#livs1.2kchallenge

[heli0s-writes]

Ugly Christmas Sweater Party

Summary: Bucky (sort of) agrees to wear an ugly Christmas sweater, but what he ends up wearing is much worse. This is for @holy-captain‘s 1.2k writing challenge! Congratulations, Liv and thank you for hosting! I’m so sorry it’s late!! 

Pairing: Exasperated!Bucky x ChaoticDumbass!Reader

Warnings: Swearing Word Count: 1.8k

It’s supposed to be a fun and light-hearted thing—a season full of shiny-glowing-fantastic-twinkling excitement and ruddy red noses and misty breath in the chilled air. A season of joy and celebration, of spiked eggnog, fuzzy striped socks, and sliding down the compound hillsides on Steve’s shield.

And he’s screwed it all up.

It sinks in like the swollen marshmallows in his now cold cocoa, drooping to the bottom where the rest of the sediments lie. Outside, snowflakes gust and whip, blanketing the pine trees and skeletons of shrubbery in white flurries. Red holly berries peek out where they can and glare at him with their crimson eyes.

His phone lights up with picture messages of Steve and Sam, hurriedly trying on a cluster of sweaters in preparation. Horrid renderings of cats on ornaments. Oversized slouchy sleeves flecked with tinsel. Santa’s dreadful ass-crack peeking out of a chimney.

Bucky grumbles and turns his phone face-down, leaning back in his chair to stare at the Christmas tree in the corner. He wants to scream and put his leg through the damn thing.

Soft footsteps draw his attention to the hallway when you emerge, blinking slowly as you stifle a yawn from behind your hand until you see him. Then, you scoff and disappear back down the hall.

“Wait!” Bucky calls, leaping from his seat and nearly knocking the tepid mug from the table, “Damn it, wait!”

You’re gone. Stomped back to your room and even if he starts running now, he wouldn’t be quick enough—only getting the slamming door on his nose. He’ll try anyway.

Bucky slumps against the panel, pushing his chest against the cold metal of it and his cheek until his words come out smushed into his teeth.

“C’mon!” A pathetic whine of your name before he sticks his fingers underneath the slit of the door like a cat, wiggling the bent tip back and forth. Incredible. The Winter Soldier sprawled out all over a corridor, begging for forgiveness over this.

Only silence replies; you’re probably on the bed, thinking about scratching his eyes out. He can practically see you flicking him off with both hands. You’ve never been this upset before, and it deeply troubles him considering the dynamic of your very friendship spun on the axis of one single truth: Bucky’s the annoyed one. You’re the fuck up.

And now he has no idea what to do.

One week of it and he’s completely lost; the start of it all—December 1st when Tony announced: Ugly. Christmas. Sweater. Party.

Two days before Christmas, the team will be gathering in the common area for a white elephant gift exchange, and sweaters will be judged based on ugliness. What a stupid idea.

The winner will be awarded with “no team meetings for a month” and Tony’s personal stash of bourbon as long as no one touches his whiskey.

Upon the proclamation, you had clapped your hands together and grinned, “We’re gonna win this damn thing.”

And Bucky, being regular Bucky who ignores your half-witted ideas and short-sighted fixations, muttered, “Whatever,” and went back to thinking normal-person thoughts.

For the next several weeks, you dove into your knitting, the needles clicking together faster than he’s ever seen, weaving sparkling black and bright cherry red. The rows were tightly bound, looped and coiled expertly until he could finally make out the shape on the front of it.

He really did love your sick sense of humor—although he’d never admit it—funny, twisted, always brought him a bit of joy.

“Fuck no,” he had laughed at the image of a mutilated deer, antlers dangling silver ornaments showcasing his sigil. “I am not fuckin’ puttin’ that on. It looks like hell.”

“You agreed!” And then the needles and yarn hit him right in the nose.

On your way out, a low chuckle came from the corner of the living room where Steve sat sipping a cup of steaming chai. “You know Christmas is her favorite holiday?”

A snorting laugh bubbled the surface of Steve’s tea, “Good goin’, Buck.”

-

“Last Christmas” is on, blaring synth beats through the halls. George Michael croons sweetly, longingly, grieving an unrequited love before jingle bells ring in the scattered percussion.

Bucky hears your voice as you carol along to possibly the cheesiest song of all time—infuriated and baffled that you won’t speak more than two words to him but will sing your heart out to this crap. George Michael, Wham! and all of England can eat his whole ass.

