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basicjetsetter · 3 years

Text

Part IV

♡ Pairing: Peter Parker x Black!FemaleReader

▹ Warnings: Little angst, Lot of anxiety, Fluff if you squint

▹ Words: 2.8k

▹ A/N: This chapter’s a bit on the short side, but it establishes a lot. Happy reading!

You’re not exactly sure how you pull it off, but you somehow manage to elude Peter for five straight days.

Playing the impromptu game of hide-and-not-be-seen was touch and go for the first two days, mainly because you weren’t sure what time you’d see Peter in the diner’s entrance. All you knew was that he’d show up early, whatever that meant. Almost every chiming bell sent your heart into overdrive, and whenever you thought you saw him, your stomach performed painful somersaults as you mapped out all likely escape routes.

No place in the diner was safe. Hal’s has a pretty simple layout: front entrance, booths to the immediate right, and bar with barstools to the immediate left, all in a shotgun fashion. If one were to try looking for someone, especially from the front entrance, all they’d have to do is marginally widen their field of vision, which is why the first two days were tricky.

The next day after the first run-in, about three hours earlier than his initial arrival, Peter came in through the front door, buddying up with Chris and asking for you.

You were clearing off an unoccupied table, piling dirty plates, when Chris called out, “Hey! How’s it hanging, Peter?” With the stack of dishes still clenched in your hands, you dropped down and crawled under the booth, coming face to face with an unsavory assortment of chewed-up gum underneath the table, holding your breath for dear life. Peter stayed for about ten agonizingly treacherous minutes as Chris failed to locate you.

On the second day, a sluggish Tuesday morning with only four regular patrons at the bar and no one in the booths, Peter had just walked through the entrance as you were coming out of the back, hand-carrying three of Hal’s famous Thin Mint Milkshakes. Without a thought, you spun right around and dashed in the opposite direction, busting through the employee door and colliding straight into Wendy. You’d never seen someone throw such a fit, but then again, you’d be pretty pissed too if someone coated you head-to-toe in milkshake.

That day was… eventful, to say the least, but it gifted you with the best estimate for Peter’s arrivals. Early meant 11:30 a.m. on the dot. Lunch. You tested out the time the next day, waiting behind the employee door and peering out the medium-sized port window. At 11:30 a.m., right on cue, was Peter, dapping Chris and ordering a slice of Banana Cream Pie to-go while also asking for your whereabouts, staying for only half an hour.

He left you a note each time he departed.

Can’t seem to catch you. I’ll try again tomorrow :) – Peter

Is this not a good time for you? I’ll stop by later if you want – Peter

Is everything alright? Text or call anytime you need me. I’ll be there – Peter

From the second note on, you found yourself captivated by his neat little scrawl and the way he always signed his name at the end, as if you’d forget it was him. You’d read them on your way home and right before falling asleep, trying and failing not to picture him smiling at you while you absent-mindedly smiled at his words.

Your friendly boy-next-door is so easy to fall for, but you just can’t do it. You can’t allow yourself to fall. Nobody would be there to pick you back up.

Some nights, you lied awake drafting a message that would effectively convince Peter that things wouldn’t work between you, that you’re a lost cause, and he should probably find some other connection if such a thing exists. But then, unfailingly, you’d think about his concerned little notes and sadly acknowledge that he deserves more than a measly text. After showing up to Hal’s for almost a whole week just to get to know you, Peter deserves the truth.

Your heart is not ready for a Soulmate, and it might not ever be.

By the fifth day, you spend a good chunk of time pondering over the right words to say to Peter while simultaneously hiding in the kitchen, pretending to prepare more fries. You never looked forward to hiding from him, but what other option did you have? Going out there and letting your coworkers and boss know he’s your Soulmate? They wouldn’t shut up about it, especially not Chris, the open romantic.

When your shift ended that day, and you walked up to Chris so he could hand you Peter’s fifth note, he emphatically shook his head.

“On behalf of my new friend, Peter, I can’t in good faith give this to you,” he stated, tucking the folded paper into his back pocket and crossing his arms. “Not until you tell me why you’re dodging him.”

You frowned, crossing your arms too. “It’s really none of your business, Chris.”

“True, but it’s his.” The little dig got to you, making you wince. Chris continued softly, “Look, he won’t tell me what’s up with you two, either. And, trust me, I've asked. It's just... I’m kinda involved now, being the messenger and all, so shouldn’t I know some of the situation?”

“No…?” you hedged.

Chris didn’t budge.

You couldn’t think of a lie on the spot, and a half-truth would only further complicate things. Treading the fine line of what’s too much information and what’s not enough left you frustratingly tongue-tied. What’s specific enough to still be vague? Chris stared at you expectantly with a petulant little lift in his brow, ignoring a customer’s disgruntled calls for a refill in the napkin dispenser.

In the end, you huffed out a resigned breath and hesitantly admitted, “Peter's someone I knew from high school—a really nice guy.” For Chris’s benefit, you added, “He just likes to check up on me every now and then. You know how I don’t get out that much…”

And in a heartbeat, Chris morphed from a tough enquirer to a softened pile of dough, sagely nodding his head as if he knew all too well how reserved you are and how much of a losing battle it is persuading you to venture out. Or maybe it was because he understood how difficult it is to reconnect with people you unwilfully lost touch with for five years.

How everything and everyone fell right back into step with everyday life, like five years was just five minutes, continues to boggle your mind. It’s not normal. You won’t ever pretend that it is.

The disgruntled man shouted, “Can I get any damn service around here?”

Chris immediately broke from the conversation and left you behind the bar, off to go charm the customer’s socks off and earn a nice $10 tip even though he clocked out ten minutes ago.

You went on your way home, the ever-present anxiety of confronting Peter growing by the second.

Hours later, dressed down to your pajamas and reading his words over again, you’re still thinking about it, dread now gnawing on your insides.

You couldn’t even enjoy your newfound peace of mind. Ever since the voice stopped, Peter twined into all of your thoughts: his notes, his visits, his smile, your connection to him. There had to be a reason why destiny paired you. Besides being your Soulmate, what is he to you? What are you to him?

Unrest barred you from sleep for most of the night, and when you woke up the next morning, showered and ready to tackle another day, it hit you.

It’s Saturday—your day off this week—and you’re not scheduled to go back to work until Monday.

You could put off telling him… but what would be the point? It’d only prolong the inevitable. You needed to come clean today.

Picking up your phone, you steadily tap in his memorized cell number, then type:

-Hey Peter, it’s Y/N. Can you come by my place? We need to talk.

Three minutes later, he texts back.

-On my way.

✦ ✧✦ ✧

A nice, early summer breeze billows around you, doing its best to calm down your erratic nerves as you wait for Peter on the roof.

Are you doing the right thing?

Will Peter be okay with this?

What if he isn’t?

You jump out of your skin at the muffled Thwip and sudden appearance of Peter standing a few feet away.

His chestnut hair is windswept, and he’s wearing regular clothes, a faded blue Midtown High hoodie and denim jeans. You weren’t sure why you expected him to come dressed in his suit. It could be because you heard the sound of his web-slinger first and immediately thought of Spider-Man, but it’s more likely that your brain hasn’t connected that they are one and the same. You don’t see Spider-Man when you see him. All you see is Peter.

He’s tense, not moving an inch closer and keeping his shoulders pinched up like he’s on the defense. You can’t guess why he would be.

Gulping down a hard lump lodged in your throat, you stutter, “H-hi.”

He gives you a polite smile that doesn’t reach his sullen eyes. “Hey”

You both begin at the same time.

“Peter, I—”

“Look, Y/N—”

Ice floods your stomach, freezing your veins and squeezing your pounding heart. He has something to say to you? About what? You subtly jerk your head up, signaling for him to speak first.

Peter clears his throat, looks down at his shoes, then back up at you. “I know you’ve been hiding from me.”

“You do?” you squeak, eyes wide.

“Yeah, and it’s okay.”

Your voice hikes an octave. “It is?”

He nods. “Yeah. It’s fine. I get it.” He stops to scratch the back of his neck and dejectedly rambles on, “I’m not the safest person to be around, and it’s all super weird and a lot to take in. Like, a lot. My Aunt May freaked out too when she found out. Anyway, I… I get it if you don’t, y’know, don’t want me.”

“Wait, hold on,” you interrupt, trying to wrap your head around what he said. “You think… you think I don’t want you because you’re Spider-Man?”

“Well, yeah.” He says it like there couldn’t be any other possible reason.

You lower your gaze to the ground, unable to meet his curious gaze. “No, Peter, that’s not it.” Tears prick your eyes, but you fight like hell to keep them from falling. Steeling yourself, you quietly confess, “It’s me. I can’t be your Soulmate because…” A rebellious tear rolls down your cheek. “Because I’m not ready.”

As soon as you spoke the truth out loud, laying yourself and your broken soul bare, you dimly sense the previously severed string quiver deep down inside your chest. It’s the first time you felt it in five years, and it’s not how you remember it. It’s not severed, but it’s not whole either. Its presence only reminds you of what you can’t have, what you aren’t ready for.

In the ensuing quiet, you swipe the tear off your cheek and look at everything except Peter. Yellow tulips are blooming on someone’s balcony in the neighboring apartment building. A handful of fluffy clouds float in the piercing blue sky. An orange tabby cat is sun-bathing in a window.

It’s such a beautiful day. Yet, here you are, struggling not to cry on a roof.

Peter breaks through the silence, murmuring, “To be honest, I’m not ready either.”

“Really?” You ask, a little too hopeful, bringing your eyes back to his. They look so weary yet resolute.

“Yeah. I was actually freaking out that night we met.” He timidly grins, and your heart flips. “I didn’t know what to say, then I screwed up and forgot to ask if you were okay after I had literally just saved you from falling. Not really a glowing first impression.”

Astonishing yourself, you laugh. You couldn’t help it. There was absolutely nothing remotely hilarious about that night, but the way Peter described it, as if it were a blunder solely on his part, was so ridiculous that it was funny. Peter joins in, too, his laugh coming out airy and wondrously addictive. That smile you couldn’t stop thinking about for a whole week brightens his face.

When the laughs fade, Peter soberly says, “Even if we aren’t ready, maybe we can try being friends, just to see where things go? I mean, we were meant to be together for a reason, right? This could be it.”

You unconsciously nibble on your lower lip, considering his proposal. It hadn’t occurred to you that he might want to be friends. Would you want to do that? These days, you aren’t really open to platonic relationships, and Soulmate or not, being in a friendship would require some sort of connection. You don’t like those much.

Be that as it may, Peter seems like the type to respect your many boundaries, and that’s exactly what you would prefer in a friend at the moment. Someone who doesn’t pry. Someone who doesn’t uphold generic expectations. You could go for a diner talk every once in a while.

Besides, it’s just a little friendship. Most are surface level, and some don’t even last a year. What’s the worst that could happen?

You sincerely smile at Peter, wondering about the last time your smiles were sincere, and say, “Okay. Let’s be friends.”

His face radiates joy. “Seriously?”

“Yeah, I think we can do that. But I have a few terms.”

Peter eagerly nods, waiting.

You try not to focus on how his happiness thrills you. “One, don’t tell anyone we’re Soulmates. I don’t really want any of my coworkers to know.”

His smile drops into a sheepish wince. “I kinda already told Ned. But he won’t tell anyone, I swear.”

“That’s okay. It’s mostly my coworkers I’m worried about,” you reassure. You weren’t going to berate him for telling his best friend. If things were different, you’d have done the same. “Two, don’t ask me to hang out with your other friends. I don’t do big friend circles.”

“Got it,” he militantly nods again. “It’s mostly just Ned and me anyway.”

“And three,” your grin broadens. “If Chris asks you what’s going on between us, be super vague.”

“Done.” He smirks back at you, then extends his hand. “Friends?”

When your hand touches his, and you shake on it, the warmth of his palm thaws out all your remaining anxiety. “Friends.”

✦ ✧✦ ✧

When Monday rolls around, a tiny ball of doubt weighs you down.

It’s not that you were afraid of talking to Peter. You were actually looking forward to getting to know him now that you officially became friends. It’s the future you’re stuck on. What happens if you get too attached to this friendship and want more? What if friendship is all he wants? What if it’s the other way around?

If you were honest with yourself, you’d know which way the gage is leaning, and it’s not in your favor.

You’re cleaning off the bar top when Peter comes in, doing his usual greeting with Chris before settling down on a barstool in front of you. He’s a little high strung, leaning his chin on his hand, then thinking against it, only to do it again. It was oddly comforting to know that he was overthinking too.

The corners of your lips tug up in a soft smile. “Hi, Peter.”

Your face warms as he smiles back. “Hey, Y/N.”

Chris barges in, leaning his elbows on the bar top and gaping incredulously at you and Peter. “Woah, woah, woah! Did I miss something? Since when are you two speaking in public?”

Peter checks his watch. “About thirty-seven seconds ago.”

“Oh, come on, dude. At least tell me what happened.”

You and Peter share a knowing look like two conniving co-conspirators sharing an inside joke, and you giggle as Chris huffs in annoyance. He glumly storms off when you two stay hushed, muttering, “Fine, next time you need a middle-man, count me out.”

“Does he hold grudges?” Peter asks after Chris walks out of earshot.

You’re still shaking with giggles. “Not at all. He’ll be back to his happy self in less than an hour.”

Peter only stays at Hal’s for twenty-five minutes, but they were the funniest and most intriguing twenty-five minutes you ever worked.

The conversation began slowly at first, but each question loosened the formalities. Peter asked about easy things: when did you get into art, when did you start working at Hal’s, and when was your birthday, all while digging into his slice of pie. He caught on fast enough to know the topic of parents was off-limits, and he thankfully chose to stay away from any talk of the blip.

When you asked him questions, he was open and responsive, jumping at the chance to talk about his passion for bio-sciences and Star Wars, sometimes covertly mentioning some of the duties he has a Spider-Man. Not a minute was wasted. You talked while serving customers and cleaning tables, keeping up the joke of staying quiet when Chris tried to meddle.

It all turned out smoother than you expected. Almost too smooth, and you’re not sure if that’s good or bad.

You are sure about one thing, though. You like having Peter as a friend.

...

Part V

#peter parker #peter parker x black!reader #peter parker x reader #spider-man x black!reader #spider-man x reader #soulmate au #post endgame #pre far from home #peter parker soulmate au #peter parker angst #peter parker fic #peter parker fanfiction #peter parker fanfic #marvel fanfic #black!reader #slow burn #how to trust a heart #peter parker fluff

43 notes · View notes

starkerisendgame · 5 years

Note

this is my cheesy cliché-romantic prompt, please write it if you like this kind of stories, lol: Peter has had a crush on Tony since forever. He has confessed his love to Tony three times, and Peter has been rejected each time. The first one was when he was 10, the second one at 15, and the last one at 20. After so long, Peter decides to give up. He starts dating other people, trying to find love, then one day Tony reappears again into his life.

I’m so sorry this took so long! But I really hope it was worth the wait and that you enjoy it. This is in two parts because it ended up being way longer than I initially planned it. No smut in part one, but 90% of what Anon asked for happens in this chapter.

Prompts are always open

[P. 2 | P. 3]

Peter meets the love of his life aged ten, lounging in the grass of a local park and devouring the Chemistry book that Aunt May got him for Christmas. A pair of glossy combat boots stop right besides his pink lemonade, a figure casting a dark shadow over his book.

Peter looked up slowly, scowling at the interruption. How was he supposed to study hard and become a world famous scientist if people kept interrupting him? The boots give way to skinny black jeans that clung to legs longer than Peter could ever hope for his to grow. The legs faded into a black t-shirt sporting a cat playing the drums, and then to the prettiest face Peter had ever seen.

“Page fifty-eight is wrong, y’know,” the boy commented casually, hands tucked into his jean pockets. Peter’s scowl deepened, and he stared for a moment longer before furiously flicking through the pages. Page 58 turned out to be on metals and their chemical properties. Peter scanned it, before looking up again.

“It’s a professional science book. It can’t be wrong. And even if it was, how would you know?” he asked, reaching for his lemonade and sipping. The boy actually laughed, soft and amused before crouching down, elbows braced on his thighs. One long finger tapped a single paragraph on the page.

“The book claims Tungsten to be the strongest natural metal, and Chromium to be the hardest. Both of those are wrong. The world’s strongest and hardest metal is one in the same: Vibranium.”

Peter frowned a little, reading the paragraph quickly as the boy spoke. Vibranium? That sounded made up. And he’d never heard of it before.

“You’re just making that up,” he pouted, pushing away the boy’s hand. He chuckled again, low and soft and it made Peter’s tummy feel funny. All flippy, like he was on a rollercoaster.

