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tldrthor · 2 months ago

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promises we intend to keep | steve rogers

Summary: The Avenger's spend time with their comatose friend, Cap's sanity slips from him as he spends every night by her bedside. Is blind faith enough?

Part 2 to things we shouldn't have said (prev. classic enemies to lovers stuff) // He sounded like an idiot, but he couldn't care less. // word count: 4.3k

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“Hi, (y/n).” He settled himself into the chair next to the bed, the familiar antiseptic smell filling his nostrils, the beep, beep, beep of her heart like music to his ears. He had hated it at first, but now, it was evidence that she was still here. There was still hope. “I’ve got a break between meetings so I figured I’d come down and say hello.”

He leaned back, watching her peaceful features as unmoving as they had been for nearly a month now. He frowned at the wires connected to her neck and chest, knowing that if she was awake she would’ve hated that. Part of him wanted to rip them off, but his more rational thinking prevented him from doing that.

Dr. Cho’s words circled round his mind, as they hadn’t stopped doing since she spoke them all those weeks ago. “She’s not out of the woods yet. She died twice on the table, and requires all manners of intervention going forward. We’ll only know the extent of the damage when she wakes up –” The doctor had paused for just a second, trying to soften what was only certain to be a killing blow. “–If she wakes up.”

Every time he remembered those words, his knees felt as weak as Bambi on ice. The nausea he used to feel every time he entered this room had faded, and the shell-shock had worn. She still occupied every moment of his thoughts, awake or unconscious. Not that he had been doing a lot of sleeping.

He opened the book at the page he had last left off at, when Sam had come downstairs and dragged the Captain to bed himself last night. “Just to recap,” He spoke to her regardless of her response to him. “Laurie confessed to Jo, but she rejected him. Beth is still sick and boy, that’s rough.”

He cleared his throat and began reading aloud.

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“(Y/l/n), I’ve had enough now.” Natasha charged through the doors to where (y/n) lay. She threw herself down in the chair, leaning her head on her asleep friend’s shoulder, trying to gain what little emotional support she could from her usual source of sanity amongst the chaos of the compound. “The boys are driving me crazy. I think you’ve made your point; Cap is sorry – he’s very, very sorry, borderline depressed – so you can come back.”

She smiled a charming, pleading smile. But no one was there to see it. She dropped the smile after a few seconds.

“(Y/n), it’s hard without you here. No one’s the same, and Steve won’t accept any missions so we can’t even escape. Sam and Bucky are about to tear each other apart, and Cap just wallows in the gym whenever he’s not here with you.”

More silence.

“Anyways, Cap said that he wants someone here as much as possible. And we haven’t hung out in a while, so if you don’t mind we’re going to watch the new season of Love Island together.” She kicked off her shoes, stretching her legs over the hospital bed and getting comfortable.

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The next visitor didn’t say anything as he walked through the doors, hovering by the foot of the bed. He uncomfortably brought his hands in and out of his pockets, shifting from one leg to the other.

He eventually moved beside the bed, reaching a hand out to her forehead, to get rid of a hair that had found itself there. He stood there, staring, in silence for a while longer. He swallowed, took a breath, and spoke out loud;

“Kid, I don’t know if you can hear me.” He paused. “You probably can’t.”

He paced around the room, continuing; “I just want you to know, I got your little letter. Really, more of a stunt, very childish – anyway. I want you to know that if that’s your wish, I’ll help you out in setting up. But I also need you to know that you’re going to have to tell me that to my face. So you’ll have to wake up.”

“Also, I’m your boss and your sick pay is running out, so chop chop.” He joked to himself. He basked in the silence for another second.

“It’s not the same without you, (y/l/n). Hope to talk soon.”

“Mr. Stark, Mrs Potts is requesting your presence in the kitchen.” FRIDAY chimed in right on time. He muttered a be right up, taking one last look at his young teammate, and walked out the doors.

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A month to the day since she was shot, Steve couldn’t sleep. Before the whole debacle, he would’ve just gone to the gym and fought it out of his system. But now, he couldn’t bear being anywhere but in the medical bay. He couldn’t even count the amount of times he had woken up in that chair, neck in excruciating pain, the book on the floor. Or, the amount of times Bucky or Sam or Natasha had come downstairs and marched him back to bed.

He couldn’t help it. The thought of her waking up alone, not knowing where she is, was his greatest concern – scratch that, his greatest fear was her not waking up at all.

He didn’t take the time to change into proper clothes, instead deciding to head down in his pyjamas – ones that she had complimented him on, once upon a time. Red flannel pants and a matching henley – she had described it as ‘lumberjack chic’ and then explained that that was a good thing. He hadn’t realised back then, but Steve now thinks she might have been flirting. He cursed how much of an idiot he was before this disaster.

He wished desperately he could turn back time to then. Before he decided the only way not to love her, was to hate her.

“It’s me, again.” He spoke, taking his familiar spot on the chair next to the bed. He yawned, getting himself more comfortable, flicking the blanket they had all collectively decided was required over his legs. “Now, where were we?” He picked up the book again, reciting words from the pages until it fell from his hand, loud snores from his mouth filling the room.

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When he awoke again, he was in the same familiar pain he always had when he spent too much time in the chair. This time he had fallen forward, his head resting on the bed and… his hand entwined in hers.

He sighed, giving himself the luxury of just a second feeling what he would never have. Her hands were soft, and smooth. Not like his own. They were warm, and comfortable, and something about her fingers holding onto his just felt right.

It wouldn’t be respectful to linger for longer than that, not without her knowing, but as he tried to pull his hand away –

Was that a twitch?

He stared at her hand, now more awake and alert than he had been all month. There was no way, he was definitely just going delirious through stress, or lack of sleep, or maybe his age had just caught up with him because –

A second twitch.

“Oh my god.” He glared daggers into her hand, as if that would do something. Maybe he really was losing his marbles. This was just wishful thinking. His heart feeling like it was about to thump, thump, thump right out of his chest. Do it again. Please, do it again.

When it happened for a third time, and he saw it with his own eyes, he could only make a noise that could really only be described as a squeal. On his feet in an instant, his hand finding its way to her cheek, cupping her face.

There was no other sign of life. He stared and stared and stared. “Wake up, (y/n). Wake up, I’m here.” He pleaded. The words tumbled out of his mouth before he considered them; “If you wanted to prove a point, consider it proven. You’re not a liability, you’ve never, ever been a liability.”

“Just wake up. I am so, so sorry for everything.” His thumb stroked her cheek, his eyes staring at her face looking for anything that might indicate she was coming back to him. “Just wake up.”

Nothing.

He sat back down, defeated. He had gotten his hopes up, and it all came crashing back down. He placed his hand firmly back on hers as he leant his head on the bed, wet patches forming on the sheets as saltwater leaked from his eyes.

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“Cap, we’re not saying we don’t believe you —” Sam was interrupted.

Steve turned away from his friends, growing more and more frustrated with every sentence uttered. They didn’t believe him. She had moved. She was coming back, but no one would listen.

“You don’t believe me. I promise her hand twitched.” His jaw tensed, his stare as far away from his friends as he could get.

“Stevie, we believe that you felt something, but you have to admit, bud, you’ve been hardly sleeping and pushing yourself too far. Nothing was picked up on monitors, how would that be?” Bucky reasoned, sitting in the same chair where Steve had been so convinced she was waking up, just hours ago.

He had called them to the room as early as he deemed was responsible that day, and they had come running. Only to find their friend still asleep, and the captain with red eyes and bags under them that only seemed to get worse and worse the more they looked.

Sam sighed, hand reaching up to rub his temple. He had had a pretty consistent headache himself for a good couple of weeks. “Steve, I completely understand. We all want her back, but you can’t keep torturing yourself over this. She’ll wake up, just give her time.”

“Sam, it’s been a month – the doctor said if she was going to wake up it would take around a week.” Steve pleaded, the tears welling in his eyes again. He didn’t care anymore about hiding it from them. They already thought he was crazy anyway.

Sam placed a hand on his back as he wiped the water with the back of his hand.

“We’ll wait as long as it takes, but it has to be we. You can’t be here all the time, Steve. It’s no good if she wakes up and you’ve killed yourself from lack of sleep.”

“I don’t want to miss the moment she comes back.” He whispered.

Sam and Bucky made eye contact, pitying looks cast between them.

Bucky decided to speak, seeing Sam’s heartbreak at trying to reason with their normally solid friend. “Steve, you have to go to bed – don’t argue – but I’ll stay with her. I promise that if anything happens, I will let you know in an instant.”

Steve’s lips drew into a tight line, his eyebrows furrowed. Bucky continued; “Come on, just give me a couple hours, Stevie. I’ll chat to her, we’ll listen to music or something. I promise I’ll take care of her.”

“Come on.” Sam put his arm round Steve, gentle but firmly leading him away. He stole one last glance, as Bucky pulled out his phone to put on some music.

When the boys were finally away, Bucky turned to her. “You’re causing quite a ruckus, tiger. You always liked your sleep, but this is a bit much.” He laughed, leaning back in the chair. “There’s not much to say, kid – I know that the others have been talking your ear off. We need you back.”

He scrolled on his phone a little. Looking for the playlist she had shared with him – one to blend their music tastes. It was originally just for a mission they had to go on together, but turned into one of his favourite ways to bond with her. Music. He laughed again at the name: ‘Golden Oldie and the Wunderkind’ He remembered the day she had made up the name, they hadn’t stopped laughing for hours.

He clicked shuffle, smiling as I and Love and You by the Avett Brothers came over the speakers. “I know you like this song because it reminds you of Stevie.” He teased, but let it play out. He didn’t quite let himself sing, but he did mouth the words to his favourite verse;

That woman, she’s got eyes that shine, Like a pair of stolen, polished dimes. She asked to dance, I said ‘it’s fine– I’ll see you in the morning time’.

What he didn’t tell her, didn’t dare to say out loud, was that ever since he had mentioned to Steve that she liked the song, Steve had listened to it at least once a day. Particularly after they had their usual fights.

These idiots have a lot to figure out when she wakes up. He thought to himself.

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Bucky got a few hours with her, listening to their playlist, occasionally chatting about the song choices. He briefly tried to read the book on the side, but when he saw it was Little Women, he put it right back down again.

“Sorry, tiger. Not my vibe.” He chuckled.

The doors opened slowly, revealing a slightly-less-haggard Captain America. He had put actual clothes on, looked like he had slept at least a little bit and had even showered. Bucky gave a nod of approval, folding his arms and leaning back in the chair again.

“You feeling better?” Bucky asked his friend, who simply nodded in response.

Buck stood, knowing that Steve wanted to be alone with her right now. To not have the pitying looks thrown at him that Bucky couldn’t help but cast. He understood, he had been there.

“See ya, punk.” He gave a hearty smile before leaving.

Steve took his rightful seat, sighing before starting the same routine they had done over, and over, and over again. He was growing so sick of this chair, and the bed, and the beeping from the machines that didn’t seem to be helping at all.

He got through around half a chapter of Little Women, until he realised that Beth was going to die. He didn’t know how he hadn’t remembered, he had heard his mother reading this book all the way back in ‘35. He closed the book, finding death far too triggering, given the current situation.

Just closing the book wasn’t enough, it was like it burned him to hold it. He threw it across the room in a moment of fury. Frustration swept his whole body as he spiralled, down and down and down. He was ashamed of how out of control he had become. He had always been so rational, so measured. He was always the one people came to when they needed grounding – yet he didn’t know how to ground himself.

He rested his head on her arm, his sweaty palms holding her hand with a ferocity hitherto unseen from him. Like his damn life depended on it.

Maybe it did.

“Come on, (y/n),” He pleaded with the air. With God. With her. “I know you’re mad at me, just wake up and we’ll have another shouting match. Just like before.” A brutally defeated tone weighed down his voice, rough and gravelly from the effort of his bargain. He enclosed her hand in both of his own, leaning his head against them.

A cough.

He froze for a second, hiding behind her hand in his. The coughs continued, dry and painful sounding. Was there someone else in the room?

He took a moment to steel himself, peeling himself away from her hand, and staring at her, mouth agape like a fish out of water. “Oh my god.”

“Water.” She croaked.

He jumped up, the chair going flying backwards. He didn’t notice. With shaking hands, he poured the water from the jug on the bedside table into one of the plastic cups. He held it up to her dry, cracked lips, watching as she drank the whole cup.

“Be careful.” He spoke, instincts kicking in. “You’re on fluids, don’t overload your kidneys.”

She finished, her head laying straight back down on the pillow. He could see in her very brief movements that she was weak. He couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. Her eyes were barely open as she turned her head in his direction.

“Captain?” Her voice was rough as sandpaper, like she was straining just to get her singular words out. He just stared, incredulously.

“I’m here, sweetheart.” The pet name rolled off his tongue like he had always said it, and he didn’t even notice. “Oh, my god. You’re awake. I’m here. Don’t worry, I’m here.”

He had practiced over and over again, what he was going to say to her when she woke up. Thought about it for entire nights when he couldn’t get to sleep. His plans had been poetic and perfect – they were not ‘oh my god you’re awake.’ He sounded like an idiot, but he couldn’t care less.

Her eyes opened, slowly, and she looked around the room. “What happened?” The words were still a struggle to get out and he could tell. He wanted to tell her to rest, to save her voice for later, to recuperate. But he hadn’t heard that sound in so long, that he let himself be selfish – just one more time.

His own mouth when dry at her amnesia. She knew who he was, which was good. But not knowing how she ended up here was a bad sign.

“What do you remember?” She was growing restless at lying down, and she was in so much pain. It felt like her whole body was made of stone, but she used all of the strength she had in her to try to sit up.

She was met by gentle hands, guiding her up and placing pillows behind her to support her. Hands that belonged to her once arch-nemesis, who looked at her now like she was the only thing that mattered in the world.

She was so confused.

“I remember arguing in the forest.” Her eyes were wide with what Steve could only decipher as panic. “I don’t remember anything else… Why am I here?” The scared tone in her voice broke Steve’s heart all over again, but it could not take over the elation he felt at the fact that she was there.

He took a deep breath, briefly considering what he should tell her, considering all the events of the last month, in particular, that day. One of the worst days of his life.

“You were shot through the chest.” He began. “It knocked you out instantly, we barely got you here alive.” He ran his thumb softly over the back of her hand, unable to make eye contact. “You- you’ve been asleep for a month.”

He decided not to tell her of the fact she had died on the operating table. That could wait.

“A month?!” She shouted, resulting in another coughing fit. He helped her drink some more water, making soothing noises as she did so. It all felt so surreal. Every minute of every day since that moment, he had wished for this. And now it was happening. She was awake, and talking.

Her voice started to clear; “Are you okay? Were you hurt?”

“No. Please, don’t worry about me. You saved me from being shot right before you went down – it was my fault you got hurt.”

“I don’t think that’s right.” She contorted her face into a puzzled expression, looking down at his hand, clasping hers. She said it as a mix between a statement and a question – “We’re holding hands?”