He trudges from his room and into the den where the lights are dimmed and the table is set with snacks and a crock pot of hot chocolate. A dish of pine cones sits in the middle, flanked by a merry snowy village filled with little ceramic teddy bears and reindeer. On the edge is a deflated Santa Hat filled with paper scraps and pens for the voting process at the end of the night.

It is seven-thirty and you are standing next to Sam with bent elbows, wiggling your hips to the chorus, sliding back and forth on the polished floor in fuzzy socks. The two of you are facing the window, pointing at the flurry and a mountain of sludge that was previously a horrid misshapen lump of Snowman Steve.

Bucky squints a little, alert when he sees two matching sweaters—black on the back. Hell no, he thinks.

Sam turns around and Bucky’s worst holiday fears are confirmed. One innocuous “Oh hey, man,” and all the warmth drains from him.

On Wilson’s chest is that terrible disfigured deer you constructed, its antlers spearing out from its head to reach all the way up to his shoulders.

Bucky flies across the room and before either you or Sam can do anything about it, he’s peeling the hem of it over Sam’s head, kneeing him in the groin, and taking him down onto the floor. “What the hell!” Sam yells, struggling to get out of his grasp. “Shit—get off—Barnes!”

“A red star isn’t even your fucking symbol!” His hair is in his eyes along with Sam’s elbow, their limbs and joints knocking into each other in the wrestling bout. The sleeves and front are being stretched terribly, but neither of them seem to notice.

“Hey,” Your calm voice calls from above them—falling on four deaf ears. “Hey,” You try again, and when it doesn’t seem like two grown men can stop aggressively fondling each other over a damn pullover, you raise your hand and decisively land it across the back of Bucky’s head in a deafening crack.

A swell of multiple shocked gasps rises from behind you and when Sam and Bucky freeze, they see the rest of the compound’s inhabitants staring at the scene like a disfigured Nativity display. They also see your palm, at the end of your motion, resting next to your shoulder.

Bucky gingerly rubs his wound. “Ow,” He grumbles.

“Room… now.” You command, pointing your finger down the hall. Wilted, he shuffles away dutifully, saying nothing to the others as he passes. When he’s gone, you look scornfully at Sam and your beloved jersey, loosely hanging at the edge of his torso, pulled nearly apart.

“Voting starts in twenty, kid,” Tony mentions breezily.

“Yeah,” You reply through gritted teeth, “Don’t worry, we’ll be there.”

-

Steve coughs behind his hand awkwardly when Bucky steps back out, the once snugly-fitting sweater around Sam hanging collapsed and loose on Bucky’s right side. You’re close behind, bouncing on your heels and smiling as if nothing had gone wrong. Steve’s not sure which is worse: your wrath or glee.

“You, uh, you alright?” He calls quietly.

“Oh yeah, absolutely. Right, Buck?”

Bucky swallows, “Uh. Yeah.”

He has no fucking idea; when you shut the door behind him, the sweater in your hand was calmly unfolded and held up to his shoulders, damage assessed by a calculating mind. Bucky still has no clue what possessed you not to scratch his eyes out that very second.

Then, you looked him up and down and said, “Put it on, Barnes. Show’s about to start.”

And if he was a weaker man, he’d be shaking in his goddamn boots at how calm you are.

The team gathers around the tree, various colored pens and torn scraps in hand as they evaluate each other’s attire. Natasha is boldly displaying a patchwork kind of cardigan with what looks like the Michelin man ominously hovering behind a tree. Tony, of course, has custom-ordered a perfectly sized wreath knitted around his arc reactor heart. Steve has completely missed the Christmas memo (or is perhaps the politest Grinch on Earth) wears blue, the tiniest hint of gold tinsel woven through.

And Sam -- stupid, stupid Sam-- who didn’t plan on being robbed of a perfectly knitted sweater five minutes before the voting process, is out of the game.

Bucky is about to write your name down, because a medium part of him feels guilty for hurting your feelings while a much larger part of him feels apprehension about what exactly might happen if you lose, but you suddenly dig your hand into his pocket.

All five fingers shove deep until your fist is gripping tight and your knuckles stab his thigh.

“Hey! No hanky-panky during voting!” Tony is scandalized.

A vicious snap of his pocketknife swings open and before he knows it, your left hand is fisting the yarn on his chest and your right is ripping it straight through. The room falls silent when you do it a second time and Bucky’s at a loss for words until the breeze hits.

Chills.

A tendril of AC sneaks through the two open holes you’ve carved and goosebumps bloom all over his chest. Dread settles in his tummy.

His nipples are pebbled and exposed for everyone to see and with a quiet click of the blade retracting, you tuck it back into his pocket. 

“Let the voting begin.”