“Am not,” the boy shot back, teasing and mocking. Peter pouted harder, drawing his book closer. “Vibranium was discovered in the 1800′s, and is pretty much a secret outside of a select few Government organisations and my family; who have a big clump of it sitting in a secure storage facility out in Antarctica,” the boy remarked. It was Peter’s turn to laugh, now.

“You’re a big, fat liar,” he dismissed, then frowned. “Wait. I’m not supposed to be talking to strangers. Go away before Aunt May confiscates my Game Boy again,” he huffed, looking back down at his book. He missed the soft smile the boy gave in response, and missed the scent of aftershave as the boy got up and walked away.

One week later, Peter was back at the park, sprawled out on the grass with several packs of snacks and his chemistry book. He’d brought a notebook this time, jotting down notes and little doodles to help him remember things. There was a science expo next month, and he was determined to be super smart and science to impress the important scientists there.

Something thunked into the grass before him and rolled, all the way through the grass until it bumped into the edge of his chemistry book. Peter eyed it warily. It was a metal ball, about the size of a ping-pong ball. Bright silver and it looked really shiny, like it had been polished. Peter looked up further, and saw the boy from last week strolling towards him.

He walked all the way up and sat down opposite Peter, long legs crossing in the grass. Peter watched him the entire time, hand still paused mid-sentence. The boy was wearing dark grey jeans today, and a white shirt with an AC/DC logo across the chest. His head tipped, and he watched Peter with a soft, curious expression.

“Half a pound of Vibranium. Super-forged and polished into a perfect sphere, just for you,” the boy remarked, pulling a lollipop out of one pocket and peeling off the wrapped. Peter looked down and after a moment he put down his pen, reaching for it. It felt light, for its weight, and the metal was cold, perfectly smooth to the touch.

“This is probably just steel or something,” he pointed out, and the boy shrugged, sucking the lolly with a wet sound.

“You can do whatever you want to that, and it won’t break, scratch or dent. The only thing that can damage Vibranium is more Vibranium,” the boy tossed back, taking the sphere from Peter’s hand and tossing it up and down like a regular ball. “You could take a chainsaw to this thing and all you’d get is sparks.”

He tossed the ball back to Peter and they spent the next two hours going through his chemistry book together. The boy turned out to be called Tony, and he was super smart. He was turning twenty next month. Peter worried a bit about talking to someone that much older, but Tony was sweet and smart and helped him to take notes.

Tony’s phone went off a little while later, and he checked it before pulling a face and looking across at Peter.

“Well, I gotta go. But try to scratch that thing. Let me know if you succeed,” he grinned, ruffling Peter’s hair and standing. He was already walking away by the time Peter realised he had no way of letting Tony know either way and he watched helplessly as Tony slipped into a sleek, black car on the sidewalk.

That night Peter attacked the ball with several kitchen knives. He threw it down the stairs. He tried to chew it. He tried everything he could within the house to damage it, but nothing worked.

Eventually he gave up, sitting on his bed and staring in wonder at the still perfectly smooth ball before he snuck an egg cup from the kitchen and put it in pride of place on the middle of his shelf.

He went back to the park on Tuesday, Thursday and Sunday of the following week, but Tony didn’t show up.

He was already there the following Tuesday however, sprawled on his back on the grass with his eyes closed and his face tilted up towards the sun. Peter approached slowly, two bottles of cola tucked under his arm, chemistry book tucked under the other. He was almost above Tony when the boy smiled, slow and sweet.

“Sorry I haven’t been around much, Pete,” he murmured. His voice was thick, raspy. It was then that Peter noticed the dark purple bruises under his eyes, and the large, blotchy red patch on one side of his jaw. Peter shuffled nervously in the grass, dropping his head.

“Um… If you’re sick, we don’t gotta study today,” he mumbled in response, shrinking when Tony cracked open one eye to study him. After a moment though, he was smiling again, pushing himself up onto his elbows to pat the grass besides him.

“I’m okay. We can still learn about atoms,” Tony comforted softly, and that’s what they did. For over an hour, until Tony looked up, face falling as a tall, kind of fat man in a suit approached then. He looked like he should be dressed for a funeral.

“Mr. Stark, its time we should be going,” the man greeted quietly. Peter’s pen slipped across the page when he twisted in shock, staring accusingly across at Tony with wide eyes. His best friend wasn’t just Tony, but Tony Stark. Son of Howard Stark, one of the world’s leading inventors and scientists.

Tony glanced across at him with a small, half amused and half sad smile, pushing to his feet.

“I’ll be back on Thursday, kiddo,” Tony hummed, dusting off his pants and following after the man, who gave Peter a polite nod in goodbye. As they walked, the man held out a tie and a jacket towards Tony, and it occurred to Peter for the first time that Tony had been wearing a smart shirt for once.

The next morning, as Peter sat at the table eating his cereal, the news turned to Tony Stark, dressed in a suit with a pair of deep red sunshades on. What remained of the Stark family announced that Howard and Maria Stark were dead - Victims of a terrible car crash due to bad weather. They had been buried late yesterday afternoon, a quiet and private affair.

Peter’s heart sank. Tony had must’ve gone straight to the funeral with that man. He fretted about it all day, nervously chewing at his pen and bouncing his leg the entire time. He wanted to go to the park, wanted desperately to see Tony, but Tony had said Thursday.

The day couldn’t come quick enough, and Peter barely breathed as he stuffed his dinner into his mouth, ignoring May’s alarmed looks and almost headbutting her with how quickly he gave her a goodbye kiss on the cheek, jacket half-on as he fled through the door.

Tony was waiting for him again, sat cross-legged in their spot. He was wearing the same shades he had been on the news the other morning and wore a large, soft black hoodie. He looked up when Peter came scurrying across the grass, mouth quirking into a friendly smile.

Peter skid through the greenery, sliding onto his knees and crashing into Tony with almost enough force to knock him over as he wrapped his arms tight around him.

Tony stiffened under his touch, arms hanging hesitantly in the air, but Peter squeezed him a little tighter, tucking his head down and after a moment Tony relaxed, arms coming loosely around Peter’s waist.

They met up every week after that, always in the same spot near the holly bush. They got through Peter’s book pretty quickly and Tony brought more, an endless supply of books on anything Peter could think of.

He also brought Peter stuff, sometimes. A tiny, tiny 1ml science beaker from the lab at Stark Tower. A weird type of berry from Africa, where Tony went for the weekend while Peter was home with the flu.

Two weeks before his eleventh birthday, Peter looked up from his book on stars, squinting across at Tony, who was doodling a dog wearing sunglasses on his notebook.

“I love you.” he announced after a moment, confident. He’d asked Aunt May what it meant to love someone, and if it was okay to tell them. She’s told it was when even the thought of someone made you happy. When you wanted them to be in your life for a long time and when you felt comfortable around them.

Tony paused, and then laughed, sharp and short. “No, kid. You love pancakes and your Aunt and sleeping in on a Saturday. You don’t love me.”

Peter frowned and went to argue but then Tony was quizzing him on what gasses stars were made up of, and it was dropped.

Peter lay awake that night, tossing and turning as he thought about it. He was pretty sure he loved Tony. He always looked forwards to seeing him. Tony made him happy and made him smile all the time. He knew Tony’s favourite colour and how he liked his toast and he always felt like he could tell Tony anything. That was love… Right?

Aged fifteen, Peter buried his face in Gwen’s shoulder and whined, shoulders slumping. His phone lay screen-up on the table, depicting an image of Tony stepping out of a fancy restaurant, arm wrapped tight around a pretty blonde girl. It was his second girlfriend of the year, a nice but kind of snooty girl named Alita.

“You’re jailbait anyway, Pete. Find someone your own age,” Gwen advised, voice cool but not unsympathetic as she turned the page to her book. She was right; Peter had known Tony was too old for him the moment he realised that Tony’s smile made his tummy flip in a funny way. The moment Aunt may blew up when she found out just who Peter was always running off to study in the park with.

(Tony had promptly arranged for them both to have dinner at the Tower, and had immediately wooed Aunt May. She had come around to them being study buddies by the end of the night; how could she not? Tony was sweet, charming, quirky. It hadn’t taken Peter a year to fall in love with him, after all.)

“She’s just… I mean she’s obviously… She isn’t…” Peter couldn’t think of anything to say. Alita was actually pretty nice, if you got past her picky, high standards for living. She had been super friendly when Tony had brought her along on one of their study meets, and had been pretty interested in their current topic - physics.

“Not you,” Gwen finished for him, pushing his head up so she could give him one of her Mom looks. Peter scowled and looked away, stabbing his breaded chicken with a little more force than required. Alita and Tony had been dating for three months now, and each morning the heavy, cold feeling in Peter’s stomach grew. He thought back to being ten, to telling Tony he loved him in the middle of the park, to the way Tony laughed, like it was a big, bad joke.

They didn’t go to the park often, these days. Tony was now the big boss at his parents’ company and spent most of his days learning how to run it and making lots of big changes. They still saw each other each week, but school and a big company didn’t leave a lot of time for laying around in the grass.

“Have de-ageing or ageing machines been invented yet?” he questioned aloud, and shrieked when Gwen slapped him with her book. That was a no, then.

Tony was waiting for him at the school gates, leaning against the bonnet of a fancy car that Peter had forgotten the brand name of. He had rich, glossy blue shades on today and was wearing a loose, matching blue silk shirt. Several other kids were hanging around, phones out and obviously trying to engage.

Peter felt rather powerful striding across the grass and towards Tony. Tony straightened when he approached, uncrossing his legs and opening the car door with a flourish for Peter.

“Your humble ride home, Little Prince,” Tony greeted, voice thick and soft as he mock bowed. Peter snorted, sliding onto the rich, buttery leather and tossing his beg into the footwell.

“You’re so embarrassing,” he grinned, but he didn’t mean it. Not at all. His heart actually felt like it was going to burst. A few months ago for his fifteenth birthday Tony had given him an official internship at Stark Tower, as his personal assistant.

It basically meant Peter could come around whenever Tony was there, and usually ended in them making up crazy things and ordering takeout.

It also meant Tony picking him up from school like this. Peter had lost count of how many times he’d daydreamed of just running over to Tony, jumping into his arms and kissing him. Tony was starting to grow a little facial hair now, a light dusting of stubble that made Peter feel all funny whenever he thought about it.

“So, how was school, Petercakes? That kid still being an ass? What is it…Flake?” Peter snickered, slouching back into the seat and pressing the button for his window as Tony started the car, peeling carelessly out of the parking lot.

“Flash,” he corrected, with a one-shouldered shrug. “It’s okay. I mean, he believes me about the internship now you’ve started picking me up, but. I don’t think anything would shut him up completely.” When Peter glanced across Tony tipped his head, that challenge accepted smirk on his face, and Peter pointed at him.

“Tony, no.”

“Tony, yes,” he shot back gleefully, before reaching across to nudge Peter gently. “Relax, I’ll probably just arrange a field trip to SI or something. Sing your praises in front of everyone. Hey - bet I could get photos of you framed on my walls by the end of the night.”

Peter groaned, sinking lower into his seat.

Today’s Important Science encompassed going to the movies to see the new Fast and Furious film, before eating their weight in ice cream to determine if chocolate chip mint was better than toffee crunch delight. Tony got them two small cones to go, and they parked up at the beach front, watching the lights twinkle off the dark water.

“How was your date with Alita yesterday?” Peter asked in the comfortable silence that fell, cringing immediately afterwards. Great. A perfect, private evening together and he was bringing up his girlfriend. Besides him, Tony cringed in tandem.

“We, uh… Actually broke up. That’s why we went out to dinner. As a break up… Thing,” Tony mumbled in response, turning away and looking out of the window as he crunched the last of his cone. Peter almost dropped his in surprise, blinking across at Tony. But… They had looked so cosy leaving the restaurant.

“She was just… We weren’t right for each other, I guess. Y’know how it is,” Tony shrugged after a brief pause, pulling a wet-wipe from the glove compartment and cleaning off his fingers. Fidgeting, mostly. Peter could relate. He suddenly felt itchy within his skin, too warm. Tony was single again. He bit at his lip, trying to think of what to say.

“Oh. Well… I still love you,” he breathed out, stiffening when he realised what he’d said. Across from him Tony chuckled, reaching out to fluff up his hair and casting a fond look over the rim of his glasses.

“I’m glad me being a lonely old man doesn’t change the way you think of me,” Tony responded, voice light and teasing. Peter shifted his gaze away, out to the illuminated waters.

He didn’t know if Tony thinking he was joking was worse than Tony realising Peter had meant it. He stuffed the last of his cone into his mouth to avoid saying anything else, and another few moments passed before Tony begun to drive him home.

Peter leaned across the centre console when Tony pulled up, dragging the older man in for their customary hug. Tony was broader than he used to be, shoulders filling out, biceps bigger and rounder. His tummy was different, too. Thick muscle and lean abs in place of where he used to be slim like Peter was now.

His hair was soft, fluffy. A little longer than Tony usually kept it, and his aftershave was musky and heavenly when Peter nuzzled into the crook of his neck, squeezing tightly.

“I meant it,” he breathed against the warm skin there, closing his eyes tight. “I do love you. I know I do. And you can laugh like you did last time, but that doesn’t change it.”

Tony briefly stiffened against him, before he relaxed, petting gently at Peter’s hair. “You don’t know love, Peter. You’re fifteen. You’ve still got years left to learn and grow and experience things. To learn love and how it feels. To find someone. Now go on, before May shouts at us again.”

Tony let him go, pushing his shades higher to his eyes again, and Peter’s heart broke as he scooped up his bag, fleeing for the safety of his bedroom. He cried that night, tucked up against his pillow, duvet pulled up to his cheeks.

He knew what love meant. He had since he was ten, looking into Tony’s honey-coloured eyes and wishing he could look at them forever.

He knew he loved Tony. Knew belatedly that he always would. But this was the second confession of his love, and the second rejection of his feelings.

He fell asleep in the early hours of the morning, eyes red and cheeks ruddy. He stayed in bed for most of the day, avoiding his phone and citing illness when Aunt May lingered in the doorway, brows pulled in concern.

Tony picked him up on the Sunday. Neither of them raised what had happened, and neither of them acted differently to before. Peter supposed it was as much as he could hope for.

His twentieth birthday rolled around sooner than he could have expected, frantically finishing his entry exams for MIT and dealing with moving out of Aunt May’s apartment.

His faux internship in his teenage years had developed into an actual job at Tony’s marketing and research department. Tony was thirty these days, a heart-stopper and a bonafide billionaire thanks to his savvy, smart business choices.

Where Peter had remained a baby-faced, slim figure, Tony was tall and broad. He worked out daily and it showed in the expanse of his shoulders, the ripple of his biceps when he wore tank tops in the experimental labs. SI was branching into medical aid these days. Tony had grown his facial hair into artful stubble, thick and accentuating the sharp line of his jaw.

He was jaw-droppingly attractive, and Peter’s harboured love had only grown as he watched Tony go from a lost and uncertain young man into a grown, confident man.

Other people had seen the change too, and Peter had lost count of Tony’s partners at this point. One-night stands and brief stints at relationships. Time together cut short or cut completely because Tony was whisking away his latest slice to some Malibu getaway.

Peter tried not to be bitter, even when Tony begun a two year relationship with Peter’s manager, Ms. Pepper Potts. He tried to be supportive. Tried to be understanding whenever Tony cancelled their plans. Tried not to let his sadness show at the dark hickeys he often found littering Tony’s throat. His love never waned, not even slightly.

He rejected any advances from anyone else, knowing that he would be unable to stop himself thinking about Tony. Imagining it was Tony taking him to the movies or Tony kissing down his chest. Gwen watched disapprovingly each time he batted away an attempt at flirting, but remained the supportive (if blunt) friend.

He was laying on his bed, frowning at his latest set of study papers when the door flung open and Tony strode in, pausing only briefly to toe off his dress shoes and to flick the door shut behind him. Peter jumped at the sounds, craning across to try and see who was invading. He really didn’t have the energy to fend off a robber at this point in time.

“I’m hosting a party at the Tower, for your birthday,” Tony had announced, kicking Peter aside and taking his warm spot on the large queen that Peter had invested in. They still tried to make time for each other these days, but this was the first time Peter had seen Tony outside of work in over a week.

“Are you?” he asked lazily, frowning down at the now disorganised mess of paper. Tony dipped his glasses down and cast Peter with one of those flat do you dare doubt me looks that Peter had learned early to not to second-guess.