“Yes, um. I’ve been waiting for you to wake up and your hand twitched a couple of days ago so that’s why – sorry, I’ll stop-”

As he tried to untangle their hands, she closed her fist and prevented him from doing so. He watched her chest rise and fall quickly, her eyes wide.

“Please, don’t.” Her words were like a child’s as her nostrils flared. She was uncertain. He wasn’t sure he had ever seen her uncertain before, not even a flash of hesitance had danced across her features as far back as he could remember. “It feels nice.”

Maybe, he just wasn’t paying enough attention.

“Then I’ll keep holding your hand until you ask me to stop.” He promised. A gentle, sincere smile took over his features, which she tried her best to replicate. He observed her face, drinking in the colour in her cheeks and the sparkle in her eyes.

It was a stark contrast to how they had last left off – the image replaying over and over again in his mind of her clinging to life, blood leaking from her mouth, her nose, her chest. The inky, sticky red coating his suit and his hands and his shoes. So much blood, endless. Sometimes he still felt the slick heat of it all over him. He wasn’t sure that he would ever be able to scrub that feeling from his memory.

“Where are the others? Are they okay?” (Y/n) asked, looking around the room at the various bunches of flowers and cards littered upon every surface. Steve had completely forgotten the others existed in his complete shock at her return.

He winced, knowing he should have called for them immediately. “They’ll be so happy to see you.” He spoke directly to her, and then to the ceiling; “FRIDAY, let everyone know that (y/n) is awake.”

“Yes, Captain.” The irish lilt came from above.

It was mere seconds before the doors came barrelling open, the entire team funnelling into the relatively small room, crowding around the bed and exclaiming various different versions of ‘Oh my god’, ‘You’re awake’, ‘Holy shit’. The room was absolute chaos with an unmusical cacophony.

This was allowed to go on for a few minutes, before the on-call doctor, someone (y/n) had never seen before, rounded the corner. “Okay, okay!” He shouted, “This is too much for the patient, I want everyone out – you can come in smaller groups.”

Everyone grumbled but did as they were told, each taking their chance to say ‘call if you need anything’, ‘see you later’ or ‘we’ll come back with sweets’. Bucky ruffled her hair and Natasha pressed a kiss to her cheek, muttering about how a certain Captain would be looking after her. She didn’t really understand what it meant, but a blush spread to her cheeks anyway.

As the last of them filed out, Steve turned to her and asked; “Do you want me to stay?” A certain vulnerability sewn into his question.

“Yes.” She answered far too quickly. “Please, Captain. If that’s okay.” Her voice seemed to get smaller and smaller as she spoke. “I don’t want to be alone.” Her grip on his hand tightened, both a demand and a question contained within it.

How on Earth could he say no to her? Her wide, gorgeous eyes searched his face for an answer, which he gave by settling further into the chair, pulling it even closer to the bed, if that was even possible.

“Like I said, as long as you want. I’m here, you’re not alone.”

They sat in silence for a while, the Captain not taking his eyes away from her face.

“(Y/n).” He had to tell her, now or never. He wouldn’t risk something like this again, things going unsaid. “I hope you know how sorry I am for what I said, all those weeks ago. It’s not an excuse, but I realised all this time I’ve not hated you, I’ve …”

She looked at him, her lips parted. Her messy hair splayed in a way where the fluorescent lights caught it, making it look like a sort of pseudo-halo. He knew it, right there and then. This was it.

“I’ve loved you. Since the moment we met.”

A shocked expression on her face moved slowly, her open mouth contorting into a soft, loving smile. She squeezed his hand, bringing her other arm over to hold it as well. Just more contact. That was all she needed.

“Steve, I feel the same.” She was still playing with his actual name, not ‘Captain’ or ‘Rogers’ or a sarcastic ‘Cap’. He couldn’t believe how it sounded coming from her – like it was a new name altogether. Like a song he was discovering for the first time.

He couldn’t help it now, he beamed. “You do?”

She nodded, licking her lips. They were so cracked, and dry. But she didn’t care.

“I– I can’t lean over to you, but… I would love to kiss you right now.”

He didn’t waste any time. Up and out of his seat in an instant, crossing what little distance was left between them. His hands reached her cheeks first, cupping them ever so softly. They breathed together, just for a second, his eyes flicking to hers almost to make sure she knew what she was doing.

And then his lips were on hers. The kiss wasn’t like she had imagined – it wasn’t dramatic, wasn’t angry, wasn’t sudden. It was calculated and gentle and passionate. It was everything she could ever have hoped for.

They pulled apart, Steve knowing that she wasn’t strong enough to hold her breath to kiss her as long as he wanted to. His hand stroked her cheek, his eyes staring into hers. He rested his forehead against hers for a second, before moving up and pressing a kiss to it.

The look in his eyes was one of love, happiness and admiration.

“I think I’ve wanted to do that since we met.” He admitted, breathless from excitement. They smiled at each other wordlessly, growing used to the looks between not being ones of glaring and daggers, but of kindness, and warmth.

The only sound was the steady beep, beep, beep of her heart rate – a sound he had definitely decided he loved. They stayed like that for hours, before she started to fall back asleep – to rest, this time.

“Will you be here when I wake up?” She asked, as she slipped back into slumber.

“I promise.” And nothing on Earth could stop him from keeping it.

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TAGS -- I've tagged everyone who requested a part two! You guys really keep my motivation up so I hope it's done you justice <3. This will be the last part for now, but I'm thinking of setting future domestic fics in this universe!

@haven-in-writing @marvelouskatie @veryaverageapple @ironwinnerwonderland @ohdrey89 @waqtzayaontmblr @shygamergirl01 @starkenobi @ynstark

p.s. please please listen to 'I and Love and You' by the Avett Brothers if you haven't before -- it's so Steve and is such a lovely song.

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hemlock-dreams · 3 months ago

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Ok, so possesive Wade is amazeballs.....but what about possesive Spidey?

I am in absolute love with your work! I wish i could keep tiny versions of your Spidey and Dp in my pocket all the time (they would definitely kill me but it would be so worth it)!!!

Sending all the love ♡♡

For men who use violence to replace their deep seated need for intimacy and sex, this might as well be a marriage proposal.

Thank you so much anon! (Technically speaking if you look at these on your phone, they ARE tiny versions of them in your pocket!)

#hunting!spider art #spiderman #spideypool #deadpool #Spidey knows Wade gets off on pain and violence and is seething when its at someone elses hands #Peter hypersexualizes violence because he CANT give intimacy #Wade hypersexualizes violence because he WONT get any intimacy otherwise #And the difference is Spidey hurts Wade in all the best ways- all on Wade's terms #This is legitimately serious commitment from wade #TFW Wade gets tricked out of his self destructive habits because all his pain belongs to his boyfriend #Spidey- My violence is yours but your pain is mine. he might as well have pulled out a ring

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denimbex1986 · 1 year ago

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'...“It’s fun playing bad, but actually he’s not,” the actor says, smiling as he reflects on his character, Crowley. “He’s a villain with a heart. The amount of really evil things he does are vanishingly small.”

...As it always has, “Good Omens” dissects the view of good and evil as absolutes, showing viewers that they are not as separate as we were led to believe growing up. Aziraphale and Crowley’s long-standing union is proof of this. The show also urges people to look at what defines our own humanity. For Tennant — who opted to wear a T-shirt emblazoned with the words “Leave trans kids alone you absolute freaks” during a photocall for Season 2 — these themes are more important now than ever before.

“In this society that we’re currently living in, where polarization seems ever more present, fierce and difficult to navigate. Negotiation feels like a dirty word at times,” he says, earnestly. “This is a show about negotiation. Two extremes finding common ground and making their world a better place through it. Making life easier, kinder and better. If that’s the sort of super objective of the show, then I can’t think of anything more timely, relevant or apt for the rather fractious times we’re living in.”

“Good Omens” is back by popular demand for another season. How does it feel?

It’s lovely. Whenever you send something out into the world, you never quite know how it will land. Especially with this, because it was this beloved book that existed, and that creates an extra tension that you might break some dreams. But it really exploded. I guess we were helped by the fact that we had Neil Gaiman with us, so you couldn’t really quibble too much with the decisions that were being made. The reception was, and continues to be, overwhelming.

Now that you’re no longer bound by the original material that people did, perhaps, feel a sense of ownership over, does the new content for Season 2 come with a sense of freedom for you? This is uncharted territory, of sorts.

That’s an interesting point. I didn’t know the book when I got the script. It was only after that I discovered the worlds of passion that this book had incited. Because I came to it that way, perhaps it was easier. I found liberation from that, to an extent. For me, it was always a character that existed in a script. At first, I didn’t have that extra baggage of expectation, but I acquired it in the run-up to Season 1 being released… the sense that suddenly we were carrying a ming vase across a minefield.

In Season 2, we still have Neil and we also have some of the ideas that he and Terry had discussed. During the filming of the first one, Neil would drop little hints about the notions they had for a prospective sequel, the title of which would have been “668: The Neighbour of the Beast,” which is a pretty solid gag to base a book around. Indeed there were elements like Gabriel and the Angels, who don’t feature in the book, that were going to feature in a sequel. They were brought forward into Season 1. So, even in the new episodes, we’re not entirely leaving behind the Terry Pratchett-ness of it all.

It’s great to see yourself and Michael Sheen reunited on screen as these characters. Fans will have also watched you pair up for Season 3 of “Staged.” You’re quite the dynamic duo. What do you think is the magic ingredient that makes the two of you such a good match?

It’s a slightly alchemical thing. We knew each other in passing before, but not well. We were in a film together [“Bright Young Things,” 1993] but we’d never shared a scene. It was a bit of a roll of the dice when we turned up at the read-through for “Good Omens.” I think a lot comes from the writing, as we were both given some pretty juicy material to work with. Those characters are beloved for a reason because there’s something magical about them and the way they complete each other. Also, I think we’re quite similar actors in the way we like to work and how we bounce off each other.

Does the shorthand and trust the two of you have built up now enable you to take more risks on-screen?

Yes, probably. I suppose the more you know someone, the more you trust someone. You don’t have to worry about how an idea might be received and you can help each other out with a more honest opinion than might be the case if you were, you know, dancing around each other’s nervous egos. Enjoying being in someone’s orbit and company is a positive experience. It makes going to work feel pleasant, productive, and creative. The more creative you can be, the better the work is. I don’t think it’s necessarily a given that an off-screen relationship will feed into an on-screen one in a positive or negative way. You can play some very intimate moments with someone you barely know. Acting is a peculiar little contract, in that respect. But it’s disproportionately pleasurable going to work when it’s with a mate.

Fans have long discussed the nature of Crowley and Aziraphale’s relationship. In Season 2, we see several of the characters debate whether the two are an item, prompting them to look at their union and decipher what it is. How would you describe their relationship?

They are utterly co-dependent. There’s no one else having the experience that they are having and they’ve only got each other to empathize with. It’s a very specific set of circumstances they’ve been dealt. In this season, we see them way back at the creation of everything. They’ve known each other a long time and they’ve had to rely on each other more and more. They can’t really exist one without the other and are bound together through eternity. Crowley and Aziraphale definitely come at the relationship with different perspectives, in terms of what they’re willing to admit to the relationship being. I don’t think we can entirely interpret it in human terms, I think that’s fair to say.

Yet fans are trying to do just that. Do you view it as beyond romantic or any other labels, in the sense that it’s an eternal force?

It’s lovely [that fans discuss it] but you think, be careful what you wish for. If you’re willing for a relationship to go in a certain way or for characters to end up in some sort of utopian future, then the story is over. Remember what happened to “Moonlighting,” that’s all I’m saying! [Laughs]

Your father-in-law, Peter Davison, and your son, Ty Tennant, play biblical father-and-son duo Job and Ennon in Episode 2. In a Tumblr Q&A, Neil Gaiman said that he didn’t know who Ty’s family was when he cast him. When did you become aware that Ty had auditioned?

I don’t know how that happened. I do a bunch of self-tapes with Ty, but I don’t think I did this one with him because I was out of town filming “Good Omens.” He certainly wasn’t cast before we started shooting. There were two moments during filming where Neil bowled up to me and said, “Guess, who we’ve cast?” Ty definitely auditioned and, as I understand it, they would tell me, he was the best. I certainly imagine he could only possibly have been the best person for the job. He is really good in it, so I don’t doubt that’s true. And then my father-in-law showed up, as well, which was another delicious treat. In the same episode and the same family! It was pretty weird. I have worked with both of them on other projects, but never altogether.

There’s a “Doctor Who” cameo, of sorts, in Episode 5, when Aziraphale uses a rare annual about the series as a bartering tool. In reality, you’ll be reprising your Time Lord role on screen later this year in three special episodes to mark the 60th anniversary. Did you always feel you’d return to “Doctor Who” at some point?

There’s a precedent for people who have been in the series to return for a multi-doctor show, which is lovely. I did it myself for the 50th anniversary in 2013, and I had a wonderful time with Matt [Smith]. Then, to have John Hurt with us, as well, was a little treat. But I certainly would never have imagined that I’d be back in “Doctor Who” full-time, as it were, and sort of back doing the same job I did all those years ago. It was like being given this delightful, surprise present. Russell T Davies was back as showrunner, Catherine Tate [former on-screen companion] was back, and it was sort of like the last decade and a half hadn’t happened.

Going forward, Ncuti Gatwa will be taking over as the new Doctor. Have you given him any advice while passing the baton?

Oh God, what a force of nature. I’ve caught a little bit of him at work and it’s pretty exciting. I mean, what advice would you give someone? You can see Ncuti has so much talent and energy. He’s so inspired and charismatic. The thing about something like this is: it’s the peripherals, it’s not the job. It’s the other stuff that comes with it, that I didn’t see coming. It’s a show that has so much focus and enthusiasm on it. It’s not like Ncuti hasn’t been in a massive Netflix series [“Sex Education,”] but “Doctor Who” is on a slightly different level. It’s cross-generational, international, and has so much history, that it feels like it belongs to everyone.

To be at the center of the show is wonderful and humbling, but also a bit overwhelming and terrifying. It doesn’t come without some difficulties, such as the immediate loss of anonymity. It takes a bit of getting used to if that’s not been your life up to that point. I was very lucky that when I joined, Billie Piper [who portrayed on-screen companion, Rose] was still there. She’d lived in a glare of publicity since she was 14, so she was a great guide for how to live life under that kind of scrutiny. I owe a degree of sanity to Billie.

Your characters are revered by a few different fandoms. Sci-fi fandoms are especially passionate and loyal. What is it like being on the end of that? I imagine it’s a lot to hold.

Yes, certainly. Having been a fan of “Doctor Who” since I was a tiny kid, you’re aware of how much it means because you’re aware of how much it meant to you. My now father-in-law [who portrayed Doctor Who in the 80s] is someone I used to draw in comic strips when I was a kid. That’s quite peculiar! It’s a difficult balance because on one end, you have to protect your own space, and there aren’t really any lessons in that. That does take a bit of trial and error, to an extent, and it’s something that you’re sometimes having to do quite publicly. But, it is an honor and a privilege, without a doubt. As you’ve said, it means so much to people and you want to be worthy of that. You have to acknowledge that and be careful with it. Some days that’s tough, if you’re not in the mood.

