acting. You have no idea if your behaviour is believable, but you sure hope so. You’ll die of shame if he sees through it. “Tom is so protective sometimes,” you explain to Oscar, a big smile on your lips.

“Comes with being best friends for so long, I guess,” Tom elaborates, easily falling into the role but eyeing you with confusion when Oscar looks away for a moment. You give him the puppy eyes, mouthing a “please” before he sighs and nods.

He squeezes you into him, nose burrowed in your hair and kissing your temple as he whispers, “You owe me. Big time.”

“Well, I can’t say I’m surprised,” Oscar sighs. You’ve just sipped on your drink, but when he speaks, you choke on it. Tom pats your back gently, and you regain your composure, once again putting a big smile on your face.

“Are you alright, love?” Tom inquires, the worried look on his face seeming genuine, but then again, it’s hard to know. Sometimes it sucks that your best friend is such a good actor, but well, right now, it sure as hell makes everything a lot easier.

“I’m fine. Thank you, Tom,” you gently assure him before turning to Oscar, “You’re not surprised?”

Oscar chuckles slightly, the air between the three of you still extremely awkward. “I don’t think anybody is, Y/N.” He pauses, biting his lip and looking at you intensely. You can feel Tom tense behind you, half of his chest pressed against your back and hand gripping your hip. You try to calm him by taking his other hand in yours and squeezing it, but he still seems stiff.

“Listen, Y/N, I’m sorry for being an idiot. It doesn’t make my behaviour okay, but I got so jealous because everybody besides the two of you knew that you two were in love. I loved you, and it sucked that you didn’t feel the same way,” he continues and takes a deep breath, forcing a smile on his face, “But I’m happy for you, I honestly am. I have no doubt that he’ll treat you like you deserve.”

This. is. weird.

Like, how does that even make sense? One thing is that he thinks you and Tom are dating now, but that you’ve always loved each other? No way. And what he said about “everyone knowing” you and Tom were in love? That’s just straight up weird.

“He does,” you confirm with a tone more confident and harsher than you had expected. Oscar flinches, but you feel anger boil inside your body. You’ve suppressed it for so long, only letting it out when bitching about Oscar to Tom, but now, it demands to be let out. “It hurt like hell when you cheated, Oscar, and I absolutely hated you for being so careless with my heart. But then I realised, you aren’t worth it. And honestly, your excuse is shit. I loved you, and you betrayed me, but then I found out that something better had been waiting in front of me the whole time.”

Oscar looks taken away at your outburst, clearly hurt, but when you look back to at Tom, he smiles down at you proudly. His body is relaxed, and his thumb caresses the back of your hand.

Then, he whispers something in your ear that makes your body go into a stage of panic, “Can I kiss you? If you were my girlfriend, I’d kiss you now.”

You search his eyes, the familiar dark orbs looking at you with a peculiar gentleness. And then, the panic that just rose in your body at his proposition, disappears, because this is Tom, your best friend, and his words just show how he’d do anything for you.

So, instead of answering his question, you turn around with your bodies pressed against each other and lean up and press a kiss to his lips.

They’re softer than you had expected, and you can taste the champagne. He might not have liked it, but when tasting it off his lips, you certainly enjoy it.

He smiles as you break apart, a cute, crooked one that makes you smile as well. “I love you,” he says, and although you know that Oscar will think it’s the romantic kind of love you’re talking about, you repeat Tom’s words to him. Because you do love each other. Hell, he’s your favourite human ever.

He kisses your forehead and then turns his focus to your ex, “It was nice to see you, mate, but I believe I’ve promised my girlfriend a dance.”

You can’t help but wonder about his sudden change of heart, the goodbye much warmer and polite than his earlier words. No matter what, you appreciate his calmness instead of the stiffness.

“I hope you’ll be as happy as I am one day, Oscar,” you tell your ex, shooting him a small diplomatic smile. And you realise that you actually mean it, that you feel really happy and content and loved, and that you hope this dirtbag of a man also will one day. Maybe not until he’s learned how to treat someone who loves him, but well, someday.

“Let’s go,” you encourage Tom, and he takes your hand and leads you to the middle of the floor.

A slow song is playing, and you lean your head and hands on Tom’s chest, his fingers toying with the fabric of your dress where his palms rest on your hips.

“I can’t believe you have such good taste in friends and such shitty taste in boyfriends,” Tom chuckles, swaying lightly to the music.

“You’re right. Dunno what I was thinking, honestly,” you agree, grinning into his black blazer. It’s soft against your cheek, and you relish in the feeling for a moment.

Then you remove your head from his body and look at him, “Thank you, really, for doing this.”

The lightning in the room is dim, coloured string lights on the walls and only a few other lamps besides that. His skin looks less pale than normally, and the brown hue of his eyes even softer. His hair is slightly messy, but it just makes him look even prettier.

You’ve always known he was attractive, but somehow, it still surprises you just how much sometimes.

He chuckles, “For going to your high school reunion or for pretending to be your boyfriend?”

“Both. I’ll do anything to make it up to you.”

“Ooh, that will get interesting,” he marks, and you growl, knowing he’ll force you to do something terrible, like letting him paint a penis on your face or something.

Before he can think too much of the possibilities of your “punishment”, you change the subject, “But seriously, how on earth could I think it would be a good idea to repeat my high school mistake and date Oscar again?”

“I dunno, love. Poor judgement?”

You hum and nod in agreement, before crooking your head and looking at him. He might be a pain in the ass sometimes, but he’s been there for you through thick and thin, and he makes you laugh more than anyone else. “I’m so grateful to have you in my life, Tom. I really do love you,” you tell him softly, countless memories of the two of you flowing through your mind.

“Yeah, me too.” He smiles affectionately at you, squeezing your hips gently.

The song changes, the soft voice of Ed Sheeran now flowing from the stereos. He sings about growing old together and falling in love with someone every single day, and you remember the time you met the red-haired British singer at an event Tom brought you to. It’s crazy how your best friend just knows all these people you’ve only ever seen on TV or heard on the radio.

But what amazes you even more is that even though he knows all these exciting, famous, rich, beautiful people, he still chooses to hang out with you so much.

“Wanna hear some good news?”

He nods, intrigued.

“You’re alive right now. I can feel your heartbeat against my palm.”

He laughs, eyes scrunching and shaking his head overbearingly at your obvious statement, “What a relief.”

You join him, chuckling at your own joke, but then stopping when you realise that he has gone quiet and instead looks at you weirdly.

“What? Do I have something on my face?”

He shakes his head, grinning with his teeth showing before speaking, “You look beautiful tonight, Y/N. If you weren’t already my girlfriend, I’d ask you out right now.”

You frown, not getting the joke completely.

Because it must be that, right? Just a joke?

“Well, I think you’ve forgot that I’m only your girlfriend for today,” you point out lightheartedly.

“Does that mean I can ask you out tomorrow?”

You laugh, but then stop when he doesn’t follow suit, “You aren’t serious right now, Tom, are you?”

“Dunno,” he shrugs, an uneasy expression on his face, then shifting to a smug one when he elaborates, “To be honest. It’s hard to be sure of anything while looking at you in that dress.”

You look down at yourself, to the red dress that sits tight on your body. You bought it for the occasion, wanting to look good without being too over the top. It’s a plunge neck with a low cut back, and although it’s tight, you wouldn’t call it inappropriate or anything like that.

“It’s not that special, Tom. It’s a pretty plain dress, actually, and I’m pretty sure half of the women in here are wearing tight red dresses.” Not to mention, they’re breath-takingly beautiful, while you feel mediocre, at best.

However, Tom apparently disagrees, “Yeah, but none of them are my best friend who looks incredible right now.” He swallows visibly, Adam’s apple bobbing. “None of them have lips I wanna kiss.”

Your breath gets caught up in your throat, completely taken back. You’ve stopped swaying to the music now, and his hands loosen the grip on your hips to fall down his sides instead. He looks terribly nervous as he’s biting his lip, and a blush creeps onto his cheeks. You don’t know what to say, don’t even know what to do about the tingle in your stomach and the warmth that spreads through your body, surely painting your cheeks the same colour as Tom’s.

“Do you- do you like me, Tom?”

Your voice is low and unsure, barely audible over the music, but Tom scratches his neck, eyes darting away before turning back at you and nodding slowly.

“Yeah,” he admits with a breath. He is clearly anxious for your reaction, and it looks like he’s about to say something more. Nevertheless, you cut him off before he even gets the chance to speak and connect your lips for the second time today.

You grab his cheeks, pulling him closer to you and waiting for him to relax into the kiss. He luckily does so quickly, parting your lips with his tongue and grabbing you, hands on the swell of your back pushing you closer so your torso is pressed against his.

“Well, that went a lot better than I thought it would,” he chuckles once you’ve broken apart, grinning down at you.

“If you’d told me this a long time ago, I wouldn’t have had to let that asshole cheat on me. Would have spared me a lot of heartbreak, dumbass,” you joke, giving his lips another peck.

“At least it’s a story for the grandkids,” he laughs, and you roll your eyes at him.

“Bold of you to assume we’ll last that long,” you point out, but your tone is both joking and loving, and you even shoot him a wink.

He kisses you again, intensely and deeply, and when he pulls away, he throws his arms around you and picks you off the ground in a tight grip.

“Sorry, but you’re stuck with me, Y/N. No getting out now.”

He spins you around till you’re dizzy, laughter erupting from both of you and catching the attention of the people surrounding you, but neither of you care. You’re way too caught up in this new thing, in these newly freed feelings to care about anything but each other.

“Perhaps that’s not all too terrible after all,” you concede, watching the way his face lights up, and how his eyes twinkle in the dim lights. Your best friend, the man who always puts a smile on your face, who dries your tears and even agrees to play your boyfriend to make your stupid ex jealous. The man you’re fairly sure you’re in love with.

No, not at all terrible.

491 notes · View notes

faefictions · 5 years

Text

Unrest

Pairing: Peter Parker x reader

Warnings: ENDGAME SPOILERS (like seriously don’t read ANY of this if you haven’t seen it yet), cussing, sad Peter

Prompt: “Go back to sleep”

Word count: 9k (I know, I’m sorry)

Summary: After getting dusted by Thanos, the reader tries to cope with what she missed in the five years she was dead and the aftermath of returning

A/N: This is part of @starksparker ‘s writing challenge! Also sorry it’s so long, I couldn’t help myself

Losing 5 years of your life takes a toll. Waking up one day to realize that half of the population had aged 5 years past you while you were turned to dust, wiped from existence, that was a hard fact to accept. Support groups for those who had survived were replaced with support groups for those trying to accept that their partners had moved on, whose younger siblings were now older than them, whose loved ones had passed while they were gone. A lot had happened in those five years, and being thrown right back into it was difficult.

When you came back, you suddenly woke up in your apartment. You had remembered hearing a strange noise on the street below and rushing to the window, but you couldn’t remember losing consciousness. Your confusion only grew as you looked around your room. It was almost unrecognizable. Your posters, pictures, and bedding were missing. In their place was decor that seemed to belong to a toddler. You tried to recall any of those things being there before you had passed out, but nothing was familiar. The only thing that reassured you that you were still in your room was the small letters carved into the windowsill. You and your sister had carved them there, your initials all in a row. Those 4 little letters had earned you quite the lecture from your parents, but the memory never failed to bring a smile to you.

You looked down at the street through the window that you had been heading for before you passed out, and you were met with the sight of confused people flooding the street, some seeming to appear out of nowhere. You thought your mind was playing tricks on you, and quickly turned from the window to find your family. You needed something to ground you and kill the confusion.

The second you opened your bedroom door, the smell of your sister’s favorite pasta dish filled your senses. She used to make it for you when you were upset. You never liked it much, but the kind gesture wasn’t something you would turn down. You took a few steps towards the kitchen, but your breath left you when you saw her. She was at the stove, her back to you, but her hair was inches longer than you could remember it ever being, and she seemed to have lost a significant amount of weight.

“Rosie?” You called, your shaking voice filling the quiet apartment. Instead of turning, she gripped the handle of the oven and you could faintly hear her curse under her breath.

“Rose, what’s going on?” you asked, hoping this time she would reply. Your confusion was making you panic, a feeling you had grown to know all too well in your lifetime. Rosie had always been there to help you through anything, and her reluctance to even turn around to face you was unsettling you even more.

As you were about to ask her again, a key started to jingle in the lock of the front door, and a child rushed through. You couldn’t recognize the boy, but his bright eyes and nose shape shared a striking resemblance with Rosie.

You looked up past the child to see your mother in the doorway, staring at you with tears in her eyes. She seemed unable to breathe and the groceries in her hands dropped to the floor.

“Mom? What’s wrong?” you asked, as Rosie shot around to help her mother. When she saw that her mother was looking up at you, she too lost her breath. The boy ran up to you and tugged on your pant leg. “You look like Auntie y/n!” he called, just making your panic set in more. Rosie rushed over, but slowed as she approached you. Her hand slowly reached out and caressed your cheek.

“Y/n?” she cried, looking you over, unable to accept that you were really there.

The rest of that first night back was filled with tears as your family caught you up. You had been the only one who had been dusted, but your father’s survivors guilt had eaten him alive. He drank himself to death 2 years after you left. Rosie had become pregnant a year after you had left, and little Christopher was born a few months before your father’s death.

Rosie had been so disturbed by the events that she had begun to hallucinate you coming back. Her dreams, when she had them, were vivid and just as disturbing as reality. She had gone into extensive therapy, but nothing could make her miss you less.

Christopher had known you and your father only through pictures and stories, but that didn’t stop him from loving you and sitting on your lap for the entire first night back. Both your mother’s and sister’s phones were blowing up with messages about other returned loved ones, but they paid no attention to it. They only wanted to be with you.

That night, you all fell asleep in the living room. They couldn’t imagine parting with you now that you were back, not just yet.

As they snored on the couch, you watched the news on low volume. Stories of celebrities and world leaders returning were flooding the news. Old news anchors were brought on with their families, all smiling and recounting their memories, or lack thereof. It wasn’t until 2 am that you heard the news the only news that could have made things worse for you.

Iron-Man was dead.

You had already had trouble sleeping, but there was no way you could rest knowing that your childhood hero was dead. Tony Stark was looked down on by your family. He appeared pretentious in the media, especially before his Iron-Man days, but you knew better. He was selfless and caring. You had met him once, just a brief passing. He gave Rosie an autograph, but you just looked up at him in awe. He chuckled at your dumbfounded face and knelt down to eye-level with you.

“And what’s your name, kiddo?” he had asked with a grin.

You stuttered out your name, causing him to try to fight back another chuckle.

“No need to be so nervous, I’m not anything special.”

He had left you with a pat on the head, and you watched with a huge grin on your face as he walked away.

Looking back, you knew that all he meant was that he was human, nothing to get too excited over. That wasn’t what you took it as when you were a child though. You took his words to mean that the greatest superhero alive was just like you, meaning that you could grow up and be just like him. Of course you had chosen another career path, other than caped crusader, but he remained to be a big inspiration for you.

You went to different memorials held across the city for Tony. Vigils popped up on every street corner, and graffiti depicting him in his suit were on hundreds of buildings all over New York.

Your mother begged you not to go out every night, but you insisted that you had to pay your respects. If it wasn’t for Tony Stark, you would still be dead.

Heading back to school was the hardest step. All of your close friends had aged, which seemed to be just your luck. Everyone else around you seemed to have at least one person in their life that had been dusted, someone else to relate to, but not you.

You only had one year left, but turning up to see faces that had been in middle school last time you had seen them was difficult to accept. You asked your mother if you could drop out, but she refused. It was, of course, ultimately your decision, but you couldn’t imagine disappointing her.

Looking at her had only served to feed your growing mental health problems. The bags under eyes were sunken and her hair was almost all grey, and you knew that you were the cause of the stress that had led her to look that way. Seeing Rosie had the same effect, only reminding you that your disappearance had made her mind play tricks on her.

Your guilt was accompanied by frustration and confusion, and it all caused you to have nightly panic attacks. Christopher came into your room one night as you were on the ground sobbing, and you didn’t have the energy to say anything when he ran out to tell his mom what he had seen. Rosie rushed in and wrapped you in a hug, telling Christopher to go watch something on the television while she calmed you down.

That was the event that caused your mother to sign you up for your support group. You argued that it would just be more depressing to be surrounded by people who were just as sad as you, but she begged you to try, so you agreed to go once.

You showed up to a somber room filled with young adults. You recognized a few faces from school, students you didn’t even realize were dusted, and you almost just turned around and left, but the image of your mother made you stay. You couldn’t cause her more stress.

There were 12 members to your group, along with a young man who ran the group. You listened to each teenager speak of their families, their friends, and other loved ones aging without them. One of them had been in love before the snap, he was planning on proposing to his girlfriend after graduation, even had the ring, but he was dusted and she wasn’t. When he came back, she was 5 years his senior and dating a boy she had met in her second year of college. You thanked whatever powers that be that you hadn’t been in love before. Coming back to your life was already difficult enough, but you couldn’t imagine losing someone like that.

The stories went around the group, and finally the man running the group came to a boy directly across the circle from you. His eyes were filled with tears, and he tried to ask to not speak, but the instructor insisted that he at least introduce himself.

“Ok, uhm, I’m Peter. I was 17, and I should be 22 now. I’m lucky enough to not have really lost much more than I already have. My friends were mostly dusted with me. The only people I left behind were… uh, my Aunt May, and… and that’s it.”

You could tell he was going to say someone else, but there was something holding him back. The instructor thanked him for speaking, calling him brave, which just made him scoff under his breath.

After a couple more people shared their story, the instructor, who you learned was named Kyle, asked you to speak. You were too timid to do presentations in class, and you were never one for talking to strangers, but something came over you in that moment.

“I’m y/n. I’m… or I guess I was 17. My birthday is in two weeks, and it feels weird to say I’ll be 18. I feel like I should be saying I’ll be 23, but when I think about it, it just… upsets me more.”

You were hesitant to really open up. In reality, the thought of your age would send you into panic attacks. But those strangers didn’t need to know about all the times you had collapsed onto your bedroom floor gasping for air as you tried to think about something, anything other than your reality.

“Do you want to tell us about anyone you may have lost?”