No one moves. No one makes a single sound and the whole place is quieter than a crypt until a shrill wheeze squeaks out of Sam’s nostrils. Through the choked snickering and the slowly building crescendo of everyone else’s laughter, Wilson admits, “They’re browner than I thought they’d be.”

There’d be no need for a voting process, Bucky knows. You’ve stolen the show – or rather, his nipples have stolen the show, and the once-worthy prize is now his Sisyphean burden to bear. He closes his eyes and counts to a million.

Screw exemptions from team meetings, Bucky thinks, praying desperately that when the bourbon is bestowed to him, by some miracle of sweet baby Jesus, he’d be able to get shitfaced again.

-

perm tags: @whothehellisbucky @serpentbaby @badassbaker @alagalaska @cake-writes​ @crist1216​ @star-spangled-man-with-a-plan​ @infinity-saga @jamesbarnesthighs​ @pinknerdpanda​ @xoxabs88xox​ @imsoft-barnes​ @momc95​ @typicalangel​ @wretchedgoddess​ @readeity​ @iwannasail​ @ya-lyublu-tebya​ @geeksareunique​ @wildefire​ @satanxklaus​ @jhangelface0523​ @wkemeup​

#marvel #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky x reader #bucky imagine #mcu #bag of tricks helios #Livs1.2KChallenge

[shakespeareanqueer]

Autumn Day (One-shot)

Pairing: Peter Parker x Reader

Summary: You and your best friends Peter Parker, Betty Brant, Ned Leeds, MJ Jones and Flash Thompson spend a day doing fun fall-time activities. Everyone keeps teasing you and Peter about the... intimacy of your friendship. 

Word count: 5,361 words (hoo boy! Longest one-shot I’ve written I think!)

My Masterlist

Contents: Cursing probably just knowing me, lots of teasing, mentions of smut and sexual things but no actual smut

A/N: This is for @holy-captain​‘s Liv’s 1.2K Writing Challenge! Thanks, Liv, for letting me participate! I had lots of fun writing this. My prompt was going apple picking. If I try my hand at social media AUs, I may try turning this one into that. Would anyone want that?

Photo by Fumiaki Hayashi on Unsplash

You hiss as a single beam of light snakes through the side of the window and pierces right into your closed eyelid from where your roommate Betty has pulled back the shade.

“What time is it?” you grumble, rolling over onto your other side to escape the dagger of sunlight.

Betty is bouncing on the balls of her feet, way too perky and awake for your liking, as she often is.

It is incredible that you get along so well as roommates. In any version of the universe, you would be great friends for a variety of reasons related to compatibility but also the opposites-attract philosophy, but in the world where you come home at the very reasonable hour of 8:30pm to find her already asleep, and hear her wake for the gym every morning at the unholy hour of 7am even on the weekends, it is nothing short of a damn miracle that you still manage to retain any sort of liking for her. But you do; she is your best friend here in college.

Well, second best.

Well… third best.

Whatever time it is, it is too early in the morning to be awake and exerting the mental energy required to name and rank all of your best friends. For being the reason that you are, Betty has now fallen behind Ned to fourth. Ned would never do this to you.

“6:59 am,” she squeals.

Fifth. Behind Flash freakin’ Thompson.

You groan. Rumors were circulating widely that this was to be Autumn Day, the one day of the semester when the Dean would ‘spur-of-the-moment’ cancel classes so that the student body could spend the day participating in fun, seasonal activities. No one knows the date ahead of time, especially as it is supposed to be tied to the weather—the perfect fall day when it would be cruel and unusual punishment to force students to sit through classes— but people love to speculate anyway. And all evidence points towards today being the day.

To you, a day off meant sleeping in. At least a little. At least until it’s time to join the dorm in the annual trip to the farm, which wouldn’t be until late morning/early afternoon.

But the dean announces Autumn Day by ringing the clocktower bells at 7am, so here Betty is, at the crack-ass of dawn, shivering with anticipation.

The clock hand ticks up to 7 and…

DING                DONG                     DING                     DONG

Betty jumps up and down, squealing and clapping. It is clear that her excitement is not going to wear down anytime soon, so you roll out of bed, taking your duvet with you wrapped around you like a burrito, and shuffle toward the door.

“I can’t handle you when you’re like this,” you mumble.

Still half-asleep, your feet carry you on auto-pilot to your destination: the room directly below yours.

That’s Ned and Peter’s room. Ned is Betty’s boyfriend, and you had taken to spending your sex-ile time with Peter, headphones plugged into a double port, blasting something, anything, to drown out the sound of the bed squeaking above you. And any other related sounds you had no interest in hearing.