I know you’re returning to the stage later this year to portray Macbeth. You’ve previously voiced the role for BBC Sounds, but how are you feeling about taking on the character in the theater?

I’m really excited about it. It’s been a while since I’ve done Shakespeare. It’s very thrilling but equally — and this analogy probably doesn’t stretch — it’s like when someone prepares for an Olympic event. It does feel like a bit of a mountain and, yeah, you’re daring to set yourself up against some fairly worthy competition from down the years. That’s both the challenge and the horror of doing these types of things. We’ve got a great director, Max Webster, who recently did “Life of Pi.” He’s full of big ideas. It’s going to be exciting, thrilling, and a little bit scary. I’m just going to take a deep breath.

Before we part ways, let’s discuss the future of “Good Omens.” Gaiman has said that he already has ideas for Season 3, should it happen. If you were to do another season, is there anyone in particular you’d love to work with next time around or anything specific you’d like to see happen for Crowley?

Oh, Neil Gaiman knows exactly where he wants to take it. If you’re working with people like Gaiman, I wouldn’t try to tamper with that creative void. Were he to ask my opinion, that would be a different thing, but I can’t imagine he would. He’s known these characters longer than me and what’s interesting is what he does with them. That’s the bit that I’m desperate to know. I do know where Crowley might end up next, but it would be very wrong if I told you.

[At this point, Tennant picks up a pencil and starts writing on a hotel pad of paper.]

I thought you were going to write it down for me then. Perhaps like a clandestine meeting on a bench in St James’ Park, but instead you’d write the information down and slide it across the table…

I should have done! I was drawing a line, which obviously, psychologically, I was thinking, “Say no more. You’re too tempted to reveal a secret!” It was my subconscious going “Shut the fuck up!”

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expelliarmus · 1 year ago

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#mine #doctor who #dwedit #christopher eccleston #david tennant #matt smith #peter capaldi #jodie whittaker #ncuti gatwa #john hurt #jo martin #ok i really only started making this gifset for the last one of fifteen lmao #i did not expect to be sitting here making 9 more gifs but here we are!!!#the only one i really left out is david bradley as the first doctor #but that's because the scene where he says his line in tuat... i don't like the lighting #and you don't even really see his face until after he's said it #but i mean technically these are all the new who doctors :')#and of course dt is in 4/10 of these lol

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msmk11 · 6 months ago

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Just Like All the Other Angry Boyfriends Before

James Potter x Hufflepuff!fem!reader

WC: 4.2k

CW: angst; hurt/comfort; fluff; idiots

Summary: Two idiots in love who don’t know how to handle their emotions properly- aka school dance drama

A/n: yall said you wanted this fic even tho I lowkey hate it, so here it is!

Shrill squeals echo through the stone corridor as you make your way to the Great Hall after class. You turn the corner to find a group of girls surrounding Alice Fortescue and Frank Longbottom. Alice is blushing profusely as you hear her declare, “yes I’ll go to the formal with you!”

Frank whoops excitedly and draws Alice into a warm embrace. There are more squeals from the girls, so high pitched you’re sure they’ve shattered your ear drums. As you pass the happy couple, you smile at them warmly and share your congratulations. On the inside, however, you grimace. You’re no antagonist to fun, really, but as the winter formal continues to approach closer and closer, and you are still without a date, you find yourself beginning to reject the idea of any formal at all. It’s not that you have a lack of options either- plenty of people have asked you- but rather, you’ve been holding off in hopes that a certain special someone will.

Begrudgingly, you accept that if you put things off much longer, you will be dateless. And while you’re not necessarily opposed to going alone, you’d rather not when nearly all your friends have dates. Lily has Mary, Marlene has Dorcas, Alice has Frank, and Remus has Sirius.

That leaves you and James.

Although you’re a Hufflepuff, you throw your stuff down onto the Gryffindor table and plop into a seat next to Lily. You huff dejectedly and rest your head on her shoulder, “Why does everyone have to be all happy and in love? It’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid honey, you’re just bitter because P-“

You slap your hand over her mouth and glare at her, “SHH there’s people around.”

“Right, sorry,” she replies, prying your hand off her mouth.

“Also…” she pauses and sniffs your hand, “is that a new lotion? What scent is it?”

Before you can answer, you’re interrupted by Mary who sits down on the other side of Lily and kisses her on the cheek.

“Uh, babe, why are you sniffing her hand?”

“I’m not weird, I swear! She’s the one who shoved her hand in my face. I just wanted to know what lotion she was using.”

Mary gives the two of you questioning looks.

“Potter” Lily mouths.

Mary nods in understanding and smirks. She wiggles her eyebrows suggestively as she shifts her attention to the raven-haired boy a few seats down.

“Still waiting for him to ask you?”

“Mhmmm.”

“You know, it is the 20th century, you could try asking him for a change.”

“Excellent idea, love! Oi, Potter, come here,” Lily shouts.

You glare at them in panic and mumble, “I hate you both.”

James looks up from his conversation with his friends and slides down the bench towards you.

“We have a very important question for you,” Lily says.

You glare at her once again, “I think Lily here is actually far over exaggerating the importance of the question. I’m sure whatever discussion you were having with Remus, Peter, and Sirius was much more urgent.”

James chuckles, “It’s the opposite actually. Remus and Sirius were arguing over what they are wearing to the formal. So really, you saved me.”

You let out the most pitiful laugh, cursing your luck.

“So… what is this very important question you wanted to ask me?”

You attempt to act nonchalant as you ask him if he has a date for the formal yet.

“Oh, the formal? Not yet, though I have a few options in mind. But if you’re implying you want to go together, I’m totally down.”

You’re pretty sure your heart skips a beat.

“I mean, I don’t want you to go alone while everyone else in the friend group has a date.”

This time, your heart drops.

“Oh, so you don’t mind doing me a favor and taking me to the formal?” You ask, an accusing tone to your voice.

“Right, that’s what friends are for,” he says, innocently.

Nail in the coffin.

“So, let me get this straight. You’ll only go with me because you feel sorry for me and because you don’t think I can get a date to the formal?” you ask angrily.

“No I-“ he begins defensively.

“Well you should know, Potter, that I do have a date to the formal, and I was only asking if you had one because I was worried you were going to be the one going alone.”

“Wait! You’re going with someone?!” He says, shocked.

“Don’t act so surprised. Just because I’m ‘one of the guys’ to you doesn’t mean I’m not desirable to other people,” you retort.

Then, you stand up and snatch your books off the table. As you storm away you hear him yell, “Wait, but who are you going with?”

Great question.

*****

Back in the Hufflepuff dorms, you sit in one of the common room chairs stewing over your recent interaction with James. While your initial reaction was anger, time has led way to more intense feelings of hurt. While he didn’t outwardly reject you, the sting of the friend zone was just as painful. You needed to move on, but with who?

The universe seems to answer your question in the form of Amos Diggory.

Amos Diggory- an arrogant, handsome, girlfriend-stealer, with an intense fear of commitment. He would be perfect.

No foreigner to flirting, you put on your most charming smile and call out, “Hey Diggory…”

He looks in your direction and you motion for him to come sit. He smiles at his friends and shoos them away. As Amos comes and sits down next to you you know that, if this goes according to plan, you will royally piss James off. The two rival in looks and on the quidditch field, and James cannot stand Amos.

“Hey gorgeous,” he says, looking you up and down.

“So, you, uh, have a date to the formal yet?”

“No, I prefer to go alone. So my options are open.”

You smirk teasingly, “What if I can convince you to change your mind?”

Amos smiles at you seductively, “I’m listening.”

“Well, you like to go to these things alone so you can entertain the attentions of many girls. But, if you go with one girl, me, you’ll get even more attention. What is going to happen when all of the girls at Hogwarts think that the Amos Diggory is off the market?”

“You have me intrigued,” he says, “And how are you not in Slytherin with that devious little mind of yours?”

“I prefer to keep it my little secret.”

Then, you lean closer to him, “Though I guess it’s our little secret now.”

Amos is falling perfectly into your trap, and you know that he already wants to kiss you. You pull away before he even gets the chance.

“Before I agree, what’s in this for you?” He asks.

“Revenge on James Potter…”

If your flirting hadn’t fully won him over, this does.

*****

In the evening, you make your way to the Gryffindor common room where you always do homework with your friends. Though James, Peter, and Sirius consistently show up late, you make sure to leave extra early to avoid conversation with James at all costs.

You forget, however, that James sometimes knows you better than you know yourself. So when you arrive, he is already there on the couch, waiting for you. Lily and Remus are spread out on the floor, Mary is sprawled across a red chair, and Dorcas is lying in Marlene’s lap reading her textbook while Marlene writes a paper. James shoots up from his seat as you walk in.

“Hey! Can we talk?” He asks anxiously.

Although they pretend to hide it, you know your friends are secretly listening. Still, you don’t care.

“No, James, we can’t. Although it may be uncharted territory, you and I are in what people call a fight. So just let me be.”

“But shouldn’t we talk?”

“No, James. I don’t want to talk. Not right now.”

The fight leaves his body and he retreats, “fine. I’ll just leave you be.”

He grabs his stuff and goes up to his dorm as you settle yourself in his place.

“Don’t you think you’re being a little harsh?” Remus asks softly.

“Maybe,” you say, “But I’m sick of always downplaying my feelings to protect his. It’s not fair to me.”

Lily grabs your hand, “you’re right, it’s not fair. And I’m sorry for pushing all of this on you, it wasn’t my place.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry too,” Mary adds.

“Well, I’m not. This just encouraged me to get over my silly little crush and focus my attentions on someone who will actually take interest in me. There are plenty of people out there.”

“Hell yeah there are!” Marlene says encouragingly.

Dorcas smacks her arm, “Marlene! James is one of your best friends!”

“So is she! I love them both, but she’s right, she needs to do what’s best for her.”

“Just don’t push him away completely,” Dorcas tells you seriously.

“I won’t,” you sigh, “He‘s still so important to me. It just won’t be in the way that I hoped.”

Silence falls over the group.

“Who fucking died?”

Everyone jumps and turns to look in the direction of the voice. Behind you stands Sirius and Peter, both with perplexed looks on their faces.

“James, after she fucking tore him apart earlier,” Marlene replies, motioning to you.

Peter nods as he plops down by your feet, “Oh right! I heard about that.”

Sirius smacks you upside the head, “Yeah, what was that all about?”

“He basically called me a fucking unattractive loser. What else was I supposed to do?” You say, smacking him back.

“I think you’re over-exaggerating just a little bit,” Mary responds cautiously.

“I mean, I think he was just trying to be nice. Maybe it hurt because he essentially friendzoned you?” Lily adds.

“Wait, do you have a crush on James?” Sirius asks you.

“Sirius, have you really never noticed?” Remus responds disbelievingly.

Sirius only shrugs his shoulders.

“Okay, I get it, I get it. James is the perfect golden boy and I’m just another one of Potter’s stupid fangirls who follows him blindly and makes a fool of themselves.”

“Honey no,” Lily starts, “it’s not that it’s-“

“Can you not lecture me, please?” You interrupt, “Maybe I overreacted, but is it so wrong to be angry about being pitied. Especially by someone you really care about?”

“No, it’s not,” Peter tells you, “I get it.”

“Thank you,” you respond dejectedly.

It’s quiet for a moment and you’re stuck stewing in your own self-loathing.

Then, Lily speaks up again, “Uhm, I have one more question, and then I’ll drop the subject.”

You nod, encouraging her to continue.

“Who are you going to take to the formal? Because you told James you had a date, even though you didn’t.”

“Oh, yeah, uhmmm about that…” you say, laughing nervously.

“What rash thing did you do now?” Dorcas asks.

“I may or may not have asked Amos Diggory to be my date to the dance…. And he said yes.”

Marlene laughs loudly, “Oh shit!”

*****

To avoid conflict, you decide that it’s best for you to go to the formal with Amos and his friends rather than string him along with yours. Tension is already high between James and you, and you know Amos’ being there would only make things worse. You try to push it out of your mind, but you can’t help wondering who James is taking to the formal with him. You picture all the prettier, smarter, and better girls he could be going with, and your stomach begins to ache. You are also worried about what people will say in relation to you going with Amos.

Your thoughts start to spiral. Will people hate you? Will James hate you? Is your dress all wrong? Will you be the worst dressed there? The anxieties are endless and there seems to be no relief in sight.

Still, you push through and doll yourself up, masking your true feelings behind layers of hairspray, makeup, and itchy fabric. Your dress is light blue with a silvery sheer fabric over top, like fresh snow on a frozen lake. The top half is form-fitting with silvery straps, and the bottom spreads outward in a loose skirt. You twist back the front strands of your hair with silver clips and adorn your face with light makeup and shimmery eyeshadow. At promptly eight you drag yourself to the common room where Amos sits with his friends and their dates.

You put on a fake smile, “Amos, you look handsome.”

He looks you up and down, “I know. And you look hot.”

What a gentleman.

You say a polite thank you and avoid some of the stares you’re getting from the other girls. You can tell that some are jealous already, yet they maintain outward politeness, which you’re grateful for.

Amos, at least, extends his arm, which you grab, as you walk towards the Great Hall. Your walk is filled with polite conversation about simple things from quidditch, to class, and plans for the holidays. So far, it’s not as bad as you thought, though you wished you would have just gone dateless with your friends.

You cast these regrets aside, however, when you arrive at your destination. To no one’s surprise, the Hogwarts decorating committee has outdone themselves once again. The typical long, wooden tables are gone and in place is a magnificent white dance floor that seems to shimmer like the snow. Warm, golden globes of light hang from the sky and snowflakes fall from above, though never reaching the ground. The room is an explosion of silvers, whites, and blues, and you’re sure you’ve stepped into a winter wonderland.

“This is just-“ Amos begins.

“Wow” you finish, “Like a winter wonderland.”

“And you’re its queen,” he says.

You blush in spite of yourself.

“Compliments won’t get you a kiss so soon,” you tease, “It’s only eight.”

He bites his lip, “fine. But I can only restrain myself from a beautiful girl so long.”

You laugh lightly and swat him on the shoulder. Then, music begins to play.

Amos motions towards the dance floor, “shall we?”

*****

As James adjusts his tie in the mirror, he can’t help but think about what a pathetic loser he is. Although he’d had plenty of girls who he could have gone to the formal with, he continued to wait, assuming there would be someone better coming along. Who that person was, he wasn’t sure. But now, he was alone.

And then there was you. He doesn't know what happened. One second you two were fine, and then suddenly, you blew up. While he knows that he insulted you, he can’t understand why you are so angry. Sirius said not to overthink it, that girls are just complicated, but you are one of his best friends. He knows there is something else going on and it’s left a terrible pit in his stomach.

“Earth to James!”

“Huh?” He awakes from his trance and notices that Peter is waving his hand in front of his face.

“You ready to go?”

“Oh, yeah.”