You took a second to think. You didn’t like how Kyle put it. He hadn’t been dusted, he didn’t understand that using the word “lost” hurt you more than anything. You hadn’t really lost anyone but your father, but of course Kyle didn’t know about him. Everyone else was still alive, but Kyle’s question did nothing but remind you that you had been “lost” to them for those five years. You had “lost” the mother you had had before. Her smile would never be the same because of you. You had “lost” your happy and loving sister. She now had hallucinations because of her grief over losing you. Your temper was a moment away from getting the best of you, but you took a deep breath and shook your head. You couldn’t talk about that right now.

After the next person shared, Kyle called the meeting for the night. He said that he would be holding the next youth support group on that Thursday, two days away. You knew right away that you wouldn’t be going back.

You began to walk home in the dark, cruising yourself for forgetting to bring gloves to the meeting. As you walked, you spotted Peter from the group walking ahead of you. Just as you had had the courage to speak suddenly in the meeting, you suddenly had the courage to approach him and strike up a conversation.

“Hey, Peter,” you called, instantly regretting every decision you had ever made that had led you up to that moment. Your mind blanked and forgot how normal conversations carried on.

“Uh, hey… y/n right?” he asked, trying to sound calm and collected although his eyes were still red from holding back tears.

“That’s me.”

“What’s up?” he asked, and you could sense that he was a little uncomfortable in the conversation.

“This is probably over the line, but I know you were holding back in there.” Blunt, nice one y/n.

“What?”

Both of your paces slowed as a silence fell over both of you.

“For me it was my dad.”

“What do you mean?”

“The person I lost. And I mean really lost. I know we all lost time with the people we loved, but… I think we both lost someone that we can’t get back.”

“How did you lose him?”

“Survivor’s guilt I guess. I mean, of course, I wasn’t there so I wouldn’t know. But from what I’ve been told, I gave him so much guilt that he drank himself into an early grave.”

“Shit… I-I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. Well I mean not fine, it’s almost like the guilt just transferred to me. But nothing you need to apologize about.”

You tried to say it in the most humorous way possible, but it was obviously the truth. He just nodded, letting the silence fall back over you. He kicked a few pebbles as you walked and refused to look up from the sidewalk.

“I understand not wanting to talk about it, especially in a God awful therapy group, but… if you ever need or want someone to listen, I got you.”

“Thanks,” he smiled, glancing up at you slightly.

You took his phone and gave him your number before you parted ways to continue your walks towards your apartments.

Peter had been just as nervous as you to go to the support group. Aunt May had begged him to talk to someone, but it was difficult for him to find someone who understood. Sure, his best friend, Ned, had been dusted too, but he had been at home and came back in his own bed. The only thing he had lost was the 5 years. That didn’t mean that he didn’t have some difficulties accepting it, but it was just different for Peter.

He had come back on a foreign planet surrounded by people he had only know for a matter of hours. He had been transported to a battlefield where he had to fight for his life along with the fate of the Universe, for the second time, and that wasn’t even the worst of it.

He had reunited with Tony for a single moment, one that under any other circumstance he would have loved to look back on, but now only caused him pain. He had gotten to finally hug his mentor, his idol, his father figure, just to have to watch him die moments later. And it wasn’t a fast, painless, clean death. The image of Tony sitting half alive as Peter cried and tried to tell him they had won, that was the worst of it all.

Peter had been having vivid nightmares every night since he had come back. Some nights it was Thanos violently killing him, pinning him down and choking him or crushing him to death while he hopelessly tried to fight his way from his grasp. Other nights it was just Tony’s face, his sunken eyes boring into Peters skull were nothing to the uncharacteristic silence that came from him. No matter what it was, he would wake up sobbing, but always tried to keep quiet so he wouldn’t worry May.

He didn’t want to go to a support group just to have to hear about other people’s same old story. It wasn’t like he could just say, “I was there when TONY FUCKING STARK DIED.” That would give away his identity, and he couldn’t have that. But May was practically begging him to try it out, so he had gone, promising he would go to just one meeting, just as you had promised your mother. You had both fully intended on holding up your end of your bargains and nothing more, but meeting each other made you rethink.

Peter was almost happy (if you could call it that) to meet someone who had lost someone like he had. Sure it wasn’t the same, but there was a similarity that gave him some comfort.

You were happy to meet someone that didn’t make you want to puke from nerves. Something about him made you feel like your life wasn’t such a terrible waste.

You were a bit reluctant to go back that Thursday, but you found yourself craving interaction with Peter. It was exhausting dealing with people who pretended to understand, who thought that just because someone they loved disappeared, they knew exactly what you had gone through. Sure they had lived 5 years without someone, but that was just it, they had lived. You had been dead for five years, there was a big difference in the type of trauma you had experienced.

You had also realized that you had given Peter the wrong number by mistake, and felt terrible enough that you had to show up at group to apologize and give him the right one.

You stepped into the familiar room of the rec center and instantly recognized Peter from across the room. He was awkwardly standing near the circle of chairs, far enough from everyone else so he wouldn’t be pulled into a conversation.

“So, I can explain,” you said, approaching him with a guilty smile.

“Explain what?” he chuckled.

“I don’t know if you happened to text me…”

“I did.”

“Well, get this, I must have forgotten that I fucking died for 5 years, and in turn, my phone died 5 years ago. So I kinda gave you my old phone number, and didn’t get anything from you.”

He let out a genuine laugh at your light humor. He couldn’t recall anyone else making a lighthearted joke about dying, and he found it refreshing. It was nice to not have you tiptoe around him.

You took his phone and gave him your number, the right one this time, but this didn’t stop him from teasing you about it until Kyle called for the group to start.

The group mostly went the same way that it had the time before. Kyle helped organize who would speak when, asking if there was anything anyone was have troubles dealing with, anything anyone wanted to get off their chest, etc.

Then he came to you.

“Y/n, on Tuesday you were having some trouble speaking about who you lost. Do you feel ready to discuss it with us this time?”

There it was again. The word lost. And the reminder of what you had done to your family. You were the reason your father died and what family remained was miserable.

“Not today.”

“Are you sure? We’re all here to support you. We all lost someone too.”

“Did we, Kyle? Did we all lose someone?”

“…What do you mean?”

“I mean, some of us in here really get loss. Some of us really lost someone that is never coming back, or lost the time that served to take away our loved ones, and you sure as hell aren’t one of us. So I’d appreciate if you’d use that term more conservatively.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know it would upset you. Is there a reason you don’t like it?”

“Holy fuck, Kyle. You really don’t get it do you? You may have “lost” someone, but they came back to you. You can’t make that time up with them, sure, but you got to live through those five years. You got to experience life while they were gone, and now you get spent the rest of your life with them. Some of us don’t get that, Kyle.”

You were visibly shaking when you finished. Some of the people in the circle were looking at you like you were about to beat them up. You had never had an outburst like that, and you were a little afraid of yourself as well. You made short eye contact with Peter, who was sitting right next to you. He just gave you a small, sympathetic smile. If it had come from Kyle, you would have officially lost your shit, but from Peter, you felt understanding. Whatever it was that he had gone through, it made him understand what you were going through.

“Ok, I understand, and you’re right, I didn’t lose someone permanently. Maybe if you tell me about your experience, I can be better about that.”

Your breathing picked up pace, realizing that you had cornered yourself into sharing with the group. You didn’t know if you were ready to speak from your own experience, but you didn’t want your outburst to be the last image that group of peers had of you.

“I didn’t lose 5 years of my life. I’m still 17. I lost 5 years of everyone else’s lives. And that is what I’ll never get back. And everything I lost, everything they lost, it’s all because of me. Sure they spent 5 years dealing with the loss of me, and they changed from that, but now they have me back. And now I have to live the rest of my life knowing that I’m at fault for everything that happened to them.”

“But nothing that happened is in any way your fault. It was random selection. Half of all life disappeared. None of that can be blamed on you.”

“You really don’t get it.”

“Then explain it to me. I am ignorant to your experience, y/n. To all of your experiences. The only way I can learn to help you, all of you, is if you explain.”

“All I’m saying is that if I could have chosen, I would have reversed the order. I would have suffered through those 5 years alone if it meant I could have my family back.”

“I think she’s just trying to say that it’s hard to deal with the aftermath of the time we missed. We have been thrown blindly into the destruction of those five years,” Peter spoke up beside you. It was the first time he had voluntarily spoken. “I mean, my Aunt cried for a week even after I came back. She’s been through so much already, but even when my Uncle died, I hadn’t seen her so devastated. And it was because of me. I agree, it wasn’t our fault, but that doesn’t keep us from feeling guilty about causing them so much pain.”

Sure, that wasn’t all you were trying to say, but you silently thanked Peter for speaking up as a chorus of nods and murmured agreements sounded in the group.

You actually thanked Peter after the group was over. You were surprisingly not on the verge of panic, but you still could feel the tears brimming your eyes trying to avoid the topic of your father.

“There’s no need to thank me. I could sense you were drowning with that answer. It wasn’t fair of him to single your trauma out like that.”

You just nodded and smiled.

Peter got into the habit of walking you home after group on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Every once in a while he would bring you a snack for the walk home, which you thought was nothing short of adorable. One observation was becoming overly evident though. Peter never spoke in group. When he did, it was just piggybacking off of other things, or to help you form your sentences (which you thanked him endlessly for). But you began to notice that you really didn’t know anything about what had happened to him, or his “experience” as Kyle would call it. All you knew about him was that he lived with his Aunt May and that his best friend was named Ned. Those were the only two things he would talk about from his life, but you were always happy to hear about them. Talking about them seemed to bring him joy.

And that was the other thing you noticed. Peter seemed sad. Sure, everyone was sad, it was a support group for people who had been dead for 5 years after all. But Peter took the crown for the saddest person there. He only smiled at your terrible jokes, and even then, they were small. You worried about him, but it became hard to worry about him and yourself at the same time.

You tried to sneak in some questions during your walks home, but you were always met with a Politician level avoidance of your questions. He would always find a way to reroute it.

No matter how much he trusted you, or how much he liked you, Peter couldn’t tell you about Tony. It was hard for him, he wanted to open up to you. He wanted to just break down and tell you everything. He sensed that you would know just what to say, or not say for that matter. He knew you’d be there to hold him while he recounted looking into Tony’s eyes as the life left them, but that would mean that he would have to tell you that he was Spiderman, and that was the last thing he wanted to do.

That didn’t mean he wasn’t filled with guilt every time you tried and failed to get him to open up. He hated to watch the disappointment on your face when he would find a way out of answering your questions, something that he had perfected with everyone who had asked him how he was doing.

About a month after you had started going to the support group, you started to have difficulty sleeping. Something about the dark suddenly terrified you. One night, around 3 am, you woke up from a nightmare about your family. Your initial instinct was to rush to Rosie’s room. She had always been there for you when you would have nightmares as a kid and you didn’t want to wake your parents. But now Rosie was an exhausted single mother that was still recovering from the mental health problem that you had caused. So you couldn’t rush to her. But there was no way you could be alone. Not now.

You reached for your phone on your small nightstand and quickly tapped on Peter’s contact and called him. You only realized that he was probably asleep after the third ring, but you breathed a guilty sigh of relief when he picked up.

“Hey, y/n? What’s wrong?” he asked, sounding fully alert, as if he hadn’t been asleep after all.

“Were you sleeping?” you choked out.

“Uhm… no. No, I wasn’t. Are you crying?”

“…Yeah.”

“What’s going on? Do I need to come over?”

“You don’t know where I live,” you giggled.

You could hear him let out a small sigh of relief when he heard you laugh.

“Wouldn’t stop me,” he chuckled, “What’s going on?”

“I had a nightmare. I know it’s dumb, I shouldn’t have called. I just didn’t want to be alone.”

Your sniffling broke his heart. He really wanted to come over and hold you. He wanted you to know you were safe with him. He was already out anyway, patrolling as Spiderman. But that was another reason he couldn’t go see you. He couldn’t exactly show up in his bright red and blue suit and not have you ask questions. So he did the most he could do. He put his night on hold to stay on the line with you.

“It’s not dumb. And I’m glad you called me, so don’t apologize.”

“Peter, I’m a 17 year old who cries after bad dreams. It’s a little pathetic.”

“No, it’s…”

“It is, Peter. God, I’m sorry, I should let you sleep. Thanks for picking up.”

“Don’t you dare hang up.”

Your heart beat a little fast at his outburst. It wasn’t with fear, like it had been before you picked up your phone. It was something else.

“You called me for a reason. I don’t give a shit what it was. Just… just talk to me. Please.”

You nodded your head, but stopped once you realized he couldn’t see you.

“I’m tired, Pete.”

He had never heard you call him that. It was cute, but the circumstances wouldn’t let him dwell on the butterflies he felt when you used that nickname.

“Do you want to try going back to sleep?”

“No, not that kind of tired.”

He instantly understood. Just a month into support group, there were only 8 people left. 4 of the others had decided they didn’t need it anymore. They had found ways to cope. But you two had lost something that cut you so deeply. It was hard to deal with. It wasn’t just a part of your life, it was your entire being, and it was exhausting to deal with the grief and guilt every waking minute. And now you were both having nightmares. Not even sleep was an escape anymore.

“Do you want to talk about the dream?”

“Not really.”

“Okay, can I tell you about my night?”

“Sure,” you smiled, still sniffling but no longer crying.

Peter went on to tell you some mundane stories about his dinner out with his aunt, and how he had managed to lose another backpack, which was apparently a problem he had had for a few years. After a few more stories about Ned and him at school, you were giggling and starting to fall back asleep.

“Hey, Peter?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you for picking up.”

“Of course. I’ve got you,” he chuckled, quoting the first night you had met.

“I…I really appreciate you Peter. I hope you know that.”

“I appreciate you too.”

That was the closest you could come to telling each other you loved each other so early on in your friendship.

“You sound sleepy. Do you want to go to sleep?”

“Can you tell me one more story about May?”

He smiled at your request. You had told him a couple times that she sounded like a strong woman and that you wished you could be like her. He had the same opinion, and loved that you looked up to her, so he was happy to tell you one more. He began to tell you about how she always dances when she makes him dinner. She wasn’t the best cook, and she sure knew it, but it always made him smile to see her happily gliding around on the tile. It was one of the things that reminded him that the two of them were going to be ok, especially after he came back.

As he neared the end of the story, he could hear small snores from your side of the line.

“Y/n?” he asked, just to be sure you were unconscious. He smiled when the only reply was a snore.

“Goodnight,” he whispered, taking a few moments to listen to your peaceful breathing before he took the phone away from his ear to hang up. He was more than happy to have helped you fall back asleep. He had actually been awake because he had had a dream about Tony, and there was no way he could have fallen asleep afterwards.

His nightmares about Tony had started to become peaceful dreams. It would just be Tony talking to him, making some dumb jokes just like he used to do. But the second Peter woke up, it was almost worse than the nightmares. The void in his heart was filled by the dreams, but the second he would gain consciousness, it was ripped out of him again. So he had gotten into the habit of sleeping for a few hours when May would go to bed, and when he would have the dreams, he would wake up and go out as Spiderman. He would usually perch next to one of the murals of Tony. He would just stare at the paint as he thought. Sometimes, when he was sure no one was around to hear him, he would talk to himself as if Tony was there to listen. Every once in a while Karen would ask if everything was ok, almost as if even his AI could tell he was falling apart, but he would always simply reply “No, thanks” and continue talking to “Tony”.

That’s where he was when you called him, and when you hung up, he looked back up to the painting and smiled, his mask covering only his forehead at this point.

“You would have loved her Mr. Stark. She’s got the same sense of humor as you. If I didn’t know better, I would swear you’re related,” he chuckled.

Peter took a deep breath and pulled his mask back over his face, a little reluctant to go back home, but talking to you had made him feel more at ease than he thought was possible, and he wanted to get some sleep. The night was quiet anyway, no one needed Spiderman.

After 2 months of walking you home twice a week, Peter didn’t show up to group. It was the first Tuesday of the month, and you would be lying if you said you didn’t almost walk straight out the door. Kyle saw you ready to leave and asked you to stay, and you felt too awkward to leave, so you took your usual seat.

Suddenly group was a scary environment. You had spent 2 months with that group, whose members scarcely changed, but suddenly they were all strangers that you had no desire to be around.

Kyle opened the meeting by asking you how you had been doing, and if there was anything you would like to share.

“Not today.”

“Are you sure? You seem a bit anxious.”

Great, just what you needed, someone pointing out your anxiety in a group setting. Fucking superb, Kyle.

You had learned that if you denied, Kyle would try to pester you into sharing. You knew he was just there to try to help you open up and deal with your emotions, but man did he annoy you.

“I just don’t want to talk right now. Maybe later.” That was enough to satisfy him for another 20 minutes.

But after those 20 minutes he came back to you, and you still weren’t ready.

“Y/n? You about ready?”

You just shook your head.

“Y/n, I know you’re hesitant about sharing, but I hope you know that we aren’t here to judge you in any way. We just want to listen. Why don’t you tell us a little about your family. I know you care a lot for them.”

“Kyle…”

“You have a sister, don’t you?” he asked, recalling the single time you had let her name slip in group.

You let out a sigh, knowing you weren’t going to get out of it a second time. There was no way you were going to be talking about Rosie though. You hadn’t even told Peter about her.

“I do, but there’s nothing to tell.”

“Nothing? In my experience, the more you avoid a topic, the more it’s hurting you. What’s the worst that can happen if you talk about her?”

Your breathing began to pick up as he pestered on. You tried to remind yourself he was just trying to help, just trying to make a breakthrough with the most difficult teen there. But that didn’t stop you from going over the edge.

Your mind started to race, thinking of Rosie. You tried not to think about the first time you saw her when you got back. When you had said her name and she refused to turn around. Her ignoring you hurt a little, sure, but nothing compared to the little curses under her breath, the way her back tensed, or the tears you spotted when she turned to help your mother. You could physically see the pain you had caused her. You left her alone for 5 years. It was all your fault, all your fault, all your fault.

Your mind kept chanting that at you as tears started to brim your eyes. You tried to get the image back out of your head, but Kyle had opened up the flood gates that you had successfully closed up weeks prior. You’d admit, you had started to feel a little numb, but you preferred that over the overwhelming panic that would take over your body any time you had a thought. But here you were, having yet another panic attack.

