#Spidey-Meek

[meekusleekus]

Assistant

They'd be an assistant to Miguel, but only do mundane paperwork...

[pygmi-cygni]

Mi Luz - Miguel x reader fluff fic

Content warnings - diabetes-inducing fluff, no smut, kissing, emotional constipation

Summary: Miguel has been struggling with stress, and a soft little somebody can't seem to leave his head. Pining, crush, cute cute cute big man

slow burn for two seconds cause I have no self control

Reader is afab, no y/n, described with having large eyes but that's it

love you sweet thing, enjoy ☆

It was hard to be the king of everything.

That's somewhat what he thought of himself, sitting at the top of his tall but lonely throne, scrutinizing his subjects. Miguel didn't choose this life, it chose him. The bitterness that came with the weight of the world sat thick in his mouth, twisting his lips into a snarl and his brow into a scowl. No surprise that the Spiders around him didn't meet his eye unless to cower in fear.

It didn't bother him. He liked being alone, enjoyed the quiet of his lair - except when his pesky assistant ruined his brooding with her obnoxiously loud voice-

"aw Migs, I thought we were besties..." her pixelated pout hung in front of his eyes.

never shoulda taken you out of the drafts, he muttered, but there was no venom behind the words.

Miguel wasn't a recluse, he was just...busy. Too busy to chat, to 'hang out,' as his younger employees begged. He had shit to do, people to save. Friendship didn't fit in his schedule.

So he stalked through the halls as little as possible, shouldering past cliques and couples holding hands. He didn't need that shit.

Okay, so maybe it bothered him a little bit. Not a lot. Just a smidge. An itsy bitsy amount, if you'll pardon the pun. Hardly worthwhile. Nothing to write home about. Just something that churned in the back of his mind every waking moment of his day came up once in a while.

The irony didn't escape him, how aura sensitivity seemed to be bestowed on the least sensitive man out there. The radiating emotion and color bouncing off of everyone that passed gave him a headache. Miguel had no spidey sense to speak of, no superhuman reflexes, but the minute someone's mood changed, his ears were pricking. Not that he cared.

He didn't care that his chest ached when the sour green of fear laced the aura of his visitors. It was like a switch; he'd walk into the room, and the once shining gold and pastel hues would darken to a nervous blue, thrumming with panic. Some could pass it off, putting on a brave smile for him, but he could see. Miguel could see every shift in hue that betrayed just how little HQ liked him.

But it didn't bother him. He was king of the world.

Miguel's fangs dug into his lower gums as he ground his teeth through the debrief. It had been a shitshow; a group of rookies too unfamiliar with the terrain to do anything other than Fuck It Up. Four of them, Spider-girl 2045, Huntsman, and the twins, Recluse and Widow. All young and stupid.

Currently, all four were talking over each other, auras flashing like disco balls as they bickered over who had the right story.

"I friggin told you, Wid, that's not the right street, it was definitely 45th-"

"Oh, suck my webshooter, that wasn't even the right universe-"

"Would somebody please figure it the fuck out before I send you all back to the void!"

A meek silence followed his outburst.

Miguel was heaving, red eyes glaring down at the comedy of errors beneath him. The kids stared at him with wide, fearful eyes. Shame and embarrassment swirled around them in a sludgy grey haze.

Shit. He did it again, he was trying to be better but they were so fucking annoying and it was loud and his head hurt-

"Go home," he seethed quietly, "figure it out, and come back when your heads are out of your asses."

Not waiting for another scathing word, the Spiders scattered.

With a bone rattling sigh, Miguel collapsed onto his desk frustratedly. Why was he like this? His temper was so strong, no matter how hard he tried to reign it in. Peter had a toddler for chrissakes and hardly ever raised his voice.

LYLA hovered over his shoulder, a knowing look on her face. He nudged his face further into the desk, shutting out her abrasive glow.

"Go 'way," he muttered, teeth scraping the plasticene surface. As always, she ignored him.

"You need help, Miguel. I mean it, hey don't-" her voice went stern as he reached to disable her.

"I don't wanna hear this again," he growled, fumbling for the controls.

"Well, I'm sure these kids don't wanna be screamed at again either, and your feelings are not more important than theirs."

His carmine eyes simmered with rage as he halted. She was right, of course she was right but god why did it hurt-

Shame licked his ribs and he ducked his chin.

LYLA took the opportunity.