They head downstairs and meet up with the rest of the group- Pete and his girl from Ravenclaw, Sirius and Remus, Marlene and Dorcas, Mary and Lily, and you-

Not present because he is an ass.

James wonders who you’re going with.

They all cheer loudly, “James, you look great!”

“Thanks, guys, but it’s you all that look great.”

“Hell yeah we do!” Sirius exclaims.

Everyone laughs and begins to file out the portrait hole down to the Great Hall. Despite being the only dateless friend, James’ spirits are lifted by their jokes and ramblings. When they reach the dance, everyone oohs and aahs over the shimmery decorations. Instantly, James cranes his neck, looking for you in the crowd as he walks with the group towards a table off to the left. As they all set their stuff down, the music begins to play and couples rush to the floor. His friends join them, excited to dance.

“James, you coming?” Sirius asks.

He shakes his head, “next song.”

Sirius shrugs and walks off with Remus. James continues to search the crowd, looking for you. He realizes he doesn’t know what you’re wearing- and he supposes he never asked. James wonders if best friends are supposed to do that sort of thing.

Probably.

It hits him, then. With everything that’s been going on lately- being head boy, quidditch captain, and taking ridiculously hard classes, he’d sort of ignored you. It’s no wonder you’re so angry with him.

James feels totally guilty until he sees you. It’s then, he realizes, that he has a reason to be angry too. There you are, after all his moping and worrying, with Amos fucking Diggory. James knows that he hasn’t been the best of friends lately, but Diggory? That was his rival! You were crossing a line.

But what really bothers him the most is the way you’re laughing at something Diggiry said. He is hardly funny, and has the personality of a piece of paper. And why are you leaning so close to him? He’s not even that attractive or charming.

As you swirl across the dance floor, he watches how your hands hold tightly to Diggory’s shoulders, like he’s your anchor. James also notices Diggory’s hands around your waist, far too close to your ass, and his blood boils. No way would he let his rival feel up his friend.

When the song ends, James begins to stalk towards you two, but is pushed backwards by Sirius and Remus.

“Not worth it mate,” Sirius warns.

“But Padfoot, this is unbelievable. She is unbelievable. How could she ever agree to go with him? She knows how much I hate him, and is just trying to get back at me.”

“Mate, it’s this type of thinking that pushed her into his arms,” Remus mumbles.

“What, what do you mean?”

“James, she asked him to the formal after you basically made her feel like shit. Whether she realized it or not, she turned to who she thought would hurt you the most. She wanted you to feel what she was feeling, even a little bit.”

“It’s not her best decision, but ignoring her wasn’t yours either,” Sirius adds.

James rubs his face tiredly, “God, I know.”

Sirius pats his back, “Just… take a few minutes and then come join us. Don’t let it ruin your night.”

“And while you’re sitting here, maybe reflect a little more on why you’re so upset,” Remus adds.

“Rem-” Sirius says with a warning tone.

He puts his hands up defensively, “I didn’t say anything. Let’s go.”

As they walk away James notices their slight bickering. He laughs at them in spite of himself. Secretly, he’s always been a little bit jealous of their relationship. Though they are far from perfect, they’re comfortable with each other in a way that he can only hope for. He thinks the fact that they were friends for five years before they dated helped. There’s this trust and friendship that is so necessary in order to support the love and passion that comes with romance.

As another song ends, James decides not to get up from his seat. He watches Amos and you some more. While his blood is still boiling, there is a twinge of something else.

“Maybe reflect a little more on why you’re upset.”

*****

Surprisingly, you’re having more fun with Amos than you thought you would. While you would never date him, you appreciate his company tonight. He’s been making you laugh all night, so you’re surprised when another song comes on and he suddenly gets serious.

“You know, gorgeous, I’m not one to waste my time on Potter, but he’s been glaring in our direction for the past fifteen minutes.”

“Just ignore him.”

“I would, but it’s kind of hard when he is burning holes into my head.”

You huff apologetically, “God, I’m so sorry. I hope it’s not ruining your night.”

“Eh, I’m used to Potter throwing temper tantrums when he doesn’t get what he wants. He’s clearly just mad he’s not dancing with the most beautiful girl in the room.”

“Pfft, yeah right. He’s just mad that I’m dancing with you. Otherwise, he wouldn’t give a shit.”

“Can I give you my honest opinion?”

You hum in agreement.

“As I’m sure you know, I have a reputation for girlfriend stealing.”

“Yes? And?” You say, confused.

“Well, with stealing girlfriends also comes a lot of angry boyfriends. And Potter over there, he looks exactly like all the angry boyfriends I’ve dealt with, who want to beat the shit out of me.”

“Which makes no sense, because he doesn’t act like a boyfriend whenever we’re together. It’s not fucking fair. He doesn’t want me, but it’s like he doesn’t want anyone else to have me either.”

“Listen to me. I may not know what the fuck is going on with you two, but it’s pretty clear to anyone that you guys both have feelings for each other. So, as your date, I think it's my duty to end ours early. We both achieved our goals- all the girls in the room want me, and Potter can’t take his eyes off of you.”

You release a shaky sigh, “Okay, fine.”

As the song ends he releases you and gives you a wink, “Well, for now, this is goodbye. Since I’m sure you’ll be Potter’s girlfriend by the end of the night, I imagine we are going to be mortal enemies from now on. Or until graduation at least.”

You chuckle a little as you straighten his tie one last time.

“Go get him,” he says.

You stand up on your tip toes and kiss him on the cheek, “Bye Diggory. Next time I speak to you, you better be settled down with a nice girl, at 9 ¾, with your rowdy kids for their first year of school.”

He laughs and you part ways for the night. Before you allow yourself to approach James, you walk outside to the courtyard nearby. You lean up against the railing and look out towards the stars. The cool breeze fills your lungs and is comfortable against your hot skin. It’s silent except for the soft notes of music drifting out from the Great Hall.

“So, you and Diggory huh?”

You jump at James’ voice and turn to him, “Yep, and you and the invisible girl. I thought you were Mr. Hotshot, with plenty of girls lined up as possible dates?”

“And I thought Hufflepuffs were supposed to be loyal.”

You scoff, “It wasn’t personal, James. Just a silly little date to a silly little formal.”

“Bullshit” he yells, “You were mad so you went and found a date that you knew I would hate!”

“God, you are so conceited! Not everything is about you. Maybe I just liked Amos’ company. He’s not all that bad, you know.”

“Oh, so now you’re defending him? Next thing I know there’ll be wedding bells.”

“Maybe there will be. He’s funny, attractive, and actually gives me the time of day!” you retort.

“Just so he can get you into his bed, fuck you, and then ignore you after,” James shouts back.

You stare at each other in silence for a moment.

“I mean, Merlin, is that really what you want? I know it's not my place to give my opinion about who you date or-”

“And that’s the whole problem,” you interrupt.

“What?”

“James, you're my best friend. I want your opinion about these things- even if I don’t always want to hear it. It at least shows you care about me. Lately, it’s like I don’t even exist.”

“I know, I know and I’m sorry. You deserve better. A better friend and…” he steps a little closer, “a better romantic interest?”

You let out a small laugh, “romantic interest?”

“What? If this night has shown me anything, I clearly don’t know what- or who- you’re looking for in romance. And that’s on me. But I want that to change from now on.”

You take a deep breath and step even closer to him. You look up into his hazel eyes, your faces so close your noses are almost touching.

“Well, in the name of change, I guess I have to confess, I do have a romantic interest… in you.”

“And as a part of my duties as your best friend, I believe it my responsibility to tell you that… you should go for it.”

Already so close together, you merely stand on your tip toes and lock lips with James. He kisses back and puts his hands around your waist. For a second, he pulls away.

You look up at him with questioning eyes.

His grip on your waist tightens, “I don’t ever want another man’s hands here ever again. It was driving me crazy tonight, the way Amos was touching you.”

You smirk at him, “Jealous are we?”

He grunts in affirmation and pulls you in again. The kiss lasts a few minutes with you up against the railing. At first it’s fast and passionate. But with time it becomes slower and more sweet. More loving.

Eventually, you slowly pull apart. You look at him softly and ask breathlessly, “So, do you have a date to the formal yet?”

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lillazyboithings · 8 months ago

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NPMD LIB AU

after a month of drawing and trying to balance this project with my finals and my internship, im finally done with the base designs and the monochrome posters

base designs and other commentary below

Base designs:

The bad thing about drawing them so far apart from each other is that my rendering style slowly shifts and it became inconsistent

if you question me why i spent so much time on these or why i made them monochrome, trust me, i have no idea either but THESE ARE MY CHILDREN NOW!!!

Feel free to use these as lock screens, wallpapers, profile pictures, idk, as long as you ask me, i'll let you use these bad boys

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moonstruckme · 8 months ago

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James Potter or tasm!peter parker fluff or comfort?? I dont mind whatever you write ill love 🙏🙏

Thanks for requesting :)

cw: implied past abuse

tasm!Peter Parker x fem!reader ♡ 1.2k words

Peter’s having a rough week. These things always seem to happen to him. He’s got a big presentation at work on Friday, by which time the project he’s been underfunded and understaffed for has to be finished. His Aunt May has been busy with work, too, so either you or Peter is at her place most nights trying to help out, except she seems to think when it’s Peter it’s familial responsibility but when it’s you it's an unfair burden, so it’s mostly been Peter. There’s also an impressively organized cell of criminals he’s been trying to investigate before they blow up a bank or something. So of course, he’s sleep deprived to boot.

And while you know the rough edge of frustration in his voice isn’t meant for you, hearing it makes your skin tighten nonetheless.

“How does a person run out of salt?” Peter stalks through the front door and straight into the kitchen. “Or maybe the better question is, why does it take going to three bodegas to find one with salt in stock?”

He’s soaked from the rain, and you feel guilty for being all cozied up on the couch while he’s been running around the city. Maybe it’s irrational, but you feel sort of like you should have been stressed out and cold all night, too. In solidarity.

“May didn’t have salt?” you guess as Peter opens the fridge, stooping low to peer inside.

“You should see her pantry, babe. It’s like everything either expired at the turn of the century or got bugs in it. Hey, did you make anything for dinner?”

“No.” You hesitate. “You told me you wanted to eat at May’s, so I had the leftovers from last night.”

“Shit.” He closes the fridge, resting his forehead on the door. “You’re right. I totally forgot, I only made enough for her.”

“I’ll make something now.” You stand. Peter gives you a look that conveys both apology and gratitude as you join him in your small kitchen. “You feel like pasta?”

“Thank you,” he says, kissing the top of your head lightly.

“Course,” you murmur. Really, it feels like the least you can do. “Would you mind chopping up some basil?”

“For my own dinner?” Peter teases. The levity in his voice is obviously forced, and the air between you heavies as he realizes you’ve heard it too.

You almost don’t want to ask, but you do want to be a supportive girlfriend. You can lend him a compassionate ear. “How was work today?”

He sighs, grabbing the cutting board from a cabinet near your feet and shutting the door with perhaps a tad too much force.

“It was…ahh.” He scrubs a hand through his hair, stooping again into the white fridge light to find the basil. It casts dark shadows underneath his eyes. “You’ve gotta be sick of hearing about this.”

“It’s okay. Unless you don’t feel like talking about it.”

“No, it’s just, how do they expect us to stick to their tight schedule when half of my lab is being pulled away to other projects all the time?” Peter’s knife slices through the basil, hitting the cutting board with a sharp thunk. “Today, we were down one intern who caught the stomach flu, and it set us way back. One intern shouldn’t be that crucial to a big project like this!”

You hum, ignoring the way the back of your neck prickles. The tension emanating from Peter is completely valid, your reaction a bothersome, purposeless souvenir from an old life. You find yourself staring into the pot of water and waiting for it to boil.

“And it’s not like it’s anyone’s fault, but all the rest of us are working extra hours to try and get this done in time.”

Small bubbles in the bottom of the pot, rising tentatively to the surface. Peter’s knife thunks a quickening rhythm on the cutting board.

“If they’d given us the money we asked for, we could have hired more people, been working with better equipment, but instead—” The water starts to rumble, steam warming your face. It’s thick in your throat. “—it’s like we don’t even work for a top-notch lab. Like, do they think we really believe they don’t have any resources to spare?”

Peter’s voice is rising, irritation sharpening his words. You reach to turn down the stove when big bubbles reach the surface, splattering hot onto your wrist. You ignore the sting.

“My boss keeps talking about how important this presentation is,” Peter goes on, opening the cabinet next to your head and reaching inside, “but if it were really important, he’d have—” He slams the cabinet door.

You both freeze.

To anyone else, it would look like nothing—the way your expression stays perfectly still, your muscles stiffening just slightly, the invisible pause in your heartbeat. But Peter knows you.

“Sorry.” He sounds as breathless as you feel. “I’m sorry. You okay?”

“Mhm.” Despite your best intentions, your voice comes out pitchy. You can’t make yourself move in a way that feels natural, so you stay not moving at all. Steam wafting warm up onto your face.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” Peter says, tone softer than you’ve heard it in days. “I shouldn’t have—I didn’t mean to yell.” The roiling pot has calmed to a gurgle. You can see him swallow in your peripheral vision. “Can you look at me?”

You take in what you hope is a subtle breath, turning to your boyfriend with a wan smile. “Sorry,” you manage. “I don’t know why I did that.”

“It’s okay,” he says, brows bunched in the middle. Brown eyes like a puppy’s.

He shifts his arms, a question, and you step into them. You do it more for him than for you, but the second Peter’s arms wrap around your back the last of the tension shudders out of you. You hug him back, rubbing between his shoulder blades reassuringly.

“I scared you?” he asks, still in that soft voice like he’s afraid of startling you. It’s not really a question. “I’m sorry, baby. I didn’t mean to get so mad.”

“You’re allowed to be mad,” you argue weakly. There’s an embarrassing blockage in your throat. “It’s not your fault if I freak out, you should still be allowed to vent.”

“No, but I know how you are.” Peter squeezes your shoulders. “I can vent without slamming things. It’s not nice.”

You don’t have much of an argument for that. Still, “You really shouldn’t be the one comforting me right now,” you point out.

A light hum. “Says who? I’m feeling a lot better already.” His hand climbs up to cup the back of your neck, his face turning down so his lips rest on your head. “Should’a just gone straight for the hug when I got home. Might have saved us both a lot of ranting.”

You push your face into his sweatshirt, mindless of its dampness. He smells like rainwater. You don’t know how you could ever have thought, even for a second, that someone like this could be capable of hurting you.

“I’ll make a note of that,” you murmur.

“Yeah, please do,” Peter teases, pressing a kiss to your head. He pulls away and sets two still-chilled hands on your face. “Are you really okay?” he asks sincerely. “I know how scared you get, sweetheart. I’m so sorry I did that to you.”

“You didn’t mean to,” you tell him, “and it wouldn’t be your fault anyways. I’m really okay.”

Your boyfriend nods, but he still looks troubled. “Another hug for good measure?”

“For you or for me?”

A corner of his mouth kicks up. “Does it matter?”

It doesn’t really.