“I’m sorry, I can’t do this,” you mumbled and grabbed your bag, rushing out the door as Kyle called after you. Nothing could have made you turn around though. There was no way you were going to ride out a panic attack in a room full of strangers. There was also no way you were going to walk home alone during a panic attack, so instead, you rounded the corner of the building and went into the alley. You had some pepper spray in your bag that you had readily available at all times, just in case, and you kept your hand on it as a security item, hoping it would calm you down.

You sat in the alley, despite some shuffling noises coming from the other end, hoping that you would be able to slow your breathing and stop crying before the group was excused. You wanted to get far away from there before anyone could see you.

Peter had been caught up on the other side of town. Despite the urge to hang up the suit after what had happened to Tony, he wore it every night. Sometimes he would go out before group, when he really needed to clear his mind. Most of the time though, it was just the late nights spent talking to the murals in his spider suit.

That night was different though. He had been on his way to group, but caught a couple teens trying to rob a convenience store. He had decided to stay until the police showed up, and just his luck, the police ended up taking almost 30 minutes to get there.

When he had finally arrived, he was quick to try to take his suit off and shove it into the backpack he always brought to group, but he only had his mask off when you had rushed around the corner and began to sob.

Peter quickly ducked behind the dumpster he was next to, out of sight of you. He was going to wait for whoever had entered the alley to leave, but as he waited, he began to recognize the cries as yours and quickly pulled the mask back over his head and made his way over to you.

In hindsight, the smart decision may have been to quickly change before he came up to you, so he could have approached you as himself and not Spider-man, but Peter wasn’t quick on his feet when it came to you. He just needed to make sure you were ok.

“You ok?” he asked, standing a few feet away, trying to make his voice sound deeper than it really was. It worked to disguise his identity while you were still hyperventilating.

You jumped when he spoke, almost pulling out your mace, but you eased when you saw the suit. You recognized him as Spider-man, the man who had been working with Tony Stark off and on for a few years before you had gotten dusted. You heard that he had disappeared as well, and people suspected he was dusted since he had been spotted a few times after everyone had returned. You were happy to see that he really was back.

The most you could do to reply to him was shake your head. Words were a lost cause at the moment, and you weren’t even going to try. He knelt down in front of you, putting one hand on your knee.

“Is this ok?” he asked, hesitant to touch you. All he wanted to do was wrap you up in a hug, but he knew it could be overwhelming.

You nodded your head and closed your eyes, trying to calm your breathing, but it was hard.

“Here,” he cooed, taking your hand and placing it on his chest so you could feel the rise and fall, “Just try to breathe with me, ok?”

You did your best to do as he asked you, and soon enough you had calmed down enough that you felt like you could walk home. You had begun to think clearly, and you suddenly realized, holy shit, Spiderman just coached you through a panic attack.

“Uhm, th-thanks. I should be getting home.”

“Aren’t you going inside?”

“No, why would I….” and that was the moment you recognized the voice that had been calming you down for the last few minutes, “Oh my God, Peter?”

Spiderman grew flustered and tried to play it off, much like Peter would have if you had asked him any personal question.

“No, don’t even try, I know your voice and your mannerisms too well.”

“I’m sorry, I really don’t know who you’re talking about.”

You reached out and took his hand, looking into where you assumed his eyes would be, although you couldn’t tell with the whites blocking them. “Pete, please.”

After a few beats, he sighed, helping you to your feet and further down the alley, out of the line of sight of anyone who may have been passing the alley. He reached up and grabbed the back of the mask, pulling it over the back of his head to reveal the mess of brown hair beneath.

“Holy shit,” you said under your breath. He tried not to laugh at your dumbfounded face. He knew he was supposed to be frustrated, devastated even, that someone had found out, but it was you. He had wanted to tell you anyway, he just knew that he shouldn’t. But now it was out, so, oh well.

As he was accepting that you now knew, you were piecing it all together. Mainly just the fact that Peter refused to talk about his “experience”. He refused to talk about who he had lost, but never denied that he lost someone, and now you knew why. It was Tony Stark. You knew Spiderman had worked closely with him, but “Peter” hadn’t, so there was no way for him to truthfully tell you what had happened.

You quickly wrapped him in a hug, tighter than you previously though you were capable of, especially after a panic attack. Peter was quick to reciprocate the hug, but his concern was still on you.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” he asked, holding your head tightly against his chest.

“I’m so sorry,” you stated, trying to keep it together. Losing Tony, to you, was painful enough, but you couldn’t imagine coping with that loss if you had known him personally.

“For what?”

“Tony,” you replied simply. The one word, that one name, was enough to break Peter, and it sure did, especially coming from your lips.

He hugged you tighter, and you could feel a few tears hit your forehead. You had expected Peter to be upset, but when his knees started to buckle it surprised you. Despite his constant downcast demeanor, he had been your rock for the past 2 months. He rarely showed any signs of weakness. But you mentioning Tony had torn him back down and opened up emotional doors that he thought he had permanently shut. It felt as if he had lost Tony all over again, like it was real again.

The visions of Tony were dancing around in his head, both the good and the bad. As he held you, he let himself think of Tony, let himself open up to feel that hurt, because with you, he knew he wouldn’t get lost in those emotions forever.

You guided Peter to sit down, his back against the wall of the alley. You sat to the side of him, facing towards the wall and leaning over just enough for him to still hold you and rest his forehead in the crook of your neck as he sobbed. You held him close as you ran your fingers through his hair, whispering quiet affirmations and hoping he could hear you over his cries.

You tried not to cry as you held him. hoping that you could give him the same emotional support that he had offered those past weeks. You tried to calm him as he tried his best not to scream.

Eventually, Peter’s sobs turned into soft crying and sniffling, but your hold on him didn’t loosen. When he finally pulled away, you kept one hand on his shoulder, making sure he knew that you were still there for him if he needed you. He shyly looked at you out of the corner of his eye as he sniffled.

“Can I… can I take you somewhere?”

“Sure,” you agreed with hesitation, nervous to go anywhere with him in that state, but you trusted him and hoped that going along would only serve to soothe him.

You helped him up and you watched in confusion as he pulled the mask back over his face, but didn’t say anything as he awkwardly approached you and put one arm around your waist.

“This ok?” he asked for the second time that night.

“Of course.”

“Ok, hang on tight.”

You wrapped your arms around his neck and within seconds you were in the air. Any fear or unease you had was left on the ground. You were squealing with excitement and, although you couldn’t see it, Peter’s crying had subsided into a smile listening to you.

When you finally stopped on the top of a random building, you giggled as you let him go. He removed his mask and gave you an ambivalent smile.

When you looked around to see where you were, you recognized the building opposite of you instantly. Of all the vigils, memorials, and shrines made out for Iron man, this one was your favorite. It was a large painting of him on an old building. It was vibrant and showed Tony Stark as you had liked to imagine him: confident and care-free. You had known, of course, that the carefree part was a stretch for someone who ran a billion dollar business and fought major crime at the same time, but you wished he had some peace in his life.

The third night after you had come back, you had been walking home after the fifth memorial service of that night. They had been popping up all over the city and you had made a point to attend as many as you could. You were lost in thought, dark scenarios consuming your mind, when you came upon the artist painting that mural. You were suddenly flooded with peace upon looking at the half finished painting of Tony’s face. You ended up sitting on the sidewalk across the street, a wistful smile peeking on your lips as tears filled your eyes.

Peter had also come across that mural being painted that night. He sat 100 feet above you, on the edge of the building, sobbing as he pleaded with the universe to send the real Tony back. Both of you were oblivious to each other, but you had both shared the same experience with that mural.

“What are we doing here?” You asked Peter.

“I…I think I’m ready to talk about it.”

You nodded and walked towards the end of the building, sitting on the wide edge. Peter took a spot next to you, but his gaze remained on the painting.

He recounted every single memory he had from that day, from fighting Thanos back in 2017, to getting dusted, and coming back on Titan in 2023 with no memory of the years he lost. He told you how he was transported back to Earth and how he had to fight Thanos’ entire army, trying his best to protect the fate of humanity, a responsibility that shouldn’t have been on anyone, especially someone of his age. He told you all of this with tears barely pricking at his eyes.

Then he told you about the moment Tony saved everyone. He watched on the other side of the battlefield as he snapped, and as the opposing army all turned to dust, he kept his gaze on Tony. He watched as Tony’s body began to wither away. He told you that he tried to tell him, he tired to tell Tony that they had won because of him, but he was too weak to respond. He had no idea if Tony had heard him, but he had to back away to let Pepper say goodbye. But he was still right there, watching as Tony died. Peter told you this, sobbing just as hard as he had that day. You did your best to soak up every word, but it was hard to catch it all between his gasps for air.

You sat side by side, your arms around his shoulder as he slumped down to rest his head on yours. You wanted to hold him and comfort him, but you didn’t even know where to start. So you did all that you could do. You sat with him while he let out everything he had been holding in.

“Pete, have you told anyone else about all of this?” you asked. The thought of him dealing with that trauma on his own for so long broke your heart.

“I mean, May and Ned know about me being Spiderman. And they know I was there when he died. But I try not worry them with the details.”

“You idiot,” you said before you could really think about it.

“Ouch,” he chuckled.

“I don’t mean it like that. You just… You need to talk to someone Peter. You can’t just keep that stuff bottled up.”

“But I did, I just told you.”

“Yeah, I know, but you shouldn’t have kept it in for so long. I know you couldn’t have told me, but you should have told someone.”

You held him a little tighter just imagining how he must have felt those past few months. You didn’t want to let him go. You were almost afraid that if you let go, he would fall to pieces next to you.

“You know, the same sentiment goes to you.”

“What sentiment?”

“You need to tell someone. I mean, preferably me because I’m so invested at this point,” he chuckled, earning a small hit on his shoulder, “But seriously. I know there are things you haven’t said. Things that are eating you alive. And no one can make you talk, but I’m right here when you’re ready.”

You replied with a small yawn, and Peter immediately pulled away.

“Are you tired, do you want me to take you home?”

“No, I want to stay here for a while. With you.”

He smiled and pulled you back into him. It was starting to get cold outside, but sharing your body heat was keeping you warm enough to remain looking at the mural of Tony.

You knew that this was a pivotal point in your relationship with Peter. This night was going to be the start of an amazing friendship, and you hoped that would lead to even more. You also knew that in the morning, after you had rested, you would be ready to tell Peter some of the things you needed to get off your chest, and you hoped that that would be the next step in healing. But until then, you were content to drift off on top of the roof with Peter’s arms wrapped tightly around you. His heartbeat was the only thing you could hear as you began to fall asleep.

When you started to snore, Peter glanced down at you and smiled. He hadn’t seen you look so peaceful in the few months that he had known you, and he was happy to see you rest.

He looked up at the mural across from him and smiled.

“Told you you would love her,” he smiled, a few tears coming to his eyes, “I think I love her too.”

You began to stir and mumbled out “You say something?”

“No, don’t worry about it” he smiled, tears still in his eyes. He was overwhelmed with all kinds of emotions from the events of the night, but overall, the happiness was what was consuming him. “Go back to sleep,” He whispered, combing his fingers through your hair.

Tags: @embrace-themagic @fanficparker @baconlover001 @chloe-geoghegan1 @chonisberonica @spiderlingsweb @steviesbell

#kayleessummerwc #peter parker #tony stark #endgame #spiderman #peter parker fanfic #peter parker x reader #peter parker x you #iron man #tony stark imagine #endgame spoilers #peter parker fluff #peter parker angst #tony stark angst #spiderman fanfic #spiderman fanfiction #spiderson #spiderman x reader

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seabasstrash · 5 years

Text

Lover~ B.B.

Word Count- 579 (It’s a short one)

Warnings- Just more fluff

A/N- This is for @starksparker‘s Summer Writing Challenge!! My promt was “Why do you always crank up the AC?” It is bolded in the one-shot. I loved writing this and I hope you all enjoy it!!

You had just gotten back from a mission and you were ready for a break. You had the weekend off and to say you were excited was an understatement. You hadn’t seen Bucky in a few weeks either because you had both been on separate missions that had taken a little longer than expected.

So, once you made it back to the compound, you rushed to your room to shower quick and put on comfy clothes. Then you went looking for food, because when you got hungry, it got bad. So, you found some foods to snack on and that’s what you were doing when Bucky came sauntering down into the kitchen.

“Mmm what a sight for sore eyes,” Bucky breathes out as he walks closer to you.

“I’m not complaining myself,” you grin as you wrap your arms around his neck. He leans down and presses his lips to yours. The kiss held so much love and passion in it that it felt like the first kiss again.

You pulled away after a while, “Well hello to you too,” you smile at Bucky.

“I’ve missed you, doll, so much,” he whispers as he pulls you in for a kiss.

“I’ve missed you too,” you say as you lay your head on his chest. You’d both had long missions that didn’t turn out the greatest and it made you miss each other more.

You stayed like that for a few minutes. Just breathing each other in. Eventually you pulled away and asked Bucky if he wanted to order a pizza because you were still hungry. You ordered the pizza and waited in the kitchen till the pizza got there and then you headed up to Bucky’s room to eat.

You got settled in and put a movie on so you could snuggle and eat your pizza. Neither of you really planned on moving much from that spot during the weekend. As you’re sitting there you notice that you’ve gotten colder than you were before. So, you snuggle up closer to Bucky to warm up a bit. While that helped some, it didn’t help a lot. You start moving around some more to try and get warmer, but nothing seems to work.

“You ok there babe?” Buck asks after watching you squirm for a few minutes.

“No, I’m freezing!” You complain looking up at him with puppy dog eyes.

He sighs as he gets off the bed and goes to his closet. He grabs one of his sweatshirts, the one he knows you love, and hands it to you.

“Why do you always crank up the AC?” you ask him after you put his sweatshirt on and get comfy again.

“Well, doll, I am a naturally hot person…” he winks at you.

“Oh, shut it Barnes. I think the only reason you crank it up is so that I’ll cuddle closer to you.”

“That’s one of the perks of cranking the AC,” he chuckles and wraps his arm around you to pull you closer, “I also don’t mind the way you look in my clothes.”

You just slap his chest as you giggle, “You’re such a tease, you know that?”

“Oh I know it darling, but you love it.”

“I so do, and I love you, so much,” you say laying your hand on his cheek.

“And I love you,” he says leaning in to kiss you. The movie is completely forgotten as you start making out with each other.

#kayleessummerwc #starksparker #writing challenge #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes imagine #bucky imagine #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky fanfiction #bucky barnes oneshot #bucky one shot #k writes #imagines #one shots #fanfiction #marvel imagines

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caffeinated--writer · 5 years

Text

Group Assignment

Pairing: Peter Parker x fem!Reader

Warnings: Idk cursing

Prompt: “Wanna get away from here?”

Note: Written for @starksparker summer writing challenge. Thank you so much for letting me submit this late and a VERY HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU ❤️ (I’m sorry for bothering you on your special day asking for more time, I had no idea🙈)

Kind of a continuation to my last one-shot A Knock Away to be added to my one-shot series on Ao3

Peter was a good student. In the months since you had transferred to school and gotten close to your next-door neighbor, it was one of the first things you noticed -aside from his boyish good looks-. He was always the first to raise his hand to answer a question (if you didn’t beat him to it) while most students ducked down behind their stacks of books to avoid it, always helped any students if asked, and with grades usually ranging between high A’s and B’s it was no surprise he was almost constantly found on the honor roll list.

But with all that being said, you also noticed that for a good student…Peter often found himself in detention. A lot. Whether it be for consistently coming into classes late or just not coming to class period. Sometimes for days on end. And as good as his grades were when he did turn in his homework there was also a good amount of times he didn’t turn in any homework or it was turned in late.

Like the school project you two had been assigned and grouped up to do this past week.

–

You had never been a big fan of group assignments on a count of the fact that no matter how well you did on your part of the assignment there was always the possibility that you could fail due to your other group mates mediocrity and lack of care in their work. This has, on more than one occasion, led to you doing group assignments by yourself in order to salvage your grade.

So, you weren’t exactly jumping for joy when the Chemistry teacher announced he would be assigning groups for the assignment. Going down his roster of names you could already feel the exhaustion, from the possible hours of missed sleep you were going to have to commit in order to pick up the slack of your unnamed groupmate, creeping into your bones.

“Final group: Peter Parker and Y/N.”

At the sound of your name, you picked up your head that had unceremoniously clunked down on the lab table in your despair. Owlishly you blinked at your teacher, processing the information, before turning to the left to stare at your partner. Eye’s meeting when Peter turned to look at you at the exact moment, a shy smile forming on his face as he waved. You grinned back.

–

“How could you steal my favorite partner away from me!” Ned whined, his head down and cheeks pressed firmly against the cafeteria table to make a show out of his distress.

Glancing up from the book MJ lent you, you stared at his display with uninterested eyes. “Why are you complaining to me about something I, nor Peter, had a say in? You were literally in class when the teacher said he was assigning groups.” You replied, rolling your eyes before taking another bite out of your homemade sandwich. You still didn’t like the school’s food.

A smiling Peter approached the table with slow unsure steps as he noticed Ned’s slumped form and slightly flailing arms. Slowly sitting down next to Ned brown eyes turned to you and MJ in question.

“He’s whining about the groups you were assigned to in chemistry,” MJ mumbled, eyes never looking up from her book as she pointed a finger in your direction “and he’s sad she gets to have all your attention now.”

A light blush dusted over Peter’s cheeks as he stared at his friend in confusion. Sputtering in disbelief at the accusation, Ned’s head popped up to glare in MJ’s direction only to be met with a smirk and the bird flipped at him.

“That’s not it! It’s just not fair that the two best students in the class get paired up to work on a project together!”

“Like a power couple,” MJ mumbled. A loud cough rang out at the table as Peter chocked on the chocolate milk he was drinking, previous blush now back on his face and brighter than ever. Lightly elbowing MJ for her teasing and causing Peter’s chocolate milk coughing fit, you slid a couple of napkins his way.