"With the new universes we just discovered, there'll be a whole batch of new recruits. Is this really how you wanna run this? Christ, Migs, it's almost better to be independent than deal with you."

At his huff, she crossed her arms. Prancing to the front of his chair, she tapped his nose.

"You can fix it, if you really want to. But who cares if they're saving the world when the world they live in has people like you?"

She blinked out of existence, as a shameful blush reddened his cheeks.

Fuck.

☆ ☆ ☆

Twenty new spiders would be arriving today at noon on the dot. Miguel could already feel the migraine coming on as he discussed logistics with Jess and Peter. Training, tours, watches, all the work was piling in his mind.

"Miguel?"

Jess' sharp tone brought him out of his reverie. She looked expectant, a stack of files outstretched. "Did you hear what I just said?"

His blank stare triggered an eye roll. "These Spiders need Multiverse tracking, so you'll take them to the Center at 2:30, yeah?"

Miguel acquiesced gruffly and snatched the files, Meeting adjourned, he waited for his office to be clear again.

Peter hung back, aura churning with conflict.

Oh boy, here we go.

"Hey big guy....up for a chat?" Peter's eyes were bright but wary, and Miguel shot him a weary look.

"I don't have time to chat, Parker, we've been over this," he bit out.

"It's important."

"I don't care, write me an email-"

"Huntsman is AWOL."

Miguel blinked, fiery words fizzling on his tongue. Impossible. He'd just seen him an hour ago, how could that be? Sighing impatiently, he began searching for the small boy on his wall of screens.

"Miguel."

"What."

"You scared him pretty bad, dude. I know you don't like to here this, and I'll try to keep the hippy-dippy to a minimum, but dude," Peter breathed, eyes worried. Miguel struggled to make eye contact, hating the rare sincerity of his tone.

"I mean..." Peter faltered, gesturing to the door. "Voidspace is no joke. Especially some of those kids, where they've come from...you gotta fix your stuff. That's not cool. Jess and I have been-"

You gotta be fucking kidding me.

"Don't look at me like that," Peter scolded. "You know I'm right."

Miguel seethed out his nose, hands clenching and unclenching around his tablet. god, if only other people saw feelings the way he did, maybe they'd leave him alone.

"I," he spat, "am aware that my temper is...volatile. But-"

"No buts," Jess said from behind him. He whirled. The tension was strangling the air from the room. He needed a break. There was so much to do...

"How you talked to the recruits today was unacceptable. Don't act like you're above consequence," She said in response to his growl. "That behavior is appalling. We can find someone else to do this, you know."

His anger dissipated. She wouldn't.

"You wouldn't."

"If it meant helping the success of the next generation, I would."

Miguel, for once in a long time, felt the sting of tears in his throat. Sensing the shift, Peter gave him an awkward shoulder pat and retreated.

"We care about you, man," he said gently, "but you gotta work this out."

With that, the door slammed shut, and Miguel was alone.

Again.

☆ ☆ ☆

He thumbed the corner of his sweatshirt, damp from his workout. Peter's conversation rattled around his brain. He didn't think he'd been that harsh. He never meant-

He never meant to hurt anyone.

But it was inevitable, wasn't it? No matter how hard he tried, someone always got hurt. His tongue was too sharp, his claws too fast.

Her form, small, clutched in his arms, deteriorating into pixels as she sobbed-

No.

He wasn't doing this again. Miguel stared at himself until he was sure the mirror would crack. They deserved better. He deserved better. It was cowardly, the way he hid from emotion.

Was that what it was?

Was he afraid? Afraid to reach out for it to snap back in his face? It seemed so childish, like there should be something more than the fear of other people keeping him at bay. Gabi was gone. There was no changing that. He knew that in his head, but his heart?

The roiling stew of his emotions made his chest tight. He couldn't do this, not right now.

Maybe tomorrow.

It was late. Or early, depending on how you looked at it. Miguel was steadily working, a slight burn in his red-rimmed eyes the only indication that he was tired. Adrenaline buzzed through his veins, keeping his back rigid and muscles taut.

Another anomaly, another fight, another file. click-click-click went his keyboard, rhythmic in the the empty office.

Almost empty, that is.

Out of the corner of his eye, a soft shine radiated from the doorway. Biting back a sigh, he leveled his tired glare with the figure, mentally preparing himself for one of Peter's scoldings. But as the figure drew closer, he realized he didn't recognize the shimmery white aura or the person attached to it.