And that was how Peter ended up on the balcony of the Tower’s penthouse, gazing out at the stars and desperately trying to distract himself from the fact that Tony seemed to be flirting with everyone in the room except for him.

It had been an alright party, all things considered. Tony had invited Gwen and a few of their mutual friends from Stark Industries, and apparently several other people he knew but Peter didn’t. They were all nice people, chatty and knowledgeable and all ready to drink until they passed out.

Tony had brought lavish gifts in a pile almost as tall as Peter and the majority of the guests had all brought a gift or two along as well. Peter now had more ties, watches and bottles of alcohol than he had space for but he was delighted at each one, taking a shot each time he opened a present as instructed

Tony had bought him a dorky lab coat, (”in honour of how we met, Petercakes.”) and two soft sweaters. A gorgeous, deep red tie that Peter was sure matched one Tony owned himself. Three bottles of expensive, fruity alcohol and several small baggies of various chocolate covered fruits. A pair of classy, dark shades and a massive bath set filled with fruity scrubs and fizzy bath-bombs.

Peter had no idea ho he was gonna get all of it back to the Tower, and he vaguely mused on just leaving it all here for the night and picking it back up in the morning. He let his head loll against the cooling breeze, grip slackening on his flute of champagne. He’d lost count of how much he’d had to drink.

“What’cha Bruce Wayne-ing for out here, Peter?” came Tony’s slightly slurred, drunk-high voice from behind him, and Peter couldn’t help stiffening a little, gaze lifting from his arms to the city line before them. His stomach twisted with the thought of Tony mingling in the crowd, chatting up girls and flirting with boys.

“I’m not Batmanning,” he pouted, forcing himself to look when Tony came up half-besides him and half-behind him. Tony smelt like expensive whiskey and musky aftershave. His hair was mussed from the sleek style it had been in earlier, and three smudged lipstick prints dotted the line of his jaw.

Peter turned his gaze away.

“Out here alone, gazing moodily at the dark night, while a party in your honour is in full blast behind you,” Tony hummed, leaning against Peter’s shoulder heavily as he joined him in staring out at the twinkling lights of New York.

It took a moment for Peter to hone in on the scent of smoke, and he turned his head in alarm, only to find Tony grinning across at him, holding out a tiny cupcake with a single candle.

“I’ve already done the cake,” Peter mumbled, watching the small flame flickering in the breeze. Tony had custom-ordered a massive cake, with icing and sprinkles and little white chocolate cookies and all other sorts of decoration. It had taken Peter eight breaths to blow out all the candles. Tony met his gaze, eyes dark and pupils blown.

“I know. But… This is special. Just for us,” Tony murmured, still watching him. Peter’s heart immediately begun to race, pounding against his ribs as he met Tony’s stare.

“Make a wish then,” Tony coaxed, a lopsided grin quirking his mouth as he shifted his weight against the balcony. Peter kept his eyes as he listened, putting all of his faith and effort into thinking his wish before he leaned down, blowing the flame out with a short, sharp puff.

“What’da wish for?” Tony asked not even a second later, plucking the candle and tossing it aside to the floor as he offered Peter the cupcake. Peter hesitated, taking it and staring into the icing while he gathered his courage. Should he say it? Didn’t that ruin the magic?

He shifted uneasily, looking back out across the city as he sucked in a breath. “I wish you believed me when I say I love you,” he spat out in a rush, clutching the cupcake so tightly that it crumbled under his grip, icing folding across his knuckles. Tony stiffened besides him, pulling away a step and turning to face Peter, but he continued before Tony could say anything.

“I’m old enough to know love. I have been since I said it the second time. And… And I wish you loved me back. I really do. I know you don’t and I’m not gonna force it but I just… I mean it, Tony. And you know I do. I love you. I always have, and I think I will for a long time. Maybe always. But I just… That’s what I wished for. That you stopped treating it like a joke.”

Part of the cupcake fell away in a sad, dramatic slide and Peter forced himself to drag his gaze up, away from the view and across to Tony. Tony, who looked…Devastated. The expression on his face was enough of an answer for Peter, if the look in his eyes had failed to get the message across.

“Peter…I’m sorry, I…”

Peter let the rest of the cupcake fall, dropping his gaze to his trembling hands as he shook his head, unwilling to hear it. Unwilling to hear another rejection. He spun on his heel, almost stumbling as he fled for the door, pushing through and into the bright, loud warmth of the room.

He stuck the wall, desperately skirting anyone who noticed him with an apologetic smile as he fumbled for his jacket, forgoing the elevator for the stairs.

He made it down four floors before he sank against the railing, gasping for air. His vision blurred with tears and he dragged himself to the elevator, hitting the button miserably as he stared down at his icing smeared hands, willing the crushing sensation to give him enough time to get home.

His phone buzzed three times in his pocket, but he ignored it, stepping into the elevator and huddling into the corner as it carried him down to the foyer.

The night security looked surprised to see him, but obligingly ordered a car to be brought around, waiting with him and helping him into the back when it arrived. He wiped at his eyes, faking not feeling too good when the driver (Harry? Henry?) asked if he was alright.

When they arrived outside his house, the driver got out and helped him up, patting his shoulder comfortingly. He caught Peter’s eye, expression almost…Knowing.

“Whatever he said or did, kid… Don’t hold it against him too much. Tony hasn’t been right in himself since his parents. He’ll make it up to you. You’re the best thing that’s happened to him.”

Peter almost threw up on the spot, mumbling in response and darting for his door. The driver waited until he was inside, safe, before he left. Peter sank back against the door, finally giving into the burning sensation in his throat and howling as the tears begun to pour. Three times, he thought miserably.

He doesn’t love you. Never did. Never will.

A distant memory re-called itself to the front of his mind and through the haze of depression Peter fumbled for his phone, slick fingers sliding on the screen as he took several attempts to log into the Stark employee server. The announcement was still there, and his heart thumped with an icy determination as he scanned it.

Stark Industries was opening a new PR division in Malibu. 121 positions available.

He flipped to his email, thumbing in Pepper Pott’s ID. Despite her and Tony’s break-up she had remained a valued member of the company, double-acting as Tony’s PA and a member of HR.

His heart sank lower and his blood run colder with each word, until he felt numb as he hit send. He let his head fall back against the door, phone sliding to the carpet and he squeezed his eyes shut.

It was for the best.

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starker-eternity · 5 years

Text

Going Once, Never Twice

So I’m sitting down, watching a favorite musical of mine and I’m hit with a Starker drabble idea... wow, I need help. In other words, you know you’re in trouble when everything starts prompting fics/drabbles... Trying to write a soft, fluffy piece and my mind runs away screaming...

Pairings: Starker with background Stucky, Phlint, Thorki, Brutasha

Warnings: AU, no powers, kidnapping, inference to non-con/rape, human trafficking, characters aged up, dark avengers

****

NEW YORK CITY

In the hallway of the building, the squeaky wheels of a cart could be heard as it was pushed by the closed doors. No one paid it any mind if they heard it, background noise as it was. As it neared its destination, music could be heard coming from behind the door that it stopped at. The European folk music that was playing completely covered the slight noise of a key being slid into the well-oiled lock and the door opening.

A young, auburn-haired woman was sitting on a couch in the living room, back to the opened door. She was humming along to the music playing as she was browsing on a Stark tablet.

All of a sudden, hands came into her vision before her face was covered with a sweet smelling white cloth. The woman struggled for a brief minute before her body went limp. A pair of strong, leather covered arms lifted the sleeping woman and deposited her body into the waiting cart. The music was turned off and the apartment was vacated, squeaking wheels echoing in the hallway.

****

STILL NEW YORK CITY

Ned laughed at MJ’s latest quip about Flash’s latest embarrassing debacle at Columbia University, the prestigious university that all three attended. Flash Thompson was one of their high school tormentors that unfortunately followed them to the same place for higher education. The guy was a Class A Douchebag, but he was sadly also intelligent. Luckily for them, he was too busy being a “small fish in the suddenly bigger pond” to give them much trouble.

As they passed a smaller newsstand, one of the dying breeds that sold physical papers, both young adults waved to Mr. Lee, the owner. Neither paid the loud headlines “HOW MANY MORE WILL GO MISSING?” from the local newspapers any attention.

Ned opened the door to their apartment building, The Priscilla, and was about to hold it open for M.J. when her raised eyebrow made him think better of it. Knowing her disdain for “gallant gestures”, even if they were more suited to be labeled “general politeness”, Ned rushed through the door and M.J. followed. Both automatically headed to the front desk to see if they had any mail waiting on them.

As they neared it, both noticed a young man standing at the desk, two medium sized suitcases and a back pack lying on the floor next to him. Ned took note that the man was a respectable height, with a head full of chestnut curls. His body seemed to be on the leaner side, but hard to tell as it was covered up by a shapeless tan sweater and baggy jeans. MJ was more interested in his non-descript luggage, trying to see if she could deduce where he was from without asking.

As both young adults stopped near him, the young male turned and gave them a shy smile. “ Hello,” he greeted, his voice light and cheery.

“Hi!”

“What’s up loser?”

The young man looked surprised by MJ’s caustic greeting, so Ned quickly rushed to assure him. “Don’t mind MJ, that’s how she greets everyone she doesn’t find currently offensive. It means she might like you if you don’t do anything incredibly stupid.”

The other man’s smile grew strained as he replied, “That’s both encouraging and terrifying really.”

MJ stared at him for half a minute before she gave a smirk and declared, “Cool. I’ve decided you can hang out with us. You know, if you want. I’m MJ.” She shook his hand briefly before turning her gaze on Ned.

“Oh! I’m Ned. MJ and I live on the 14th floor, apartments 1402 and 1404.”

Ned shook his hand as the brunette started to introduce himself. “Pleased to meet you, I’m Peter -“

“Here’s your ID back, Mr. Parker. Everything seems to be in order.”

Ms. Hill, the front desk manager, interrupted the introductions, coming back to the counter from the back room. In her hand was the aforementioned ID, which she handed back to Peter. As Peter busied himself with putting his card back into his wallet, Ms. Hill turned to Ned and MJ.

“Afternoon Mr. Leeds, Ms. Jones.”

“Afternoon,” they both chorused.

“I see you’ve already met Mr. Parker.” As they both nodded, she continued to state, “Excellent. He’s moving in today. Short notice, but lucky for him we had a vacancy. If he has any questions and can’t reach someone at the desk, he can ask either of you. Makes my job easier. He’s actually your neighbor as he’s leasing apartment 1403.”

Both Ned and MJ looked at each other in surprise. Ned spoke his thoughts first, “1403? Wasn’t that leased to Wanda Maximoff? She just moved in!”

Ms. Hill looked at Ned, a slightly annoyed look on her face. “Wanda Maximoff just moved out,” she replied. “Said something about missing Europe too much and not being able to handle Americans very well.”

“Wow,” MJ murmured. “She didn’t even give it a chance.”

Ned and MJ shrugged at each other while Peter stood by, his fidgeting fingers a clear indication that he was slightly uncomfortable. MJ looked back at Ms. Hill and asked, “Mail come yet?”

“Mail was delivered, always something for you two,” she said, even as she was leaving the counter to retrieve it.

Ned looked at Peter and explained, “Mail is delivered to the front desk everyday and the building staff sorts it for everyone. Since the desk is usually manned 24/7, you just ask for it.”

Ms. Hill came back and handed a few envelopes to MJ and several to Ned. “Looks like your mother wrote you, Ms. Jones and there seem to be several letters from Ms. Brant, Mr. Leeds.”

Ned blushed, but said, “Yeah, Betty’s on her 6 month Humanities Internship and has no access to email or WI-Fi. Snail mail is her only option. Luckily her handwriting is much better than mine.”

“You still have to send her replies, dork,” retorted MJ.

“Oh, that’s right,” Ned replied, his expression falling for a moment.

Ms. Hill shook her head slightly before looking at Peter. “Will you be receiving regular mail from family members or significant others, Mr. Parker?”

Peter smiled sadly at the older woman before shaking his head. “I don’t have anyone to write to me,” he explained. “My parents died when I was 6 and my aunt and uncle died last year. I don’t have any known family left.”

Ms. Hill’s gaze suddenly grew sharper at Peter’s words. Her body straighted and she suddenly seemed much more interested in the conversation. Peter noticed this immediately, but dismissed it as neither Ned nor MJ seemed to noticed. Ms. Hill looked him straight in the eye as a slightly creepy attempt at a sympathetic smile crossed her lips. “So sad to be all alone in the world,” she murmured.

Peter nodded and dropped his gaze from hers. He was uncomfortable, but didn’t want to insult the staff of his new landlord on the first day.

“Well, make sure to come to our social Friday night, Mr. Parker. I’m sure you’ll make dozens of new friends,” assured Ms. Hill.

“Yeah, and we’ll help introduce you to everyone on the 14th floor,” cheered Ned. The trio moved away from the desk, Peter moving to grab his suitcases and backpack. He followed the other two to the bank of elevators, a necessity in a high rise building.

“So the 14th floor? How many residents are there on the one floor?” Peter asked Ned as the trio waited for a lift to arrive.

“Actually it’s the 13th floor, but the complex was built by superstitious engineers. They didn’t want to label the floor with the unlucky number 13, so they skipped it and labeled it 14 instead.”

As the arriving elevator doors slid open, allowing the three to enter and began to close, MJ could be heard saying, “And according to urban myth, the hotel is actually built on an ancient burial ground. Some say they can...”

Maria Hill waited until the trio was definitely gone before she called out, “Jasper? Come man the desk. I’ve got to talk with Fury.”

****

MALIBU

Genius. Billionaire. Playboy. Philanthropist.

All tags that accurately described the 35 year old man that sat in the conference room, signing some digital paperwork. Impeccably groomed and well-dressed, Tony Stark was a man that exuded wealth and privilege. His genius was not a trait detectable with the naked eye, but anyone who owned a smart phone or tablet clearly held the results of just two pieces of his work. Of course he was a philanthropist, he had to constantly work on his public image. Not only for the good of his company, Stark Industries, but also so that nosy paparazzi didn’t focus on other things that went on in his life.

Playboy. Naturally his other titles encouraged every gold digger and fame seeking maniac to accost him. Men and women, he loved them all. But after almost two decades of flitting amongst the debutantes and trust fund babies, Tony was tired. He wanted to settle on a more permanent arrangement. Something similar to what his friends had. Alas, he hadn’t found “The One” yet.

His friends.

Tony looked around at the men and woman he chose to surround himself with. All with talents and gifts of their own, they had all combined their resources together to form Avengers Incorporated. AI was a company that just about had their fingers in every pot. Military weapons, espionage, technology, bio-engineering, pharmaceuticals... the list went on. Stark Industries was his legacy left to him by his father, but Avengers Incorpoated was his baby. And it was because of some of the work done by AI that the government and law enforcement turned a blind eye to darker activities that might cross their paperwork and desks concerning the founding members.

Tony cracked his neck before setting his tablet down and said, “Well, congrats to us, Gentlemen and Lady. We’ve just closed the deal that will net us an easy $500 million in profit.”

Smiles were shot his way as the others wrapped up their paperwork. “I think we deserve some R&R,” he declared. “Let’s escape to The Compound for a few weeks. Let Pepper and her team earn their ridiculous salaries and hold the fort down. Bring all of your partners.”

Natasha, a fiery red-head, gave Tony a sharp grin. “It’ll do Bruce some good to get out of his labs for a bit. He won’t admit it, but he’s getting stressed.”

Phil, head of AI’s legal legions smiled softly. “Clint’s been such a good boy lately, he deserves such a treat.”

Tony swiveled his head towards the other two men in the room. “How about it, Point Break? Buckaroo? Steve and Loki are the newest pets to the group. They good for an escape?”

Thor frowned, but he agreed, “Loki needs some discipline work. It would be good to get him isolated where I can devote my full attention to his conditioning.”

James, or Bucky to his friends, nodded his head. “Steve’s not completely there yet. It would do him good to interact with Bruce and Clint. See that it’s okay to surrender. Little punk keeps trying to test the boundaries,” he added, his tone fond despite his criticism.

Natasha turned to Tony, “What about you?”

Tony grinned at her, “ I’m sure I can find -”

Tony was interrupted by a chime coming from his phone. It was a chime that was echoed simultaneously by every cell phone in the conference room. The tone was unique, easily recognizable by everyone present. With raised eyebrows all around, each adult took out their phone and opened the text they all received.

AUCTION LOT 23-WM-PBP. 5 Min. Click link if interested.

Tony leaned back in his chair, even as he clicked on the provided link. He was prepared to be disappointed, as the last several dozen offerings had left him uninterested. As the link was loading, he noticed the others putting away their phones. Made sense, after all they had already won their auctions and had their prizes. No need to look anymore for them.