Along a similar but at the same time very different token, you would often sleep on Ned’s bed when Betty was up way too early on the weekend, sending Ned to deal with her.

That is your plan this morning. You shuffle through the door, using the overhang of your fuzzy blanket to skate across the wooden floor over to Ned’s bed.

You kick the bed frame and mutter, “Leeds, go deal with your girlfriend.”

Ned merely grumbles and tosses over onto his other side. Huh. That’s uncharacteristic of him.

“He was up until 3 working on a paper,” Peter mumbles, wiping the sleep from his eyes as he sits up to face you. “Let him sleep.”

You turn to Peter, sticking out your lower lip like a pouty child. “But Betty’s up and I mean up and I want to sleeeeep,” you whine.

Peter chuckles and sinks back down onto his pillow, shuffling over so he is more on the right side of the bed and patting the now vacant left. The single beds really aren’t enough room for two people, but you’d chilled side by side on it plenty of times, what would be the harm of napping for a few hours at the same proximity?

No harm at all, your dozing brain assures you.

The traitor.

You slide the few steps to the left side of Peter’s bed and plop down. You are close enough that Peter can feel your warm breath on his neck, and you can feel his muscular thighs against your own less toned ones. But you are too tired to care.

You’ve never woken up in a bed with Peter before. You’ve dozed off in front of a movie before, your head lolling over onto his shoulder until some loud noise in your headphones jerks you back awake. You always choose the loudest movies possible considering their purpose (covering up sex noises from the floor above), so you never stay asleep longer than a few minutes. And it is always sitting up. And Peter is always awake.

But now, about two hours after the dean had rung the all-important bells, you are learning some things about Peter.

First of all, he is a sleep-cuddler. He had at some point when you had both flipped to your other sides pulled you flush against his chest and now has his arms firmly around your stomach.

Second of all, he does not snore. Not even a slightly annoying nose-whistle like Betty, which you can only hear on the most silent of nights from across your dorm-room. His completely silent breath on your neck is calming.

And third, he suffers from what you have been told is a common ailment of those in possession of the appropriate parts:

Morning wood.

His partial erection is pressed against your butt and it is entirely too much to handle at this moment in time. After getting the sleep you needed, you are too awake to deal with this or to process the emotions it elicits in you.

What emotions are those? Who knows; you can’t deal with that right now.

When Peter mumbles in his sleep and hugs you tighter to him, his dick pressing slightly more firmly into your buttocks, you actually say out loud, “Okay,” and wriggle out of his grasp. He lets out a groggy whine but otherwise doesn’t stir. You breathe a sigh of relief and book it for the safety of your own room.

Your relief is somewhat short-lived. Upon bursting into your room, you come face-to-face with Betty and one of your other best friends, MJ, sitting on the edge of Betty’s bed. MJ has the single next door to yours and Betty’s, and has openly commiserated with you about the annoyance of Betty and Ned’s loud lovemaking in a way you are too embarrassed to do with Peter.

Betty and MJ look you up and down. Betty speaks first.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

MJ adds, “And it showed you its dick.”

You lob a pillow from your bed towards their heads, narrowly missing only because they duck out of the way in time.

“Really, MJ,” Betty huffs, heat rising to her ears at her friend’s crudeness. It is a muted version of the expression she wore when MJ had given her a high-five in the dining hall one morning and congratulated her on at least three solid orgasms the night previous.

You shower, attempting and failing to clean the impure thoughts from you, scrubbing furiously at the back of your thighs to try and remove the impression of the literal embodiment of Flash’s cruel nickname for your, let’s be honest, true best friend.

It doesn’t work.

You dress to impress no one, as usual. A denim jacket is traditional, so you wear your favorite: a faded and worn one that may or may not have at one time been Peter’s. MJ raises her eyebrows at you suggestively through the mirror as you slip it on, and you narrow your eyes at her in a glare that silently screams, ‘shut the fuck up, Michelle.’

A soft t-shirt with a book cover print, beat-up gray converse, black leggings with tears at each of the knees, deep red almost brown lipstick, and a sagging beanie complete the look.

MJ winks at you as Betty hurries you both out the door. “He’ll love it,” she whispers in your ear, and you flick her in the back of the head as all three of you file down the staircase.

Peter and Ned are waiting for you outside the door to the dining hall, and together all five of you get into line for the bagged picnic lunches they’re handing out.

MJ waggles her eyebrows at Peter, who is in his typical apparel of a science pun t-shirt and jeans, with a blue flannel in lieu of a jean jacket. “Where’s your denim jacket, Parker?” she jeers.