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republicansaredomesticterrorists · 10 days ago

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youtube

Four minute YouTube video that details how the oligarchy is going to punish their MAGA base. The narrator is the acerbic Rick Wilson, author of Everything Trump Touches Dies.

👆highly recommend.

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writtenbymoonflower · 1 year ago

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Unpretty

You are insecure and Peter is oblivious. tasm!Peter Parker x fem!reader

cw: reader had very negative thoughts about body image. mentions of weight and general body image issues. i tried to keep it as neutral as possible so everybody could read and relate, so it can be read as plus!size reader or not.

1.5k words

The position you were in wasn’t unnecessarily uncomfortable. The physical part felt really nice, actually. Peter was laid on his side, nose nuzzled into your hair while you were in his arms flat on your back. His even breathing was soothing and you felt close and warm.

Emotionally, however, you felt confused.

You had to resist cringing every time you remembered that Peter’s large hand was spread over the bottom of your tummy, likely feeling everything “wrong” about it. He could definitely feel it wasn’t as flat or firm as you would like it to be, even through your thick crewneck. And even though you logically knew it was impossible, you felt the stinging insecurity all over your body, like he was touching you everywhere you hated. Your brain was telling you that through feeling the soft part of your stomach, he could also feel and see where your thighs were too big, where stretchmarks were painted all over your body, and where your skin wasn’t completely smooth.

He probably would hate my body as much as I do if he could see. The little voice in your head nagged.

Obviously, you knew that wasn’t true. You knew that everyone had little things that bothered them and yours weren’t even especially unusual. You also knew that voicing these thoughts to Peter would likely lead to you being even more self-conscious and him being confused. Or even worse, him pitying you. You were snapped out of your spiral by Peter’s shifting in position.

“What’re you thinking of, baby?” Peter whispered. To your horror, his hand started rubbing your stomach over your sweater. “I can practically see the steam coming out of your ears.” He laughed the way he does when trying to calm you down, like he doesn’t think it’s funny but it might be less intimidating if you believe he does. You turned your head to look at him. Being this close didn’t allow you to see his full face, but you could see one of his pretty brown eyes, looking at you with far too much love for your heart to handle.

“Not thinking of anythin’ really.” You kept your voice as even as possible and hoped he didn’t hear the nervous hitch in your breath as he reached under the hem of your sweatshirt to touch your skin. You panicked and tried to cover by grabbing his hand in yours and holding it between your ribs, right under your chest. He looked confused but still stroked your hand with his thumb.

“Yeah okay.” He was sarcastic and rolling his eyes but his voice was still light. He brought your joined hands up to kiss the veins on your wrist, closing his eyes and letting his lips linger for a good few seconds. All while still burning his eyes over your face, letting his pupils linger over a feature before jumping to the next, admiring your whole face with so much care you would cry.

“What?” You asked, growing shy under his intense stare.

“You’re so pretty, baby.” He was still smiling at you like a fool. “So so pretty.” He sing-songed. He urged you to lay on top of him with his arms, but you held fast in your place. Your boyfriend apparently took this as a challenge, because he showed off his real strength by pulling you fast onto his chest.

“Peter!” You said, scolding and nervous and flustered all at once.

“What?” He asked smugly, with a look of triumph on his face. You ducked your head out of his eyesight. “Baby, what’s up?” He asked again, more sincere. You still didn’t answer, your anxiety was roaring too loud in your head. You were probably crushing him under your weight. His hands were planted on your hips, likely feeling the extra fat and getting grossed out. He was just too nice to say anything. He was also too far close to your face for comfort, definitely seeing patches of oily skin or blemishes littering your face. It all became too much for you and you tried to roll off of him, but he gripped onto you harder.

“Peter, let me off.” You kept your voice light but you were panicking inside.

“Yeah, not happening.” He stayed stubborn as a mule.

“But I’m heavy, I’ll crush you.” You said desperately.

“Good.” He rebutted, still acting as if this was a casual conversation.

“Peter, I’m serious. I’m too heavy for this. You’re going to hurt yourself.” Your voice trailed off, getting quieter towards the end. The whole sentence was soaked in shame that Peter hadn’t yet picked up on. Now, there was a concerned crease between his eyebrows.

“Huh?” He looked genuinely confused. “What put that dumb idea in your head? ‘Too heavy’ for what, exactly?” He started as if he was about to rant, but cut it short. To your dismay, he pulled more of your weight onto him.

“It’s not dumb, it’s true. I’m just too heavy” You argued back. He couldn’t really be that oblivious. Anyone with eyes could see it.

“Oh I’m sorry,” He started sassing, like he actually wasn’t sorry at all. “I didn’t know that you now were the only deciding judge of something being ‘too much.’” He was being defiant on purpose.

“Peter, please.” All joking and argumentativeness had left your tone, just leaving shame and sadness. Peter softened at this and encouraged your head up to meet his eyes, holding your jaw firmly so you couldn’t look away. He looked like he was slowly putting pieces together in his head.

“Baby,” He started, still not breaking eye contact with you. “Is this why you’ve not been letting me touch you as much?” Peter looked so sad, it didn’t suit him at all and you wanted to make it better immediately. “Do you think there’s something wrong with you, that I would think there’s something wrong with you?” On the last sentence he was extra distressed, like he couldn’t believe the words were leaving his mouth.

“I just-” You were trying to articulate your feelings without making this any worse. “I mean, not every part of me is pretty, you know that.” You tried to say it casually but Peter’s expression didn’t lighten at all. Instead, his bottom lip jutted out and his eyes got wider, looking like a cartoonishly sad puppy who was denied a treat.

“I don’t know that, actually.” He moved his hand to the back of your head, threading his fingers in your hair. “You don’t think you’re pretty?” He said the last part like his heart was cracking. And in Peter’s mind, it was. His baby was thinking badly of herself, and even worse, she was thinking he thought badly of her.

“I mean,” You cringed as the words left your mouth, wanting desperately for the conversation to end. “Not really. At least, there is a lot about me that could be a lot better.” Peter was at a loss for words. You had obviously mulled this over and were solid in your opinion.

“I don’t think there is. I think you are perfect. I love everything about you.” He said softly, his voice missing its usual teasing tone.

“But-” You started, but cut yourself off.

“But what?” Your argumentative boyfriend was back. “C’mon. Talk to me, baby.”

“I just-” You gathered your thoughts as best you could. He was really being difficult. There was no way he hadn’t noticed something. You also really did not want to say your insecurities out loud. It was too raw. But you knew Peter, and he wouldn’t back off without you giving something. “My stomach isn’t flat.” You said, as if that was enough argument for you being disgusting.

“Okay?” He actually laughed at this, eyebrows scrunched in confusion. “And?”

You rolled your eyes, irritated. “And, in general I’m just too big. And my skin isn’t good either. It just doesn’t all add up very well does it?” You resisted the urge to cry, you didn’t want to add that on top of this already stressful discussion.

“Sweetheart,” He looked exasperated. “I think- I think you’re being really mean and unfair to yourself.” He searched for the right words. “Everyone has things about themselves they don’t like, yeah? But you should know, you are not too anything, and there is nothing about your looks or body that is ‘not good.’’ He said every word firmly. “And most importantly, there is nothing, absolutely nothing about your body that I dislike, or that you should worry about me seeing or touching, okay?” His voice was soft during the last few sentences, like he was speaking to a little kid with a scraped knee. It made it a lot harder to resist crying. “Okay?” he said, still looking directly into your eyes.

“Okay.” You said, watery. You swallowed hard and buried your face in his chest, feeling all too many emotions. “Thank you, Pete.” You didn’t think you could say anything else without falling apart.

“It’s okay. I'ts alright. It’s what I’m here for.” He stroked the back of your head, still being gentle. “Just do me a favor, yeah?”

“Mhm?” You muffled.

“Just, make my job easier for me next time. Tell me when you’re feeling like this, okay baby?” He pleaded as he pressed a kiss to your hair.

“Okay. I will.”

“Good. Now cuddle me please.” Demanding Peter was back. “And put all your weight on me, it’s no good otherwise.”

#tasm peter parker #tasm!peter x reader #tasm spiderman #tasm!peter x you #tasm!spiderman x reader #fluff #tasm!peter imagine #tasm!peter parker #tasm!peter fluff #tasm!peter fanfiction #tasm peter parker drabble #peter parker x reader #drabble #hurt/comfort #peter parker hurt/comfort #the amazing spider man

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irondadfics · 10 months ago

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Hi I’m looking for a Peter whump fic where he gets kidnapped and has his blood drained, I think by a needle in his neck. He eventually escapes and calls Tony for help but Tony either doesn’t initially pick up or he quickly hangs up maybe because of an argument they had and because he didn’t realize Peter was in trouble

could either of these be your fic?

After the Storm - Febuwhump 2022 by polaroid15

Chapter 7: Used as an experiment

Peter is followed home by a man in a trench coat. It goes down hill from there.

5 times Tony joked about Peter being part spider by KatinaMoon

Scene is in Chapter 6:

+1 time he definitely didn't

#found fic #kidnapping #kidnapped peter #experimentation #hurt/comfort #human experimentation #hurt!peter #peter parker whump #whump #51 #5+1 fic

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mizgnomer · 8 months ago

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"...Is The Doctor" magazine covers from Doctor Who Magazine From 1982 to 2024 Honorable mention: Including Sylvester McCoy's first cover even though it doesn't say he "is The Doctor" - because it seems rude to exclude him from this post:

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tldrthor · 2 months ago

Text

things we shouldn't have said | steve rogers

Summary: The Captain has a scathing outburst that puts their already rocky relationship six feet under for good. He reaps the consequences when she gets hurt while looking out for him.

Part one // She was watching my back, and I wasn't watching hers. // word count: 3k

enjoyed? please like/reblog! you can find my masterlist here <3

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“I am sick and tired of you endangering yourself and others, (y/l/n)!” The shouting started from behind the frosted panes of the meeting room. Tony, sitting on one of the benches outside, wondered if he had considered that the meeting room wouldn’t be soundproofed enough to stop people hearing sensitive information, or, if you were Steve and (y/n), insanely loud arguments nearly every day. It seemed like a design flaw.

“You were the one who made the wrong call! They weren’t on the left wing, they were on the right, who knows what could’ve happened if I hadn’t followed my instincts?!”

“It doesn’t matter, you flung yourself headfirst into danger, and disobeyed a direct order.”

“I’m not your soldier, Rogers. And I told you exactly what was happening, you just didn’t listen!”

Natasha banged the back of her head repeatedly on the wall she leant on. “How long do we reckon this ones going to take? I need a shower.” She sighed, sniffing at her armpits and wincing a little at the result.

Tony looked at his watch, responding: “If I am correct in my estimation (y/n) will storm out right around …” The door to the meeting room burst open, and out barrelled a seething Agent (y/l/n). “Now.” Tony concluded, as the others laughed at his uncanny ability to predict how a Rogers-(y/l/n) fight went. He waved his hand and lowered his head in a fake bow.

“Do you think they’ll ever get along?” Young, innocent, naïve Peter asked. He had previously been fast asleep sitting upright in the uncomfortable waiting chairs. The sound of the door hitting the plasterboard on the wall had startled him awake.

Sam chuckled. “Kid, those two have been at each other’s throats since you were in middle school. It’s just what they do.”

Peter seemed to accept that answer, nodding slowly before covering a yawn with his hand. “That's classic enemies to lovers stuff.” He was nearly asleep again by the time the others had processed his statement enough to question what it meant.

The door opened again. “Come on, let’s debrief.” Cap pulled an anxious hand through his hair, clearly in turmoil. The Captain looked exhausted, his eyes nearly bloodshot. The bags under his eyes were some of the worst Tony had ever seen, and that was saying something. When his eyes landed on Peter, he shook his head, “Pete, head to bed. You’re beat.”

Peter nodded again, but fell asleep in the exact same position, approximately 0.3 seconds after the door closed behind the other Avengers.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Good morning." (Y/n) muttered, walking into the briefing room with a coffee in hand. It wasn’t like her to be late, especially not with coffee. Tony realised that lately, she had been more and more demoralised after every mission. Especially after every argument with Cap. He was worried there was more going on with her than they knew.

Nevertheless, he couldn’t resist a dig.

"Don't you hate it when someone turns up late to a meeting with Starbucks in hand?" Tony tilted his head and spoke with sarcasm coating nearly every word.

"Bite me, tin man." She joked with her mentor. It wasn’t her usual chipper humour, but rather much more subdued, more pointed. She looked more tired than usual as well, Tony noted. But he had a meeting to present, and an interview in an hour, so there wasn’t much time to mull it over.

Steve didn’t pick up on anything strange, blinded by his annoyance. He shook his head silently in the corner, jaw tensed, eyes sending daggers into her with every step she took.

"Young lady, you are in a terrible mood this morning. And, I'm about to make it worse." Tony flashed her a charming but sarcastic smile. "We've got a code red recon mission over in Europe, and only you and our dear fearless leader are available to man it."

Her face immediately fell, but she wasn't the first to find her voice.

"Nope. There's no way." Steve responded to the news. She sent him a foul look at his rude outburst, before chiming in with her own.

"Rude, Rogers. But agreed, you send us on that mission, one of us is coming back in a body bag." And it won't be me. She thought.

He wouldn't meet her eyes, his tense posture maintaining an intense gaze on Tony. His arms, crossed, shoulders raised nearly to his ears.

Tony rolled his eyes at their reactions. "You guys need to stop your middle school bullshit. We're the Avengers, and at the end of the day, we've got each other's backs."

She decided to bite her tongue, opting for a vicious look towards Tony instead. Sure, it would be awful, but she wouldn’t mind a chance to prove to Steve that she was a valuable member of the team, and shove it in his face that he was wrong about her.

She looked towards him, expecting him to have a similar disposition. Mr. Upstanding, the moral preacher. To her shock, he didn’t. And god, was he vocal about it.

“No, she’s a goddamn liability.” He turned to her with a withering, disdainful look. “She messes up every mission, and I’ve had enough. I’m not putting a code red in her hands, she doesn’t have the skills for it.” He immediately turned to face her, expecting her to fire back with the same passion.

He didn’t expect her neutral, almost – almost – hurt expression. She pressed her lips into a straight line, and his heart dropped when he thought maybe there were tears in her eyes. For just a second.

He might have gone too far. He didn’t think he would ever miss her rebuttals, her constant nitpicking, her endless talking back. But at this moment, he knew he would have preferred it.

She looked away from him, and back to Tony, who watched the outburst with an open mouth. It wasn’t very often he was rendered speechless, but it took a solid ten seconds for him to clear his throat, pick his jaw up off the floor and continue.

“Unfortunately, there is no other choice, um, so hopefully that will go smoothly. You will leave at 8am sharp tomorrow. Uh … onto other business…”

(Y/n) drowned the rest of Tony’s briefing out as she replayed the Captain’s outburst over and over again. Liability. Messes up every mission. Doesn’t have the skills. It was all of her worst fears come true, packaged up neatly coming from the mouth of someone she had always secretly admired. Not that she would ever tell him that.