As the link opened on his phone, Tony took one look at the provided pictures and nearly fell out of his chair.

Perfection.

Clearly pictures lifted from an ID card and from a surveillance camera, the details were still captivating enough to knock the breath from him. Whisky-colored doe eyes stared up at him, almost teasing beneath a delightful mop of chestnut curls. Pale skin, complimented by smooth lips in an adorable grin, teased with a light brushing of freckles across an impish nose. A full body shot hinted at a lithe body, but gave no more tantalizing details.

Tony felt interest immediately spike in his lower regions, just from looking at those lips. He could already imagine those eyes filled with shining tears as those lips were wrapped around his cock. A red collar would look stunning around that pale neck. He eagerly absorbed the provided basic details.

AUCTION LOT 23-WM-PBP

23 year old Caucasian male.

Name: Peter Benjamin Parker

Status: Orphan

Current Location: New York City, USA

Height: 5’10”

Weight: approx 167lbs

Hair: brown

Eyes: hazel

Availability: immediately

Starting Bid: $100,000USD

Tony clicked on the provided link, which he knew from experience would redirect him to a secure server that housed the auction house, Black Noire. He was going to win this auction, no matter the price. And he was absolutely sure it was going to skyrocket.

As he waited the few precious minutes before the bidding frenzy went live, he glanced up at his friends. By now, they all had noticed he hadn’t put his phone away in disinterest, so their curiosity was piqued. He smirked, waggling his eyebrows, watching as delighted smiles crossed his friends’ faces.

Another soft chime echoed from his phone, indicating bidding was now open. As he confirmed his first of what he suspected would be many bids, Tony couldn’t help the already possessive chant going through his mind.

MINE.

#starker #fic drabble #kidnapping #human trafficking #dark avengers #inferenced non-con

141 notes · View notes

whumphoarder · 5 years

Text

Go Down Swinging

Summary: Peter has been tediously trying to finish his calculus exam for the past two hours. But how the hell is he supposed to focus with the enemy lurking just over his shoulder?

Word count: 1,920

Genre: Crack, fluff, humor, mild whump

A/N: Thanks to @sallyidss for beta reading!!

Link to read on Ao3

Peter is going insane.

He’s sitting at his desk in his bedroom at the compound late Sunday afternoon, his calculus textbook, several sheets of notebook paper full of nearly illegible scribbles, and the four pages that make up the take-home exam that Tony’s just found out about (“Kid, when you said you had ‘a few math problems left to do,’ I didn’t think you meant your entire midterm! You’re officially denied lab access until I see a filled out test, Jesus Christ”) spread out in front of him.

The content is challenging, but he’s good at calc and it’s been two hours now, so he really should be further along than problem five. But how the hell is he supposed to focus with his senses going off every thirty seconds, reminding him that the enemy is still at large?

He copies the next problem onto his scratch paper—Mr. Martinez is constantly harping at him to show his work—and flips back in the textbook to find the formula he needs. A low buzzing sound issues from the southwest corner of the room. He grits his teeth and inhales deeply in an active effort to ignore it.

Peter skims through the pages as the sound persists, causing the hairs on the back of his neck to stand straight. Now it’s coming from the southeast corner. Now near the door. Around his bed. He takes another deep breath, clenching and unclenching his fist tightly. Is it this hard for Dr. Banner when he’s trying to control his own temper? If so, Peter is grateful he’s only part spider instead of Hulk.

He starts copying the formula down on his paper. The lead in his mechanical pencil snaps and he has to pump out a new piece. Now the buzzing is coming from the northeast corner. Now behind his back. By the trashcan at his feet. Beside his ear. The lead snaps again.

He inhales deeply and counts to ten. That doesn’t make him any calmer, so he counts again in Spanish. Then once more in German. As the buzzing draws nearer, the numbers and symbols on the page blur before his eyes and he blinks twice to clear his vision.

But when the goddamn fly lands on the eraser of his pencil, Peter loses his shit.

With a guttural cry of fury that would put the Hulk to shame, he hurls the pencil at the opposite wall with such force that the plastic casing shatters upon impact. The fly, seemingly unharmed, buzzes upwards and lands on the top of the curtain covering the window.

Peter leaps up from his chair so suddenly that it topples over backwards. “Alright, that’s it, buddy!” he hollers at the insect. “You have picked the wrong guy to mess with!”

Grabbing a stack of the newspapers leftover from his last social studies project, he rolls them up tightly before charging at the window. He whacks the curtain with his homemade swatter with such force that the glass behind it nearly cracks. The fly buzzes away and lands on his bedside lamp.

Peter chases it across the room, swinging wildly. He makes contact with the lamp and it goes flying off his nightstand. Peter’s senses ping at him and he spins around to catch it. He does so—mere centimeters from the ground—but the now awkward position of his feet twists his ankle. He falls to the ground in a tangle of gangly limbs, the lamp smashing under his weight.

The fly floats off and lands on his pillow.

“Gaah!” Peter cries in frustration. Grimacing in pain, he pushes himself up to stand on his knees and holds his now throbbing hand out in front of him. A large piece of glass is lodged in his palm. He rips it out with a hiss. Blood streams forth.

Peter grabs a (possibly?) clean sock from the floor and ties it around his bleeding hand with a clumsy knot. Battle wound now dressed, he gets back to his feet, wincing at the sudden jolt of pain in his jarred ankle. He frowns down at the injured limb.

“Oh hell no, Spider-Man is not about to be bested by a fly,” he growls. He limps towards the bed, preparing to lunge at the pillow when he stops. Spider. That’s it! An almost evil grin spreads across his features.

Peter hobbles across the room to his dresser and yanks open the top drawer. He tears through the contents, tossing underwear and socks back over his shoulder until finally finding the object he’s been searching for.

There’s a crazed glint in his eyes as he stares at the old web shooter in his hand.

“Oh this bitch is going down.”

Once a month, FRIDAY goes offline for a few hours to run her regular system maintenance. This check had been scheduled for early the next morning, but after banishing the kid to his room to finish his calc exam, Tony found himself with a bit of unexpected free time, so he opted to just get it out of the way now.

He’s been sitting in his lab the past couple hours, feet resting on the desk in front of him and flipping through a few engineering magazine back issues as he supervises the mostly automatic process.

“How we doing, FRI?” he asks, taking a sip of coffee from the 3D Hulk fist mug Peter got him for Christmas.

“My systems are at seventy-three percent capacity, boss,” FRIDAY reports. “But you should know my motion sensors are picking up unusual activity in Peter’s room.”

Tony frowns, uncrossing his feet and lowering them back to the ground. “Elaborate.”

“I am detecting an abnormal amount of movement throughout the room, as well as some rather concerning sounds through my auditory sensors.”

“Play the audio,” Tony orders.

Over the speakers he hears the sound of something crashing and muffled cursing. Then there’s the familiar ‘thwip’ of Peter’s web shooter firing, followed by a loud groan.

Tony’s heart lurches and he’s on his feet instantly, moving towards the door. “Shit, who’s he firing at? Was there a security breach?!” he demands as he hurries out of the lab and towards the elevator.

“I am only detecting one heat signature,” FRIDAY informs. “All security systems are operating at full capacity. I am unaware of any breaches.”

Despite FRIDAY’s reassurance, he continues jogging towards the elevator and presses the button up to Peter’s floor. The doors slide open again and he steps out, one hand hovering over the arc reactor on his chest housing his armor, ready to deploy it at a moment’s notice.

He knocks on Peter’s closed door. “Hey kid?” he calls. “Everything alright?”

“Uh, yeah, all good!” Peter hollers back, followed by a small crash. “Everything is a-okay!”

“Kid?” Tony jiggles the handle. It’s clearly not locked because the knob turns just fine, but he’s still not able to push the door open. “What the hell is going on in there?” he demands. “Did you block the door?”

“No! I mean, sorta but it’s not on purpose, it’s, uh—” There’s another crash and Peter lets out a sharp “oof!”.

“Pete?” He jiggles the doorknob again, this time shoving his shoulder into it. Still no luck. “Did you just fall?”

“I’m alright!” the kid yelps back. “I’m good! Actually, you can go. I’ll uh, I’ll just—”

Tony heaves out an exasperated sigh. “Kid, I’m running out of patience here. Either you open this door in the next five seconds, or it’s coming down. What’s it gonna be?”

There’s a beat. “Uhm… I can’t really come to the door right now.

“Alright, suit yourself,” Tony mutters. He flips up the face of his watch and the gauntlet encases his hand. Adjusting the power on his repulsor to the lowest setting, he fires at the edge of the door.

It blasts open immediately, but when Tony catches his first glimpse into the kid’s room, he’s rendered momentarily speechless.

Peter looks up at his mentor from his awkward position the floor. “Mr. Stark, I can explain!” he blurts out.

Tony just blinks at him. “Peter.”

“So there’s this fly, and he’s been like, stalking me all day ever since I got here! Like he has some kind of fly vendetta!” Peter exclaims. “I couldn’t let him get away with it! I just—”

“Peter,” Tony repeats, letting his gaze travel around the room. “What. The actual. Fuck.”

Half the furniture is overturned, the curtains have been torn down, the contents of the kid’s dresser are strewn about the room, and there are pieces of smashed lamp and drops of blood littering the carpet. Numerous spider webs of varying sizes are covering just about every visible surface, in some places stretching all the way from floor to ceiling. Peter himself is sprawled out on the ground, a blood-soaked sock tied around his palm and one foot caught in a particularly intricate web.

Tony takes a long, deep inhale before squeezing his eyes shut and pinching the bridge of his nose. “Jesus take the wheel…” he mutters under his breath.

“But the fly, Mr. Stark!” Peter insists. There’s a wild look in his eyes. “You don’t understand! He’s taunting me! Mocking me! He knows.”

With an equally long exhale, Tony takes a few careful steps into the room. Buzzing around the kid’s head is a completely ordinary-looking house fly. “You mean that fly?” he asks, pointing.

Peter nods frantically. “He’s possessed, I tell you!”

Tony keeps his eyes trained on the fly as it draws closer. When it gets within a foot of his chest, he shoots out both arms and claps his hands together, squishing the insect between them.

Peter’s jaw drops. “How… How did you…?”

Tony scoffs, wiping fly guts off on his jeans. “Turns out having an intern with zero self preservation instincts drastically improves your reflexes.”

Peter looks back sheepishly. “Uh… Thanks?”

Tony holds up a finger and gives Peter a stern look. “You’re not coming out of this room until this entire mess is cleaned up, understood?”

Eyes still wide, Peter bobs his head up and down quickly. “Yeah, yeah, of course!” he agrees.

“Good.” Tony turns around to head back out.

“Wait!” Peter calls after him.

Tony turns back around. “What?”

“I’m still stuck—I need my web solvent.” Peter jerks his head to the side and Tony follows the movement to the backpack that’s leaning against the bed, just out of the kid’s reach. “It’s in there.”

Tony rolls his eyes again and moves towards the bag, being careful to sidestep the webs as he does. But just as his feet reach the bed, he pauses and glances back at Peter. “Remind me again, how long does this stuff take to dissolve on its own?”

“Like two hours,” Peter says with a shrug. “But with the spray it’s like, thirty seconds, so if you could just…”

A sly grin spreads across Tony’s lips. Rather than unzipping the backpack, he picks up the kid’s calculus papers and textbook before pulling a fresh pencil out of his own pocket. He plops all of these down on the floor in front of the trapped teenager. “Have fun, kiddo,” he declares.

Peter shoots him a panicked look, tugging desperately at his stuck leg. “No, no no no! Mr. Stark! Please!” he begs.

Tony gives him one last smirk before heading to the door. “Don’t forget your Taylor polynomials for those tougher integrals,” he calls back over his shoulder.

(I have no explanation for this one)

Fic Masterlist

#spiderman fic #spiderman #irondad fic #irondad #peter parker whump #crack #fluff #mcu writing #my fic

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nomadmilk · 5 years

Text

Big Break (Peter Parker x F!Reader) - PART 2

Summary: It’s difficult working as CEO of Stark Industries, even if it was temporary. Stress has gotten the better of you, and so has Parker’s. Together, somehow, you guys find a way to escape your busy work lives.

Total Word Count: 10838 (Split into parts).

RATING: T+

Warnings: Fluff. Mild swearing. Mild sexual suggestive themes... Peter being his adorkable self

Author’s Note: Work is definitely going to keep me busy... I’ve been writing nonstop, and I’ve used up a day just to recharge... But I made sushi today, so that’s pretty cool... Also, thank you for reading ☺️ And, enjoy!!

You made a promise to Pepper as an assistant to make sure everything remains the same when she gets back. The company needed to run as if she hadn’t left her post. You made sure Happy was up to par with security checks and the deliveries, anything that needed to be signed was given straight to Mrs Stark with a response warning of up to a week, you directed board meetings and had to shut all the smirking members up with your ability to actually run a company.

Well, that, and Tony Stark seems to occasionally be eavesdropping to make sure you weren’t upset by any of them. And even when he misread the situation, he’d appear in a Skype call just to check in.

He trusts you, not everyone else.

It wasn’t just businessmen that he was wary of. He invited you to his garage for a short talk. You thought it was to remind you about maintenance with his cars, but something else was concerning him.

“Could you do one more thing for me?” He asked. You shifted in your seat. “Could you look after him?”

“The… baby?” You answered. A silly response when you looked back on it.

“No. Peter Parker. Could you make sure he’s not, y’know, doing something stupid.”

“Oh. Um. Yes, of course.” You coughed. “I’m sorry, but what-what does this entail?”

As the months went, and the Starks went on a break, you gradually learnt what taking care of Peter Parker was.

You were walking with him. It’s about four in the afternoon, but it is Winter so New York’s street lights were bright against the jet sky, and the breeze was making the night colder than it should be. Peter wasn’t smart about what he wore so he was beside you shivering every so often. You chuckled every time you offered him a resolve.

Peter was stubborn in the most particular times, but you knew a couple of techniques to loosen him up.

“The shops haven’t closed yet, Peter, we could get you a scarf and hat and gloves-“

“No, I’m okay, really-“

“They might give you an Avenger’s discount.”

Peter rolled his eyes, hedging away from laughing. “What are we doing out here?”

You step in front of him, and the gleam in your eyes set him at ease. He’s nervous about what you’re going to say, but your expression makes his irritation with the cold dissipate. You were appropriately layered; a thick, large blazer coat, kept you so warm that there was a pink hue to your cheeks. Peter has to remind himself that this outing was still a professional ordeal for the both of you; he doesn’t want to ruin that. Your work heels were swapped to some trainers that were left in your office locker, but looked odd against your blouse and pencil skirt. Peter found you adorable, but you didn’t need to know that either.

… Was this a date?

“We’re here.”

There’s a pause before he rips his eyes off of you to pay attention. You two stood in front of an all-night amusement and arcade building, still blearing with neon lights. Might not be the best for Peter’s senses, but the look of wonder it gave him was priceless.

“Used to come here when I was younger.” You began. “They have the usual zombie shooters, and normal water shooters, and whack-a-moles...”

Another gust of wind blew against your backs, and you felt a drop of rain on your face.

“Has a couple gems in there too.”

“Like what?” Peter asked.

“Galaga. Space Invaders… There used to be a Super Mario, but I think that got unplugged. Oh! They even have Tetris. The non-flashy kind.”

Droplets began landing on Peter’s quaffed locks. Why was he hesitating? Those titles were temptation enough. He must be still worrying about the suit, or his responsibilities to the Avengers, or maybe a couple of personal projects. You see his brown irises look at you, then back behind him.

As the rain starts to pour, you lead him towards a decision. He’s slightly startled as you took him by the hands. Whether or not it was your smile again, or the way your hands felt small in his, he didn’t know how to react but to follow you. “Come on, Peter. I promise everything that you’ve been working on will still be there when we get back-“

“Y/N-“

“And,” you continue, “there’s a Duckhunt high score just waiting to be beat.”

Peter bites the bait finally grinning from ear-to-ear. You cheer, and this makes him more eager to go inside. “Fine, fine, a couple of hours. Tops.”

This was the first time that you and Peter spent time together out of hours. When you started your job, you guys would talk about agendas on everything going on the Avengers compound. Eventually, when Pepper was nearing her maternity leave, after making sure you were thoroughly taught the processes of Stark industries, she handed the reigns to you. The workload became strenuous. Despite this, meeting Peter Parker became a regular event, especially when Tony let Peter take over his responsibilities. You always wanted to hang out with Peter, without the other suited colleagues around the corner or tasks hindering the time, but it wasn’t anything high on your priority list. It was just nice chatting with him, especially with everyone else ten years, or more, your senior.