“Right here,” you answer, slapping her with the dangly bit of sleeve that hangs past your wrist since it’s slightly too big. “And he’s not getting it back.” You direct that last bit at Peter, batting your eyelashes dramatically.

Betty reaches into her bag and extracts a denim jacket. You didn’t know she owned more than one, since she bought the one she’s wearing freshman year the day of the event. You realize it’s because she doesn’t; she’s holding one of yours, since you own several. It’s your second-favorite; one that’s over-sized on you and cozy therefore.

“I’m not giving up this jacket.” You pout and wrap your arms around yourself, gripping the sides tight.

Betty smirks and tosses the jacket in her hand at Peter, who chuckles his thanks and tosses it on. It fits him like a glove.

Your party reaches the front of the line and accepts the brown paper bags handed to you, muttering polite thanks to the dining workers. MJ comes up behind Peter and shoves her chin into his shoulder. You choke out a cough to smother the pang of what is certainly not jealousy that courses through your veins at the intimacy of her action.

But she just takes a deep breath and whispers saucily into his ears, “Mmm… smells like Y/N, no?”

You smack her upside the head with your lunch bag. “Careful! You’ll bruise your banana!” she warns you, but then she winks at you and skips off.

Ned, Betty and MJ have all somehow gotten a little ahead as you and Peter lag behind on the parade out to the buses that will take you to the farm. You sigh. “I have a feeling none of them are going to leave us alone today.” Peter nods. He stares at the ground. “I don’t want to let them get to us. Make us alter our behavior. It’s our last Autumn Day together.” He looks at you with pleading eyes.

You smile at him, knowing exactly what he means. You have no intention of minimizing the physical affection you show your best friend either, no matter how much your other friends tease you.

And no matter how much the butterflies in your stomach flap their annoying little wings.

You grab his hand, mutter, “Then we won’t,” and kiss his cheek.

MJ has been watching this exchange and gives you a thumbs up as she walks backwards towards the buses, Betty nudging her shoulder to keep her from running into the curb. You stick your tongue out at her and grip Peter’s hand tighter.

The first stop at the farm is the orchard. Apple-picking.

You skip through the first aisle of trees, fingers still threaded through Peter’s, as they had been the entire bus ride. The cheesy smile plastered on your face is in direct contrast to your grunge look, but that is one of the things Peter likes about you: you are full of contradictions.

Your eyes narrow as you hear a familiar voice. You yank Peter towards it, only extracting your hand from his in order to lunge at the owner of the voice. You grab Flash’s phone right out of his hand and end his live-stream.

“Hey!” he shouts indignantly, hands on his hips. But he doesn’t grab for his phone. He knows better.

You smirk at him. “I will take as many artsy insta photos as you want, but no videos. Today is about living in the moment.”

“So’s what I was doing. That’s why they call it live-streaming,” he huffs.

You just glare at him, and he relents.

You are the only person who affects Flash this way. You grew up together, and he has a begrudging respect for you which grants you an odd amount of authority over him. It made Peter jealous for a short time, but he quickly learned that it wasn’t like that at all between you and Flash. He was more like a brother to you. Besides, Flash is gayer than a string of twinkle lights, and in only one direction.

Not that an intimate relationship with another male peer was any of his concern or should affect Peter in any way, you were just friends after all.

Artsy instagram photos are indeed taken. Of all configurations of your little group of five. In various poses. Up in the trees, despite the clear signs that say ‘no climbing.’ Taking big bites out of apples despite the clear signs that say ‘no eating.’ Flash even attempts to juggle a few apples, which ends in spectacular failure, the video you’re taking shaking with your laughter.

At some point, Peter goes to take a selfie of just himself, but you lunge at him from behind, flinging your arms around his neck and pressing a kiss to his cheek. His surprised smile is broad and genuine, his nose crinkling up and creases forming around his eyes.

Then comes the obligatory annual profile picture change. Everyone always chooses the same concept, every year, without fail: leaning up against the old barn, orange paint chipping and the early afternoon light perfectly illuminating faces twisted into whatever expression most feels right, whether it’s a goofy grin as in Ned’s case, a demure smile as in Betty’s, an attempt at a smoldering Blue Steel as in Flash’s, or a perfectly dramatic smirk from MJ. These are all taken by Peter, as the master photographer of the bunch, except for his own of course, which is taken by Betty while you pull a silly face behind her to extract a genuine laugh from him.

As everyone stands around making these their profile pictures, Peter also takes a moment to make the selfie of you and him his phone background.