“The point is that they’ll barely even have to stress over the work while I get stuck working with stupid Flash!” Ned whined, head falling back on to the table to resume his slumped over form. Rolling your eyes at Ned’s continued dramatics you decided to ignore for the rest of lunch. All you ever got paired with was slackers and you had never gotten this theatrical about the woes of it. Or at least not in public; behind closed doors where MJ silently listened to you bitch was a completely different story.

“So…” you started, taking Peter’s attention away from simultaneously glaring at Ned and MJ “did you want to hang out after school? Work on the project?”

“Y-yeah, definitely!” Peter grinned, shaky hand running through his curls “want to go to Queens Center? Sit in the food court or um the Starbucks and talk about it?”

“Sure, see you after school. I’ll wait by the front gates.”

Conveniently the bell rang out, signifying the end of the lunch period. Gathering your stuff and throwing a balled-up napkin at Ned’s head in the process, you headed for the door.

–

You found, as per usual, that you didn’t have to wait long for Peter. It wasn’t uncommon for you two to walk home together after school since realizing you both were next-door neighbors but it still surprised you how he managed to meet you after school so quickly considering his last class for the day was usually on the other side of the building. Did he sprint? If he did, he never even looked like he broke a sweat.

Walking to the bus station you two began to fill each other in on the day’s events. considering most of the classes you had you shared together it was mostly spent rehashing incidents from class. It wasn’t long before you both found yourself struggling to catch your breath in the laughter that erupted between the two of you.

“Flash’s face…when his sleeve caught on fire…was priceless!” You wheezed, clinging to Peter’s arm to stay upright.

Peter shook with barely contained laughter, “I thought…his face when Ned poured the bucket of water on him was better!”

“He’s going to make Ned’s life a living hell on that project!” Ned’s theatrics at lunch didn’t seem nearly so dramatic now that you thought about it.

You were only a block away from the train when suddenly the ground shook taking you off steady footing and into Peter’s arms for balance, clinging to the sleeves of his sweater. The sound of maniacal laughter rang out and carried through the air as you both watched what looked like smoke rising in a distance.

“What the hell was that…?” You whispered, eyes squinting in a poor attempt to see what was going on.

Peter was already running before you had a proper chance to say anything.

“Peter! Where are you going!?” You shouted “The project!

Halting his sprint, he turned to look back at you, eyes looking around erratically. “Um…I-I just remembered that Aunt May needs me for something really important! I’ll stop by your apartment tonight to work on it!”

Speechlessly you watched him leave, confused by the sudden change in attitude. Shoulders slumping in slight defeat, already missing the presence of your friend, you continued your walk to the train station perking up only slightly at the thought of seeing him later that night.

Unfortunately, he never made it. The only warning in the form of a text at 10PM;

“I’m sorry, won’t make it tonight.”

–

Moments like that went on for the next couple of days, Peter making plans to work on or discuss the project only to bail last minute, his excuses getting vaguer every time he opened his mouth. You gave him the benefit of the doubt the first couple of times because Peter was your friend and even more so because he was good; He was never the type to take advantage of another person not even for the smallest of favors. Hell, every time you let him borrow your notes, he thanked you with goods from Delmar’s Deli-Grocery.

But when there were only three days left before the project was due and still no sign of Peter you began to realize maybe your judge of character wasn’t that great. With a sigh you turned to the TV, barely taking in any of the information on the green goblin spider-man coverage. It had been going on for days and quite frankly you were tired of hearing about it. Grabbing the remote you turned off the news and tossed it on the couch with a huff, preparing yourself for one of the three all-nighters you were going to need to pull to finish the assignment on time.

“Can you please wait?” Peter shouted, running to catch up to your fast-paced stomping. “I want to apologize!”

Tired eyes turned to glare at Peter with fierceness. 2hours. 2 HOURS is how much sleep you got in order to finish the project on time, and by yourself no less! Peter was the last person you wanted to talk to this early in the morning.

“Don’t bother!” You yelled “If you’re worried about whether we have an assignment to turn in, don’t be, I got it done so your grade is intact. But leave me the fuck alone!”

Slamming your locker closed you stomped into your third period (chemistry) paying no mind to the other students watching you, too exhausted and filled with anger to be bothered with what your peers thought of your outburst. The sooner you turned in this project the sooner you could be done with it.

With a huff you sat in your assigned seat which, though two tables behind Peter, you suddenly decided was far too close to him. You could practically feel his eyes burning a hole into you.

“Alright,” Mr. Cobbwell started “before we start class everyone please turn in your group assignment

Assignment in hand you sluggishly made your way to the front of the classroom, not even bothering to acknowledge Peter as he stood with you.

“Good job guys, I can’t wait to see what you guys did.” Mr. Cobbwell praised

“Mr. Cobbwell, I didn’t help…”

Your weary eyes shot up in surprise, jaw falling slack as you watched Peter’s miserable form. What was he doing?

“I didn’t help with the project. She did it all by herself…” Peter turned to face you “I’m so sorry Y/N. I’m so sorry I made you do it by yourself, it was never my intention to make you feel…used.”

You didn’t know what it was, the sad look in Peter’s face, the heartfelt apology, or the exhaustion leaving you to raw and aware of all your emotions, but you found yourself tearing up a bit.

You had it right the first time…Peter was good. He was a good one.

While in the past you had no problem rating out a group mate who tried to slag by on your hard work, you had no actual intention of doing that to Peter. Maybe it was because there was a soft spot still in you for your friend or maybe it was because deep down you really wanted to believe something truly had come up to make it impossible to help. Whatever it was you had every intention of letting Peter get the grade. He…he didn’t need to do it…

Sighing Mr. Cobbwell stood from his desk and motioned to the door. “Let’s have a conversation in the hall, Mr. Parker.”

–

It was around 4:30PM when you finally got out of your after-school practice session. You were lucky, practice usually didn’t end until 6 or 7PM but the minute your coach saw your exhausted face, falsely assumed it was because of sickness and sent you on your merry way only an hour in.

You were so beat you didn’t even bother to correct her.

In the empty hallway you sluggishly you trudged to your locker to grab your backpack, thankful for the lack of student chatter roaming the halls. The lack of sleep had turned into a throbbing headache you could feel behind your eyes and you were already dreading all the rush hour train chatter you were going to have to hear on your way home.

The sound of a Captain America PSA halted your steps. Looking around in confusion you followed the sound to an open classroom you had passed. It was a bit late in the school day to be listening to a Captain America lecture, right?

Taking a couple of steps back you peaked your head into the classroom you passed and had to hold in a laugh at the sight: a passed out Coach Wilson snoring to his heart’s content while slumped over Peter watched the PSA in boredom head-nodding lightly every time Captain America reminded him detention was a time “contemplate the wrong they’ve done” and to remember that “doing something bad…does not make you bad.”

Yeah…Peter didn’t deserve to be left alone to listen to that.

“Psst! Peter…” You called in a loud whisper. Thankfully he heard you the first time around and immediately turned to you at the sound of your voice. Good, you didn’t want to stand there whisper-shouting like an idiot any more than you needed to.

A fit of laughter almost passed through your lips at the comical wide-eyed look Peter sent your way. The snort was that came out was a little bit harder to keep in when he went so far as to point a finger at himself, as if to ask for clarification that he was the one you were calling despite being the only student in the room. He was adorable. You nodded your head before motioning him to come to you with a couple of flails of your arms.

Nervously Peter ran his hands through his hair “Hey…I didn’t expect to- “

“You wanna get away from here?” You cut in, carefree grin making its way to your face despite your fatigue. Owlishly Peter blinked at you, your word being processed -you assumed- before he cautiously turned to look at a still slumbering Coach Wilson.

“Come on he won’t even notice,” You urged “plus you only have 20min left in detention anyway.”

Crossing his arms Peter looked up at the ceiling in thought before cocking his head in the direction of the TV where the Captain America PSA continued to play. “I think Captain America would frown on that.”

Smirking you placed a defiant hand on your hip, “You gonna listen to a former war criminal or me, the girl who’s willing to buy you your favorite sandwich from Delmar’s store on the way home?”

Beaming Peter rushed to go grab his bag, careful not to disturb Coach Wilson’s sleep by running into a desk, before following your skipping form out of the classroom. Once by your side you linked arms with Peter, suddenly a bit more cheerful than drained, and grinned.

“So…what should we do this weekend?!”

TAG REQUEST:

@pandamemine

@starksparker

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spaceyaceface · 5 years

Text

Nine Days - Day Two

Pairing: Peter Parker x Reader

Warnings: None but fluff overload. You’ve been warned.

Summary: Y/N has to bring a plus one to her cousin’s wedding. Several states away. Road trip with her best friend and newly dubbed fake boyfriend, Peter Parker? You better believe it. However, Peter sees this as a very special opportunity. Nine days. That’s what he’s giving himself to get Y/N L/N to fall in love with him.

A/N: my goodness the response to Day 1 was AMAZING I love you people! This is still part of @starksparker summer writing challenge!

WC: 1.6k

TAGLIST OPEN

REQUESTS OPEN

Peter woke up and stared down at his empty hand. They had both dozed off sometime during the Goblet of Fire, hands still together, but obviously Y/N had rolled away from him during the night. He tried to pretend he was fine with that.

With a sigh, Peter got up off the bed, quiet as possible. Then he paused.

It wasn’t like he hadn’t seen Y/N sleeping before. He had at some sleepovers when they were younger, movie nights she couldn’t manage to stick through. Heck, even in class on the occasion she had stayed up for one thing or another.

But he still hadn’t managed to get over it.

Maybe it was because it was like this that he saw her the most unguarded, the most free she would ever be. She didn’t have anxieties, people to please, places to be.

She’d seen her like that awake on the rare occasion, times she’d laugh so hard, looking at him with eyes so soft like that moment was all she had ever lived for. He wished she could look like that every day.

He tore his gaze away from her, digging through his suitcase to pull out his clothes and went into the bathroom to dress. After he was done, he opened the door to see Y/N stretching on the bed.

“Morning,” she mumbled, voice a bit hoarse from sleep.

He smiled a bit. “Good morning. Ready for a full day of driving?”

“You know, I’m really tired, and that almost makes me regret forcing you not to drive today, but I’ve already committed.” She swung her legs off the edge of the bed, standing up and striding to her stuff.

“Good thing you’re stubborn because I’m tired and I don’t want to drive either,” he responded, grinning.

She rolled her eyes. “You’re a lucky little butt, aren’t you?”

“Well, I get to spend eight more days with you, so not really.”

She walked over and punched his arm. “It’s a pleasure, and you know it, dummy. You love me too much to deny it.”

He hoped she didn’t notice his bright blush. “Ok, fine, I’ll give you that,” he stuttered.

She gave a satisfied smile. “Glad that’s settled. Now, as the driver, I assign you to find directions to where we’re eating breakfast. I expect an answer once I’m done getting ready, got it?”

He nodded. “Yes ma’am.”

She smacked his arm again. “Nerd.”

He watched after her as she walked into the bathroom before pulling out his phone. He immediately started searching for her favorite breakfast places, specifically places he knew served the best pancakes in town. She’d been a sucker for pancakes since practically the day they met.

After finding the best rated dinner (specializing in pancakes) only ten minutes away, he set down his phone and laid back on the bed to rest his eyes. Before he knew it, Y/N was walking back out, makeup and hair done. Peter couldn’t help but think she looked just as beautiful without it.

“Found anywhere?” she asked, plopping onto the bed beside him.

“Yep. Pancake diner a few minutes away.”

She gasped. “I love pancakes!”

He looked at her and grinned, eyes soft. “I know.”

-------------------

Y/N was practically bouncing on her heels as she entered the diner, smelling the delicious aroma of breakfast.

“Calm down, Y/N, you’re going to scare off their other customers!”

For the third time that day, she punched him in the arm. “If you didn’t want me excited, then you shouldn’t have brought me here.”

“Sure, just blame me.”

But he was smiling.

Happy he could make her happy.

Once they were seated, Y/N searched the menu. She made her mind up quickly, setting it down as the waiter came.

“And what can I get the happy couple today?” he said, pulling out his writing pad.

Y/N blushed. “Um--”

But Peter was already ordering without missing a beat.

“I’ll get the breakfast combo with extra eggs and orange juice, Y/N will have the triple chocolate pancakes with chocolate milk.” He grinned at her, winking.

She chuckled. “Yep.”

The waiter smiled at the exchange. “I’ll have that right out for you lovebirds.”

Y/N opened her mouth to say something again, but he was already gone. She turned to Peter instead. “How’d you know my order?”

“You’re kidding, right? I’ve known you for practically my whole life. Of course you’re going to go for the items with the most chocolate!”

She shook her head. “Damn. And do think I’ve spent most of my life thinking I’m unpredictable.”

He smiled. “Well, you would be to other people, but not me.”

Leaning forward on the table, she asked, “What else can you predict about me?”

He leaned forward to match her. “Your typical wake up order is a hot chocolate with a few shots of caramel where you can get it, because you don’t feel like the caffeine does anything to you. You do your hair nicer when you’re trying to impress someone, like at a job interview or even just a new professor. You try to stay up late, but if you’re up any later than one am, you pass out.”

Her cheeks grew warm. “Maybe you know me too well, Peter,” she joked.

“Nah. Honestly, you couldn’t have chosen a better fake boyfriend.”

Or a better real one.

She didn’t know where the thought came from, but it made her blush hard, clearing her throat as she sat back in her seat. Sure, she had that thought once or twice, but she figured that they’d known each other too long for something that big to change between them. It scared her.

Luckily, she could push away her troubled mind as a large plate of pancakes was set in front of her.

She grinned. Pancakes were definitely something she could turn her mind to.

-----------------

The pair got into the car after breakfast. Peter had laughed his head of at Y/N, seeing how covered in chocolate she was. She retaliated by plopping some butter on his cheek, and they both had to contain themselves before a food fight broke out. The waiter had said goodbye to them, grinning at the ‘lovebirds’

Fake dating Peter wasn’t going to be so hard, Y/N thought.

On the road once again, Peter took the job of DJ, playing nostalgic songs that made Y/N grin and bob her head. A certain guitar riff made her gasp.

“Is this-”

“Mr. Brightside, of course,” Peter finished, cranking it up.

They both screamed every word, and Y/N laughed as Peter riffed on the air guitar, banging his head hard enough to get whiplash. The song ended and Y/N just smiled.

“I remember just sitting on your bed in your room, playing that as loud as we could,” she said.

“Aunt May would tell us that the neighbors would complain if we kept doing that. But that never stopped us.”

“Until they screamed at us from the fire escape,” Y/N laughed.

“Oh yeah, you were bawling!” He threw his head back laughing.

“I hate getting yelled at, ok?” she defended, but laughed along right with him.

He hummed. “I had to bribe you with a Star Wars marathon to get you to stop.”

“Bribe? You wanted it just as much as I did.”

“Hey, don’t rewrite history!”

And it happened then. They both came down from their laughs, looking at each other. And his eyes were the softest she’d ever seen them.

She tore her gaze away and looked at the road in front of her.

-----------

The hotel check in was very much the same as the night before, including the same result.

One room. One bed.

One overwhelming desire to pummel Tessa.

There was also another very inconveniant addition.

“Why the hell is it so cold in here?” Y/N said, wrapping her arms around herself.

Peter was digging around his suitcase before throwing something at her. “Here.”

She caught it, seeing that it was a hoodie. “Pete, if I take it then you’ll be--”

He silently pulled out another hoodie from his suitcase.

“Oh.”

“You didn’t bring anything but that tank-top to sleep in, I’m guessing?”

She sighed. “I’m dumb.”

“Yep. Take the hoodie.”

“Fine,” she mumbled, going to the bathroom.

As she pulled the hoodie over her head, she was suddenly overwhelmed by how much it smelled like Peter, the cologne he used and faint bit of coffee he used to keep him awake for patrolling hours. It felt like his arms were around her, holding her to his chest....

She tried to ignore how much she liked it.

She walked back out, Peter thankfully already dressed. She couldn’t have dealt with the hoodie thing AND Peter shirtless. She shook her head, trying to clear her clouded thoughts.

She noticed Peter look up at her from the bed and quickly look away, face pink. She didn’t blame him. She was sure she looked the same. Without much more hesitation, she laid down beside him.

In all honesty, even with the hoodie, it was still freezing.

“I checked the AC. It’s stuck on full blast,” Peter said.

This made Y/N groan. “You’re kidding.”

“I wish.”

An idea filled Y/N’s mind, one she hoped wouldn’t back fire. She scooted closer to Peter.

His eyes widened. “Wha--’’

“I’m cuddling with you to stay warm so i demand you cuddle back.” She blushed. Hard.

It wasn’t like they had never cuddled before. She’d fallen asleep dozens of times on Peter’s shoulder and chest. Maybe it was just because they had never done it in a bed. Intentionally.

Maybe.

Thankfully, Peter didn’t make her beg any more, cozying down into the blankets and wrapping his arms around her. She hesitantly laid her head against his chest, feeling his rapid heartbeat.

She hummed. “Warm.”

And wrapped around each other, it wasn’t long until they both fell asleep.

-----------------

A/N: I am currently out of town as I publish this (I just put it in the queue!) so any comments or requests or anything will be responded to as soon as I get back! Thank you!

Permanent Taglist:

@lookclosernow @xxxxdelenaxxxx @sleepybesson @cuddlemeparker @flowercrownparker @a-phan-of-youtube

Nine Days Taglist:

@fallen-imagine-angel @ironspider-girl @intricate-melody @stuckonpeterparker @s-ecret-garden @horanxholland @just4muggles @catnip411 @just-a-littlebit-of-everything @noriitheduck

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reddragon2 · 5 years

Text

Somebody

Pairing: Peter Parker x Reader

Warning: Some mention of violence and injury.

Prompt: My Somebody by James TW

Summary: Everyone needs somebody and this is how you became Peter’s.

A/N: This is part of @starksparker‘s Summer Writing Challenge. I imagined it set sometime between Homecoming and Infinity War.

You first noticed the cuts and bruises on a Thursday morning in chemistry class when Peter took his seat at the back of the classroom with his hood drawn low enough that you could only see the bottom half his face. He had arrived just early enough to fly under the teacher’s radar who most definitely would have told him to take it off. Halfway through though he got careless when he ran a hand through his hair and pushed the hood back just enough that you caught sight of them. A cut over the bridge of his nose and a purple bruise encasing his left eye. Nobody else saw it, that you were sure of and it was only for a second before he realised his error and tugged it back down.