Now, here you two were spraying water at a screen with monsters that melt from the touch of it, and laughing at the probability on who could get the toy frog with a hat out of the claw machine. It was nice seeing him laugh, as you usually meet him with his bewildered visage. It’s a refreshing, and delightful change. He’s great-looking with a smile.

After a while, it wasn’t you dragging Peter all over the place, it was him ushering you over to play indoor mini adventure golf.

You won, of course. That, and Peter kept having his hands stuck to the putter.

You both got back to the claw machine with the frog in it. He bowed to you in your victory.

“As your prize, Lady Y/N, “ Peter pronounced his words, “I will win you this most prestigious reward.”

“Oh, Sir Parker,” you gasp, “this is a dangerous feat. How could you possibly-“

“Fear not, my lady, anything is possible for you.”

You had to clear your throat for that comment, watching him place his palms on the joystick and buttons of the claw machine. As you wished him luck, he inserts a quarter, and the machine chimes to life. He was concentrating on the claw, his hands clammy but still functioning on the control panel. You observe the claw yourself; you see it go left, swing a little, and come towards the two of you. You hear a tap of a button, and the claw descends down.

“Oh my, God, Peter, I think you might just get it.”

He glances to the side of him, distracted by you. Your eyes hadn’t noticed him, as yours were still intent on the toy frog. His face wasn’t far away from yours, and you were just biting your bottom lip slightly. You let go of it, and Peter saw your mouth return to its full plump size.

He lost the frog.

You cursed under your breath. “So close! We cannot free them today, my knight.”

Noticing the silence, you face him. He’s still staring at your lips.

“Peter?”

He snaps out of his trance, laughing uncertainly, “Sorry, I couldn’t get it for you.”

His bashfulness makes you laugh. For a superhero, he still has a knack for being awkward. “It’s not a problem, Peter.”

“Thank you, Y/N.”

“For what?”

“This.” His head gestures to the machine in front of him, a emoticon flashing bright teeth from the background of it. “I’ve just been too overworked. I know I’ve been doing his job for a while, but Mr Stark is retiring, he wants me to step up, and I want to, it’s just-… What if I’m not right for the job? If I can’t do it, I mean, I don’t want to disappoint anyone.”

“There’s a lot of pressure on you, but you’ll get there.” You say, your lips in a hopeful simper. “I’m sure he doesn’t want you to rush, he just wants you to be ready. I mean, if you have that much doubt, you do know you can back out whenever. Tony’ll understand.”

“I don’t want to back out from this.”

“So, even with the pressure, and the choice of quitting, you want to stay?”

You see Peter take a deep breath, and survey you, a knowing look on your face. You knew Peter’s philosophy of power and responsibility all too well.

“You’re too good for this world, Peter.” You brush a hair away, glancing at him. “And, I just, uh, wanted to say – even with everything else going on – it’s been really great to spend time with you.”

“Yeah.” He said. “It’s been awesome.”

“Have you eaten today? There’s a diner nearby we can go to.”

His Spidey senses tingled. “Erm. It’s still raining.”

You point your thumb to a candy machine, smirking. “So you want me to suck on a lollipop because you’re afraid of a little rain?”

Peter blinked. His heart began racing. Why’d he have to think about you sucking on-

“Do they have pancakes?” Was all Peter could muster.

#peter parker #spiderman #spiderman x you #spiderman x reader #spiderman x y/n #Reader #date #Big #Break #Part 2 #tom holland #Fluff #marvel #mcu #fanfic

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itsybitsybatsyspider · 6 years

Text

Everywhere I Go Part 2

Summary: Peter Parker x mutant!Reader: Y/N has lived on the streets of Queens for a long time now, and never in her whole life would she have thought she would save a superhero who needed saving. Much less that the encounter would lead to something more.

Word Count: 4.1k exactly!

Warning(s): mentions of drugs. that’s it.

Notes: the Jon Snow coffee was created by my sister, and so are the future coffees i’ll mention in this story, so please don’t steal them. You’re welcome to try them though.

The next day, at school, you were focused on two things. Getting your stupid ass assignments done and watching out for Peter Parker. You decided to go straight to school instead of heading to the Buttercup like you always did on Thursdays, and when you got to the subway, you were relieved when you saw that Peter wasn’t on the carriage. Or he was, but you didn’t see him.

Your earbuds played it’s regular music in your ears, but you couldn’t focus on the lyrics because you were heading over to see what was in that Mystery Drawer of Peter Parker’s. School came into view, and you jogged through the football field. Trying to avoid the pouring rain as you did. The light drizzle from last night had somehow turned into a massive downpour overnight. It was ridiculous. And waking up to it was no fun either. You dodged a student or two as you went and walked through the doors, seeing a couple groups of people already there, eating the breakfast the cafeteria gave out.

Striding past them, you headed to the chemistry room. Hoping to any deity out there that the teacher wasn’t in the room as you snuck up to the door. Your ears didn’t pick up on anything and you couldn’t hear any breaths or heartbeats. The teacher wasn’t inside. A sigh of relief left your lips, but your shoulders were still tense. This was only one part of three. Your hand reached for the doorknob, turning it, only to see that it was locked. You huffed in annoyance. You turned around to see if there was anyone else in the hall. When nobody was in sight, you turned back to the doorknob, and vibrated it. Enough to shake it and loosen the lock, but not enough to pull the whole knob off. Your hand twisted the doorknob, which opened this time. You smiled.

Entering the room, you saw that not much had changed, except that the chairs which were now sitting on the desks and the beakers now put away. It was weird seeing your classroom in the dark when nothing was prepared. You walked over to the desk you believed to be Peter Parker’s and checked the drawer next to it. It was locked. You checked the other drawer beside it, but it was open. You checked another one. That was open too. Then another and another and another. All of them open.

Except for Peter’s.

How could it be locked anyway? There weren’t any locks on the school drawers. It was against the school policy for students to lock their classroom drawers anyway. So how could he have locked it? You placed your hand against the wood of the drawer and sent a vibration through it.Your eyebrows drew together. You sent another vibration. It seemed like Peter locked the drawer by using strings or something. Zipties? You shook your head. That was weird, but whatever it was, it was coming off.

Now.

Sending a powerful vibration through the drawer, you could feel and hear the strings begin to snap one by one. Then once the last string snapped, you opened up the drawer in a whoosh. Confusion donned on your face. You reached inside the drawer and held up a few scrap pieces of paper that read Web Fluid 1.0 with equations and formulas written over it. And beside that, a beaker filled with weird foam. Taking a glass rod from a counter, you stuck the rod in the beaker and stirred it around. Lifting the rod, you saw that a whole bunch of strings were attached to it stubbornly, unwilling to let go. No, not strings.

Webs.

You gasped quietly. What could this mean? Your mind jumped to an insane conclusion. Could Peter Parker be Spider-Man?

…

You nearly burst out laughing at the thought. As if tiny, awkward Peter Parker could be the tall, confident Queens superhero. No, there must be a more reasonable explanation.

While you were trying to think of what that could be, your ears picked up on the sound of footsteps coming from around the corner and down the hall. The teacher! You snatched one of the pieces of paper and folded it before stuffing it into your pocket. Then quietly rolling the drawer shut as quickly as you could, you forgot about the rod you left in the beaker, and went towards the door. Manipulating the sound waves around you, now able to mute your footsteps and your breath, you opened the door and left.

Running right into Peter and Ned.

“Whoa!” Peter exclaimed. “Sorry! Are you okay?” Your face paled.

“Uh-uh yeah! Yeah I’m-I’m okay.” you choked out. You began to back away and tripped over your feet turning around. Trying to get away from the duo.

“You sure?”

“See-see you guys later!”

You left Peter and Ned with confusion plastered on their faces. You heard a quiet “What just happened.” behind you as you walked away farther and farther, and cringed at the sentence and the bombardment of noises.

Peter ran up to Ned, panting and eyes wide. He had just run across the football field to meet up with Ned who was waiting for him at the base of the stairs, and was soaking wet. Peter had woken up late and missed his train, so he had to swing across town, through the rain, to make it to school on time.

He had stayed up late going through the city, but when he saw that nobody needed his help, he decided to turn in earlier than normal. Which turned out to be his mistake. He had been the victim of an attempted assault, murder, and robbery, but luckily he was saved by someone. A vigilante no less! And he HAD to talk to Ned about it.

“Ned! Ned! I have to tell you something!”

“What is it?”

“Okay, last night I nearly got shot and then someone wearing a mask saved me and she did this weird thing and it was awesome and I don’t know wh-”

“Whoa whoa whoa, slow down! What are you talking about?”

Peter took a deep breath.

“Last night, I was out on patrol and when I was done, I went into an alley to change and go home! But I didn’t see that someone was outside waiting for some poor unfortunate soul to be in an alley for a stick up!”

“Oh my gosh! Did somebody stick you up as Spider-Man!?” Ned whisper yelled.

“What? No! They stuck me up while I was changing from my suit!”

A look of bewilderment appeared on Ned’s face. “So they caught you in your underwear?”

“Well.............yes! But that’s not the point! The point is while they held a gun to my head, somebody wearing a mask came and they beat up the guy!”

“What, seriously!? Are you okay?”

Peter waved his hands. “Yeah, yeah I’m fine, but I want to know who she was? Do you think it’s another teen hero like me? What if she was recruited by Mr. Rogers like Mr. Stark did with me?”

“Wait,” Ned said holding up his hand to stop them from walking. “It was a girl?” a sly smile grew on his face.

“So that’s why you wanna know who it was.”

Peter stammered awkwardly. “We-well yeah.” he rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t know any other vigilantes… and I thought it’d be nice… to meet… her.”

“Dude.”

“What!?”

Ned gave Peter a look as they walked through the front doors.

“I bet you like her don’t ya?”

“Ned! Why on earth would I have a crush on her if I don’t even know her! I don’t even know what she looks like! We’ve never even had a conversation!”

Ned shrugged. “I don’t know. But it sounds like you. Hey, could we drop by the computer lab? I need to turn in my presentation before class starts.”

“Sure.” they began to head off in the direction of the computer room. “Why do teachers even have us turn in these kind of presentations so early? It’s ridiculous!” And just like that, they changed topics.

“I don’t know, man. But it’s best to just accept it and move on.” They turned around a corner and continued to walk down the hall in silence. They were just passing the chemistry lab when Y/n burst from inside it and ran into Peter.

“Whoa! Sorry, are you okay?”

“Uh-uh yeah! Yeah, I’m-I’m okay.” Y/n said, stuttering a bit. She started to back away from Peter and Ned and her face was as white as a sheet.

“You sure?” Peter asked concerned. He didn’t mean to startle Y/n and felt bad about it. He just wanted to make sure she was okay.

“See-see you guys later!” Y/n turned around and darted away, leaving a perplexed Peter and Ned in her wake.

“What just happened?” Ned asked to no one in particular.

“No idea.” Peter said. He looked to the chemistry lab, where Y/n just came from, and looked inside to see if the teacher was there. They weren’t. And the classroom was dark. What was Y/n doing in the chemistry lab? He thought.

Curious, he reached for the door handle and gave it a turn. It was unlocked. His eyebrows scrunched together in confusion.

What was she doing in the chemistry lab? He thought again.

“-ter. Peter. Peter!” Said boy jolted.

“What?”

“You spaced out there. Come on! We gotta get to the computer lab before school starts.” Ned said, gesturing for Peter to follow.

“Right.’’ he mumbled, looking at the door. He followed his friend to the classroom, not even bothering to pay attention to Ned talking to his teacher, because his mind was still on Y/n and what she was doing in the chemistry lab and why she had broken into it in the first place.

Throughout the rest of the school day, Peter couldn’t stop thinking about Y/n and the chemistry class, so by the time chemistry did come around, he tried to keep on Y/n, to see if she would do anything. She did nothing but her assignment, paid attention to no one except her partners, and listened to the teacher’s instructions. There was one time when she did look Peter’s way, but Peter didn’t know why she looked at him. He shrugged it off. The brown-haired boy finished the assignment early and flipped through some papers, so that he could work on his newest web fluid. He knew he should’ve been paying attention to Y/n, but he really needed some more. His web-shooters had run out and it’s why he wasn’t able to web up the mugger last night. Peter opened up the drawer to pour the new formula in another solution, but was shocked to see that

There weren’t any webs shutting the drawer closed.

There was another glass rod in the beaker

All of his former formula papers were shuffled around.

Someone definitely went through his drawer.

But who was able to get past the “web-lock” without having to get a crowbar? Only Peter was strong enough to get past it’s tensile strength, and that was only because of his spider strength. He reached inside and pulled out the second rod, inspecting it. He looked around the room to see if anybody had noticed him. His eyes lock with Y/n’s, who immediately ducked her head.

Peter’s eyes widen and his shoulders stiffen.

Why was she in the chemistry lab when the teacher wasn’t there?

Why did she break in?

Why was she so nervous when she ran into Peter?

It all clicked together in his head and it was his turn for his face to become as white as a sheet. Did she know he was Spider-Man? How could she have found out? And when?

So many questions went through his head, that he barely heard the bell ring, signaling the end of school.

Not even bothering to meet up with Ned, Peter gathered his stuff and raced out of the building. Looking over his shoulder to see if Y/n was following him or not.

He got out of the school before anyone else did, and still looking over his shoulder, jumped over the huge fence. He rushed to get to the subway and once he was on a car, he breathed a sigh of relief. He didn’t even notice the rain that sprinkled all over him.

Peter wouldn’t have been able to handle running into Y/n in the state he was in. He just would’ve been a mess of sheer panic. When the subway got to his stop, he got off and went down to an alley, and started to take off his clothes; replacing them with the comfort of his suit, and leaping into the air. Jumping off of buildings and swinging around, he didn’t even think about dropping by Delmar’s Deli first to get himself a sandwich like he always did. He needed to be by himself right now, and to think about what he was going to do.

If Y/n knew his secret, then she was in danger. And he couldn’t handle having someone else in danger because of him.

He landed on a building and sat down with his feet dangling over the edge of the roof. A sigh escaping his lips.

What was he going to do? If Y/n knew about his being Spider-Man, then that could only mean bad news for her. He didn’t want her to get hurt because of him, and he didn’t know if he could live with himself if something happened. Peter scoffed. He felt like Mr. Stark for even thinking that. But he didn’t even know her that well. All he knew was that her name was Y/n Y/l/n and that she was in the same grade as him. She lived by herself and would sometimes sing at a coffee shop and mostly always kept to herself at school; it wasn’t much.

He rubbed a gloved hand over his face, letting out another sigh. He really wished he had gotten a sandwich at Delmar’s right about now. Why didn’t he get his number 5? Peter shrugged and got to his feet. Oh well. Hope Mr. Delmar wouldn’t mind getting a visit from a superhero.

Y/n lost Peter in the school crowd.

After the school bell rang, he shot up out of his seat so fast, Y/n was sure he was a ghost. Because he disappeared in the blink of an eye. You huffed as you gathered your things and left the classroom and into the crowd. It was still raining outside, you noticed when you walked outside. Huffing in annoyance, you crossed your arms and hunched your shoulders. The rain kept coming down as you headed to the Buttercup, but it luckily wasn’t as heavy as earlier. Entering the Buttercup, you slumped in your usual seat and let out a groan.

“Everything okay sweetie?” Jolie asked while drying a mug.

“No, not really.” you replied.

“Why?”

“I’ll explain later.”

“Okay.” She didn’t even look up from her mug. “How was your day?” she asked.

“Alright. But I can really use some of your Famous Chicken-Broccoli-Rice-Curry Casserole right about now.”

Jolie smiled. “I’ll make make sure to get it ready when I get home today. Does that mean you’re gonna crash at my place tonight?”

“Yeah. Not sleeping in a wet hammock. Again.” You said.

Jolie gave you a sad smile.

“I really wish you would reconsider living at my place. You know I can handle it and afford having you there. Plus, it would help me sleep better at night knowing that your sleeping in a warm bed.”

You stared at Jolie and gave her a look. “You know why, Jolie. I don’t wanna accidentally hurt you again.” she sighed.

“Yeah, well. Still.”

You nodded your head. You slipped off your backpack and pulled out your history homework.

“Uuuugggggghhhhhh.”

“Same.” Jolie said. “You want another coffee?”

“Sure.”

“How does a Jon Snow inspired mocha sound?”

“Awesome.”