Next up is the little shop behind the orchard. You set your bags full of apples and your sack lunches on a table and take turns in pairs going up to the counter to get yourselves apple cider donuts and hot apple cider. You also buy two six-packs of hard cider for the entire group for later; everyone will Venmo you back for whatever they drink later.

When Peter comes back from throwing away his donut napkin and brown paper bag, you’re gone. He furrows his brow, but a few moments later, you come bounding up cradling something in your hands like a precious jewel, merrily chirping, “Tiny pumpkin! Tiny pumpkin!” Peter can’t help but laugh at how adorable you are, and instinctually presses a kiss to your temple when you lean past him to stick it in your bag with the apples. You reward him with a sweet smile that he returns.

Flash makes a gagging noise and you flip him the bird.

Step three involves the dairy farm next door and fresh ice cream. Peter orders a flavor called Spider-Man Jam, not even bothering to learn what’s in it, and you smirk at him. You’re one of the only ones privy to his secret: you and Ned.

You’d learned by accident when he’d returned from patrol so late into the night it wasn’t even that early in the morning. You were trading places with Ned, who was dressed for a run with Betty. Ned had absent-mindedly said, “Hey Peter,” before realizing his mistake and back-tracking, “I mean SPIDER-MAN? What are you doing here?” You had just pulled the tail of your blanket out from under Ned’s foot since he’d accidentally stepped on it, groggily murmured, “Hi, Peter. Cool suit,” and climbed into Ned’s bed.

At least, that’s how Peter thinks you found out.

You see him flinch when he takes the first bite of the weird, fruity flavor, but he hides it quickly. He is very motivated by spite as a person, and he refuses to admit that you and Betty were right that he should have tried it first, so he enunciates an exaggerated “Mmmm,” of feigned satisfaction that you roll your eyes at as you take your own cone into your hands. The most chocolate upon chocolate upon chocolate thing you could possibly have ordered; so typically you he manages to smile over his spoon despite how disgusting he finds the flavor as it slides uncomfortably over his tongue.

Step four is baking with the fresh apples you’ve picked. You haul the bags of said apples into the trunk of Flash’s car.

“Someone’s gotta sit on a lap,” Flash says, closing the trunk.

Betty raises her hand but doesn’t say anything. Everyone turns to her. “Yes, Betty? You wanna sit on Ned’s lap?” you ask slowly.

“I volunteer,” Betty points a finger right at you, “Y/N to sit on Peter’s lap.” She exchanges a high-five with MJ.

“Or,” you proffer, “You could sit on Ned’s lap. You know, your boyfriend.”

“I do have a nice, plush lap, babe,” Ned points out, but he is rewarded with an elbow to his ribs courtesy of Flash.

Betty just looks you right in the eye and says, “Shot gun.”

You roll your eyes. “MJ and I have been a bad influence on you.” She smiles a devilish grin she definitely did not know how to make until she met you and skips to the passenger seat.

You turn to Peter, shaking your head. “It’s a conspiracy,” you murmur.

“What, something wrong with my lap, babe?” Peter draws the last word out in clear imitation of Ned, but it stabs you in the chest.

“Shut your trap, Parker,” you snap, but you let him slide in first and slide onto his lap.

Flash turns around from the driver seat and gives you a saucy look. “I’d really feel more comfortable with you committing an illegal act in my car, in terms of your safety you know, if you were facing the other way. Safer grip and everything.”

He’s trying to suggest you straddle Peter.

“Don’t push your luck, Thompson. I’m not above pulling a Ladybird and just tumbling right out of your car. You know my self-preservation skills are shit,” you snarl.

Peter knows you’re joking, but he tightens his grip on your waist anyway.

Instead of going back to the dorm, you go to Flash’s fancy off-campus digs, immediately invading his swanky kitchen. You set to work in pairs.

Betty and Ned are making pie. MJ and Flash are making apple sauce. And you’ve convinced Peter to let you make your grandmother’s apple kugel. Last year, he got to make his uncle Ben’s apple cake, so this year he is content to pass you things and stir the pasta water and brush against your arm as you sprinkle cinnamon on the chopped apples he notices you pick out of his bag first.

Last but certainly not least is a bonfire. This isn’t a school tradition; this one you and your friends started. Since Flash lives off campus in a cushy house with a nice yard that has no rules against an open flame, s’mores seemed like the perfect ending to your first Autumn Day, and it has stayed that way.

You all pile into Flash’s backyard. You grab the supplies from his cupboards while he starts grabbing patio chairs to put around the fire pit. When you’ve lain the bags of marshmallows, bars of chocolate and boxes of graham crackers on the patio table, you look over to the pit and do some mental math.