You paid more attention from that moment on. You saw the days he came to school with a limp, or how when MJ looked away and he rubbed at his shoulder with his face scrunched up. There was the day he turned up with a split lip and when someone asked about it you heard him laugh and tell them he punched himself in the face accidentally as he went to clean his teeth. You seemed to be the only one to notice it was a nervous laugh. You also noticed the way he seemed to disappear the moment the bell rang and you were released for the day.

You found out his secret on a late spring night when you were grabbing a late night snack from the convenience store and arrived just in time to find Spider-Man securing a criminal to a wall in a flurry of webs. The man had held up the cashier and the neighbourhood hero just happened to be nearby. You recognised his voice before anything else, even with the quick wit he didn’t show at school. You kept it to yourself.

That was until the night you heard a commotion coming from outside your apartment block. Peering through the window you could see the familiar red and blue suit surrounded by enough enemies that it made your heart leap into your throat. He had clearly interrupted some kind of gang and you watched as he scrambled to get away from their grips, a web shooting out to give him height but not before a fist connected with his face with a force that made you wince.

Before you even knew what you were doing you found yourself running out of the apartment and into the elevator. You had hit the button for the ground floor before you realised what you were doing. Spider-Man was a superhero and you - you were a normal teenage girl about to run out into the middle of a gang fight. Thankfully it seemed to be over by the time you reached the complex’s entrance. The assailants were tied in a neat bundle but what caught your eye was the figure disappearing around the corner of the building. You followed after it and as you came into the alley you found the figure hunched over with his back to you, a groan of pain escaping him.

“Peter?” you called and he whipped around with your voice, the eyes of his mask growing wide with the recognition.

“Y/n?” His hand reached up and he pulled off the mask with a tug, revealing tousled hair and bruises already forming. “H-how did you know?”

“I paid attention,” you answered with a shrug, stepping towards him as your eyes raked over his body despite it being covered by his suit. “Um, so this is my apartment building and my parents aren’t home yet… come up and I’ll take a look at you?”

You felt suddenly embarrassed by the words that had come out, especially as Peter failed to answer at first. You cleared your throat, trying to force some confidence into yourself. “I just, I mean you could do with patching up, right?”

Peter nodded at that, which made him wince and you held out a hand for him which he took gratefully as he pulled himself up. He didn’t let go as you led the way back to the entrance but you didn’t say anything. He didn’t seem to realise until the two of you were in the elevator together and he finally dropped your hand as both your cheeks flooded with colour. You had never been more thankful that your parents worked late than you were in that moment, otherwise you would have had to make an injured Peter scale the building to your window.

Once inside you guided him towards your bedroom before grabbing an ice pack from the freezer, the first aid kit from the bathroom and joining him. You entered to find him perched on the edge of your bed, his mask dumped on the bed beside him. You gave him a small smile as you made your way towards him, placing the box down by the mask and pulling out some wipes.

“This may hurt,” you warned as you cupped his face in your hand and looked him over. There was a trickle of blood at the edge of his lips that was quickly drying and you wiped it away as gently as possible as he watched you with soft brown eyes. That seemed to be the only broken skin, though his cheek was bright red and you knew that tomorrow it would be a nasty bruise. You handed him the ice pack. “Use that on your cheek.”

“Thank you,” he murmured as he held it up to his face and you continued checking him over.

“Is there anything anywhere else?”

“Just bruises,” he started, his lips twitching slightly. “And maybe a broken rib.”

“Peter!” you gasped and he held his hands up, momentarily pulling the ice from his face.

“It’s fine y/n, I heal fast. I’ll be better in a few days.” You studied him closely, giving up after his own gaze refused to falter. With a sigh you lowered yourself onto the bed next to him. It was silent for a moment before he spoke again. “Did you really figure out it was me just by ‘paying attention’?”

“Yeah… I mean, I saw the cuts and bruises you know? And you always disappeared after school…” you began, chewing on your lip. “Do you remember the convenience store hold up about a month ago? That’s when I realised. I was there at the end and when I heard you speak I recognised your voice.”

“Really? Maybe I shouldn’t talk when I’m patrolling,” he said as his brows knitted together and you quickly shook your head, your hands gripping at the mattress either side of you.

“No… I like it! I mean, you’re actually pretty funny.” With that he broke into a grin and as he sat there smiling with the ice pack covering half his face you found it hard to believe that he was New York’s famous Spider-Man. Right then he was just Peter Parker, classmate at Midtown High.

“Thank you… for all of this,” Peter said, motioning to his face and you were quick to let him know it was no problem at all. He gave you another smile but this time it wasn’t quite so joyful. “It’s nice actually… to have a helping hand for once. I’m used to patching myself up and trying to hide any injuries from my aunt. Not that it actually happens all that often, mostly it’s small time thugs. But it does get pretty lonely sometimes, ya know? Saving the city and not really being able to talk about it.”

“Does anyone else know?”

“Only Ned, but he’s not exactly the type to put a Hello Kitty bandaid on my cuts. He just tells me how cool I look,” he replied and despite the situation you couldn’t help but let out a snort. It did sound like a very Ned thing to do.

“Well I don’t have any Hello Kitty bandaids… but anytime you need it I do have some Iron Man ones,” you offered and when he smiled at you you could see the tears in eyes. You felt a touch and looked down to find Peter’s hand beside yours.

“Are you sure?” he asked and you nodded, before you looked back up at him.

“Of course, everyone needs somebody right? Let me be yours.” Peter studied you seriously with the confirmation but you didn’t waver, only softening when you felt him link his little finger with yours. You smiled and he returned it, which only made yours grow. “So what’s it like being so sticky?”

The question made him groan and you let out a laugh as he flopped back on your bed. You smiled to yourself, you would definitely be Peter Parker’s somebody.

#kayleessummerwc #tom holland #peter parker #peter parker x reader #honestly I should probably start a sideblog for writing

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worldoftom · 5 years

Text

Party Foul! - 1/3

words: 6k

verse: More Than This – year one

pairing: model actor Tom x fem reader

warnings: clichés, a pool, family games, lots of OCs, language

summary: the summer is almost over and Tom throws a pool party. He just never thought you’d turn him into the running joke of the day.

Party Foul! masterpost | part 1 | part 2 | part 3

•

September / Year 1

Tom walks out of the house into a front garden littered with the first shades of autumn gold. The tree leaves flicker like candlelight, reflecting the sepia rays of sun in a steady dance, the once colourful flower beds in sync with the upcoming season. Officially, the summer ends in three days, but today the weather is clear and warm. It’s perfect for a party.

Breathing in the brisk air, he hears the spirited bird songs which blend with the chill, poppy melody coming through the house’s sound system as laughter from the guests permeates the air. He takes another deep breath, feeling all shaken up inside, wrecked with nerves, as you walk towards him.

You’re smiling despite the questioning frown atop your brow, which Tom understands because he must look stupid with the way he can’t take his eyes off of your face. Because his typical struggle is to look up, especially when you wear flattering outfits like today’s.

It’s just a basic black tank top and jean shorts, also black, with patches here and there repping your favourite bands. A dark plaid shirt falling off your shoulders, tangled in the straps of the backpack you’re carrying as well. And boots. Probably your go-to accessory even in scorching hot weather.

There’s no way he’s going to complain, though, because you look beautiful in everything you wear. Everything.

“Something wrong?” As if there could ever be.

“No,” he replies, shaking his wonder away. “You look very pretty today.” He smiles gently, eyebrows arched in admiration, hoping you’ll understand how sincerely he means it.

He knows you’re going to dismiss it, you always do when he compliments you, but that’s been less and less of a problem for him. There’s a profound need inside him, a craving itching under his skin, to tell you how beautiful you look, how secure you make him feel by just standing next to him. And at this point, after months-long feuds against the way you reject his compliments, he has no fear of praising you. Not like he used to, anyway.

Yet his anxiety flares up again, possibly stronger than before, as soon as you start walking past him to enter the house.

This is the first time he invited you here. To his childhood home. To a party with several of his relatives attending. He invited you as a friend, of course, alongside the rest of the gang, but he’s wary of everybody’s reaction to your presence.

A sudden new friend always raises suspicions. Assumptions. Theories.

His palms feel clammy as he leads you through the front door, hand hesitant on the small of your back. It’s a casual, common gesture for him, but he retreats it nonetheless as you step into his home.

“Will you calm down?” you ask, clutching his arm in reassurance, unknowing it was for naught. “I can see your blood panging in the veins on your neck.”

He doesn’t bother to cover it up. It’s like he can’t chill, chest frozen in fear that you might feel uncomfortable somehow. The fear that you might be bothered by someone. That you might want to leave before the party’s over.

The first threat is his own mother. (Predictably.) You’ve met her before, when Tom crossed paths with you while running errands with her. There was little interaction both times, but today he feels compelled to send his mother a menacing scowl as soon as her shadow turns the corner from the kitchen. Her eyes grow wide at seeing you in her house, after days of asking about the sweetheart we met at the market a while back? Is she coming? Is there something you want to tell me, kid? over and over again in anticipation to the party.

Assumptions, indeed. A constant menace inflaming his nerves.

Still, you’re completely delightful, not a hint of uneasiness as you greet her and offer to help.

“Nonsense, darlin’. Just get to the party. We’ve got this,” his mother says, a bowl of snacks in one hand, gesturing with the other one. She then slides it across your shoulder, embracing you with an arm next, giving you a little squeeze. “So happy to meet you properly.”

When she walks away, you turn to Tom with your forehead twisted into a question. He pinches his eyebrows together meaning to say I’m as confused as you are, followed by an upwards slope that means I didn’t tell her anything, but you don’t seem to understand what he’s trying to convey. Sighing, he just says, “Let me show you around.”

Tom doesn’t cover all grounds in his tour of the house, choosing to let you in on the key spots you might need while you’re here. The living room, the bathroom, the towel closet in the back porch and the guest room upstairs.

“You can keep your stuff up here, if you want,” he says. “I mean, presuming you have extra clothes in your backpack.”

“Mostly underwear, but yeah.” You shrug. Tom nods and watches you put the bag down on the desk, noting how there are a few others lying around since this is one of the backstage rooms they use when hosting pool parties, allowing the guests to change into dry outfits, if they want.

“Before we go back...” You stop when you’re both headed back downstairs, standing there on the top step, Tom on the step below. He whips his head back to face you. Your expression is unreadable, but there’s a distinct rush of friskiness in your eyes. “Wanna make out in your room?”

“No.”

“C’mon, Tommy.”

“Stop it, I— Ugh.” Tom shakes his head vehemently, reaching for your hand to try and pull you down, but of course you pull him back up instead. His agita gets in the way and favours you, and he goes up one step easily until your mouth bumps against his nose. “Don’t—” He leans back a little to mutter, “Don’t call me Tommy around here, all right?”

“Why? Nobody knows what it means.” You might be right, but he’s not going to risk it. “Besides, it could help you calm down. You seem awfully on edge today.”

Your voice has the lilt he knows so well, your words smooth like the smirk playing on your face. He feels your lips before they brush against his, lungs drawing in sharp breaths, the air rarefied from the hum tucked in the back of your throat. He’s missed this, missed you, but he’s not going to cave.

Yet with the short peck come the electric tingles, a deep longing to play. He wants to resist, wants to not let you kiss him like this, all grace and satiety, but a riot breaks out in him from the closeness of your body. The pressure of your chest against his. The pads of your fingers Morse coding your devilish message across his arm, tiny hairs standing up in response.

“The party,” he tries to say, but your mouth is right there, tender and inviting, hot breaths caressing his chin, pulling him into you like a magnet. “We.” He gasps at your fingers nudging his in a satiating tickle. “We shouldn’t.”

He doesn’t even kiss you, but the taste of you suddenly leaks under his tongue, spreading across his lips when he wets them. And your smell is exquisite as ever, so you, so summerlike, sweet floral notes beneath a sophisticated tint of brine, Tom soon lost in your high seas.

Until you pull away, aromas and flavours ripped from him in an instant.

“It’s alright if you don’t want to.”

Voice soft, gentle tone, his eyes search for yours and find that the frisky tone is gone. Now there’s just you and the glimmering waves of confidence in your irises. Tom has to look down or he’ll drown.

“It’s not that, I do want to, I do, but. Uh. I—”

“I get it.” You press the softest of kisses on his jaw, the curve of his cheekbone next, the corner of his eye before you pull away again, thumb smoothing across the inside of his wrist. He can’t help but lean into it all.

It’s so easy to give in to you, to every somersault of desire you trigger inside his veins. Sometimes he thinks you’re irresistible, others that you’re dangerous, but those thoughts turn into a blind surrendering as soon as you’re with him.

“Let’s go back,” he says, eyes shooting open and seeing you from up close, caution between every word. “Yeah, we should go back.”

“Yeah.”

Your body next to his turns the staircase into a dream, your arm so close his skin reacts to the static. He can even feel the silent breaths coming out of you strumming in his ears because everything is so damn palpable with you. Every single one of his senses heightened thanks to you. That must be why you’re impossible to resist at times.

Stepping out into the back garden together, the sound of kid laughter and the smell of chlorine replace the sensations of you.

Immediately there’s a screech and his brother’s body runs into Tom’s. “Mum needs you!”

“Danny!” Tom calls out before he rushes off. “C’mere.” His brother giggles and you remain quiet, eyes serene and mouth smiling softly as Tom introduces you to his little brother.

He had always thought that introducing the two of you would be thrilling for the kid, but he didn’t expect this much of a whirlwind. It might be because of the party and the excitement of playing around with their cousins, but it would be an understatement to say Danny is delighted to meet you.

Stars dance in his bright, hazel eyes when Tom tells him your favourite colour is black, which he also loves but doesn’t get to wear due to their mother’s idea that black clothing isn’t suited for children. Tom never understood it either.

“And. Get this,” Tom emphasises, sharing a look with a bewildered you before focusing back on Danny. “She works as a book editor.”

That definitely does it. Danny is an enthusiastic reader from even before he could read the actual words, some nights forcing anyone to read something to him even though he could tell the stories by heart based on the pictures. This fascination comes from their mother, a heavyweight book lover herself, and also a former academic librarian and bookstore clerk. So really this reaction is no surprise to Tom, but it’s so effusive that it turns an already excited Danny into a high-pitched, jumpy boy.

“That’s awesome,” he practically shouts. “Does Mum know? She’s goin’ freak.”

You merely chuckle at him, looking up at Tom like a lost deer because maybe you don’t know how to act around his brother.

“Don’t mind him,” Tom tells you, trying to ease up any temporary jitters. “He’s just an impulsive little gremlin who inherited my mother’s obsession with books.”

“And proud of it.” Danny gruffs shoving Tom’s hand away when he begins ruffling his hair.

“Books are pretty great, Tom.” You send a short, assertive nod towards his brother. Danny agrees right away, grinning.

Tom takes a step back, both hands in the air, admitting defeat. He was being needed for party chores, after all, so he excuses himself with an amused huff. “I’ll leave you two bookworms alone.”

Going back outside, a catchy pop beat turns into a sugary rock song through the speakers, a choice influenced by a playlist you shared with him a few weeks ago, when he told you he needed inspiration for his upcoming week of night shoots. It certainly didn’t come from him because he’s been in a pop to rap back to pop loop ever since he was a teen. He’s had the occasional infatuation for rock bands and has gone to live gigs with his friends, what with Eleanor being a band drummer, solo guitarist, indie rock chick, but that’s nothing compared to your music preferences.

One of his uncles finds him when he’s trying to get to his mother, and Tom helps them set up an extra table. His advice is to put it near the big rowan tree they have so that it sits under a large, refreshing shadow. As soon as the sun starts to set, though, that area will be filled with light and the last beams of warmth, which will be perfect for dinner.

Now that every guest has arrived and that his mother has decided there’s no more prep chores to take care of, Tom starts looking for his friends, spotting them by the sun loungers beside the pool. Mason and Rachel, the mirrored image of one another, are sitting sideways on the same chair, while Noah is sharing one with his boyfriend, Dylan, and Eleanor is standing in front of them, using her phone to show something to the group.

Tom joins them and sits down, trying to catch up on the conversation. Apparently, Eleanor has created a personalised Snapchat filter for the party and has been testing it with the rest of the gang. Then the conversation shifts to a full-on debate of Instagram vs. Snapchat filters, a topic Tom doesn’t know much about given his inability to be trusted with social media on his own, so he tunes it out.

Pushing his sunglasses up his nose, he lets them chat animatedly and takes another look around the garden.

His grown-up relatives are sitting at the table already, relishing a bit of conversation under the big shadow. His mother parades across the grass with a tray of insulated cups in her hands. She must have taken drinks to the kids, who are playing around with Pilot, the family’s scruffy terrier mix dog. Danny is with them, which is when Tom notices that he can’t find you anywhere.

At a closer look, he notices that his aunt Meryl is nowhere to be seen either. Shit.

“Oh, shit,” he mutters, mostly to himself. His friends seem to pick up on it, anyway.

“This is not over, guys.” Eleanor sounds provoked when she turns to Tom and kicks his foot lightly. “And what are you cursing at, you weirdo?”

“My aunt Meryl isn’t here,” he explains with a chuckle, adding that you’re not here either. It might not mean you’re together, but it most definitely does. The seething fear in him from before rises up at this thought.

Noah chokes on a laugh. “You think she went to get the photo albums?”

“The photo albums!” the twins exclaim at the same time.

“I really hope it hasn’t come to that.”

Aunt Meryl is a big lady with a big heart, but an even bigger mouth. Whenever Tom brings someone new to family gatherings, no matter who it is, she always finds a way to bring back all the memories from when he was a scrawny, weird kid.

“Oh boy,” says Eleanor, probably recalling her own take of Aunt Meryl’s tradition years ago. “And your aunt always goes for the dirt. You know she’s going to love that shit.”

“I know she’s going to give me a lot of grief about it, you mean.” Eleanor wiggles her eyebrows at Tom and nudges his foot again, although it feels like a sympathetic gesture this time. Tom, too, can’t imagine the number of things his aunt might show you that can be used to pester him the way you love so much.