She wasn't sure why, but his words had cut her to the core.

An excruciating thirty minutes later, Tony concluded his meeting. “Okay, everyone out. Except Cap, we have to talk about logistics for tomorrow.” He watched with eagle eyes as (y/n) ran out of the room, lowering her face and ignoring anyone who sent pitying looks her way.

He turned to the Captain, who covered a bright red face with his hands.

“Now what the hell was that?” He asked.

Cap groaned, “I messed up.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

8am. Sharp. She took a deep breath as she left her room, locking the door behind her. Her pack wasn’t too heavy, considering they were only supposed to be gone for a couple of nights max. Her chest felt tight, walking to the aircraft hangar, a pit of dread growing and growing with every step.

Before she met the hangar, she passed by Tony’s office. It was one of Tony’s off days, so she knew he wouldn’t be in. She slipped an envelope under the door, hoping he would only see it once she was long gone.

“See ya later.” She whispered to no-one.

Trudging to what felt like the executioner’s block, she was dismayed to see Steve already fully ready and waiting for her. She braced herself for the lecture, for the ‘we said leave at 8am, not arrive.’ But it didn’t come.

“Good morning.” He spoke cordially, almost upbeat. Making up for something.

She could only manage a polite smile in return. He frowned at the lack of response, but she didn’t see it.

“All systems ready to go.” She said, once she had got a seat and checked all her listed items. Steve nodded, and made a call through the radio to air control. “Alpha base control, this is Eagle and Wunderkind, ready to take off.” She hated hearing him say her nickname from Tony, which had become her official callsign for all base activities.

Through the headset, she heard the confirmation from ATC, and watched as the Captain piloted the quinjet up and away from the base. God, it was going to be a long trip.

As soon as she could, she took off her harness and retreated back to the seats further away from him. She heard the gentle click and mechanical thrum of the auto-pilot being put on, and the movement of the leather seats as Steve moved away from the cockpit.

She felt his presence over her as she tried to focus on her kindle. She had been reading and re-reading the same page, over and over, desperately trying to take in the words. But it was futile.

“(y/n).” He sighed, knowing that she was purposefully ignoring him. “I want to apologise for my outburst at the meeting yesterday.”

She shrugged. He desperately searched for some kind of anger, some kind of white-hot hurt that she would respond with. It was what he deserved, after he had embarrassed her and doubted her in front of the whole team.

“You told me how you really feel. It’s okay.” She still didn’t look at him.

“That’s not –” He huffed. “That’s not what I think. I was out of line.” It seemed that the words he wanted eluded him. What do you say to someone after you’ve put out their spark? How do you ‘fix’ a quenched fire?

“It’s fine, Captain. Honestly.”

Rogers sighed and understood that he was being subtly asked to leave. He understood, really. But there was something about her dejected manner, her slumping posture and her big, sad eyes that made him feel like more of a villain than he already did. Like he had kicked a puppy, or stolen candy from a baby or…

Completely humiliated one of the newest Avengers in front of the whole team.

“I’m sorry.” He managed to stutter out, before turning and leaving to fiddle with some of the controls on the quinjet’s interface.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The rest of the six hours were long. Painfully, achingly long. The tension in the atmosphere was only marginally cut by the quiet hum of the engine and the tap, tap, tap of the Captain getting some work done. The captain spent a longer time staring at his comrade than he would ever admit, watching as she frowned at her book. She turned one page approximately every five minutes, her eyes continually moving from the top to the bottom of the same page, over and over again. Her frustrated sighing the only sign of emotion coming from her.

He took a deep breath, trying to remove the suffocating guilt from his chest.

Standing, he waved a hand in her line of sight, interrupting her ‘reading’ session. She slid her headphones off, looking up at him expectantly. “We’re going down.” He spoke. “Thought you would like to get ready.”

The problem with recon missions was that a quinjet was a dead giveaway. So, they had to take their large, heavy packs, and camp out in the forest surrounding the castle. Why was it always a castle?

The hike was hard. The frost on the path made it difficult to get a proper grip on the near-vertical slope, and she realised quickly she had forgotten her gloves. The frost nipped at her hands, growing more painful with her step. She cursed Tony for sending them here in the dead of winter.

She threw her pack up a ledge, scrambling up behind it. While scrambling up the side, she made the mistake of grabbing on to a bundle of brambles. She hissed and retracted her hand, a line of crimson appearing straight across her palm, a precious droplet splashing down onto the snow.

“You good?” Steve turned to watch her as she folded and unfolded her palm. He reached a hand out to help her up, his eyes focusing on the blood drip, drip, dripping.

She wiped the wound on her trousers, and took his offered hand with her opposite one. “I’m good.” She seemed agitated, nervous. “Do you feel like something’s not right?”

When she said it out loud, just for a second, his heart rate raised. He had convinced himself through his inner dialogue that he was just being overly cautious, but as she said it, he realised that she was right. If there was one thing Steve had learned, a true philosophy of his, it was that one Avenger’s intuition can be wrong. But two Avenger’s instincts are always correct. The unique blend of pattern recognition and situational awareness made the Avengers the closest thing on earth to fortune tellers. Or, so he believed.

“I agree. Let’s hunker down for a minute.” They settled in some of the brush, making themselves as invisible as possible. She was thankful to have a rest, she couldn’t lie. The tossing and turning all night, and every night for weeks, had truly taken its toll.

“Do you think it's bad intel, or a set-up?” She asked, her heart beginning to race at the sight of Steve becoming more and more stressed. She realised that the forest was absolutely silent. No wind, no birds, nothing. She hated it.

He took a second to respond, “I’m not sure. I don’t think we should keep going.”

“What? Then we’ve come all this way for nothing?”

“I would rather us have come for nothing than die for nothing.” He spoke, trying desperately to manage his tone. How did this girl have such a way of getting under his skin?

She scowled. “Aye, aye, Captain.” A sarcastic salute followed.

With a futile deep breath, he snapped. He rolled his head in disbelief, incredulous that she would choose now to be obstinate. “Are you serious, (y/l/n)? You want to walk straight into something we have no idea about?” He gesticulated, hands flying wildly through the air.

Both of them were too annoyed to realise that they were on a recon mission while quite loudly arguing in a forest. The Captain, blood boiling, didn’t hear the snap of a distant twig.

“I didn’t even say anything, Rogers! Don’t pretend like you care about my opinion anyway.” She scoffed. “Let’s just fucking go back.” She grabbed her pack, hauling it onto her back, standing from their spot in the brush.

“Shit!” She exclaimed as a bullet past her ear by less than an inch, the sound startling her down. The Captain instantaneously jumped over her, pulling her into him and covering them both with the shield.

For the record, he smelt like cedarwood and rosemary.

“Came from the East.” He smouldered into the distance. If she hadn’t been so focused, she would have scoffed. He turned to her, his mouth mere centimetres from her ear, his warm whispers tickling her neck. “Are you hurt?”

She shook her head, no. Aside from the goosebumps, she had luckily been missed. The eye contact he made had something behind it… something she didn’t recognise. Something she had never noticed before.

The moment was shattered by more gunfire.

So, they did the avenging thing. He covered her, she shot as much as she could. Bullets sprayed in every direction, missing them both by the narrowest margins possible. They battled on and on, seemingly endless waves of agents appearing as soon as they thought they were almost through with it.

That’s when she saw it. The bullet heading straight for him.

“Steve!” She screamed. She didn’t know why she called him by his first name. They weren’t friends. Hell, soon, they wouldn’t even be colleagues.

He snapped to attention, spinning quickly to ricochet the bullet off of his shield. The bullet was so close to hitting him, he realised she had potentially just saved him from dying in the snow, 5,000 miles from home.

He looked to her to thank her and it all happened in slow motion. She screamed, a shrill, ear-splitting scream that turned his stomach. “No!” He shouted, still fighting through the hordes, sprinting to where the snow turned maroon.

His thrown shield thudded through the undergrowth, distant shouts of soldiers nearly split in half by the metallic disc. He grabbed the gun that had fallen from her hands, unleashing the last of its bullets on those who still dared to try him.

And the forest fell silent.

“(Y/n)!” He looked at her, her usually rosy face growing greater pallor by the second, her chest moving ever-so-slightly, and with growing effort. The black stain on her suit grew larger, and larger, and larger. Any and all medical training he had escaped him, as he realised that now, this moment, was where his regrets were fated to culminate. This was his punishment, his comeuppance.

He didn’t hate her. As he watched this hollow form of her, he realised he would give his own life to bring her back. He would bargain with anything and everything he could for this to be a nightmare that he would wake up from. He would fight with everything he had left to give to her.

Grabbing his pack from behind him, he tipped out its entire contents.

God, what had he learned on those courses? What was going to kill her first?

“(Y/n), if you can hear me, this is going to hurt. I don’t… I don’t have anything to stop the pain. You’re bleeding out.” He spoke into the void, using scissors to remove her outer layer, exposing the wound. He noticed the blood slowly trickle from her mouth and nose, only worsening his anxiety.

It was worse than he thought, in fact, too deep for him to even suture… He used an antiseptic wipe to clean the area, before packing it with cotton swabs. He swore to himself. They had left the quinjet so far away, and he didn’t know if she would make it all the way back to the compound.

He had to get her out of here. It was cold, and wet, and there could be even more enemy agents on their way there, right now.

“God, you’re going to have to hold on for just a little while longer, (y/l/n).” He whispered to her, picking her up bridal-style and running for the jet.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The other avengers weren’t expecting them to be back for a couple of days, so when Sam ran into the room with news that the quinjet was on the way back, they were pleasantly surprised. Each had finished their missions or meetings early it seemed. Which meant that just maybe they would be able to have some time as a team. Something they were in dire need of.

Tony smiled at his friends, but for a change wasn’t chatting. He sipped his coffee, and smoothed his hand over the handwritten note in his pocket. The note that he thought would never come.

Steve's voice over the intercom. “Mayday, mayday. Eagle to Alpha Base Control, we have a critical medical incident on board. Ready the medbay for severe blood loss and potential hypothermia. Wunderkind is compromised. Wheels down in 10.”

A panicked hush fell over the group.

“Okay, code red.” Sam jumped into the procedures they had all been trained on. “Bruce and I will go down to the hangar and help out. The rest of you stay here and we’ll keep you updated.” The four named avengers immediately ran to their stations, as the others tried to busy themselves doing other tasks that could be useful.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The quinjet came into land at a near-dangerous speed. Bruce and Sam burst open the door as the back door of the jet opened and Cap ran out with a limp (y/n) in his arms, jumping over the ramp before it had even reached the ground.

“What happened?” Sam shouted, running in front of the Captain up the stairs to the nearest Medbay, making sure the way was clear. FRIDAY has thankfully opened all doors in advance.

“Gunshot wound to the chest, severe haemorrhage. I’ve managed to pack it but not stalled the bleeding nearly enough, she needs help now.”

“Have you got vitals?” Bruce ran along, slightly behind them, not quite as fit.

“She’s still breathing on her own, weakly. Low pulse. Unconscious since the event.”

As they reached the medical room and Steve laid her down on the surgical table, it hit all of them how severe the situation was.

“Oh my god.” Whispered Sam, as he saw not only the extent of her wounds, but the volume of blood that covered every inch of the Captain. The colour of skin on his hands could not be seen from the crimson staining covering every inch of them, and his once-blue suit looked more like an inky black, even under the fluorescent lighting of the medical ward.

More than that, the expression on Steve’s face was something he could only recall seeing on him once. When they discovered that Bucky was alive. He was shell-shocked.

“You guys need to clear the room.” Commanded Dr. Cho, scrubbed in and ready to operate. “We’ll keep you updated.”

“We trust you, Doctor.” Bruce spoke, as he realised the others weren’t going to. Both men grabbed Steve’s shoulder, gently directing him back through the double doors. Steve couldn’t tear his eyes away, as Dr. Cho made demands to the other members of her team, beginning surgery immediately.

“Come on, bud. Let’s get you cleaned up.” Sam was trying not to treat him like a ticking time bomb. But he knew that the Captain was going to snap out of his stupor eventually, and the consequences could be disastrous.

Steve’s eyes didn’t move from her lifeless body on that cold, steel table until they were well past the doors. When Sam tried to lead him out of the medical wing in general, his feet stopped just short of the door.

“I can’t, I - I have to wait.” He turned back around. He looked to Sam, almost asking permission. “I can’t leave her.”

It wasn’t lost on Sam that Steve had to have been keeping her alive by himself for at least six hours, over the Atlantic. That’s not only an impressive feat, but a damn near miracle. It was beyond dedication, it was lunacy. And something like that will make a pretty strong bond between people.

There was something deeper at play here. And as the pieces started to click into place, he wondered how he had never seen it before. The reason Cap was so hard on (y/n), and had been since the beginning.

“Okay, okay.” He guided him to a seat, as an unspoken compromise. “Bruce, could you grab a wet towel?” He spoke softly.

Banner nodded, and wandered off to find ways to help Steve be a little more comfortable. When Bruce returned, Sam gently took his bloody friend’s hands and wiped away the crusted blood that stained them.

Cap watched the red as it left his hands. He couldn’t help the sinking feeling that with every smear of dark brown on the towel, she was slipping away.

Sam’s adrenaline could only abide the silence for so long. “Cap, you gotta talk to me. Are you hurt?”

“She saved me, that’s how she got shot.” He didn’t make eye contact, instead staring towards the doors, behind which she lay on death’s door.

“It’s not your fault.” Steve didn’t have to say anything for Sam to know that’s what’s running through his mind. A hazard of being an Avenger – the unending and relentless guilt.

“It is my fault. She was watching my back, but I wasn’t watching hers. And I had the damn audacity to call her a liability.” He scoffed, bitterly.

“It’s nobody’s fault, Steve. These things happen, it’s part of the job. She’s going to pull through.” Sam hadn’t even considered the fact that the last proper interaction they had had, was rather… vitriolic in nature. He didn’t dare ask if anything else had happened on the mission. Not for now, at least.

Steve felt like he was being crushed by his own ribs, like his own body was depriving him of oxygen he didn’t deserve. He didn’t dare move, didn’t dare think, except to chastise and punish himself for what he had done.

And not once did he take his eyes off those doors.

================================================

part two: promises we intend to keep

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magiccath · 8 months ago

Text

Same Alien, New Face

twelfth doctor x GN!reader (established relationship)

summary: In which the Doctor isn't sure you'll still love him

The Doctor’s regenerations were always chaotic, that bit was unavoidable. The first time you saw it happen you didn’t even know how to react or what to do. It was hard to help deal with the physical complications of a regenerating body when it felt like the person in front of you was a stranger. Rationally, you knew that they were still the same person you knew and loved. But that didn’t stop you from feeling like the person in front of you wasn’t the Doctor.

It was an odd feeling, seeing someone that you knew so personally and feeling like you’d never seen them before. You looked at him and yet you didn’t know him. At least, you didn’t know this version yet. Considering face-changing boyfriends weren’t a common occurrence for 21st-century Earth, it was a feeling that was hard to explain to others. It left you feeling cold and alone, struggling to look at someone you had never seen before and find the person that you loved most inside them.