“Uh, Flash? You put out two too few chairs.”

He shrugs. “That’s all the chairs I got. Three broke when those frat bros showed up at my last party.”

Betty starts opening up the packages of marshmallows. “I’ll sit on Ned’s lap,” she offers.

“I am sitting on no one’s lap,” MJ says, already having settled into a chair with a can of hard cider, offering no help in the preparations or the chair situation.

“It’s my house, so I get my own chair,” says Flash, returning from the side of the shed with a fistful of long s’mores skewers.

“Guess that only leaves one option.” Betty winks at you and you practically growl at her.

You glare at everyone in turn. When your gaze falls to Peter, you snap it back to Flash before seething, “Fuck you all,” and then storm into the house, slamming the door behind you like a petulant teenager.

Peter goes to follow you—his instinct always to comfort you—but MJ stops him with her hand and enters the house behind you.

MJ is the most observant person you know, and she snuffed out your crush on Peter the same semester you realized it existed, fall of sophomore year. But you and Peter were already such close friends at that point, best friends even, and you didn’t want to ruin that. She insisted that he felt the same way, but you refused to take that chance. You didn’t believe her anyway.

Everyone pushing you two together all day was just getting too overwhelming entirely because it was everything you ever wanted. Sitting on his lap, holding his hand, random cheek and forehead kisses; today had been a dream, but every time someone had to hint at the situation being more than friendship, it hurt like hell knowing that it wasn’t. That it wouldn’t be.

MJ can tell all this, and knows that Peter being his kind, consoling, compassionate self would only rub salt on the wound. So she comes to the rescue. She finds you up against the fridge, holding your cold cider to your forehead and crying. She sinks down next to you and doesn’t try to speak, just pulls your head onto her shoulder and rubs your back comfortingly. She is observant as hell and also always knows exactly what to do or say. It is honestly kind of annoying how perfect MJ is.

When you’re all cried out, she dries your tears on the sleeve of the hoodie she was wearing under her thin denim jacket. She grabs your hand, hauls you up from the floor and says, “Come on, let’s go get some s’mores.”

You are ready to go back out and join your friends. You aren’t ready to sit in Peter’s lap again but you’ll sit on the ground if you need to.

You don’t need to. MJ, perfect perfect MJ, pulls you into her own lap and lets you curl up against her. As you stepped through the front doors, your eyes probably still red with tears, you saw how Peter looked at you with wide, concerned eyes. You can’t stand pity. So you tuck your head into the crook of MJ’s shoulder, which means that you don’t see his expression shift to one of disappointment and longing.

It’s a lovely time. You make s’mores with your friends. Peter can’t seem to stop setting his on fire, despite preferring his only slightly browned, and offers the ruined marshmallows to you since he knows that’s actually your favorite.

“You trying to fatten me up, Parker?” you chuckle, taking yet another blackened marshmallow off his toasting fork.

“It’d just be more of you to love,” he replies casually but suddenly you can’t breathe.

“I think the smoke’s getting to me, I’m just gonna-“ you point vaguely in the direction of the shed, then turn and book it. You slide down onto the ground, despite feeling the mud stain it’s leaving on the seat of your pants. You feel a chill and instinctively wrap the denim jacket further down your arms and past your hands, and tighter around yourself, but then you remember whose jacket it is and laugh. You throw off the jacket despite the chilly fall air biting your skin. And you don’t stop laughing. It’s wild, crazy, unhinged laughter.

And that’s how Peter finds you. He had looked to MJ, expected her to go after you again, but she had just tilted her head up in a slight nod as an indication that he should take the lead on this one. MJ knows she can’t just keep letting you cry it out; something has to happen, one way or the other.

Tears start to leak out but you’re still laughing maniacally like a super-villain. Peter slinks down next to you. He sees your—well, his—denim jacket pooled behind your back where you’ve shrugged it off but he also sees you shivering and the goosebumps that have formed on your arms. Something doesn’t compute there, but he’s chivalrous as ever. Without question, he throws his—well, your—denim jacket around your shoulders.

You look at him, surprised; you hadn’t heard him approach. Then you react to the jacket around your shoulders. You pull it closer around yourself and   take a hearty sniff of the collar. It’s your jacket, but since he’s been wearing it all day, it smells like Peter. This throws you into a new fit of hysterics, before you toss your head back against the shed hard enough that Peter flinches, thinking it must have hurt, before muttering, “Shit.”

Peter doesn’t know what to do. He sits there awkwardly, watching your face, concern painting his features. You loll your head against the shed to face him and look him dead in the eyes. “Wanna know when I found out you were Spider-Man?”