“The Scouts,” Noah illustrates with a harmless example. “I mean, I loved it, but you know nobody ever remembers the good stuff.”

“The Elvis In England week.” Tom lolls his head against the back of the chair. To this day, he has no idea how a costume birthday party for Noah’s sister turned into a thematic week when they were ten.

“The Tinkle Incident,” Eleanor stresses. The whole group pauses before breaking into soft laughter.

The Tinkle Incident was when Tom was five or six years old and decided to pee into one of the toilets on display at a furniture store. Why he did it is beyond him. Yet what he really can’t fathom is the reason why his mother would photograph such a moment. According to her, though, it wasn’t a one-time incident. So maybe it was the running joke of the family, taking Baby Tom somewhere and see how he’d embarrass himself. And you’re just the type of person to never live down that kind of story.

Later, Tom takes to serving more beverages at his mother’s request while she brings out the second round of snacks from the kitchen.

They have a makeshift bar out here made from an old table, thanks to a conjoint idea to re-utilise it instead of recycling it. Danny insisted on decorating it with patches and stickers, which means Tom spent several afternoons sitting with his legs crossed in the garage, plastering pineapples and carrots and unicorns, even emojis, everywhere. It ended up being a fun sibling activity, with a little wrestling or Mario Kart-ing if they ever needed a break.

“So, your aunt Meryl.”

Tom drops the purple cup in his hand on the counter at the sound of your voice and looks at you sideways with an apologetic smile.

“She’s a funny one, huh?”

“What did she do to you?” he asks with an exaggerated tilt of his head. If you’re talking about his aunt like this, and if you’re just now getting back, you must have heard the long version of his childhood stories.

“Nothing too bad.” You sound sort of reassuring, but Tom doesn’t believe a single word. You’re not even trying to hide your impish expression, shoving your sunglasses to the top of your head. “Showed me around the house, showed me some photos.”

Tom squints his eyes at you. “I’m sensing there’s a joke about to come out.”

“Not really,” you say absentmindedly, scratching under your left eye.

“Hmm.”

Tom’s dubious about it, but he keeps working on the drinks, reaching under the bar. Well, it’s more of a colourful, practical drinks station rather than a bar. There’s a mini fridge under it, courtesy of his uncle Brad, filled to the brim with a variety of soft drinks, flavoured water and beer.

It’s when he grabs the jug of pineapple mint water and starts pouring it into a cup that you speak again. “Elvis, huh?”

Of course there had to be something. He looks up and finds a cheeky smirk dancing on your features.

“Don’t ask me to explain,” he says with a chuckle. “It was just kids being kids. Some go on treasure hunts, Noah and I apparently liked to dress up like American singers.”

“How did you make it work, though?” you ask. “I mean, did you have a different suit every day of the week?” By now, you look earnest and impressed, and he can’t believe he’s talking to you about this.

“Well, definitely not,” Tom says with a light shrug. It’s incredible how he expected you to tease him about something ridiculous from his past, and yet you’re practically asking for costume advice. “But there was a long time of prepping, and a lot of, uh, learning to sew, a lot of stealing my grandma’s old accessories.”

“A lot of rhinestones, I assume...” you trail off, your face flushing cheekily again. It’s such a good look on you, with the golden sun reflecting on your bones, a sparkle in your eyes and the light breeze grazing your hair inspiredly.

The edges of your hands brush briefly, his pinkie twitching and looping around yours for a second. It’s so fleeting he barely notices when the second’s over.

“A lot of hair gel,” he says, grinning, and the sound of your playful little laugh is a rhythmical ocean melody. He feels so energised by it that he leans to the side and bumps his shoulder against yours. You bump back.

Your hand grazes his again, a more persistent touch even though it’s just fingers scraping in the late summer air. While once it would have lit a fire in him, today he pushes that urge aside. He feels vulnerable, but that’s all right, because it’s vulnerable but pleasant. Because it’s you. The person who flipped every switch inside him after years of feeling dormant.

“A lot of make-up.”

Tom pulls his hand away at his mother’s voice.

She approaches with an empty tray in her hands, looking for the drinks she asked him to get minutes before. Although it feels like it was months ago from the giddy pattern persisting inside his stomach. He clearly isn’t finished with his task, looking down at the counter and finding four cups filled with icy flavoured water and a lonely one still waiting to be served, but it will be quick to catch up.

“That, too,” he says, resuming his actions. You help him by putting the lid on the ones that are ready to go, chuckling at the nametags stuck to the side of each cup, but he doesn’t have the opportunity to share your amusement over his mother’s genius idea before she speaks up.

“Did you tell her about the mini concert?”

“Mum, nooo,” Tom protests, dragging as much of his words as he can.

“There was a mini concert?” you ask, eyes wide, head turning fast from him to his mother. “Please tell me there’s video evidence of this?!”

“There isn’t," Tom intervenes, sending a glare to his mother in case she even thinks about trying to be funny and mum-like. She’s smirking, though, so his may be a lost cause.

“Well, not officially, no, but—”

“There isn’t.” Tom can’t stress these words hard enough.

His mother nods at you several times in a row, eyes slightly squished to dismiss his words, totally ignoring how serious he’s being. It’s like he’s not even there, like his mortification means nothing to her. You’re ecstatic as ever, grinning like a fool and gaping excitedly.

“Where’s your aunt?” you joke, or Tom hopes that you’re joking while you look across the garden. “I’m sure she knows something.”

“No, you come back here.” Tom pulls on your hand when you pretend to leave, even though you’ve barely turned your back to him and laugh your face off with intent.

This dreadful video is the one thing Tom is happy his aunt never stumbled upon. It may have come up in conversation, but Noah has kept it safely locked all these years after Tom found it among his mother’s things – not by accident. He was looking for it – and stole it from her. It features him at the end of the very last day, alone in his room, in full costume, unwilling to remove it and end what had been an incredibly fun week of friendship. It’d been stupid, but delightful, and what better way to honour a foreign legend like Elvis other than do his own private show? He’d been careless at the time, and caught on camera by his mother, but no one is ever going to put their hands on that video.

“I can’t believe there’s a video of you singing and possibly dancing,” you continue, hands still laced together.

“There’s definitely dancing,” his mother cuts in, putting the tray down on the counter.

“And you’re not letting me watch it!”

“I’m sorry, what?” Tom pulls his hand away with a bit of static to slide a finger behind his ear, pretending he has just now started listening to you. “I lost track of what you’re saying.”

“I’m hurt.”

“I don’t understand. Who’s Elvis?”

You both chuckle, perhaps for different reasons, but for a second your tiny snickers are the only thing he can hear ringing in his brain.

“You’re so lucky, kid,” his mother says all of a sudden, no explanation. She’s moving the cups to the tray so she can take them to the kids by the pool, eyes staring into Tom’s with a glinting intensity he can’t decipher.

“Lucky about what?” He tilts his head at her.

“She seems to like this whole Elvis ordeal a lot,” she adds. “And not many of your friends got over the Tinkle Incident that fast.”

Of course Aunt Meryl showed you that and probably laughed with his mother about it. It wouldn’t be a family gathering otherwise.

“You saw that, huh?” Tom grins at you. You’re all natural and cute right now, not in mock like other people have been when confronted with those pictures. He only thinks more highly of you because of it.

“Yeah, but for the record I used to do it, too, so.”

Tom whisks his head towards you, gaping at such a reveal before a smile rises on his face. You simply smile back and shrug, like it’s not a big deal. Yep, he thinks even more highly of you, now. He never met anybody that used to pee in fake toilets in furniture stores like he did.

“Look at you two.”

His mother’s voice makes him turn his head back to her, smile officially gone. He moves so fast that his brain feels all woozy and squished, knowing something is about to go down. She points at him, then at you, waving her finger back and forth between the two and saying, “This is so meant to be.”

Of course she had to be more embarrassing than any of his childhood memorabilia you could ever see. And now his face is warming up under his mother’s stare. He opens his mouth to retaliate, but you’re faster than him.

“Because we like to pee anywhere?” you ask, clearly in mock.

This is your thing. You always have something to say. You generally use these short quips to tease Tom, but now he can’t be more thankful for this habit of yours. The warmth on the top of his cheeks extends all the way up to his ears, so he makes use of the distraction.

His mother laughs and turns to leave, her tray now full of drinks. Tom looks at you and you turn your head to him at the same time, and you both share a soft smile. It does nothing to ease the spread of his blush, your piercing gaze clayed to his, so he focuses on tidying the counter and putting the jugs back in the fridge.

After his mother returns to grab some beers, Tom makes sure to leave you with his friends and away from her as he goes inside to take a leak.

His mind keeps swirling about what just happened. It’s crazy how you took one of the childhood moments he’s most embarrassed about and made it unsubstantial. Just, so... childlike without being childish. And maybe a little special because now you have something weird in common.

He comes back to find his mother sitting down at the table with everyone else, a huge smile on her face. Despite her objectionable matchmaking attempts, she does love her pool parties.

And so does Pilot, apparently. The dog is springing across the grass, tongue lolling out of his mouth, before plopping down in the shadow and huffing tiredly with his head on his front paws.

There’s a splash as the kids jump into the pool and soon, they’re fighting over who gets to lie down on the fashionable caticorn float and who gets the honourable seat on the three-year-old flamingo float. The news this year is an inflatable drink holder in the shape of a cloud with a little rainbow coming out of it, spots for 6 cups and a bigger area in the middle that they’re using for a game of mini pool.

Tom’s eyes fall back on the table, where there’s chatter and an overall joyful mood immersing every single person. There’s a flood of happiness in his gut because he’s missed the sound of a good, cheerful party. The media sometimes pass on the message that it’s only fun when it’s a huge crowd, but what Tom really likes is moments like this. When a handful of people he deeply trusts come together to celebrate a special occasion or even just to spend a few good moments as a whole.

There’s no doubt that his eyes find you among the group, even though you would be pretty easy to miss. You’re mingling with his family and friends, one leg on either side of the table’s bench, looking up at his uncle Brad and smiling. He must be telling one of his golfing stories if his body language is any indicator. You look so stunning like this, chirpy and carefree, chatting people up like you’ve always been a part of the family.

All of his friends look the same, but they’ve been coming here for years. You haven’t. This is your first time in his house, with these people. And there’s something—

Tom sighs.

Maybe it’s the angle of the sunlight hitting your sunglasses, or the fresh breeze in the few hairs that got loose on the sides of your head. Or maybe it’s Tom and the light-hearted aura of the party. Maybe it’s because you’re so comfortable in his family home.

There’s just something different about you today. Something that really pulls him in, but he dares not think about it. Thinking about it would be validating it, and he shouldn’t. He won’t.

Tom looks closer at his uncle and realizes how exaggerated his movements are. It’s like he’s trying to impress you, and it’s working because you’re laughing.

You lean back on the bench, hands tight on the table so you don’t fall back, lost in your glee. Then you lean towards his uncle, blasting into laughter at something else he says. This loud, open-mouthed guffaw makes the top of your nose all wrinkly and cute, and Tom can’t resist scrunching up his under his sunglasses.

“You’re staring at her.”

Tom turns his head to the side to find Noah standing next to him, arms crossed over his chest and a smug smile on his face.

Noah is, basically, Tom’s best friend. He’s a really tall dude with dimpled skin and curly blond hair, a default hint of tiredness under his eyes. They’ve been friends for a stupidly long time, through the acne attacks and first kisses in secondary school, the loaded heartbreaks and sleepless nights during uni, up to the terrifying struggle of adult life. (Or the struggle of pretending they’ve got the hang of adult life.) So of course Noah knows him really well. Except this habit that he has of pointing out when Tom is staring at you is a little creepy. Whatever Noah keeps trying to imply, Tom is quick to turn it down every time.

“No, I’m not.” He’s aware that he’s lying but refuses to cave. “How about we jump into the pool and play water polo with the kids?”

“Alright, let’s play. But you were staring at her.”

“Shut up.” Tom shoves his friend and Noah laughs.

Tom extends the invitation to the rest of the group. Noah starts moving to the pool to tell the kids, and Dylan follows him excitedly, this being his first time playing with them. He’s probably heard all the stories about Tom and Noah’s obsession with water polo.

Back in the day, as part of the school’s swimming team, they tried to convince their teachers to start a water polo team, too, because at least it would be more exciting than plain swimming. There was a formal request, an actual petition signed by a small number of students, but the idea never came through. The only way to compensate this failure turned out to be nagging his mother long enough until she bought a small cage to install on one side of the pool. Ever since then, there’s not a single pool party at this house without a game. Everybody knows this, kids and adults alike.

To Tom’s surprise, his uncles and Aunt Lily want to play while his mother and Aunt Meryl pass. The twins say they need to go soon, and Eleanor reminds him that she has a work thing later, so they don’t want to play either.

“Alright, let’s get this thing started, then,” Tom says on his way to the pool. He starts counting the heads, five kids, two uncles, one aunt, then Noah, Dylan and himself. An odd number. It would be better if there were two even-numbered teams, but Tom is sure he can make do. Either he or Noah could play for both teams and switch from time to time.

“Can I play?”

Tom flips around to find you getting up from the bench with an enigmatic expression. You hadn’t seemed interested at all when he was asking the group because you started checking something on your phone, but the more, the merrier. And you are the player they’re missing anyway, so he says, “Sure, if you want.”

“I take it you’ll be team captain?” you ask, lifting an eyebrow and moving your leg up so that you’re completely off the bench.

“Of course. It’s my pool,” Tom explains with a short nod. His eyes never leave yours as you start walking towards him.

“Of course,” you repeat with an eye-roll, so much closer to him now that your shoulder brushes against his. At this point, Tom sort of feels everybody’s eyes on him, but all he can focus on is steering his head in the direction that you move in case you say something else. “Care to make it interesting?”

“How?”

“We should both be team captains.” You’ve reached the sun loungers by now but turn to face Tom again. He tries to disguise his shock at your offer, even though he should have guessed you would suggest something like this. After all, you’re always mad keen to challenge him. “If you think you can handle it.”

“Please, don’t...” Noah, who’s usually at the helm of the second team, chastises you from his spot between the chairs and the pool, covering his eyes.

“What?” You turn to him and Tom follows your gaze to his best friend.

“Don’t provoke him.”

Tom grins at his friend’s advice. He’s awesome at this game after years of practice in this same pool every summer, so he has a feeling he knows how this is going to go.

“You’re on,” Tom accepts your challenge, nodding curtly at you when you turn back around.

“Are you sure?” you ask in your best impression of an insolent friend. Tom nods assertively, just as cheeky. “Because if I win, you’re going to get teased a lot.”

Tom scoffs. “Please, I could play with weights on my legs and I’d still win.”

“You don’t think I’m good enough to beat you?”

He shrugs. It doesn’t matter if you’re good enough or not. He’s going to destroy you. “I’m just glad you’re wearing waterproof makeup because you’ll be swimming in your own tears soon.”

“Let’s get it on, then, shall we?” You grin like a little kid.

“This should be fun,” Tom hears someone say from behind him, but he can’t really tell who it was as he walks towards the pool, removes his shirt and sunglasses and drops them on one of the chairs before jumping into the pool.

He comes up to the surface and turns back around, hands sliding over his hair. He tries not to, mostly because of the kids, but his eyes fixate on you undressing down to your black bikini.

It seems like the garden fills with silence when you finally stroll towards the pool. Even the birds stop twittering. There’s nothing but the solid beating of Tom’s heart and the static of the sunlight hitting your skin as you strut and dive into the water. Maybe it’s a trick of his mind, but the second your hands break the surface, the whole world kicks back into gear. Tom can once again hear the wind and the birds and the kids trying to decide who gets to play in which team.

“I want to be on your team,” his brother says excitedly, swimming towards you.

“No way,” Tom objects right away. “You’re my best player, Danny.”

“You can have Noah!”

“I don’t think it’d be fair if Noah and I were on the same team. Besides, she’s going to need his skills.” Tom grins at you and totally misses his brother’s reaction because you shove his head for that comment, but he pulls himself together rather quickly, never dropping his grin.

So they assign the teams with only mild protesting from Danny, and then they get in position. On the one side, Tom leads his brother, his cousins Emma and Todd, Dylan and his uncle Rick. On the other team, it’s you, Noah, Uncle Brad, Aunt Lily and his other two cousins, Eli and Oliver.

Eleanor offers to watch over the game and explains the basic standard rules, so no one forgets. And then it finally starts to the sound of her whistling.

•

Party Foul! masterpost « more than this verse [18+] » part 2

#kayleessummerwc #tom holland imagine #holland #b writes #morethanthisverse

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marvelousmarvelimagines · 5 years

Text

Mine

Pairing - Peter Parker x Stark!Reader

Summary - Since Dr. Banner started embracing his Hulk side, and Peter started his second year at MIT, other than your little sister, the lab has been pretty lonely. Fortunately, drunk facetime conversations with Peter keep it interesting.

This one shot had multiple sources of inspiration. This is my entry into @starksparker‘s writing challenge, and my prompt was, “I’m so tired.” Then I saw this post and thought it was cute as hell, so I went with part of that too.

Word Count - 1,802

Warnings - Language, Underage drinking, Endgame Spoilers are mentioned, but not really dived into.

Quiet nights at the tower were rare, but not unheard of.

The only constant workers were Dr. Banner and you. Of course he was in it less and less since he was now embracing the whole superhero thing more often. Peter also visited, but since he had started his sophomore year of college, he was also coming by less. Four hours wasn’t a . . . terrible distance, accessible by jet and suit which you had access to, but during the week . . . it wasn’t logical for him to come around.

So while nice . . . the quiet was also lonely.

You let out a sigh as you ran over the various designs on your screen again. After a whole four days of having to deal with Stark Industries board meetings and press that you wanted nothing to do with, getting to work on Peter’s suit was a relief. It was a surprise you had been working on for a few months now, and you couldn’t wait to show it to him on Christmas. He had wanted to skip the only class that hadn’t cancelled today and come up early, but you had told him no. You had fed him some line about spending time with his friends that he wouldn’t see over break. It was all to buy more time to work on his present.

Now that you realized you were stumped, you wished that you had told him to come ahead. You still had one last hope though. “Maguna, can you come here?”