But, this wasn’t your first rodeo. It wasn’t as scary as the first time he had changed his face. This time, you knew what was coming. Even still, it didn’t matter how much you prepared for the day that the Doctor would change. No matter what, you wouldn’t have been prepared for this face. Out of all of the possibilities in your mind, this wasn’t even close to what you had thought he would look like.

You had learned long ago that you didn’t care what face the Doctor had on. Sure, you had your favorites, it was hard not to. This one was different, there was no denying that. The point had never been how he looked, but rather who he was. You loved the Doctor, and that meant that you loved every version of him.

“How do you know you’re still going to love him?” your mum had once asked you, “When he changes?”

It wasn’t something you had ever really thought about before. Sure, he had changed, but never this much. All of the faces you had been with were age-appropriate, even if the alien wearing them wasn’t.

However, this version wasn’t young. Not that he had ever been, but now he looked it. You’d never seen him this old, with deep-set wrinkles etched into his face. He was cross too, his eyebrows reminding you of two bushy grey caterpillars, constantly drawn downwards in disapproval. Maybe it was because he was Scottish. The Scots were notoriously cross, weren’t they?

After the hectic air of it all, after the restless regeneration energy had burned off, and the alien problem of the day had been solved, he was still your Doctor. That much you knew. No face could change that. As with every regeneration you had experienced, there was going to be an adjustment period. The painful span of time where you had to learn all of his new quirks, likes, dislikes, and little things that set him apart from the versions before him.

This time felt different, and not in a way that you particularly liked. The Doctor was withdrawn from you, seemingly disinterested in letting you get to know his new face. You tried (and ultimately failed) not to take it personally, he was likely to have his own thoughts and emotions about the new look.

Even if you didn’t want it, he’d given you your space, knowing that you needed time to process. It still hurt him, the way that you looked at him. He’d told you once how disorienting it was, having you look at him like a stranger.

“You look at me and you don’t see me. Do you have any idea what that’s like?” he had pleaded with you the first time he changed. “It’s me. I’m right here.”

You tried not to look at him like that, you really did. Yet, you still found yourself looking at this new face with obvious unfamiliarity. It was hard to see the alien that you loved under there, but you knew they were in there. It was simply a matter of peeling back the onion layers until you found him, the bits of your Doctor that could never change.

It wasn’t hard to find him. He was sitting in the console room as you had expected, the space now updated with sleek metal panels and bookshelves full of dusty classics from across the galaxy. Every interior seemed to match each iteration of the Doctor, almost as if it was custom-tailored to their tastes. A part of you wished that you could get into the Doctor’s head like that. You wanted to know what this face was like, you wanted to know each and every quick and eccentricity that came with it. You wanted to know that he still loved you.

Just like all of the faces before him, he had spent his alone time tinkering. A mess of mechanics were strewn before him, rusty metal cogs and bolts scattered across his work table. There had been a time when you would have asked what he was working on, assuming that there was an end result that came out of his fiddling. Now, you knew that he just needed something to occupy his mind and body. It was the same reason that he fixed the console (even when it didn’t need to be fixed), attempted to cook (which usually resulted in the kitchen on fire), took things apart, put them back together, or constructed small gifts from the scraps. You didn’t know it yet, but this rendition would take up the guitar. He would write you love songs that didn’t always sound like love songs, spending hours finding the right string of notes to compose the song that was you. Sometimes, he would play them for you. Others, he kept in his hearts.

You plopped down on the metal floor next to his work chair, your head next to his knee. For a moment, he didn’t look up from the mess of gears he was dismantling. This wasn’t unusual, sometimes he was so focused he’d go hours before noticing you were in the room with him. At least, that’s how it had worked in the past.

Tentatively, you rested your chin on his knee. This also wasn’t new. The Doctor - your Doctor - liked to be touched. His hand in yours every time you left the TARDIS, his arms wrapped tightly around you whenever he felt like it, affectionate kisses pressed against your hair or temple. Underneath your chin, you felt the subtle tightening of muscles in his leg. It was an unfamiliar sensation to you. The Doctor wasn’t usually like this, he wasn’t averse to your touch. This Doctor must be different, you reminded yourself. Reluctantly, you pulled your head away, removing it from his lap. You opted instead to look up at him silently, searching his eyes for something.

“Hey,” you whispered, your eyes never leaving his. These eyes were different, a dusty mix of blue and grey, rather than the illusive hazel you had grown so accustomed to. Even if the color was different, you could see the same emotions in those eyes. You knew how to read the Doctor like a book, and their eyes had always been the key.

“Hey,” he said back, his voice deep but smooth. The accent was new, but you weren’t complaining. It suited him. A deep, gravelly Scottish that slid from his lips like melted butter.

“What are you working on?” you asked, tilting your head in the direction of the scraps. The question was more out of habit than genuine interest. That’s how you dealt with the change, you’d revert back to the basics.

“Don’t do that,” he said, turning back to his work.

“What?”

“Act like I’m the same,” he grumbled. It was strange, hearing him grumble in a way that didn’t come off as childish. Maybe it was the accent, or maybe it was the frown lines. Either way, the tone didn’t feel like it should come with a frustrated stomp of his foot. Rather, he sounded like a grumpy old man. The kind that yelled at kids to get off of his lawn.

“You are,” you whispered earnestly, still looking up at him. You couldn’t take your eyes off of him, intently studying his face as if it was the last time you would ever see it. Realistically, you knew that you had time. You would get to know this face slowly, just as you had the prior ones. Piece by piece, you would gather the little quirks that set them all apart from each other.

“I got old.”

“Happens to the best of us,” you murmur, resting your chin back down on his knee. You felt his muscles tense again, but you didn’t relent. If it bothered him enough, he’d ask you to move. “I’ll get old too, you know?”

“This is different,” he sighed, setting the gears down on the table with a thunk. “You’re still young, and I’m not.”

“You never were,” you point out, tilting your eyes up to meet his.

The Doctor sighed, running his hand over his face. You didn’t need to know his new habits to recognize that he was frustrated. With the situation or with you, you had yet to figure out. So, you did the only thing you could think of when he was like this. Even if this iteration of the Doctor didn’t like touch, it was the only way that you knew how to comfort him.

Gently, you got up from the floor. “Can I?” you asked, gesturing to his lap. You didn’t normally ask. In fact, it was usually the Doctor that pulled you into his lap. But this was different, he was different. You wanted to give him an out, an opportunity to relent.

He stared blankly at you for a second, apprehensive to the question. Stiffly, he nodded, the gesture almost reluctant. You slid yourself into his lap before he could change his mind, your arms wrapping around his shoulders. His muscles were still taught and awkward, his arms resting rigid at his sides. It took him a minute to adjust, but he slowly started to relax a little bit. There was still a reluctance to the affection, but his arms encircled your waist, more out of muscle memory than anything else. It wasn’t hard for you to relax into the touch like it was for him. Without hesitation, you dropped your head down to his shoulder. The peak of your nose brushed against the side of his neck, sending a wave of sparks through his body.

“I still love you,” you whispered, your breath fanning across his skin. “That’s not going to change.”

He remained silent for a while, his arms tense around your waist. Even if he wasn’t speaking to you, he was still holding you. That was enough for you.

“I don’t care that you got old,” you add after a while, pulling back so you could look at him. “I wouldn’t care if you were purple, had two heads, or were a woman. I wouldn’t even care if you were a worm. I’d still love you.”

“I’m not going to turn into a worm,” he groaned, his voice gruff.

“But the other things?”

“I’ll keep you guessing.” He smiled slightly, the expression hauntingly familiar. It almost looked wrong on this face, the ghost of a smile creating more wrinkles on his face.

You smile at him, chuckling softly. “Still the same,” you state. Your eyes still danced across his face, silently mapping out the curves of his new face. “My point is, I don’t care what you look like. Are you still the Doctor?”

“Yes,” he whispered. You nodded in understanding, one of your fingers floating up to his face, softly tracing the length of one of his wrinkles. His eyes fluttered closed at your touch, you weren’t sure if the motion conveyed bliss or discomfort at the contact.

“Then I still love you. You’re still my boyfriend, so long as you’ll still have me,” you stated, dropping your hand back down from his face. This iteration didn’t seem to welcome your contact and you didn’t want to push your limits. Still, you yearned to sit like this for hours, running your hands over his face until you had memorized every single wrinkle and imperfection of his face. But, you knew that you had to be patient.

He sighed, his hand coming up to cup your cheek. The gesture was familiar, but the hand doing it wasn’t. The juxtaposition was jarring at first, but you quickly leaned into his touch. It was going to be like this for a while, you reminded yourself. Change happens slowly, usually coming with a painful adjustment period. You would know this Doctor as you had known each one that came before him, just not yet. Eventually, the new and old would blend together to the point that they were inseparable, and then the whole cycle would start anew.

You leaned forward, pressing your forehead against his. Your noses brushed together, the unfamiliar slope of his new nose meeting the unchanging slope of yours. The contact caused the corners of your mouth to tug upwards, a ghost of a smile lighting your face up.

“Of course, I’ll still have you,” he said gently, the pad of his thumb swiping back and forth across the soft skin of your cheek. “My face might change, but that doesn’t.”

The pair of you sat in silence for a while, the constant thrum of the TARDIS the only sound in the room. He never fully relaxed into your touch, you figured he never would. His arms were still around your waist, his grip gentle yet unyielding. Even if he was awkward about it, he was willing to hold you.

In your mind, he needed comfort and this was the only way you knew how to provide it (even if it didn’t appear to be ideal for him anymore). In his mind, your affections were more for your benefit than his. Maybe it was both. Either way, it hung unspoken in the air; you both needed this.

After a while, you pulled your head back up from its resting spot on his shoulder. Your eyes met his again and you felt the familiar flutter of emotions in your stomach. It didn’t matter when, where, or what face he was wearing, the Doctor always managed to make you flustered with nothing more than a look.

“I want to know this face,” you said quietly, almost as if your words would scare him away.

“So do I.”

Sometimes you forgot that regeneration was a change for him too. He also had to learn all of the new quirks and subtleties that came with his new body. As hard as the adjustment period was for you, it was just as bad for him.

“Let’s start with the basics,” you offer. He looks at you for a moment, his eyes searching your face. It was odd, considering you weren’t the one with a new face. Then again, the Doctor had always been an odd individual. After a beat, he nodded.

“Favorite color?”

The Doctor rolled his eyes, groaning in slight irritation. Still, he relented. “I think it’s red now.”

“What kind of red?” you inquired, “Rusty red? Taylor Swift lipstick red? Kool-Aid red? Sunset red?” you listed the different shades off, your rambling clearly annoying the Doctor.

“Burgundy,” he grunted.

“That’s an acceptable red,” you shrug, indifferent in the matter.

“What would you consider an unacceptable red?”

“I’ll let you know when I find it.” This gets you a small smile from the Doctor, the emotion hardly perceptible.

“Pears?” You move on.

“Nope,” he growls, his frown deepening. You nodded with a smile, finding a wee bit of solace in the fact that the pear thing hadn’t changed. That was probably a static part of the Doctor’s personality.

“You’ve managed to sit still for this long, are you mellowing out with age?” you tease, poking fun at his usual restlessness. Usually, by now the Doctor was at least bouncing his leg. He needed to be in constant motion, his ADHD manifesting in just about every way that it could. Right now, he seemed oddly calm. As much as you found he could be.

“No,” he says immediately, his eyebrows drawing together. He seemed to have a permanent wrinkle from scowling, the crease right between his thick eyebrows. “Just because I have a few wrinkles doesn’t make me a tired old man.”

“Didn’t say you were.”

“Time Lords don’t get aches and pains like humans do. This body is perfectly physically fit,” he explained, an air of indignance in his voice. You caught on to the defensive nature of his answer and deemed it best to move on, not wanting to further poke at what appeared to be a newfound insecurity of his.

“Favorite bird?”

“Favorite bird?” he scoffed, one of his eyebrows raising in question.

“The last face had very strong ornithology options,” you explain. He had loved peacocks, flamingos, parrots, and generally any bird that was brightly colored and flashy. He had been no better than a toddler when it came to things like that.

“The one with the chin?” He taps his chin for emphasis, his weathered fingers resting against the new slope of his jawbone. The shape of his chin was significantly different, the new one significantly more subtle with a sloping jawline to match. You run your fingers down the slope of his jaw, feeling the difference in the angle.

“Yeah, the one with the chin.”

“He was very opinionated,” the Doctor whispered, his eyes on yours. He hadn’t pushed your hand away or stiffened under your touch. Maybe he was ok with this kind of intimacy, the gentle and subdued version.

“You aren’t?” you whisper, your eyes flitting up from his jawline to his eyes.

“Not sure yet.”

“But no ornithology opinions?” you smile, one side of your mouth twitching up further than the other.

“Not at the moment, no.”

“But you’ll let me know? If you do form some,” you say softly, your tone playful.

“You’ll be the first to know,” he rasps, his tone deep and grumbly. “Ducks still have plenty of time to piss me off.”

“That’s an ornithology opinion,” you point out, your fingers still lingering on his jawline. “One we might need to unpack.”

“Later.”

“Ok,” you whisper, your touch continuously feather light against his skin. He still hadn’t pulled away, which was a good sign. Still, you figured it was best to check. “This ok?”

Ever so slightly, the movement almost imperceptible, he leans into the touch of your hand. “Yeah,” he whispers, his voice strained. You nod, adjusting your hand so you can fully cup his face. Both of you look at each other for a moment, silently searching the other’s face. The longer that you looked at the new face, the more you liked it. There was always something more to see in his face, another microexpression for you to decode. He wasn’t cross, only his eyebrows were. Underneath those relentlessly angry bushes lay gentle eyes full of nothing but love for you. Time would show that they weren’t always like that, but right now they were. Soft, affectionate, and entirely enamored at the sight of you.

“And me?” you whisper, your voice slightly shaky. “Thoughts on me?”

The Doctor inhales, his breath hitching at your question. He tugs your hand down from his face and for a second you think he’s going to change his mind. Instead, he places his hand on your face, his weathered hand resting against the smooth planes of your face.

“I will love you for as long as you will let me. And even after that, likely.”

“How does forever sound?”

“Not long enough,” he murmurs, tucking a bit of your hair behind your ear, the gesture surprisingly gentle. “No time will ever be enough with you.”

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ikkyfics · 24 days ago

Note

Heya!! I loved your peter maximoff music fic and if you are back on your peter obsession, can I request something with him and reader going on a date and facing backlash from rude people who don't like seeing a mutant in public?? Make it as angsty or happy as you like! Thank you!!

Silver Blur

Peter Maximoff x f!reader

Summary: “I’m a failure, you know that? I have nothing. Still live in my mom’s basement. I steal stupid shit because, I don’t know, my brain doesn’t know how to work any other way. I’m weird. And, to top it all off, I’m not even really human.” He looked down at his hands, long and nimble fingers, as if they carried something dirty, something that couldn’t be fixed. “And you… you’re everything.”