His brow crinkles. “It was when Ned—“

You shake your head, still tilted back against the hard wood of the shed. Then you close your eyes as you let the memory wash over you.

“Remember when there was that explosion in the chemistry lab, and I got trapped?”

Peter nods, then realizes your eyes are closed. “Yeah,” he rasps. That had been a really difficult day; he couldn’t bear seeing you hurt.

“‘Spider-Man,’” you put air quotes around it, “came to rescue me from the rubble.”

You can’t help a smile ghosting over your lips as you recall what you now consider an extremely bittersweet memory. You’d clung to the super-suit as he’d lifted you gingerly out of the wreckage, pressing your nose into the crook of his shoulder. Even in your slightly concussed state, you had known without a doubt whose arms you were in, despite not having gotten a glance at your rescuer due to the dust blinding you. You knew simply because of how perfectly you fit into his arms. You hadn’t second-guessed it was Peter; in fact your assumption was corroborated by the familiar way he smelled, a little oak from his body spray, a little mint from his mouthwash, and a little lavender from the hand soap in your own bathroom. It wasn’t until you pulled back and took in the red and black suit with the spider insignia emblazoned on the chest that you realized, not that you weren’t saved by Peter, but that Peter was Spider-Man. That was the only rational conclusion, because there was absolutely no way the man carrying you gently away from the ruins was not Peter. Your Peter.

Only he wasn’t yours then and he isn’t yours now, and tears are welling in your eyes again as you open them to whisper to Peter, “I knew because you smelled like you.”

He blushes and put his nose to his own armpit. “Do I really have that distinctive B.O.?” he asked.

“No you dumbass,” you swat him on the shoulder with the sleeve of the jacket from around yours. “Not a bad smell. Just, you.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you knew? Or, like, ask me, to confirm? You must’ve been curious.” With his head tilted and his eyes wide, a single curl falling into his eyes, he looks like a confused puppy dog and you curse the universe for making Peter Parker so damn adorable.

You shake your head again. “I wasn’t curious. I knew.”

“But—“

“What was I supposed to tell you, Pete?” you cry. “That I knew my knight in shining armor was really you from the way you smelled like home and the familiarity of your embrace?”

He is shocked into silence. You take a few deep breaths. “You’re my best friend, Peter. And that’s one of the only secrets I’ve ever kept from you.”

“I’ve only ever kept one from you,” he murmurs, then rubs the back of his neck. “After the whole Spider-Man thing.”

“Yeah what’s that?” your head rolls on the shed again to face him. “Since we’re sharing.”

“That I have a crush on you,” he whispers, unable to look you in the eye.

You freeze, your eyes widening and your body lifting from the shed. “What?”

He scrunches his eyes shut. “No that makes me sound like a little kid and downplays it.”

He almost doesn’t say it aloud. But then he finally meets your eyes and sees the hope and happiness shining through them, a smile creeping onto your face. That gives him the courage to admit, “I think I’m in love with you.”

You shake your head slightly but you’re still smiling. Then you finally do what you’ve been dreaming of for almost three years; you reach down and grasp Peter Parker’s stupidly perfect face to pull his lips to yours.

It’s an awkward sitting position, and his legs are in the way, and mud is making his butt cold, but your mouth on his feels so right that he doesn’t even notice.

You fall back against the shed, then press your laughter into his shoulder. “Our friends are gonna say ‘I told you so,’” you mutter.

“Yeah, well. Let ‘em.” He presses a kiss to the top of your head.

You pull back. “Just so we’re clear, I’m in love with you too.”

“Yeah I got that,” Peter chuckles, pulling you back into his arms and into another searing kiss.

When you finally emerge from behind the shed and walk back to the fire pit hand in hand, beaming like the two lovesick idiots you are, a chorus of cheers rings out from all your friends and they lift their cider cans in toast.

“Good batch this year,” Peter says, mirroring everyone’s toasting only after he pulls you into his lap in his chair and lifts his own can off the ground. “I think they did something different. Added hops maybe?”

It looks like you’ve fallen asleep in his arms. The emotional stress of the day in addition to all the busy activity was enough to burn you out, and now you’re very satisfied to bury your nose into the crook of Peter’s shoulder and just breathe in the familiar scent of Peter, your Peter now, finally.

MJ smirks. “I think they added a healthy serving of the antidote to Dumb Bitch Juice.”

It looks like you’ve fallen asleep, but you haven’t. You stick your middle finger out to her half-heartedly, then snuggle closer to Peter, wrapping your arms around his waist and sighing contentedly.

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