Your eight year old sister made her way over to you from where she had been messing with her tablet, a smile on her lips at being included.

“This is Pete’s new suit. I think it’s missing something. What do you think?” You asked her, pulling the designs out from your screen into holograms and spreading all the different pieces around so she could see and manipulate them.

You watched with fond eyes as she studied and played with all the parts in front of her. In times like this, it was so easy to see your dad in her, and it made a smile come to your face, knowing how proud he would be. “You remember how daddy’s planes sometimes go invisible?”

With a nod and a big grin, you realized where she was going. “I do. Retroreflective Panels.”

“Can you do something like that? If they can’t see Pete they can’t hurt him, right?” She asked, shrugging her shoulders.

“That’s right, Morgan, and a brilliant idea.” You ruffled her hair with an affectionate smile. “It’s also a break through that should be rewarded with juice pops before bed. What do you say? I won’t tell Pep.” You promised, closing out all the files and turning off the screens.

“Can you braid my hair after?” She asked with hopeful eyes that there was no way you could turn down.

“Of course! What fun would juice pops be if I didn’t braid your hair after?” You said, as you led her out of the lab and to the apartment floors.

-------------------------

It surprised you how relaxing braiding your sister’s hair was for both of you. By the time you were almost finished, both of your eyelids were drooping, until a familiar ringtone started playing on your phone. “Is that Pete?” Morgan asked with a big, albeit sleepy, smile.

You nodded, sitting straighter to wake yourself up more. “Do you want to say hi before bed?”

Morgan nodded sitting up herself as you accepted Peter’s facetime request.

God it was incredible what the sight of him did for you. Your shoulders relaxed, breath found its way into your lungs easier, and a content smile formed on your face. “Hey, P, someone here wanted to say goodnight.” You told him, pointing the phone down so he could see Morgan.

“Oh my god, guys it’s Morgan! Morgan! I’m so happy to see you!” Peter almost yelled into the phone, looking a little too excited to see the girl he adored.

Morgan picked up on it too, giving you a ‘what the fuck’ face that you were sure she had perfected from Pepper. Of course, one look at that lazy grin and bright eyes, and you knew what was going on with Peter. “Are you coming back tomorrow, Pete?”

“What? Of course - of course I am! I can’t wait to see you.” Peter replied, his tone enthusiastic.

“Can you take me swinging again?” Morgan asked, her body bouncing up and down in excitement.

“Excuse me?” You interrupted, giving her a disappointed look followed by giving one to Peter on the screen. “You took her swinging?”

Peter waved his free hand in the air before settling it in front of his lips, his movements exaggerated. “Shhh, Morgan, you weren’t supposed to tell her!”

Morgan giggled at his response, and you shook your head. “Okay, Morgan’s going to bed now. Night sis,” You told her, kissing the top of her head and tucking her in. “Say goodnight to Peter.”

“Goodnight Underoos!” She replied with another giggle, hiding her face under the blanket while you snorted.

“Y/N! Did you tell her to call me that?” Peter asked, faking outrage.

“Of course not,” You lied, biting your lip to hide your smile as you closed her door and headed back to your room. “Anyway, when I said you should go out and experience college life, getting drunk is not what I meant Parker.” You teased.

His eyes widened in comic disbelief. “How did you know?”

God he was so cute. His hair was disheveled, his eyes glazed, not to mention the red in his cheeks. “Because you’re about ten times more adorable than normal.” You replied, climbing onto your bed and curling up with the pillow he frequented.

“I’m not adorable. You know who’s adorable?” Peter asked, pointing at the screen, his eyes serious.

You raised your eyebrows at him.

“You.” A smile formed on his face, so big and sincere it made your stomach flutter. “You’re so adorable and pretty and funny, and smart and I like . . . I wake up every morning and look at your picture and am like . . . woah. She’s my girlfriend. You know how perfect you are?”

Unable to find the words at the moment, you shook your head, a fond smile on your face as you watched him.

He grabbed a piece of pizza from some guy who was standing beside him, which after a, “Hey! Give that back, Penis Parker!”, you realized was Flash, and held it up to the camera. “For you, I’m going to drop a slice of the best pizza in Massachusetts.” Peter told you and then proceeded to indeed drop the slice onto the dirty sidewalk. “See? I love you that much.”

“Oh my god, P,” You replied, covering your mouth to keep from laughing and hiding how goofy your smile was at the same time.

“But, I should pick that up because that’s littering and yeah.” He rambled, hurrying up to pick the pizza back up and put it in the nearest trash can.

God you missed him. “What a cute, environmentally conscious spider boy I have.” You said, affection leaking from your voice. “I hope Ned or MJ is there to make sure you get back to the dorm okay.”

“No worries, Y/N, we’re going up now.” You heard Ned say from somewhere off camera as they walked into the dorms they were living in.

“Hey, Y/N,” Peter said, looking very much like the excited puppy he was.

Curious to see what on Earth he could say next, you replied, “Yes?”

“I love you,” He said simply.

No matter how many times he said it, you could never believe you were lucky enough to hear it from him. That boy was the embodiment of everything that was good and pure in this world. You, on the other hand, were not, yet somehow he loved you, and God did you love him too. “I love you too, Peter,” You said in a quiet voice, your smile turning soft as you watched them enter their dorm room, and Ned help Peter into his room.

As soon as he was in his room, you watched him flop down in his bed, curling into the pillow beside him much like you were, looking at you with large eyes. “Am I in trouble for letting Morgan swing?” He asked with a pout.

You couldn’t help but giggle at his reaction. “Not as much as you would be if Pepper found out.”

Peter’s eyes widened so much it was comical. “Oh god, please don’t tell her. She scares me.”

“Maybe you can convince me when I see you tomorrow.” You said, winking at him with a playful smirk on your lips. You could definitely think of a few ways the handsome boy could convince you.

“Mhmm, tomorrow,” Peter replied with a happy smile as well until a large yawn interrupted it.

“You tired, Pete?” You asked with a frown. “You should get some sleep.”

You could tell at this point he was fighting to keep his eyes open. It was one of the things that didn’t take you too long to learn about Peter Parker. He could be wide awake, but the second his back hit a mattress, he was out. You assumed it had to do with his late nights as Spiderman and his body having to adjust to fall asleep as fast as it could so it could at least attempt a few hours of good rest, and he could heal. “Don’t wanna,” he replied, rubbing his eyes. “Miss you too much.”

“I miss you too,” You replied, biting your bottom lip. Why had you told him to come tomorrow again? “How about you go to sleep, and I’ll be there when you wake up, and we can fly back together?” You proposed.

“Really?” Peter replied, sounding hopeful as his eyes began drooping.

The way that he often resembled a puppy was way too adorable. “Really,” You replied. In fact, you’d do whatever Peter wanted if it meant extra alone time with him.

His eyes closed while his mouth curved into a lazy smile. “Mkay. That’s good,” he let out another yawn, this time still leaving his eyes closed. “‘Cause I’m so tired. Just didn’t want to stop talking to you.” Peter mumbled.

A laugh left you lips, and your fond smile returned. “Go to bed, P, I’ll be there when you wake up.”

Peter couldn’t even respond, snores already leaving his lips.

You ended the call, cuddling the pillow tighter against your chest as you inhaled the scent of the boy you had been talking to.

Yeah, quiet nights at the tower were nice when they happened, but you couldn’t wait until tomorrow when they wouldn’t be so quiet anymore.

-------------------------

GIF Source

#peter parker #spiderman #peter parker x reader #spiderman x reader #kayleessummerwc

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spideyspence · 5 years

Text

can i borrow this? ; michelle jones

wow, so i’d die for mj but anyway

this is for @starksparker ‘s summer writing challenge and i had prompt 36. ‘can i borrow this?’.

i hope y’all enjoy anyway bc i love mj it’s official ahhh

my masterlist

It was getting colder because it was slowly reaching winter in New York so everybody’s outfits were different. Some were wearing jeans and a t-shirt while some were wearing their jeans with a long sleeve and a jumper.

There was a chilly breeze that day, but you had come prepared. You were wearing a jumper with your skirt (and stockings so your legs didn’t freeze) but you always kept a spare jumper at the top of your locker just in case you forgot. You had worn it quite a bit around school because it was great during the summer when the air conditioner was set to ‘too cold’.

You skipped over to your girlfriend MJ’s locker as she was grabbing her books for her history class, the same class that you had first. It was the start of the day so there was the early morning chill, and you could see on Michelle’s arms that she could feel it. She had goosebumps that you could see because of her short white t-shirt.

MJ smiled at you when you had arrived, and you had given her a quick kiss on the cheek.

MJ was never one for PDA. She would only hold your hand when it was crowded or when she got really excited in a second hand book store and was dragging you over to the classics section because she found the Virginia Woolf books on the bottom shelf. When it was a Saturday night and the both of you were watching some silly rom-com that was on TV (MJ had made you pinky promise that you wouldn’t tell anyone that she secretly loved romantic movies and novels), the two of you would be curled up on the couch, cuddling each other. The first time the two of you head made out, you were sitting on her bed and the two of you only made out now in the privacy of your own bedrooms.

You asked her if she was cold, but she shook her head, saying that she was fine. You softly placed your hand on her arms and rubbed it, generating heat and MJ frowned at you.

‘Okay, I’m a little cold I didn’t think it was going to be this cold this morning,’ She rolled her eyes.

You chuckled and offered your jumper in the locker, but MJ shook her head. You knew that that was the reply she was going to have, but you still tried.

MJ had stayed over at yours the night before because in class today, you had a history test that would count for a large portion of your grade. You quizzed each other with the flashcards you had spent hours and hours making. You both then studied until early in the morning, until both of you knew both sides off the flashcards off by heart.

The two of you were ready as you both had quickly skimmed over the information while eating your breakfast.

MJ had taken a change of clothes with her, but she had forgotten a jumper, but she wasn’t worried because she’d be able to withstand the cold for a little bit until she was in the school halls. She didn’t plan on the inside of the school being cold.

By the time she had grabbed her books and put the necessary ones in her backpack, she had closed her locker and turned to you.

You had realised that you had forgotten one of your books for your class as the two of you had walked back to your locker.

MJ put in your locker code and grabbed the jumper from the top of your locker. It was a faded blue sweatshirt that smelt like you.

‘Can I borrow this?’

You smiled and nodded and your girlfriend moved to the side so you could grab your book.

The jumper was a little big on you so MJ had to fold the sleeves a couple of times, so she’d be able to write for the test. You smiled and MJ shook her head.

She looked so cute and as you walked towards homeroom you had whispered that to her and she had laughed but also given you a classic Michelle Jones stare.

The two of you had walked past Peter and Ned’s locker and waved but soon enough you got a text from Ned asking if MJ was wearing your jumper.

There a couple of stares in homeroom as well and your girlfriend felt a little bit awkward, but you kept on smiling in her direction and she felt a little better.

As you then walked towards your history classroom, MJ had moved her hand, so it brushed against yours and you walked into the classroom with your pinkie’s linked.

You both ended up acing that test and Michelle had finished about 25 minutes early so she laid her head of the desk next to you. Planning to rest but you could tell by her steady breaths she had fallen asleep.

You asked her at recess whether she had a nap and she nodded. It was unusual for her to fall asleep in class, even if she had finished an assignment early. She just said that she was tired from studying but you knew that that wasn’t all. MJ had stayed up all night reading one time but she still hadn’t fallen asleep at school.

You looked over to see Peter and Ned coming over to the bench and MJ then told you why she had fallen asleep.

‘I don’t want those two losers to overhear. Your jumper is soft and smelt like you so I fell asleep to the thought that it was a Saturday night.’

You smiled and when Peter and Ned sat down, they asked why you were so gleeful.

You shook your head and told them to not worry but under the table, your hand found MJ’s under the table and you held hands and Peter rambled about some new sci-fi movie that was coming out.

(tagging a few mutuals @plushparker @poetrypeter @hollandroos @naturallytom @yikespeter @hey-its-grey @kiwispideys)

#hi mj pls date me #soft as HECk #michelle jones x reader #mj x reader #michelle jones fanfic #mj fluff #spider-man fic #michelle jones imagine #mj imagine #michelle jones fluff #michelle jones fanfiction #marvel fanfiction #marvel imagine #zendaya fanfic #zendaya fanfiction #zendaya fluff #kayleessummerwc

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leiasfanaccount648 · 5 years

Text

Good Times

MJ (Michelle Jones) x Fem!Reader

A/N: This is for @starksparker’s Summer Writing Challenge! I hope you all enjoy it.

Prompt: Song #6 - Good Times by All Time Low

Word Count: 5350

Warnings/Contains: Angst, fluff, slow burn, mentions of protests/statements about LGBTQ+/gender/body type(?) equality, abortion, and rape (some of the news/protests mentioned are news that’s actually happened recently in Europe and America so I apologize in advance if things don’t exactly match up once this has been posted and/or you’re against anything mentioned in this). This (technically) takes place during FFH, but I’ve changed it to where it’s just the class all going on the school trip to Europe and nothing more. All in all, it doesn’t contain any spoilers for FFH. Endgame spoilers are hinted at but not actually said.

Summary: As a graduation gift, (Y/N) gets to join her friends on their summer school trip to Europe. As the weeks go by and destinations change, she starts to view things in a different light. Something about Europe changes her, and maybe someone else.

“Passengers for flight 328 to London, England may now start boarding. Again, passengers for flight 328 to London, England may now start boarding.”

(Y/N) couldn’t believe it. When confirming the paperwork, she didn’t believe it. Packing for the past two weeks straight, she still didn’t believe it. Arriving at the airport, going through security, waiting by the gate, it all just seemed so unrealistic. She had never been able to do something so extravagant. She wasn’t just going to one place outside the country for a week, but all over Europe for 3 weeks. It was a big deal to her.

Growing up, she lived in New York but never had the chance to ever travel. Maybe a spring break or summer vacation every other year or so, but everything seemed to be the same with the same people. When she heard about the summer trip to Europe that her class could go on, she begged everyone in her family to let her go. Forget any and all possible birthday and Christmas gifts. This was the dream of a lifetime, and to get to go with (hopefully) some friends of hers? Even better.

All her friends, as well as her family that paid for her to go, all decided to go that very year they were told of the trip. They thought it would be a good idea as a way to relax and have fun after everything that had happened over the last 5 years. Even though she had been planning and getting ready for the trip all school year long, it was still so unrealistic. Imagine going on a once in a lifetime opportunity; it feels as though it may get stripped away from you at any second even though you know it’s stuck in your grasp. For once, the cards, more like her plane ticket and passport, were in (Y/N)’s hands as she stood and gathered her carry on luggage to take on the plane.

She looked over at her classmates, smiling wider as she took a moment to look at all of them individually. Flash was vlogging on his phone about the pre-trip (he almost got yelled at for trying to record while going through security); Ned was looking at a travel guide of different European cities; and then there was Peter, looking strangely relaxed more than excited for the trip. Maybe he was just as glad as (Y/N) for a chance at a new take of scenery to clear her head.

As she went to go get in line to board, she felt something bump into her side that almost knocked her over. She looked to her left, and saw MJ putting her backpack on her shoulders. She was smiling a little to herself, and it made (Y/N) happy that MJ was physically expressing how happy she was, even a little bit. It was rare to see her smile, and any friend smiling is a moment worth saving.

MJ noticed (Y/N) glance towards her and her smile quickly turned into a slight smirk. “I got enough books and movies downloaded on my laptop for both plane rides. What about you?” She gestured to the backpack that (Y/N) had on her shoulders. It wasn’t filled to the brim or as heavy as MJ’s but still contained all the essentials for the plane rides as well as the tours around the cities they would soon take.

(Y/N) shrugged. “Just a couple books, headphones, a small pillow and blanket to nap for a portion of the flights.” She laughed softly to herself, adjusting the straps on her shoulders. “Just things I know I’ll definitely need.” She smiled, unable to contain her excitement. The actual trip hadn’t even started but she had only flone on a place maybe 1 or 2 other times in her life. This was just as exciting.

MJ chuckled at (Y/N)’s words, finding it amusing. “Feel free to ask for a book if you get bored.” She walked ahead to get in line. (Y/N) stared at her a moment longer before deciding to do the same.

Walking through the hallway towards the plane, (Y/N) admired the artwork of New York City along the walls. She heard Flash continuing to vlog and other classmates chat amongst themselves, causing her to smile. This was really happening.

She finally reached her seat, that was sadly in the middle out of the three but she’d make it work, and got herself settled in.

“You mind moving your legs?”

(Y/N) looked up towards the aisle and saw MJ looking down at her. “Oh, yeah, sorry.” She laughed softly, pulling her backpack from the floor to rest in her lap so that MJ could get through. She was lucky to have the window seat. MJ didn’t say another word as she sat down, but (Y/N)’s attention was turned elsewhere.

“Hey guys, you excited?”

(Y/N) looked behind her, smiling when she saw Ned leaning over her seat to talk to her and MJ. (Y/N) stood and leaned against the seat with one arm so that she could face MJ and Ned. “Very.” She grinned before noticing Peter was sitting in his seat next to the window and messing with his backpack to get his headphones out. MJ replied to Ned, not bothering to turn around as she was getting one of her many books from her bag too. “Yep, you know it.”

(Y/N) giggled at MJ’s actions before turning to Peter. “What about you, Peter? Excited about the trip?”

Peter looked up at (Y/N), a small smile on his face. He honestly looked tired yet at the same time so at ease. “Yeah, it’s been awhile since I’ve gone on a proper vacation.” He laughed softly, causing (Y/N) to do the same.

“I know what you mean. We’re finally getting to finally leave New York and see a new part of the world, and not even just one! I’ve always lived this normal city life with nothing that exciting. I want to be able to have experiences and make memories from the good times I’ll have.” (Y/N) smiled to herself, glancing at the ground before looking back up between Ned and Peter. “And the fact I have my friends here makes it even better.”

She didn’t know what she said to cause Peter to smile so wide, but she’s glad she did. “Well, I’ve heard Berlin is beautiful so I’d look forward to it if I were you.”