Jolie began to make the coffee right away, a smile on her face, while you focused on your homework and tried to figure out how the First Opium War in China incorporates to everyday life when you’re an adult. A few minutes went by before she placed a mug of coffee in front of you, smelling of rich chocolate and spice.

“This is my Jon Snow inspired coffee. It’s a black and white mocha with vanilla flavoring and habanero syrup.”

“Damn.”

“Yep! Enjoy honey!”

Afterwards, when your bag was packed and Jolie finished closing up the shop, you and her walked to her car. It was a block away, but it was nice walking with her, you guys didn’t do this often, so it was fun when you actually were able to. The drive to her place was serene and fun as it always was. The city’s lights began to turn on one by one, and the crimson and gold shade of dusk glowed on the buildings. One of those weird phenomena was also happening, where it rained but the sun still shined. You never knew the official word for it, but you settled on calling it a sun shower. The falling droplets and the light of the ending sunset made it look like tongues of flame were falling from the sky; making it a was a beautiful evening.

Traffic was actually good for once, and as you rode through all the streets, you and Jolie were listening to some of your favorite music, headbanging along to some music by Dorothy. You wondered why you couldn’t live like this everyday, and a part of you panged with guilt. You knew why it couldn’t be like this, and the thought made your smile fade for a split second, before the thought was banished and the smile came back again. Maybe someday it will be like this, driving through the rain and listening to music, but it wasn’t going to start today.

Jolie drove up to the front of her apartment building and you both got out, jogging through the rain and into the safe haven of dry rooms. Laughing from jokes you made in the car, you walked to the elevator and waited for it to arrive. It was like that all the way to the apartment, and it was like that as you helped Jolie prepare dinner. You were sitting on her couch, wearing a spare pair of clothes that Jolie lended to you to use as pyjamas, when she brought up your promise.

“So what were you going to explain to me earlier?” she asked all of a sudden.

Your laugh died in your throat and your smile faltered. You cleared your throat and started to rub your hands together nervously.

“Well, yesterday I saw a classmate of mine, Peter Parker, open up a drawer in chemistry class and pour some kind of formula in it.”

“Okay?” she said confused. “What does this have to do with you?’

“Well, I had this off feeling about what he was doing. And this morning I decided to get to school early to check what he did.” she tilted her head.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You sighed.

“It means that this morning before school started I broke into the chemistry lab and opened up his drawer.”

Jolie’s eyebrows shot up into her fuzzy hair. “You did WHAT now?” You cringed at the tone of her voice. “I broke into the chemistry lab an-”

“No, I heard you. I just want to know why?”

“Well that doesn’t really matter right now, but let me finish!” You said quickly as Jolie opened her mouth to oppose you.

“When I opened his drawer, I saw some weird stuff.”

“Like coke?”

You stuttered. “What?! No! There was this beaker that was filled to the brim with weird foam!”

The chocolate girl gave you a look. “Jolie, I promise it wasn’t drugs. I’ve lived on the streets long enough to know what drugs look like.”

“Okay, then. So what happened next?”

“I took a glass stirring rod from a counter and put it inside the foam. And when I pulled it out, there were like, webs sticking to it.”

“Webs?”

“Yeah! And that’s not all. It took me like, three tries to even get into the drawer in the first place. There was some kind of internal lock inside it, and I had to vibrate it to get it undone. And the student drawers aren’t even supposed to be locked!”

Jolie placed her chin on her hand, her face in a look of thought. “You sure the kid wasn’t making coke?”

You rolled your eyes. “Yes, Jolie. I’m positive.” you leaned back into the couch cushion and crossed your arms. “I just don’t know what to make of it.”

Jolie hummed. You sat in silence for a moment before Jolie spoke up again. “I think you should keep looking into it.” You looked up in surprise.

“What?”

“Keep looking into it! Whatever it is, there’s something going on with that boy, and I know that it’s gonna drive you crazy if you don’t get to the bottom of this. So check it out. Dig deeper. I’m sure you’ll find something.”

A smile grew on your face. “You’re right. It would drive me insane.”

You and Jolie giggled.

“Well while I have you here, mind if I get a song out of you?” Jolie asked eagerly. You sighed.

“Really? I don’t even have my guitar with me.”

“I know!” Jolie said while getting up from her spot on the couch. She walked into the hall and turned into her room. You could hear her shuffling around her closet and muttering under her breath, when she exclaimed excitedly and came out of her room.

Holding a ukulele.

A reluctant grin settled on your face. Jolie came over to the couch and placed the uke in your hands.

“I know for a fact that you can play any instrument that gets put in your hands.” She tapped the instrument. “So why don’t you give it a go. Play a tune or something.”

“I don’t know. I’ve never held a ukulele before.” You said.

“Just give it a go. I won’t mind if you mess up.” You held the ukulele in your hands, thinking about playing or not. But then you thought Eh, what the hell. and began to play.

A familiar tune filled the air of the small apartment and your voice began to sing.

Peter had landed on an apartment complex with his Delmar sub, and sat down cross legged. He reached inside his bag and grabbed the sandwich along with the chips and soda bottle he bought as well. Since May was working late for the day, he messaged her earlier saying that he’ll be on patrol late. And that he would be careful. So the meal he had in front of him was kind of his dinner.

He had unwrapped his meal and was just about to dig in, when he heard it.

A ukulele playing. The superhero smiled and sighed in content, and listened to the song. Looks like he will be having dinner and a show. He took a bite of his sandwich and listened to the ukuleles sound fill the air, and waited for the person playing to sing. He was not disappointed.

Why are there so many

Songs about rainbows?

And what’s on the other side

Rainbows are visions

But only illusions

And rainbows have nothing to hide

So we’ve been told

And some choose to believe it

I know they’re wrong

wait and see

Someday we’ll find it

The rainbow connection

The lovers, the dreamers

and me

Who said that every wish

Would be heard and answered

When wished on a morning star

Somebody thought of that

And someone believed it

Look what it’s done so far

What’s so amazing

That keeps us stargazing

What do we think

we might see?

Someday we’ll find it

The rainbow connection

The lovers, the dreamers

And me

All of us under its spell

We know that it’s probably magic

Have you been half asleep?

And have you heard voices?

I’ve heard them calling my name

Is this the sweet sound

That called the young sailors?

The voice might be one and the same

I’ve heard it too many times to ignore it

It’s something that I’m supposed to be

Someday we’ll find it

The rainbow connection

The lovers, the dreamers

And me

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roonil-wazlib-at-221b · 6 years

Text

Hacked: Part 7

You’re cruising around the clearing for the third time when you notice that Pom’s on your laptop. “Dude!” you protest, swinging your body around and cruising down to see her.

She looks up, waving a hand at you. “In a sec. I’m trying to find something on your target. Have you tried regular Google searches and pulled up the deleted links that were there at one point?”

You stop in midair, staring at her.

“I know, I’m a genius,” she smirks. “Now, I’m going to try to shoot you. Try to be as erratic and unpredictable as you can.”

“That’s not fair!” you protest, half-convinced she’s joking. She’s not actually going to shoot you, right? “You’re an amazing shot! You’re going to kill me!”

“Pellet gun,” she adds and you relax. Pellets hurt significantly less than actual bullets, as surprising as that is, and more importantly, they’re not lethal. “Five seconds head start,” Pom states, then, “Five… four…”

You yelp and start to dodge and weave through the air, doing somersaults that disorientate you, and at one point it takes so long for your board to stabilize it grazes the ground. Once that happens, you’re tackled out of the air by a smaller figure.

“Ouch,” you groan after rolling on the ground a few times. The board hadn’t unstuck your feet and now your feet are kicked above you, you being on your stomach on the ground, almost like those relaxed beach photos you sometimes see, but the board is pretty heavy and dipping closer to your back every second. You let it hit it.

“You’re dead!” Juna says gleefully, making a gun with her hands and exclaiming, “Pew-pew!”

Peter’s eyes had widened when the girl on the board had started her impressive aerial show, but what worried him was the girl with the dark hair with what looked like a gun shooting at you. The more he examines Dark Hair, the more she looks like Motorcycle Girl. He’d winced when Boardie had done a somersault and the board hadn’t stabilized in time, leaving her plummeting to the ground, and hadn’t had time to relax after she’d pulled herself up before Blondie, who’d been chasing after her, had tackled her. Peter once went skiing and had fallen down, and he knows how uncomfortable it is to fall with long boards attached to your feet—he’d nearly twisted his ankle one time—and her board doesn’t look any more comfortable to roll around with.

Dark Hair shouts something to Boardie, the sound traveling to Peter, but he can’t make out the words exactly. Boardie gets up, talking to Blondie, who scampers back to Dark Hair, before floating up a few feet into the air. She then tilts forward, bring her head to her knees and flinging the board around in a circle before standing up straight. Her flipping technique is perfect. She’s obviously had a lot of practice. After a few more, Boardie just coasts, swerving back and forth and up and down like she is actually on a skateboard in a skate park.

Blondie shouts something and Boardie waves before crouching to tap her board and leaving it to hover in the air. She steadies herself on the ground before doing a front flip, staggering a bit when she lands before raising her fists in the air triumphantly. Peter relaxes again, having tensed up after Dark Hair had pulled out a gun. It must have been a pellet or airsoft gun. This is just three girls having fun and messing around in a clearing near a cabin in the woods, albeit with a hoverboard technology Peter’s never seen before. He really does need to get back to Aunt May’s in a bit, but he’ll scout around a bit more, just to make absolutely sure there’s no bombs around.

“Karen, can you send an eavesdropping bug over there? I want to hear what the dark-haired girl is saying,” Peter asks. Dark Hair is talking to Boardie, who keeps looking over her shoulder at Blondie, who’s holding a cat in her arms as she walks nearly directly in front of where Peter is.

“Sure, Peter,” Karen replies.

“After that, can you run a scan for any explosives?” he inquires, focusing back on Boardie and Dark Hair. Boardie’s sitting on her board, which is hovering, completely still, as she talks to Dark Hair. Dark Hair is gesturing with her hands as she talks.

Once the eavesdropping bug is close enough, it starts to project the conversation the two girls are having.

“—through the woods,” it looks like Dark Hair is saying. She definitely sounds like Motorcycle Girl, but Peter can’t be sure. “We’re working on reflexes here, so don’t be upset if you hit a tree. You don’t have to go too fast, either. I think I found something, so I’ll work on recovering it. Once you get too beat up, I’ll show you what I find.”

Boardie nods and mutters, “Fuck you,” before hopping to her feet on the board and cruising over to the edge of the forest. The voice is a bit crackly after being projected through the bug, but Peter’s heart stops for a moment when he thinks that it sounds a bit like you, but that’s ridiculous. You have a job right now. Peter knows; Ned told him you always work at a farm around this time and that you never, ever skip a shift.

Peter jumps from branch to branch closer to Boardie, curious as to what she’s doing. Suddenly, there is a crash a little bit away and a muffled curse. Peter creeps closer, just in case she needs any help. He can hear her standing up, though. Boardie comes into his range of vision, swerving through the tree trunks as quickly as she can.

‘Working on reflexes,’ Peter remembers Dark Hair saying, but he can’t think of a reason why someone would need to work on their reflexes by cruising through a forest on a hoverboard. As he’s watching, Boardie smacks her head into a low-hanging branch she’d probably not noticed due to concentrating on the trees. Her body leans backwards, arms waving, and the board stops quickly. Boardie’s body is hanging off the board save for her feet up to her knees. She mutters, probably more curses, but Peter retreats so she won’t see his red and blue suit in the green leaves.

Peter calls back the eavesdropping bug and contemplates calling back the tracker but it’s buggy anyway; the motorcycle isn’t here, so he doesn’t bother. He wants to wait until Boardie gets back until he leaves, just in case she needs help, like maybe she knocked herself out with a tree, but eventually Boardie makes it back into the clearing and flops down next to Dark Hair. Peter leaves the three girls and swings back his place to work on homework.

The next day at school, you have a huge bruise on your forehead from smacking your head into a low-hanging branch, but you lie and tell Michelle that a book fell out of a cabinet and smacked you in the head. When Ned and Peter see you, Peter’s eyes widen nearly comically and he rushes over to ask you stutteringly what happened to your forehead.

You repeat the lie, cursing the butterflies in your stomach when you see his wide, earnest eyes and fluffy curls. He’s so adorable it makes your chest ache. Of course, you don’t like him. It’s just that he’s not being a jerk and seems to care about what happened to you, which even your mom doesn’t do. She’d noticed your head and started yelling at you about being careful, which seemed a lot like she wasn’t worried about you, only not having to pay for hospital bills. She’s getting worse; her skin looks shrunken over her bones now.

“L-looks like it hurts,” he mumbles, staring at his feet.

“It’s definitely worse than it looks,” you say quietly, staring at the ground, before shooting a desperate glance at Michelle. She understands what you’re trying to say and steps in to change the topic. Luckily, the boys don’t notice the obvious tactic and respond to MJ’s question about the Decathlon team enthusiastically.

You don’t notice the calculating glances Peter shoots you. You’d answered his question easily and, at least it seemed, honestly, but yesterday Boardie had also hit her head and she had your hair and had at least sounded a bit like you. It seems a little bit suspicious. Of course, he doesn’t want to think that you lied to them, and about something so trivial.

Worry for you had made him forget about how smitten he is with you for a little while, but when MJ asks him a question and he can feel your eyes on him, Peter can barely form a sentence, turning beet red. Seemingly knowing that he’s nervous, you turn your gaze to Ned, which helps Peter answer quietly.

“Dude,” Ned says quietly, nudging Peter. Peter is mortified and he can feel tears pricking in his eyes at how utterly hopeless he is.

“I’ve go-go-gotta go,” he blurts out, turning on his heel and practically sprinting away from you and Michelle. Ned struggles to keep up with him.

“Dude, wait up!” his friend calls. Peter keeps going until he turns a corner and then he whirls around, angry tears threatening to fall down his face.

“I’m such a fucking loser,” he hisses angrily. “I can’t even talk to her!”

“It’s okay,” Ned soothes. “She understands, I think; she looked away from you while you were speaking. It’s okay to get flustered. Did you see her face when you were coming over? And she couldn’t look you in the eyes either; you both are way too shy for your own good.” He doesn’t mention the fact that you’d thought Peter hated you until recently.

Peter just shakes his head. “You’re just trying to make me feel better. She wouldn’t like me, she’s way out of my league.”

“You can’t say that!” Ned protests. “She’s a nerd, just like you!”

“A nerd who plays lacrosse and doesn’t pay attention during classes,” Peter reminds Ned. You’re not really a nerd, you’re a lacrosse jock, and jocks look down on nerds. It’s how high school works.

“A nerd who plays lacrosse, doesn’t pay attention during classes, is obsessed with Harry Potter, has watched Star Wars, and reads about a book every day,” Ned contradicts. “And she turns red when she’s talking to you, too. Trust me. She likes you at least a little bit.”

Peter sighs and shakes his head, indicating he’s done with the conversation.

“So is anything going on with Spider-man recently?” Ned asks, only too happy to change the topic.

“Oh, yeah,” Peter replies, trying to get his mind off of you. “I think my tracker is bugging out, but I’m gonna ask Mr. Stark about it after the whole court thing dies down.”

“How so?” Ned asks and Peter delves into the story, telling him all about Motorcycle Girl, the tracker, and how it’d said there was bombs, but he’d shown up and all that there was was a suspicious hoverboard and three girls.

#peter parker #Peter Benjamin Parker #peter parker x reader #peter parker fluff #peter parker write #marvel #peter parker fanfic #peter parker fanfiction #peter parker fic #marvel fic #marvel fanfiction #marvel fanfic #mcu #peter parker x you #reader insert #you x peter parker #reader x peter parker

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white-collar-lawmen-and-conmen · 7 years

Text

Wrong Kind of Proof

Summary: You, Peter's sister, have been dating Neal behind his back. When Kramer bugs Neal's penthouse in hopes of finding incriminating evidence, all he has to show for it is a recording of a secret date night.

Words: 1,942

You knocked on your brother’s office door with a smile on your face and a bag of take-out on your arm, looking through the window to smile at him. You could see Neal’s dark hair from where he sat facing Peter, and you could see your brother’s face, lighting up with excitement as he saw you. Through the window, he gestured for you to come on in.

Peter stood up, dropping whatever he and Neal had been talking about immediately. You grinned, set the take-out on the desk, and wrapped your arms around his neck. Peter held you tightly and buried his nose in your hair for just a second before you parted. He was still beaming. Neal grinned fondly at your sibling reunion.

“Y/N,” Peter cried, keeping his hand on your shoulder. “Why didn’t you call ahead? I could’ve sent Jones to carry those for you.”