"Miguel O'Hara?"

A soft, lilting voice carried from the base of his tower. Miguel blinked, not recognizing the voice either.

"Yes?" He responded gruffly, wracking his brain for who the fuck could be visiting him at this time of night -

"Um...Can...Can you roll down? O-or something? I'm sorry, I just can't really see..." the sweet voice faltered and he rolled his eyes.

Maybe, if they'd waited till a reasonable hour to visit him, his chair would be in a more reasonable position. But nooo.....

Regardless, he began the slow descent from his perch. As he grew closer to the ground, the pearlescent light grew more in focus. Miguel came to the conclusion that he definitely did not know you.

Your expression was patient and soft, standing with your hands folded and dressed in a comfortable sweater. You must be new; most seasoned Spiders wore suits out of convenience. A file was grasped loosely in front of you.

"I'm supposed to be working in the office next door, and it seems I wasn't given a keycard?" Your owlish gaze turned hopeful, and he was taken aback by your gentle gaze.

Miguel had never seen someone with such large eyes. Round and long-lashed, they exuded warmth and an innocence that reminded him of her

No.

Stop it.

"Uh, yeah, hang on a second," He fumbled for his watch and pushed past you, not waiting for you to follow.

His mind was reeling, trying to recall if he was supposed to know who you were. Jess had mentioned an assistant, but he figured it would be someone less....soft. More experienced, that is. Besides, he didn't trust you. No way was he just shoving the fate of the universe in your hands, even though your eyes were nice and you didn't cower when he spoke-

Stop. It.

He exhaled loudly, trying to expel the thoughts with it. You stood next to him, ever patient. Your halo, he found, was still that shimmering white. It was a soft light, not glaring and oppressive like the colors of his teammates. It soothed his headache rather than aggravated it.

Realizing he was staring dumbly at the locked door, he sighed again and slid the keycard across the pad.

Error.

Miguel blinked. He had the master card, it applied to every door, what the hell? Trying again, he felt impatience coiling in his chest. What....

Peter. Peter had borrowed his card to let Mayday out of a lab she'd snuck into. He promised he'd return it by today, but knowing him....

"I can't fucking believe this," Miguel muttered venomously, "he takes the most valuable piece of tech I have and fucking forgets to return it, that irresponsible piece of...shouldn't even be a father, gotta be kidding-"

"Miguel?"

He froze, having forgotten you were there. Humiliation tinged his cheeks. He'd done it again, fuck, he wasn't even trying-

"If it's too much trouble, I can just get my card tomorrow." Your voice was patient and placating.

He shuffled his feet, unsure of how to handle your response.

You were still glowing with a soft white light, tinged only by a slight pink hue. Sympathy. No fear, no ugly red anger or terror at his temper. your eyes. you looked him in the eye. you smiled at him. you wanted to help-

His throat, too choked up with confusion and pity and ugh that he merely grunted and ducked back into his office, leaving your soft gaze behind.

☆ ☆ ☆

God, it drove him crazy. Your patience. Your light. He could feel you from yards away, your glow that was always warm, always kind. Your card arrived safely, and there wasn't another mishap between you two.

Every day, you'd pitter-patter into his office on soft feet and explain the schedule to him, then go through the mission briefs with a gentle tone that didn't falter, even if he grouched about the conferences overriding his lunch break.

He didn't think he'd need an assistant. He could do it himself, had been forever. But you...helped. Your organization was impeccable, finding reason and structure where his brain only saw chaos. Miguel was terrible with time management, but you'd give him a gentle reminder that it was time for a break, or that the work was done and his brooding could be saved for tomorrow.

Go home, Miguel, you whispered kindly, tucking a bag of dessert into his large palms. I'll see you tomorrow.

Well, he'd see you sooner. He liked to think about you. It didn't feel like daydreaming, because you worked together and therefore thinking about you was thinking about work, technically. It puzzled him, how your patience never wavered. You'd heard the stories, comforted victims of his wrath. But your light only burned brighter with him, never dampened in contempt.

He noticed it first at a work party. Miguel hated these functions, found them boring and tedious. Chatting about mundane things while nursing cheap wine and a migraine? He'd pass.

Then, you arrived. Dressed in a soft purple sweater and a long skirt god he loved your sweaters, how warm and docile your eyes hidden shyly beneath your hair. He itched to walk over, but nerves rooted him to the spot. You were tucked against a wall, clearly uncomfortable, and as your gaze scanned the busy room...

you landed on him. And,

you glowed. radiantly, your nervous blue haze shimmered with a soft golden happiness, and you waved with a smile. Miguel swallowed thickly.