~ ~ ~

About 2 hours into the 7 ½ hour long flight, (Y/N) was starting to grow tired. The teacher that was taking them said that flying overnight to London was somehow cheaper for the school, and students, to pay for so needless to say that most of the class was asleep around whatever time zone they were currently in while flying over the Atlantic. (Y/N) managed to stay awake for the first 2 hours by watching a movie on her laptop, but she couldn’t stop yawning near the end. Flash was next to her in the aisle seat, passed out and snoring a little bit (thank god she didn’t forget her headphones last minute), and MJ was somehow still wide awake reading her book. (Y/N) was about to close her eyes and give into falling asleep well but MJ’s sudden movements brought her back to staying awake. She looked to her, pulling her headphones off and placing them around her neck. “Good book?”

MJ nodded. “Yep. Just finished it. Then again I did start it this morning and it wasn’t that long.” She put the book back in her bag, reaching down to grab a small blanket from the bottom of it. If (Y/N) hadn’t known any better she would have suspected that MJ had a bottomless bookbag like Hermione from Harry Potter (which she had seen MJ read despite her saying that she doesn’t like to get into that much popular culture).

MJ then proceeded to pull out her sketchbook and turned to a certain page. (Y/N) glanced down at the words written on it, seeing the titles of the books she brought with her. She checked off the one she just read, writing a number next to it, probably a rating she gave it. “Mind waking me up when we get there?”

(Y/N) nodded as MJ as she put her sketchbook away. “Yeah, totally.” MJ grabbed the small plane pillow that was under her seat before leaning back against the still open window (despite it now being night time where they were), pillow behind her head. (Y/N) couldn’t help but smile as she stared at MJ a moment longer before going back to finishing her movie. She couldn’t help but feel so comfortable around her.

(Y/N) woke up about 5 hours later when she felt Flash next to her jolt awake. Apparently there had been some turbulence causing him to wake up quite startled. Flash proceeded to pull out his phone and took a quick video, whispering (kinda loud) about what just happened before proceeding to play a game on his phone. (Y/N) meanwhile had heard a ring come from above, meaning that the captain or a flight attendant was about to speak. She pulled her headphones off just in time to hear what was being said.

“If everyone could please put their seat belts back on, we will be landing in about 20 minutes at the London International Airport.”

(Y/N) had never felt herself smile so wide. They were here. She turned to MJ, remembering to wake her up, but hesitated when she saw the sun peak over the horizon, shine through the open window, and momentarily blind her. She moved her head back against the seat to avoid the sun’s light and saw MJ still asleep in her seat. She had moved slightly so her head was resting right next to the window. She honestly looked beautiful like this. Content, sun barely hitting her, and just at ease. (Y/N) pulled out her phone and snapped a couple pictures. She noticed after taking the third one that MJ had one eye open and was smirking at the camera. (Y/N) froze, flustered.

“You enjoying the view?” MJ didn’t move, still smirking, but (Y/N) was quick to put her phone down, feeling her cheeks heat up from embarrassment. Hopefully it wasn’t too noticeable with the sun now hitting her face again as well as the shade from the plane wall.

“Sorry, I was just wanting to get some pictures of everyone on the plane.” She laughed softly, quickly getting up to see if Ned and Peter, who were already looking out the window in hopes of seeing the city, were awake. (Y/N) smiled, pulling her phone out again. “Guys,” the boys looked up at (Y/N), “smile.” She held her phone up sideways, camera app open. They smiled wide at her as she snapped a couple pictures. “Thanks.” She smiled, sitting back down in her seat. “I’ll be sure to send them to you guys.”

She glanced back at MJ, who was stretching in her seat and putting her blacket away,and gestured to her phone. “Did you wanna see the picture I took?”

MJ shrugged. “Sure.” She leaned over to look down at (Y/N)’s phone. She tried to hold back a smile but couldn’t help but do the opposite. She loved how the picture turned out. “Nice.” She adjusted in her seat, seeing the seatbelt light on. She put hers back on, looking to (Y/N). “Are we landing soon?”

(Y/N) nodded, putting hers back on as well. “Yep. Captain said about 20 minutes.”

During said 20 minutes, (Y/N) couldn’t help but look out the window with MJ to try and spot any famous landmarks. She pulled her phone out again and started taking pictures from the view of the window. Once the plane landed, her and her friends grabbed their stuff as quickly as possible. After all, the quicker they got to their hotel, the more time they got to possibly see a little bit of the city.

Getting off the plane, (Y/N) admired the wall art of the hallway leading from the plane to the airport. It was different than the one in New York, showing Big Ben and the London Bridge instead of the Statue of Liberty and Times Square. She really was here. As they walked through the airport, the teacher was explaining how they needed to stay together and wait for the buses to take them to the hotel, but (Y/N) was too busy admiring everything, and they were only in the airport.

When they finally arrived at the hotel, it was just as amazing. (Y/N) was taking pictures on her phone while they were getting assigned to their rooms (the school organized it to where they had enough double bedrooms so that 3-4 people could all sleep in the same room). She was sharing one with MJ, Betty, and a junior that Betty apparently knew. Once everyone had gotten settled into their rooms, the teacher handed everyone a schedule of their plans in London based off what everyone wanted to do in the city. As for today, everyone was allowed to go look around the general area near the hotel as long as they were with a “buddy.” MJ wasted no time getting on her phone once she finished unpacking for the few days they were in the city.

“What’re you planning to do?” (Y/N) asked, laying down on the bed next to where MJ sat.

“Going to a protest held down the street.” MJ stood, grabbing another backpack she brought. She looked through it before heading out.

“What’s the protest for?” (Y/N) followed her out of the room, making sure to grab her phone and backpack that now contained the hotel room key and any other travelling essentials inside.

“Well there are two of them actually. There’s one for LGBT rights and gender equality, and then one for the women that are getting raped in the city.” MJ paused once they reached the elevator and pushed the button to go down. She turned to face (Y/N) with a serious expression. “Did you know that an American tourist got raped last week near Trafalgar Square and got severe injuries due to it happening? And a local 12 year old girl was raped not too long ago either in a park mid day?”

(Y/N) was speechless. “Are you serious?”

“Yeah. The fact that everyday tourists and kids alike being treated this way is awful. At least they don’t have to deal with things similar to back home.”

MJ wasn’t wrong. Back home the issue of both abortion and rape laws were still being discussed all over the country, mostly down south, but who knows what the New York state government is going to do about the controversy.

(Y/N) decided to change the subject, not wanting to think about it much further. “And what about the other one? Anything in particular happen for that one to start up?” The elevator opened and the two walked inside. MJ simply shrugged, leaning back against the wall of the elevator.

“Not really. They’re just doing similar stuff like what we used to do before our government finally legalized gay marriage in all the states. But now we’re back to fighting for equal rights for all people.”

(Y/N) watched MJ cross her arms and look down at the elevator floor. She knew how much these things got to MJ and it hurt her to see her friend like this. (Y/N) even remembers going to pride marches with MJ before the legalization of gay marriage. They were both gay but had only come out to one another at that point. It was things like that that really started their friendship. They weren’t best friends, but they got along and were able to talk about basically anything. Once the legalization happened, they both came out to their friends and spent the whole day in the city celebrating. In that moment, (Y/N) knew that MJ wanted to keep winning like that and make sure that everyone got basic and civil rights no matter who they were. She didn’t want future generations to have to fight and struggle like they did. Her distant relatives made a difference before, and she wanted to do the same wherever she went.

The elevator finally opened and MJ began to walk out before eyeing (Y/N). “You wanna join me?”

(Y/N) came back from reminiscing about the past and nodded. “Yeah, definitely.” She followed MJ out of the elevator. “Just like old times, you know?” She laughed softly, causing MJ to smile a little as well. “Yep.” She briefly recalled the same memories that (Y/N) just did. “The good, old times.”

~ ~ ~

As the days went by, (Y/N) had seen just about everything she possibly could. Big Ben, the London Bridge, Trafalgar Square, and so much more. Her and MJ even took a small portion of one day to go see 221B Baker Street (since (Y/N) loved Sherlock and claimed that she had to see it before they left the city). (Y/N) couldn’t have asked for anything more. Their last night in the city was different, however.

(Y/N) knew that there was so much more of the trip to come, but at the same time she didn’t want to leave London. But hey, all good things must come to an end sometime, right?

That evening, the group got to see a play after having dinner at a fancy restaurant, and the performance was honestly amazing. Sadly, at the end, Flash decided to vlog on their way out and cause a slight disturbance in the lobby when everyone was leaving. While the teacher was sorting that out, (Y/N) decided to go back into the theatre to take a couple pictures and admire the architecture.

“How many pictures have you taken of London alone now?”

(Y/N) jumped a little, not expecting to see MJ walk up to her. She laughed softly, looking down at her phone and scrolling through her photo album. “Probably near 200 on my phone, and maybe 50 on my camera back at the hotel. I can’t help it though, I mean,” she laughed, more wholeheartedly, taking a couple steps and gesturing to all the open, and now empty, space in the theatre. “It’s just gorgeous! Can you blame me?” She smiled at MJ, even happier to see her smile as well. “This place is just so pretty for being such an old building.”

(Y/N) looked up at the ceiling and admired the artwork on it. She took a couple pictures of it before looking back at MJ, who was honestly another breathtaking sight to behold. Her hair was half up and half down as she wore a floral long sleeve shirt with a pair of jeans. She still looked beautiful even if most people would’ve considered that a normal look for most girls. But MJ was not like most girls. (Y/N) grinned and held her phone back up, facing MJ this time, and making her a little confused.

“What are you doing?”

“Capturing pretty sites.”

“Do I suddenly have enough value for you to take pictures of me whenever you want?”

(Y/N)’s eyes widen in realization, putting her phone down immediately. “No, no! Sorry, I-It’s not that, I-” (Y/N) stumbled over her words, not meaning to offend her friend. She stopped when she heard MJ laugh softly with her words. “I’m just messing with you.”

(Y/N) smiled nervously in relief, trying to come up with something to say but all that came out was a small breathless laugh. Thankfully MJ was able to speak again before (Y/N) embarrassed herself even further. “You look pretty too.”

(Y/N) felt her heart begin to race and cheeks to blush a little as she heard MJ’s words. She couldn’t help but smile. “Thanks.”

~ ~ ~

As the days went by of visiting different cities, (Y/N) couldn’t help but marvel at all the sights they encountered. It was as if each place was prettier than the next. But one thing remained prettier over all of the cities landmarks, and that was MJ. Each plane ride they sat next to one another to talk about their favorite places from the city they were just at and share what they wanted to see in the next one. At each hotel, they’d room together and see if there were any other protests to go to or just read books before going to sleep. It was as if they were becoming inseparable, and (Y/N) didn’t want it to end.

The next, and final, place they were going was Venice, Italy. They had just gotten off their flight from Paris, France and everyone was excited yet sad about their final destination before having to head home at the end of the week. Like the other places, (Y/N) took pictures of different things in the airport and the busy yet lively streets outside it. She had even managed to get a picture of MJ as she looked up the street before the bus taking them to their hotel picked them up. She smiled to herself as she looked at the picture, finding MJ even more beautiful than before. She didn’t know what really caused her to suddenly feel this way, but she was glad she did.

But what about after the trip? Would they still be as close as they had become over the trip? Would they even get to still see each other once they go to college in the coming years? What would happen when they went back home to New York?

(Y/N) was brought out her thoughts when she felt someone nudge her arm. “(Y/N), the bus is here.” She looked over and watched Peter look at her as he was walking back towards the bus. “Let’s go.”

When they got to the hotel, (Y/N) proceeded to take pictures of the place, but her thoughts from earlier just wouldn’t leave. Even if things were the same here once they got back home, did MJ feel the same way about her? She always kept giving (Y/N) mixed signals and she didn’t know what to do at this point.

Back in the hotel room, everyone decided to go down to the pool after dinner before lights out was called, but (Y/N) wasn’t sure if she should go down or not. Her mind was too focused on other things. She knew it was stupid to get so worked up over this, but she just couldn’t help it. She finished dinner with her friends down in the hotel lobby early so that she could try and clear her head of her thoughts back up in the room, but nothing was working. She tried reading one of the books MJ let her borrow during the trip, but when she saw the little notes left by MJ in the blank spaces of certain pages, her heart turned in want even more. At this point, she didn’t know whether she hated herself for her feelings or not.

Deciding to get some fresh air, she stepped out on the small balcony attached to the room and sat in one of the chairs. The sun was almost completely set but the view of the city was still beautiful, making her think about the town they were in and what it’d be like to live there. Eventually, she was able to push her thoughts from earlier enough to the side to finally decide that going down to the pool would be good for her. Maybe a proper change of atmosphere was what she needed. She walked back into the room and grabbed her swimsuit to change when Betty and MJ walked into the room.

“You getting ready to swim, (Y/N)?” Betty asked, going to grab her suit as well to change into. (Y/N) simply nodded, saying a short yes as she walked into the bathroom to change. She didn’t notice it but MJ watched (Y/N) walk into the bathroom, glancing down at the swimsuit in her hands. She recognized it all too well.

About 2 years ago, they attended a protest together and one of the big debates was on women’s body types and how the entertainment industry stereotyped too much. (Y/N) had the fun idea to go to different stores to try on different clothes they liked but that media didn’t like them wearing, take pictures, and post them on some of her social media accounts. Low and behold, there was one employee at one of the stores that told both of them to put back the swimsuits since they “didn’t suit them at all” and tried to give them different options. MJ wasn’t having any of their bullshit and called the employee out on it. She even went as far as to buy the two suits that her and (Y/N) picked out. She wouldn’t admit it either, but she thought the swimsuit that (Y/N) picked out for herself suited her perfectly.

When MJ saw (Y/N) come out of the bathroom changed and ready to go, she couldn’t help but smile to herself, both at the memories and how (Y/N) looked. Betty beat MJ to the compliments. “(Y/N) that looks great on you! Where’d you get it?”

“Thanks, but I honestly don’t remember.”

That was a lie. She experienced the same flashback MJ thought back on, and it, too, made her smile. Even if they only stay friends, or part ways completely, she would never forget those memories and other good times spent with MJ.

After the pool party was over and lights out was called, the girls headed back to their room as did their other classmates. Back at the room, Betty called dibs on getting in the shower first, leaving (Y/N) and MJ alone in the room. (Y/N) decided on some more fresh air and went back out to the balcony to look over the city. This was her last few days in Europe and she wanted to make the most of it, but her mind was back to being filled with thoughts of MJ.

A couple minutes later, (Y/N) felt eyes on her and she smiled to herself.

“Sketching people in crisis?” She turned around, laughing softly as she looked at MJ through the open doorway.

“How’d you know?” MJ’s small smirk/smile was back and (Y/N) loved every part of it.

“I’m the said person in crisis, how else would I know?” She looked back over the city, leaning over the railing a little bit as she looked at the small river flowing by the hotel. The class was scheduled to take a boat tour later this week, actually. MJ’s voice brought her back from her thoughts.

“What kind of crisis we dealing with here? Financial? Existential?” MJ held back a laugh, setting her sketchbook down. (Y/N) simply shook her head and looked back over the balcony, knowing that she was joking around. “No,” she hesitated. Should she bring it up? Might as well get it out of the way before it’s too late, right? “I know it sounds stupid, but more like a love crisis.”

“Is it me?”

(Y/N) looked back at MJ, shocked. Before she could get a word in, MJ spoke up again.

“I mean, it’s,” she shrugged, “kinda obvious.”

The look on her face read as though it wasn’t a big deal, but (Y/N) couldn’t help but feel embarrassed. Was anyone else able to tell? But, in the words of MJ herself, she was just very observant, and there was no way in getting away with lying to MJ once she found out the truth.

“I-I mean,” (Y/N) fully turned around and leaned back against the railing, but she couldn’t look MJ in the eye. “Is it bad that I possibly like you?” She laughed softly, clearly worried and nervous but nonetheless let herself continue to talk about the issue at hand. “Is it bad that I don’t want to leave these places because I’ve grown so close to you and don’t want to say goodbye once we get back home?” She began pacing a little on the balcony. She couldn’t stop the train of thoughts that were leaving her lips to rant about how she felt.

“I always thought we were just casual friends, but this trip has made me see you in a different light because of all the good times I’m having with you. It’s reminding me of the times we’ve spent together before, and I want to make more memories like that with you. The first protest we attended together, the time we ironically went shopping. And then there’s the small things like working on class work with you and finding funny ways of remembering things.” She paused, taking a deep breath and looking at MJ with a sad smile. “But in the end, it feels as though I won’t ever see you again even though we still go to school together, and it hurts more than I thought it would. I never want to leave each place because of you and the fact that I’ve fallen for you even more from hanging out with you so much in each of them, but I know it’s eventually going to happen.” Another pause. “But please, tell me what your thoughts are on all of this because I’ve been ranting for too long and need to know how you feel before I possibly embarrass myself even further.” (Y/N) laughed nervously, finally finishing her ‘speech’ of emotions.

MJ had kept her full attention on (Y/N) the entire time, not realizing how she was actually feeling until (Y/N) had started to tell her everything. To her, (Y/N) seemed to be just like another person getting a small crush. Out of nowhere and immediate, but this seemed to be more than just a petty crush. She wouldn’t push it as far as love, but she was definitely honest and real with her feelings. MJ’s feelings weren’t as strong, but she, too, felt something there.

“I mean, I don’t like getting too close to people, but you make me want to be close to you.” She smiled, glancing at the floor. “Having feelings isn’t necessarily a bad thing, and the fact that you have them for me is honestly flattering.” MJ laughed softly, smiling to herself more genuine than usual. She looked up at (Y/N), meeting her gaze. “I wouldn’t mind giving this a chance.”

~ ~ ~

Over the next few days, MJ and (Y/N) spent time together as usual, but their friends could tell they seemed to be getting closer. They sat next to one another at every meal, talked about other interests they didn’t already know about one another, and either held hands or looped their pinky’s as they walked side by side one another. (Y/N) had even managed to get a couple pictures with MJ and herself (with her permission of course).

It felt as though those few days were filled with more memories than the others they had already experienced.

When it became time for the flight back home, they either leaned on one another as they slept or watched one of the many movies that MJ had on her laptop. The entire time they held hands as well, enjoying the casual yet intimate moment for the both of them.

They were sad to leave Europe, everyone was, but the two knew that the trip was only the beginning of all the memories and good times that were yet to come back home.

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