[[

MORE]]

“Well, I may not carry a gun, but I can carry Mexican food,” you pointed out with a smile. You knew he was just looking out for you. Careful not to seem too eager to see Neal, you gave the thief a polite smile. “How’re you, Neal?”

He grinned wider. “Peter’s a slave driver. I’m surprised I’m still standing.”

You gasped and smacked Peter’s shoulder while he did his best to glare disapprovingly at his consultant. “Peter! Be nice to him! Artists are delicate and sensitive!”

“Yeah,” Peter agreed sarcastically, eyes flashing to Neal teasingly. “So sensitive. Too bad nice women don’t look for that anymore. Mr. Romantic over here insists he’s not seeing anyone.”

Shrugging, you offered, “Gotta be single to appreciate a partner.”

Someone you didn’t recognize cleared their throat. All three of you turned to the doorway to see someone who looked at least fifteen years older than Peter standing against the doorframe, one hand in his pocket and the other holding onto a CD.

Peter’s grin grew ear-to-ear and he turned you by your shoulders to face the newcomer. “Agent Kramer, I’m glad you had the time to stop by. This is my little sister. Y/N, Phillip was my supervisory agent in DC.”

Kramer smiled at you politely. He had a calm and kind-looking face. He held the CD out to Peter, who took it without asking, and he used his now-free hand to offer you a handshake.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Agent,” you said, shaking his hand confidently, but not too tightly.

“The pleasure is mine, Miss Burke,” he responded. He looked over your shoulder, then, and saw the conman sitting reclined in an office chair. “Good to see you again, Mr. Caffrey. I trust you’re well?”

“Oh, well…” Neal shrugged. “The MOMA is out of my radius, so I’m missing a great exhibit. The design’s supposed to be fantastic. I heard it’s all right by a fire escape.”

There was a short second of uncomfortable pause. Neal smiled thinly at Kramer, enough for you to realize that the two of them didn’t get along as well as Kramer’s greeting suggested. You giggled slightly at his answer to alleviate the tension between the senior agent, the consultant, and your brother, who looked like he was going to single-handedly strangle Neal for his joke. Yes, crime was bad, but you thought it was hilarious when Neal would deliberately try to give agents aneurysms by implying he had a heist in mind.

Kramer turned his head back to Peter. “Peter,” he said to your brother seriously, “It’s just as well he’s here now. I took the liberty of having that burned, bringing it to you, straight off the machine. It’s an audio from Caffrey’s apartment.”

Peter’s confusion was directed solely to Kramer, but you and Neal flashed quick, alarmed looks at each other.

“You bugged my suite?” Neal asked, offended.

“The judge I approached decided the warrant was best.” He told Neal. You thought he seemed like he was gloating. It made you cross your arms defensively. “Peter, your consultant’s made several cash withdrawals from the ATM on Riverside Avenue, every Saturday night. It was suspicious behavior.”

“Were the withdrawals from his account?” You asked, crossing your arms. You knew you didn’t really have much of a say in the discussion, but that felt like a flimsy excuse.

Kramer didn’t pause. “Yes, Miss Burke, they were, and a regular cash transaction on a predictable schedule is something the US Marshals agree needs to have an eye kept on, especially in the context of a world-renowned art thief.”

Neal’s lips thinned out. You could tell he was incredibly frustrated. “Play the disc, Peter,” he said angrily, crossing his legs. You glared at Kramer while the agent wasn’t looking at you. Your brother gave you a scolding stare to stop, but you didn’t listen. “I promise you I haven’t been up to anything. There are things to do in New York that cost money. Not all of them are illegal.”

“Neal,” Peter hesitated to say, already opening up the CD drive on the monitor. He paused before putting it in and tried to make eye contact with his CI. “If there’s anything-“

“There’s not,” Neal insisted.

Sighing, Peter put the CD into the system and let it draw closed. Kramer started to look at you again and you turned your head quickly to the side, seething on Neal’s behalf. It seemed like any time there was a chance for the Marshals, the DOJ, or the FBI to screw him over, they took it. He was supposed to be commutated in a month’s time, and he still wasn’t being left alone. It pissed you off.

The CD started where it had picked up audio feed from the little hidden microscopes. Neal’s voice came through first.

“Peux-je assister toi avec ton manteau?”

You felt the blood rushing out of your face so quickly that you felt a little dizzy. You sought out Neal’s eyes across the small office and saw him looking similarly startled. Nervously, you rubbed your hands together, knowing exactly what was about to play through the small, tinny computer speakers.

Sure enough, your voice was next.

“Peut-je assister toi avec ton manteau?” Neal asked politely, holding out his hands to you after opening the door with a key.

You giggled, your arms tight around your midsection to keep warm. “I have no idea what you just said,” you admitted, “But I was definitely right in the restaurant. Next time we go, you’re ordering. I don’t even know how to pronounce ‘please’ in French, much less the menu items.”

“You weren’t that bad,” Neal promised, kissing your forehead and reaching for the sides of your jacket. He pulled the zipper down and started to slide it back from your shoulders.

“The waiter had no idea what I was trying to say until I pointed,” you shook your head, blushing.

Your boyfriend took your jacket, draped it over his arm, and locked the door behind you, escorting you further into the penthouse. “You’ll know how to say it next time,” he promised. “One day I’m going to take you to Paris. You’ll pick up on it pretty quickly when you hear it every day.”

You followed him in with a soft smile. “I’m betting on it, Neal.”

Peter’s eyes looked so wide that you were amazed they hadn’t bulged out of his skull. His face was so red you were surprised he wasn’t on the floor convulsing. He tore his eyes between Neal and yourself, jaw working and no noise coming out. Both you and the thief intentionally looked anywhere but at Peter.

Kramer, for his part, looked extremely uncomfortable with what he was hearing. At least he hadn’t known he was going to expose your secret to your brother. Clearing his throat, he leaned past Peter and tapped the arrows on the keyboard, making it fast-forward to what he hoped would be more incriminating evidence.

You cuddled on the couch, both of you eating ice cream out of the pints. No matter how cold it was outside, nothing beat a warm night in with your three favorite men: Neal, Ben, and Jerry. “I love you just for these,” you mumbled.

Neal chuckled. “I love you, even without ice cream.”

“Then I guess we know who the better partner is, don’t we?”

Both of you laughed.

“So, what’s the first thing you want to do when you get commutated?”

Neal considered it thoughtfully, sticking the spoon in his ice cream and then moving it to the coffee table. He wrapped an arm around you snugly as he leaned back. “The first thing? There’s someone I haven’t seen in a long time who deserved a visit. I think she’ll like you.” He sounded serious and contemplative. You almost didn’t want to say anything for fear of interrupting his thoughts. “After, I’ll book our tickets to Europe.”

“Let me help with that,” you suggested. “I have frequent flyer miles if we use my account.”

“Mine are probably expired,” he agreed.

“Yours? Or Nick’s?” You retorted.

He elbowed you good-naturedly. “All of them,” he answered, sticking his tongue out at you. You kissed his cheek. “And then, I guess…” Neal sighed deeply. “Then it’ll be time to tell Peter.”

You saw how pale and anxious Neal looked when he said it, and you laughed. You were nervous, too, but you knew that Peter wouldn’t hurt either of you – and no matter how mad he was, El would talk him down fairly quickly. You loved your sister-in-law, and not just because she made it much easier for you to get away with things.

“It’ll be fine,” you promised. “Peter loves me. He likes you. He’ll be mad we didn’t tell him, but he’ll come around. Eventually, I think he’ll be glad we’re together.”

“If you think so, why don’t you tell him?” Neal challenged. “I don’t think even rescuing El will make up for the fact that I’ve been dating his sister in secret for almost the entire time I’ve been working for him.”

“You what?!” Peter roared, slamming his fist down on the keyboard. It shut the recording off and left both you and Neal under your brother’s dangerous scrutiny.

Picking up a hand, you looked at your cuticles and pretended not to be guilty. “Don’t think of it as dating,” you suggested, looking across at Neal, who seemed resigned to being interrogated. “Think of it as… one-on-one outings. Of friendship. And trust-building.”

“You’re taking my sister to Paris?!” Peter yelled at Neal, looking horrified and scandalized at once. Kramer bit his lip and started to walk backwards, slinking out of the office while the drama ensued. This was not the kind of trouble he’d wanted to start for Neal. “You’re taking my sister to the city of romance, thousands of miles away, and you haven’t thought to mention this to me?!”

Neal very carefully considered what words he was going to use. “Peter,” he said slowly, folding his hands diplomatically in his lap. “I’m sorry. We were going to tell you right after my commutation hearing.”

You quietly chimed in again, “I am an adult, you know.”

Peter directed a withering glower right at you. You quailed. He took a very deep breath, leaning his fist on his desk. “What have you been… two years?” He sat down behind his desk, overwhelmed.

“The withdrawals were for dates. Saturday is our date night,” Neal explained, wincing and looking apologetic. “I promise, we only do legal things. There’s mostly dinners. Sometimes movies or dancing.”

“Usually kissing,” you added.

“And hand-holding,” Neal agreed, nodding, blinking at Peter earnestly.

Your brother covered his face with his hands, groaning pitifully.

A/N: I’m a White Collar fic blog! Send in requests for oneshots, series, imagines, texting imagines, and would includes!

#lawmen-and-conmen #white collar #white collar x reader #neal caffrey x reader #neal caffrey #peter burke #kramer #fic #fanfic #reader insert #oneshot #requests open #fluff #cute #secret relationship #date night #humor #sibling!reader #burke!reader

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ofivorywings · 5 years

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𝐒𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐜𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐥𝐞𝐞𝐩. 𝐖𝐫𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐧𝐨 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐦𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐩. 𝐒𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐨 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟. 𝐍𝐨 𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬 𝐥𝐞𝐟𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐰𝐚𝐬𝐡 𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐲. 𝐉𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐝𝐢𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐲 𝐩𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐬, 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐚 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐲. 𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠.

Another character with a terribly long intro. I don’t know how I keep managing this holy shittt. But also some of yall noticed originally I had her as unknown species but I changed that bc I figured out her species and was like nawwww. She don’t know but whatevers. Anywho prepare for sadness and angst! *thumbs up*

Stella Nox was the first and only child of Vaan and Lara Nox. That had much to do with Lara’s death during the birth. Yet Vaan refused to that influence his love for his daughter. Instead he decided to raise her with all the love he was capable of. Hoping that somehow even without Lara that would be enough. Their last name meant night. So, Lara had decided on the name Stella. Star. She was their starry night. A light in the darkness. Their little girl.

Vaan struggled with raising Stella on his own, but he managed. At least until Stella started to be able to walk. Once her feet his the ground his baby girl was always wondering around and trying to find new things. She’d been five years old and chasing a butterfly when Stella, too invested in the butterfly, didn’t look where she was going. She ran straight into a young man. A special young man. The prince of the kingdom in which they lived. Avalon’s prince August.

He was the rebellious sort of prince. Also the type to have never even spoken to a child before. So when Stella skimmed her knee and began to cry, instead of looking for a parent or someone who knew her August brought her home to the palace.

The king had been deceased for the last three years and the queen had ruled. The people loved her, many said she was a better leader then her husband. It was that which irked prince August. He hadn’t an idea how he’d live up to his father’s reign, and then his mother’s began and just how could he live up to that? He didn’t even know how to help a crying five year old. Or that, perhaps he shouldn’t of taken her without even asking her name or if her parents were near.

Queen Cecilia was a smart woman. The best rule their kingdom had had in a very long time. She took one look at the little girl with a skimmed knee and big wet tears in her eyes and was able to calm her down. Stella’s father, Vaan, had been searching for everywhere he could in the meantime. He had been ready to start a rescue party and trek into dangerous lands when the royal carriage came along. Then there was Stella, holding their queens hand. While everyone bowed instead Vaan ran to his daughter’s side and pulled her into a tight hug. He kissed her forehead and didn’t let go out the small child said Daddy you’re squishing me.

Vaan thanked their queen for bringing his child home. Then, Queen Cecilia remarked that her son had technically kidnapped her. Then there was tea. Somehow along the way Queen Cecilia’s visits became something of regularity. By the time Stella was seven her father and the queen were engaged. She even got to be the flower girl.

There was never intention of Vaan becoming the ruler of Avalon. In fact the suggestion alone was meant with laughter. He loved Cecilia, and thought there was no other who could be a better ruler. Stella was excited for August to become her brother, but the elder boy seemed annoyed with all she did. He was a teenager, almost a adult. No time for childish games. Still, Stella loved him. She loved Cecilia too, and being apart of a family. She loved moving into the castle and going through the gardens. She loved awakening to the birds singing in the morning and talking to the maids while they did their work, even learning how to do some of it on her own. She loved the stories knights would tell, and even wanted to learn how to use a sword. Her father had seemed a bit frightened at the prospect while Cecilia assured she’d teach her when she was older. Above all, however, Stella loved music. All sorts.

Every time Stella tried to approach August he reminded her again and again they weren’t siblings. They weren’t blood. Yet still, there were moments when it felt like they were. Like when she asked about his adventures he told her every little detail. Smaller moments, when he simply passed by and ruffled her hair without thought. Then bigger ones, like when there was a fire and he had grabbed her so protectively and dragged her to safety.

August was her big brother. No matter what he said. By the time Stella was eight her father and Cecilia were expecting their first child together. August was less accepting of a new little sibling then she was. Yet, when he was finally born August had been the first to hold him after their parents. Then Stella herself (with supervision). Cecilia and Vaan were still undecided on a name by the time Stella’s own birthday came around.

She was turning nine, one year away from being ten. Double digits! Her father had gotten her a necklace with the number on it at her own behest. Stella wanted all to know she was now 9. Even August had cracked and given into the one present she requested from him. She wanted him to take her to a play. The fight in itself only occurred when he revealed the single ticket. She’d be able to see it, but he wouldn't be with her. For the first since they met Stella was genuinely upset with him, to the point of tears. Her hopes had been up, she was going to be able to spend time with her brother. Once saying so, August was quick to intervene with four simple words. “I’m not your brother!” Then, Stella ran away. Inciting the words Leave me alone!

Stella ran to the garden. Her favorite place to be, surrounded by flowers. She also liked to sing. So she did, a little lullaby that her father mentioned her mother having loved. After a while to calm down, Stella made her way back inside.

Things were not as she left them. Red stained the floors and walls, body after body dead on the ground. Stella shrieked. She dashed towards where she had seen her father and Cecilia last… only to find her father dead on the ground and Cecilia pinned to the wall with a sword through her chest. Before she could even try and shake them try and wake them up cause they couldn’t be dead– she was grabbed by a maid. The woman was called Krista and she always made the very best cake. She even offered to teach Stella how to cook before. Something that never happened. Krista informed her that the queen was dead. So was her father. But, she would get her out of there safely. She’d protect Stella, the little girl who wa so kind.. However she had to be quiet.

They were with a handful of other maids, many Stella knew. So Stella tried to remain as quiet as she could, though the thoughts of August and her unnamed little brother were intrusive. She succeeded in remaining quiet. But it wasn’t enough. They were caught in the end. However…. Stella herself never was seen. Krista was stabbed through her back and collapsed upon the little girl. Stella hit her head on the floor, and in the chaos she was unable to stay afloat. She awoke covered in bodies. Other maids had followed suite with Krista’s actions, using their deaths to protect the little girl they cared for. Leaving their bodies atop of her in a pile of corpses.

Stella was trapped under them for quite sometime. She’d barely been able to breath, and light hurt her eyes when it finally blared through. It was villagers, probably here to pillage the castle. A kindly old man, he helped her out. Then Stella ran.

She was scared– so scared. She wanted to find August, she wanted to find their little brother. She kept on running and running until she crossed from their world into the human one. Straight into the street where a car hit her.

The little girl had already been disoriented from the trauma, hitting her head on the pavement made it easier for her mind to hide all the memories that hurt her so badly.

Then she became a nameless little girl on the streets on New York. No identity, no memories, no nothing. Yet somehow, she survived. She met another on the streets. He called himself Rascal. She had no idea what it meant yet laughed her heart out anyway. He, like her, was on a kid on the streets. He brought her ‘home’. There was a ton of them, all boys. There was a leader of them, elder then the rest but not by much. He introduced himself as Pete. Like Peter Pan, he had explained. Except more grown up. She had no idea what Peter Pan was. Which was why Pete decided to show her.

They had a tiny little TV, hooked up to electricity that wasn’t theirs and a stack of DVDs. Then they watched the movie. The moving pictures were enchanting to the small girl. It was only after the credits were rolling did Pete even realize he hadn’t asked the girls name or age. She didn’t know either. He saw the 9 on her neck and decided, well of course that had to be 9. However her name was much harder. One of the boys, Louder, he called himself (though she doubted it was his real name) he suggested Wendy. Pete reacted with venom to that and instead suggested Jane. So she became Jane.