You were happy to see him. He, who never gave you more than two word sentences, who snapped and bickered and bit like a hissing cat, made your halo glow so bright it warmed his cheeks.

Nobody had ever felt that way about him. And it was so fucking stupid, the giddiness that made him dizzy. Decency was all it was. You were just being nice. And here he was, a blushing melting mess because you were happy to see him.

He looked forward to you even more after that. Slowly, he tried his best to bite his tongue, to keep the irritation from spewing. Instead, he tried fanning the flames with small talk, stumbling through conversation like a lovesick teenager.

He could tell you were surprised, but you welcomed the change. You would sit at the edge of his desk and talk about random occurrences, silly mundane things that still made his cheeks ache from smiling. How the slowly brightening halo of light around you made him adore you more, even if you had to sheepishly apologize when it got too bright.

don't be sorry, mi luz, he wanted to whisper, I love to see you shine.

Then, inevitably, you would pad back to your office and your light would be gone. Miguel would pout at the loss, missing the gentle glow that made his chest ache.

So he decided to do something about it.

You were revising a plan against the latest anomaly in sector AB-7. His tablet was clutched to you as you curled against his chair. The warmth emanating from your aura made him melt with adoration, eyes growing heavy-

"Migs?"

He hummed, still gazing. You'd picked up the nickname from his AI, and he wanted to curl up in your lap every time you said it.

"You look tired, I'll let you rest." You placed the tablet back on his desk and patted his shoulder god do it again please before turning-

"No."

He murmured it, not quite pleading. You stopped, tilting your head in confusion. "You...can stay. There's room down there, if you still wanna work," he added gruffly.

You didn't say anything, and he felt the words rush out. "It just- it just seems strange that you'd be working in a different office when you spend so much time here anyway, but don't worry about it, it's fine-"

"Migs," you said, so gentle it made his toes curl. "I'd love that."

And hence began the worst mistake of his productive career. Because now you'd made a home in the corner of his space, and your softness was always there, so inviting for him to marvel at. He'd lost hours of working just staring.

He learned everything he could about you. How you weren't cleared to fight, which is why you could afford do dress so comfortable. Fine by him, he'd blow a fuse if something happened to you. As long as he could keep you tucked in his little haven, safe for him to admire, he didn't give a fuck.

Jess would raise her eyebrows at your constant presence, but his heart rate was lower and he smiled. She'd never been more shocked.

He was doing better.

Miguel soon found himself focusing all of his spare attention on you. Buying you sweaters, letting you watch your favorites movies on his widescreen, doing anything to make your light glow a little brighter.

This was....different. he hadn't had this, not for a long while. It made him nervous, a little undercurrent of shyness beneath his desire to make you smile. You were never as forward with him, kind as ever but at a distance. He would take what he could get, though. As long as your light kept shining, he'd bask in its warmth.

☆ ☆ ☆

God, what a meeting. He'd zoned out halfway through, so astronomically exhausted that he could barely keep his eyes open. His thoughts were consumed with the idea of taking a nap on the old sofa you'd shoved into his office. you'd be right next to him, reading and playing with his hair, oh god if only the clock would move faster- Miguel almost lept out of his chair when the meeting concluded.

His feet quickened back towards his office, feeling your light trickle under the door.

Oh. uh oh. uh oh uh oh.

He stood frozen, staring at his desk. You had made yourself comfortable in his chair, napping with your chin tucked and hair mussed and he felt his chest grow tight god what is happening to him good christ-

Miguel swallowed roughly and peered down at your closed eyes. Your aura was a soft pink, content and sweet. He wanted to hold you so badly. God, that's what he'd been needing. To tuck you up in one of your devilishly soft sweaters and keep his little light all to himself.

It wasn't lust, his desire for touch. Lust felt too carnal, too vile for you. He would never defile you like that, wanting only to watch you shimmer and preen with happiness. Little light, mi luz, so soft...

His eyes were shining with adoration as he looked at you. He didn't know how long it had been, and he didn't care. But after a moment, he realized sleeping on his straight-backed chair would hurt your back. He needed to move you. Hold you on his lap, he was softer and warmer and god help him-

Taking a breath, Miguel slid his forearms under your curled form and lifted slowly, careful not to jostle you. Whatever love demon was inside keened with joy, and he wanted to weep. As he gently maneuvered you towards your comfortable armchair, he caught a shift in your body. Freezing again, he waited for you to finish squirming, finally settling with your head tucked in his neck.