Warnings: fluffy, hurt/comfort, est. relationship, no use of y/n, prejudice towards mutants, a nasty guy, a bit of 'aggression' (totally deserved), insecure!peter, human!reader

A/N: hey love! i'm glad you liked that fic and i hope you can like this one <333 we have a little bit of angst, but i couldn't make it a tragic ending. and yes, my god, i watched x-men again just to see him and he is without a doubt the highlight of the movie

Masterlist

The diner had a nostalgic feel to it, even though you were too young to be nostalgic for anything there. The neon lights reflected off the chrome counter, the jukebox played an upbeat melody in the background, and the smell of greasy fries and burgers lingered in the air. It was the kind of place that suited him—half retro, half chaotic, a space that seemed to exist outside of time.

Peter sat across from you, silver hair catching the colorful glow, a crooked smile playing on his lips. His silver jacket, an essential piece, gleamed under the fluorescent lights. He was leaning on his forearms, watching you with an expression that made it clear that, if it were up to him, he’d spend his whole life just looking at you.

“You know I’m not supposed to be here,” he murmured, but with no real intention of leaving.

You raised an eyebrow, bringing the straw of your milkshake to your lips. “Peter, you always say that.”

He grinned, and his dimples appeared instantly. “And I’m always right.”

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t stop the warmth that spread through your chest at the sight of him, all soft and melted for you. He wasn’t anything you ever expected to find in life, but somehow, he was everything you wanted.

And then came the first glance.

The one you felt on your skin before you even realized what was happening.

A woman at the table next to you pulled her son closer, as if Peter were some kind of creature ready to attack him. A couple in the booth across whispered something to each other, eyes fixed on him with a mix of disdain and distrust. The waiter, who had seemed friendly until now, hesitated for a second before setting the plates down unceremoniously, as if touching them was enough to get contaminated.

Peter said nothing.

You knew he noticed. He always did.

But instead of reacting, he just drummed his fingers against the tabletop, looking away. His jaw was tight, shoulders a little more tense.

Hate.

People had so much hate.

“Do you want to get out of here?” you asked, your blood boiling.

He finally looked at you. And God, those dark eyes were a damn downfall. There was still a trace of a smile on his face, but it was different now—one you recognized.

The smile that said “it’s fine” when it really wasn’t.

“No.” He picked up a fry, twirling it between his fingers before popping it into his mouth. “If I left every place where I wasn’t welcome, there wouldn’t be much left, huh?”

Your chest tightened. He said it like it was a joke. Like it didn’t hurt. Like he was used to it.

And maybe he was.

But you weren’t.

You let go of your straw, crossing your arms over the table. “If anyone says anything, I—”

Peter let out a quiet laugh, leaning back against the seat. “You’re gonna defend me?”

“Obviously.”

He tilted his head to the side, silver hair falling over his forehead. His eyes glimmered, and a real smile returned.

“You’re perfect, you know that?”

This time, you were the one to look away, feeling your cheeks burn.

But the discomfort around you was still there, pulsing like a second skin.

Peter played it off well.

So well you almost believed he really didn’t care. That the stares didn’t get to him, that the whispers didn’t burn under his skin. But you knew Peter Maximoff. And Peter Maximoff was many things—fast, chaotic, ridiculously charming—but he wasn’t unbreakable.

You saw it in his eyes.

You saw it in the way his smile started to fade, in the way his fingers traced distracted patterns on the table, never stopping. You saw it in the way he got quieter, like he was disappearing into himself.

And you saw the exact moment he started to think he shouldn’t be here.

Not just in this diner.

With you.

He dropped his gaze to the table, idly playing with the cold fries on his plate. “Hey…” he murmured, without that usual easy, teasing tone. “Have you ever wondered what it would be like if you were with someone else?”

Your heart stumbled.

“What?”

He forced a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m not saying you should, it’s just that… I think about it. A lot.”

You felt a lump in your throat.

“Peter.”

He looked away.

“I mean it. Look at you.” He gestured in the air, like he was presenting you to an invisible audience. “Beautiful, smart, cool as hell—it’s ridiculous. You could be with anyone. Any normal guy.”

“Normal,” you repeated, feeling something simmer beneath your skin.

He let out a quiet laugh, but it was empty.

“I’m a failure, you know that? I have nothing. Still live in my mom’s basement. I steal stupid shit because, I don’t know, my brain doesn’t know how to work any other way. I’m weird. And, to top it all off, I’m not even really human.” He looked down at his hands, long and nimble fingers, as if they carried something dirty, something that couldn’t be fixed. “And you… you’re everything.”

You clenched your fists on the table.

No.

No, you weren’t going to accept that.

“Peter, look at me.”

He hesitated, but obeyed.

“You’re not doing this.” Your voice was firm. “You’re not pushing me away with this bullshit speech.”

He opened his mouth, but you were faster.

“You are not a mistake, Peter. You are not a burden. You are not—” your voice faltered for a second, but you held his gaze, reaching out to take his hand, feeling his long, nimble fingers hesitate before intertwining with yours. “—a monster.”

His eyes widened, like you had just hit him square in the chest. Like he had never even considered the possibility of someone saying that out loud. He didn’t blink, didn’t breathe, just stared at you, dark eyes filled with something between shock and desperation, like he was trying to understand how the hell you could see all the good in him when he saw nothing at all.

You leaned over the table, completely ignoring the murmur around you, the strangers’ presence trying to creep into the night that belonged to the two of you. Your fingers traced the pulse at his wrist, following the line of a vein that was beating too fast, as fast as his erratic heartbeat. His face was close now, so close you could count his silver lashes, see the reflection of the diner’s neon sign dancing across his dark eyes, hear the way his breath hitched when you squeezed his hand tighter.

“You’re mine,” you murmured, each word sinking into his skin like a promise. “And I’m yours.”

His throat bobbed.

“Did you hear me, Peter?”

He blinked, dazed, like he was processing it slowly, like the idea of belonging to someone—of someone wanting to belong to him—was too distant, too impossible to be real.

So you did something that left no room for doubt.

You leaned in and kissed him.

His lips were cold from the milkshake, but his mouth gave in immediately, warm and intense and tasting like something he never, never believed he deserved. His body tensed for a second, like he was about to run, but then his hand squeezed yours tighter, and he leaned in for more, like he was trying to memorize every detail of the feeling before someone could take it away from him.

But then, the voice came.

Sharp, filled with disgust.

“You mutants never know your place.”

The world froze.

You pulled away slowly, feeling Peter’s skin stiffen under your touch, feeling his fingers turn cold around yours.

The voice came again, this time even more venomous.

“People like you aren’t welcome here.”

You turned around.

The man was big, broad shoulders, disheveled hair, his eyes carrying a very specific kind of rage. A rage that didn’t come from anything concrete, nothing he could truly explain. Just pure hatred for something he didn’t understand.

Peter didn’t say anything. He just stared, an eerily serene expression on his face.

His silence only seemed to make the man angrier.

He let out a low, sarcastic laugh, leaning over the table with a dirty smirk. “Look at you. You know you’re a freak, right, kid?”

Your blood boiled.

You didn’t care about the stares, didn’t care about the whispers or the way people seemed to subtly move away from your table, like Peter was a threat, like he was something to be feared. You knew he had dealt with this for years. You knew the words rolled off him like water, that he was too fast to care, that the best response was always a joke.

But not now.

Not when some disgusting man thought he could open his mouth and spew all that hatred like he had any right to.

You felt your chest rise and fall too fast, felt your fist clench at your side, ready to say something, do something—but then you felt it.

His hand. His long fingers slid over your wrist, a steady grip, a silent squeeze that said “no.” Peter held your hand.

And then the man turned to you. And smiled. A filthy, disgusting smile, all yellowed teeth and rotten intentions.

“Bet you’ve never been with a real man. I could show you a good time, girl.”

Peter’s hand slipped away from yours.

It was immediate.

You felt it before you even realized. The air shifted, thick with electricity, like the second before lightning splits the sky.

When you looked at Peter, he still seemed calm. But it was the dangerous kind of calm.

His mouth was still relaxed, his shoulders still loose, but his eyes—God, his eyes—held no amusement now. They were fixed on the man before him, burning like embers, scanning every inch of him like he was deciding the best way to take him apart.

And then Peter smiled. A lazy, lopsided grin, a glimmer of mockery dancing behind the threat.

“Wow.” Peter whistled. “Did you rehearse that in the mirror, or did it just come out like that?”

The man’s face darkened. Peter grinned.

“Because if it just came out like that, congrats. You’re a natural asshole.”

And then, in the blink of an eye, he was gone. Just one second. Just a silver blur.

The man didn’t even have time to react. One moment he was standing—and the next, he was on his knees.

The entire diner went still. Glasses rattled on the tables. The air was split by the sharp sound of impact.

No one saw Peter move.

The only thing left was him, standing in front of the man now kneeling on the floor, fingers delicately gripping the collar of his worn-out jacket, like he had placed him there as easily as setting down a cup.

Peter’s eyes glowed under the diner’s red neon lights, the shadow of a smirk twisting his mouth.

“Let me tell you a secret.” His voice came low, slow. “If you open that filthy mouth again, I’ll make you swallow every word.”

The man froze.

Peter’s smirk widened.

“And trust me,” he slid a finger over the guy’s shoulder as if brushing off dust, “I’m very fast.”

The man tried to move.

Another silver blur.

And suddenly, the guy was sitting on the counter, feet dangling in the air, not even knowing how the hell he got there.

The entire diner gasped.

Peter clicked his tongue, resting an elbow on the counter, relaxed, as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening.

“Need a map, buddy? You look lost.”

The man blinked. His hands pressed against the counter, as if trying to find balance, as if trying to understand.

Peter just smiled, and before the guy could open his mouth, he tilted his face, lowering his voice to something more intimate, almost confidential.

“Let me guess.” He rested his chin on his hand, eyes lit with a cold amusement. “You’re not feeling so brave anymore, are you?”

He snapped his fingers. Another silver blur, and the man was back on the floor.

His breath came fast, erratic.

This time, he didn’t try to speak.

Peter smiled, as if finally satisfied.

You threw a few bills onto the table, not counting, not looking, just leaving them there, as if money had any significance in the middle of that mess, as if it could pay for the man’s discomfort, for the disgusting words he had pretended didn’t affect him.

And then you turned.

He was already waiting for you. His face still slightly tilted, eyebrows raised in a mix of impatience and expectation, as if silently asking if you could finally leave.

You nodded.

And in the blink of an eye, the world disappeared.

Your stomach flipped, and your heart jumped to your throat. It was like being pulled by an invisible force, a train too fast to follow, to process—cold air cut against your skin, sounds blurred into the distance, and then, suddenly, everything stopped.

Your feet touched solid ground. The world stopped spinning.

But your body didn’t know that yet.

You blinked a few times, trying to adjust your vision.

The sky was dark, speckled with stars, the moon casting its silver glow over everything around you. The grass beneath your feet swayed gently with the wind. You were alone, no artificial lights, no whispering voices, no disgusted stares burning against his skin.

Just the two of you.

Just him.

Just Peter, now looking at you with raw concern in his eyes, eyebrows furrowed, lips slightly parted, as if he wanted to say something but didn’t know where to start.

“Hey.” His fingers touched your face with impossible gentleness, pushing strands of hair away from your skin, thumbs brushing slowly over your cheekbones, as if searching for something. “You okay?”

Your breath was still uneven, the adrenaline from what had happened at the diner, from the impossible journey to this place, still rushing through your veins like a reminder of how fast he was.

But he was here. Dark eyes, watchful. Fingers still on your face. His concern hung in the air, dense, almost tangible.

You closed your eyes for a second, inhaling slowly. “Just… a little dizzy.”

Relief flickered across his face. He let his hands slide down your arms, from your shoulders to your elbows, a warm, steady touch, like he was grounding you here, with him. Then he stopped—his gaze shifted.

You felt it before realizing what it was. The wind blew, sharp against your exposed skin, and before you could react, you felt something warm and soft drape over your shoulders.

His jacket.

The silver fabric still held his body heat, still smelled like him.

Peter adjusted it around you, his fingers lingering on your collarbones for a second longer than necessary before pulling away.

The silence between you was different now. Heavy. Charged. You looked at him, and he looked away.

His eyes didn’t meet yours. His jaw was clenched, shoulders tense, fingers idly playing with the zipper of his hoodie—a nervous habit you knew all too well.

Peter was never one to keep things to himself. He filled every silence with fast words and unfiltered jokes.

But now, he was quiet.

And that said more than anything he could have said.

You took a step forward, feeling the jacket move with you, his scent wrapping around you.

He noticed the movement but didn’t move.

Your fingers touched the side of his face, guiding him to look at you.

And he did.

His eyes were dark, deep, filled with something he was trying to hide, but that overflowed anyway.

You knew that look.

It was the look he had when he saw the prejudice he had faced since childhood spill onto you. It was the look of someone blaming himself for something that wasn’t his fault.

You sighed, your fingers tracing the strong line of his jaw, moving up into his silver hair, threading through the soft strands. He closed his eyes for a second.

Rested his forehead against yours.

Sighed.

“I hate this.”

His voice was low, restrained.

You didn’t ask what.

You already knew the answer.

He hated that you had to hear that kind of thing.

Hated that your name had been spat from the mouth of a disgusting asshole.

Hated that you had been dragged into it.

He hated that the world didn’t accept who he was.

And he hated even more that it hurt you.

You held his face more firmly, forcing him to look at you again.

"I love you."

His eyes shone.

You traced your fingers along the sharp line of his jaw, the space between his cheek and that ever-present dimple, the corner of his mouth—mapping him with care, as if reaffirming something he should never doubt.

"I don’t care what they think. I don’t care what they say."

You leaned in closer, and he stayed still, like he was absorbing every word, like he needed to hear them.

"You’re mine, remember?"

Peter swallowed hard.

A muscle jumped in his throat.

His chest rose and fell in a slower rhythm, his breathing heavy.

And then, he moved. His fingers found your face with urgency, his mouth pressing against yours without hesitation.

The kiss was slow, deep. Filled with everything he didn’t know how to say. His hands slid to your waist, pulling you in, holding you like he needed to feel that you were there, real, whole.

When he pulled back, just enough to breathe, his eyes were softer.

The weight on his shoulders seemed a little lighter.

He nudged his nose against yours, a small smile dancing at the corner of his lips.

"I’m yours, huh?"

You smiled back.

And when you answered, your voice was absolute certainty.

"Yes."

Peter smiled.

That smile. The one that was just yours. The one that made his dimples appear, that made his eyes crinkle slightly at the corners, that left him looking hopelessly in love. The one you would never get tired of seeing.

He kissed your forehead, slow, his lips lingering a little longer than necessary before pulling away.

And then he laced his fingers through yours, holding your hand firmly, like he knew that even without words, that touch said everything he wanted to say.

And somehow, you knew exactly what it was.

Peter didn’t like the world.

But he liked you.

He liked you a lot.

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