Time passed. Jane became acquainted with the streets of New York and how to survive upon them. Then one day Pete brought home a girl. She told them to call her Wendy, but she had heard Pete call her Miley. Peter had said she’d be like their mom, in the same way he was like their dad. However she wasn’t like Wendy at all, not motherly. She was more like those Mermaids, jealous of anything Pete looked at that wasn’t her.

Then came the day Pete looked at Jane in a way that felt like he’d done something wrong. It was that same night she knew why. Miley had dragged her out, Jane didn't even remember the excuse. There were men there, the kind Pete had warned her to stay away from. They handed Miley some money and she looked so smug. Then Jane ran like hell.

She heard the angry yells behind her, screams to stop. She ran into Rascal. Tumbled into him, actually. When they met she was taller then him. Now he was taller then her. Then she continued running. She ran and she ran, knowing that there wasn’t any home to go back to.

Jane thought about that day many times since. She wondered if Pete had known, then she remembered that look on his face and realized Yes. He had. He had to. There was no way he hadn’t. So she got by on her own. There was little choice in the matter. She hadn’t ever gotten the chance to see that second movie. Why the name Jane was chosen. So instead she thought of herself as Jane Doe.

Then she met Theo. She was 11 and he was 9, and had she been so much of a headache back then? He was small, and he was alone. Just like she’d been. The difference was that she wouldn't betray him like they had betrayed her. She would protect him in the way she hadn’t been protected.

Though Jane decided to protect him, she had no intention of liking him or loving him. Both happened anyway. Theo was infectious. In the sort of way that he made you smile even when you were trying to be serious and angry. Theo became Theo. Her Theo. Who she gave piggy back rides to, and who let her be clingy even once they began to grow.

Then they were the Coopers. It was one night, a good night. Laughing despite the fact it was cold and they didn’t have much warmth. They were speaking, two people who spent almost all time together yet were able to speak together hours on end. They decided that someday, somehow, they were gonna be normal. Normal as could goddamn be. They needed a goddamn normal name of course. Jones? No. Smith? Yuck. Cooper? Cooper. They were the Coopers.

By the time she turned 17 Jane somehow obtain a honest job. She hadn’t intended to, except then she was getting money and it was actual good money? Suddenly small things became affordable. Then big things. She even began to play music. For some reason, people like it. Then, by the time she was 20, she had a home. Actually a dingy apartment but it made do. However, while her life had brightened Theo’s had darkened. Drinks, drunks, anything you could think of he’d name it. It scared her and Jane had no clue what to do about it.

So she offered him her couch and thank god he took it. Men and their pride was a scary thing. Yet, she did have one rule Just one. He had to stop using. It was killing him and Jane couldn’t bare to see him gone. Theo was her little brother. Blood or not.

He didn't abide by the deal, except Theo was her little brother and she’d rather him be with her then on the streets. Even if he refused to stop using, she had to be there for him. She was all he had. He was all she had. Then one day there was a note and no Theo. Just a note giving excuses why he wasn't here. Well, actually they were heartfelt words but all she all could she think was dammit as she read it because she couldn't see straight. Her vision was too blurry from tears. When she finally was able to read the note she sobbed the whole night.

Then, she waited. Hoping and praying Theo would come back. Knock on her door, just be there. She was frightened beyond belief. That one day she’d get a call about his body turning up, or see his face on the news. She was also scared that it wouldn’t. That he’d be buried somewhere in a unmarked grave never to be heard from again. That she’d been holding out for someone who was dead.

It took five months before Jane went down to the police station to file for a missing person. The cop was a dick. Your brother isn’t missing. He said. He’s a junkie who left. Jane had been ready to deck him, when another cop came over to stop the altercation.

The funny thing is though, Jane recognized those eyes anywhere. So instead of stopping mid punch she went for the stomach. All other cops went to apprehend her only for Pete to yell ‘Don’t!’ and then a small ‘I deserved that’. Then, she turned and attempted to storm away.

“Jane!” He said, and she couldn't help but notice he retained that boyish sound to his voice. She turned fast and poked hard, right in his chest in a way she knew to be bothersome. “You don’t deserve to be a cop! You deserve shit!” And Pete agreed. He also said he was going by Peter now. He made no excuse, no attempt at one. Just a heartfelt apology, one she didn’t accept. But she did accept his offer to keep an eye out for Theo. Any reports of a junkie, OD victim, any of it, he’d make sure it wasn’t him. Sometimes he’d even see if they knew him for her.

Two years passed, and while Jane has yet to forgive him she greets him with less disdain. She did learn that he hadn’t actually known, he had suspected. He also said he came to stop it after she’d already run. Jane couldn’t bring herself to care, because if she hadn’t run and he’d been too late. Well, it would of been too late. Sometimes they talked about things beyond her brother. Sometimes they didn’t. Theo still was on her mind each and every day. Fear for him, hope for him and sometimes just quiet tears that wouldn’t stop cause she missed him so damn much.

She never left her dingy apartment. She couldn’t. Jane feared that if she did, when Theo did come back, he wouldn't know how to find her. Which was what made being forced into San Francisco so damn heartbreaking. How’d Theo find her now?

#apx:intro #death tw #murder tw #implication of prostitution tw #drugs tw #addiction tw #YO THIS GETS LONG

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gaiatheorist · 5 years

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“Does it spark joy?”

2.30am on a Sunday morning, and I’ve read yet another article on Marie Kondo. I’m coming unravelled again, and setting myself distraction-tasks, to avoid plummeting into one of my rabbit-holes. They’re holding strategies, last year I had the garden, this year, I have the house and the garden. I’ll grow some of my own food, because the UK unemployment benefit doesn’t leave any leeway for anything but bills. (I’m lucky, I ‘Won the Golden Ticket’ of an award of disability benefit, it’s highly probable that it will be declined when it comes to renewal in less than a year, despite my brain injuries being permanent.) I ‘caught’ myself moving things around a few days ago, it’s one of my anxiety-behaviours, I don’t have very much control about the external-world, so I focus on what I can control.

Moving things around. Do I want/need ‘that’? Is it of any practical use now, or am I just holding on to it for sentimental reasons? (There’s very little here that isn’t of practical use, I don’t really ‘keep things’, and I do have regular periods of purging what’s left.) There’s no ‘sparking joy’, just an awful lot of irritability. My strange friend Creepy Carpet Tile Man visited recently, and pointed to various ‘things’, saying “Why don’t you put that on eBay?” “It’s not mine.” “Surely it is now? He’s been gone long enough, doesn’t it become legally yours after all these years?” My loft is full of the ex’s ‘stuff’, and I can’t use my garden shed, because that’s packed with his belongings as well. I hate being ‘tethered’ to him, I’m sick of asking him to take things away, and him ‘forgetting’, or ‘having something on’, he’s unreliable, he always was. I’m also cautious of snapping at him in front of our son, so this is, in part, a situation of my own making. The ex is doing what he always did, “Leave something long enough and someone else will sort it.”, he’s ‘not the most useful arrangement of molecules’, as the kid once described him.

The practical thing for me to do would be to tell the ex again that I want his various stuff gone. I don’t want to be responsible for it, I have enough difficulty being responsible for myself some days. He doesn’t have the time, or the storage space, his parents aren’t well, and our son is in the final year of his degree. ‘Never a good time’ again. I’m angry at him for being generally inept, and I’m frustrated with myself for absorbing the emotional load again. I am not responsible for him, and I’m stuck in a loop of all the times he’d tantrum “I’m not happy!”, projecting his own inadequacies onto me, making himself the centre of the universe, and blaming me for not being what he wanted. I never really was, he wanted a compliant house-mouse who would bend over backwards to serve her Lord and Master, I’m not that. He wanted me to be an extension of him, and I’m a distinct entity, like Peter Pan’s shadow, I made the separation, but I’m still scrubbing away his stains, three years on.

That’s not a metaphor, I am literally scrubbing away stains. As well as being inept and egocentric, he was dirty. The lettings agents inspect the property every six months, when he was here, that would lead to me dousing the house in Febreeze and bleach on the morning of the inspection, after he’d gone to work. Housework was ‘my’ responsibility, and, apart from hurriedly shoving piles of his own worn socks down the arm of the sofa when his Dad visited, he didn’t do anything. I allowed that to continue. He never once washed the dishes, or vacuumed, and if he spilled or dropped anything on the carpet, he’d either just leave it, or blot it with one of his socks. He expected undying gratitude for mowing the lawn, and once sulked for days because I didn’t praise him for cleaning the outside of the vacuum cleaner. (No, he didn’t use it, or even empty it, he cleaned the outside of it, the man’s a melon.) At the last inspection, I asked the agent if there was any action required on my part. “No, it’s just the cleanliness again.” “Pardon?” “Well, your carpets and that, we know some of the stains were here when you moved in.” ‘Some’ of them, the rest were the ex, and his rancid dog.

I can’t remember when we bought the Vax carpet-cleaning machine, it’s not really something I’d have marked on the calendar, but it most probably was in response to a spill of some description, and it probably wasn’t me that spilled it. (I am incredibly clumsy, more so since the brain injuries, but if I spill something, I clean it up straight away, so it doesn’t set as a stain.) The Vax worked the first time I used it, and then the second time I tried, there was no suction. The ex said he’d look at it, but it wasn’t a motorbike, or pornography, or a YouTube video of UFO conspiracies, so he didn’t look at it. For years, the lettings agents would ask me to address the stains on the carpets, and I’d end up on my hands and knees, with a bucket and a scrubbing brush, because the Vax was ‘broken.’ One year, after I’d blistered my hands really badly attempting to scrub the carpet, he hired an industrial carpet cleaning machine for me to use, then berated me for not using it properly, and leaving streaks on the carpet. The machine was faulty, he said he’d ask for a replacement, but that never happened, he ‘forgot.’

The Vax wasn’t ‘broken’, it was clogged. Dog-hair, and dirt, and grit had obstructed the inlet to the vacuum, and dried in position. Unclogging it would have been more pleasant if the machine hadn’t evidently sucked dog-urine out of the carpets. His dog pissed on everything, and he said he couldn’t smell it. I could. Apart from the constant-stink, wet carpet has a tendency to absorb more dirt, between the allotment, and the ex working in engineering, there was plenty of dirt. (Also lots of sand and grit, he had a tendency to dump fishing and camping gear on the carpet, “I’ll shift that in a bit.”, then he’d assume his position on the sofa, dropping yet more crumbs from toast and crisps.)

“It was just the way he was raised.” was my old excuse for his behaviour. His family had a very traditional-patriarchal structure, the men went out to work, and the women had ‘little jobs’, and assumed responsibility for all of the housework. That was his ‘normal’, but not mine, my mother was an utter slattern, she worked full-time, she vacuumed once a week, and sporadically responded to my step-father’s desire for a basic degree of cleanliness by storming into my bedroom with a bin-liner, and a beating. Teaching me how-to-housework wasn’t on her agenda, I suppose I ought to thank her for not trying to shape me into some sort of Stepford Wife. Nobody taught the ex how-to-housework, either, when he split up with the girlfriend before me, the Mother-in-law took on his cleaning, laundry, and evening meals, lest his precious testicles fall clean off if he touched a duster. That stopped when he introduced me, and there was an assumption that I’d take over.

The first couple of months that we lived together were absolute chaos, I was working two jobs at the same time, so the house ended up looking like it had been rolled down a hill. The in-laws would ‘tut’ when they visited, and then the Mother-in-law straight-out ‘told’ me “You really need to Hoover every day, because of the dogs.” Me, not him. Some friends of his pointed out that I was ALWAYS washing dishes when they visited. I was. It wasn’t a house-proud thing, he’d always offer visitors coffee (which I was expected to make), and the mugs would all be dirty in the sink, because washing dishes wasn’t a routine thing.

I’d moved in with him in the October, and in December, I became ill. ‘Viral illness’, which is doctor-code for “We’re not entirely sure, might clear up in time.” I’d changed jobs at the start of November, and was on a temporary ‘seasonal’ contract, which wasn’t renewed when my sick-note expired. I was unemployed, and really quite unwell, but I was ‘home all day’, and the ex quickly shifted from “I don’t expect to come home from work to find pots in the sink!” to “You need to get another job, or go.” Fine, whatever, being ‘kept’ was never going to suit me. A succession of menial factory jobs followed, frequently doubling-back, and staying for the ‘afters’ shift after doing the ‘days’ shift. Oh, look, the dishes are STILL in the sink. The company he was working for was having ‘financial difficulties’, and would ‘pay him next week’, so I kept accepting the double-backs, because it was only going to be a short-term thing. It wasn’t. The company went into administration, he was unemployed, and the dishes were still in the sink.

He found another job, and we entered another period of clutter-and-chaos, kicking crap behind the sofa when the in-laws car pulled up outside. Their tutting and eye-rolling was never directed at him, their blue-eyed-boy wasn’t expected to cook or clean, he had a woman to do that for him. Except I didn’t. He’d have sporadic tantrums, usually directed at my books, or letter-writing, “I didn’t grow up in a scruffy house, YOU didn’t grow up in a scruffy house, why do you let it get like this?” Erm, I did grow up in a scruffy house, and a couple of books aren’t really the issue here. He denigrated the me-things, it wasn’t the physical presence of books, or writing paper, or bits of art-and-craft materials, it was the fact that while I was reading, or writing, or making things, my attention wasn’t on him.

He’d occasionally decide he was going to clean up, but that usually lead to him emptying all of the videos out of the cabinet, dusting the shelves, and then deciding to watch a film, he really was rubbish. I started trying to play house, to please him, I had no idea what I was doing, literally, I shrunk his laundry, scorched his ironing, burned his dinner. Psychologically, I played right into his coercive control, we’d had the whirlwind romance, which had led to me excluding most of my friends, because he didn’t like them, and I didn’t want him to be angry with me. I didn’t like most of his friends, but I pushed the feelings, and their wandering hands away. I made myself less-than, back then, I idolised him, I had made him my ‘everything’, thrown myself into him, and this rabbit-hole precipice now is because I’m struggling to ‘find myself’. (Sick-bucket, please.) I spent 20 years walking on eggshells, trying not to upset him, more than half of that time, we’d accepted that the marriage was over, and I’d agreed to stay with him to avoid unsettling our son, or upsetting the Father-in-law.

Ironically, the near-miss with my brain haemorrhage made me more aware of cleaning. My sense of smell is heightened, and I have constant visual disturbances, as well as a tendency to knock things over. Heaps and clutter are just accidents waiting to happen. More than that, nearly dying made me realise I wasn’t really living. There’s a tangent here, the ex’s mother died after a brain haemorrhage, I both didn’t-want-him, and didn’t want to be a constant reminder of his past-loss. I survived what killed his idol, she was the strongest woman he’d known, until he met me, and I really didn’t think it was fair on either of us to continue with the sham half-life.

So, I’ll continue paring-down, throwing-out, and inventing new swear-words. Does the Vax machine that I’ve repaired with brute force, twisty-wire and duct tape ‘spark joy’? Of course it doesn’t. Does the fact that I’m finally managing to remove the stains he left from the carpet ‘spark joy’? Don’t be ridiculous, it’s physically painful, and every time I get the carpet wet, it re-activates the stench of dog-piss and engineering grease, I’m ploughing through my supplies of scented candles and wax melts at an alarming rate. I have a sense of achievement that I’ve managed to Womble-fix the Vax, and I know I’ll feel more content in myself after a couple more sessions of Vax-ing.

That was the point, I don’t do much in the way of ‘joy’, an old friend recently used ‘joy’ in a Facebook private message to me, and I shook my head. Looking for joy-and-only-joy is a futile existence, I’m not as miserable as the persona I project to the world, but humans aren’t designed to exist in a permanent state of ‘joy’ or ‘happiness’. It’s a fine aspiration to explore and embrace the truly wonderful, but it’s not a realistic expectation that everything-can-always-be-perfect. It can’t. These blogs are usually negative, it’s my way of purging, I do look for the positives in life, and there are many, but that Instagram-perfect isn’t me. I do false-front, I acknowledge that, but I refuse to buy-in to this something-saturation we’re bombarded with, I don’t need affirmation that I’m ‘enough’, I don’t need-to-be-needed, wanting-to-be-wanted is a different matter.

I am ‘enough’, and I struggle with other-people pushing ‘happy’ as the norm. I’m content with I-don’t-hate-this, and accepting I-hate-this-now-but-it-will-be-done-soon.

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