And oh, mi luz

You were glowing warmer now, the faint blush shimmering gold against your hair. Miguel's lips quivered and he began to rock gently. His hands shook with care. He could feel the tranquility rolling off of you in heavy waves, making his eyes heavy and his heart full. You felt safe with him. Soft snuffling breaths against his collar and hands clutched loosely at his nape sent shivers down his back.

He was going to die. His chest burned with the need to shout, to scream with excitement. Finally finally, little soft light, all his to hold-

Miguel might have been squeezing too tight in his joy, because your brow pinched and you mewled in discomfort. He immediately hushed you, coaxing you back into golden sleep. Crooking his elbow so you laid comfortably over his shoulder.

"Sleep, mi luz, I have you. I have you," he cooed, nudging his nose into your jaw. You sighed contentedly and murmured a good night as he gently laid with you in the armchair. He buried his face in your hair, shivering with the warmth that enveloped him.

☆ ☆ ☆

Wherever this was, he never wanted to leave. Miguel felt syrupy and languid, wrapped in a cocoon of something that felt divinely warm and safe and

"Migs?"

A rustle, and the lovely bundle in his arms blinked blearily at him. His lovestruck eyes shone down at his little love, and he smiled gently.

"Hi, dovey," he murmured, rubbing your back, "sleep well?"

You nodded and scooted up, seated fully against his chest. Your aura pulsed sluggishly, dripping like honey. Miguel was too busy sweetly nosing your cheek to notice the hues dancing around your head. still half-asleep, you purred happily, dozing gently against his warm neck. Miguel kept up, suckling gently behind your ear and across your lips and everywhere he could reach without waking you. He could do this for hours.

The warmth was beginning to singe his hair though, and he hissed gently.

"Mi luz," he whispered, trying as gently as possible to rouse you. You whined at the wake-up, doe eyes drowsy and unfocused.

"Your halo, mi sol," he whispered, pecking your cheek, "getting a little warm is all."

you blushed, quickly dampening the shining haze of love you had blanketed over the both of you. Miguel grunted and laid his head back again. You followed suit, curling against him as close as possible.

'love you,' your lips murmured into his skin.

'mi luz,' he said reverently, and his soft mouth soothed you back to sleep.

that's all folks! might do some lil drabbles off of this but idk yet. hope you enjoyed, requests are open, ilysm xox

@krakenkitty @ominoose @bulletgoth @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @justsomeonecalledemma @iolaussharpe-24 @rosegnome @twwcs @heeheehoohoofictimr @steven-grants-world @ael-xander @to-be-a-sunshine @migueloharasbbm @ridiculous-hibiscus @seeeuspaceecowboyyy @neeshsoodrippedout @llumetrii @iminloveweveryone

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[bcyhoods]

LOVEFOOL 💌 — “you feel like home to me” with tasm!peter PUH-LEASE I ALREADY KNOW IM GONNA GET EMOTIONAL

muah ha ha. angsty spidey is my favorite spidey, how did you know | 0.9k

warnings: injuries, brief mention of reader being used as leverage but no explicit/graphic detail

“I don’t know if I can do this, Peter.”

Your hand hovers over the scrape on his cheek when your gaze drops to the mask that’s clenched in his hand. He sits on the edge of your bed, looking up at you as you stand in between his legs.

He’s bathed in the dull, orange glow of your lamp. It highlights every welt, every cut, every matted strand of hair that sticks to the damp skin of his forehead. It makes your eyes sting.

“What do you mean? You’re a natural,” he says. His hand settles on your hip to give it a gentle squeeze. The gesture makes you believe for a second that he’s genuinely clueless.

But his eyes refuse to meet yours. The smile that he wears is uneasy as he wrings his mask.

“You know that’s not what I mean.”

He hangs his head low. Guilt tightens its grip on his throat making it hard to breathe.

You were already well aware of his secret identity before you’d started dating. He warned you of the risks and used them to try scaring you away before you could break his heart. But you stayed. You stayed and, god, he was so glad you did.

Though, he blames his adoration for what happened to you.

He would keep a close eye on you to make sure you were safe. His routine neighborhood watch would consist of making sure you got to and from work safely, occasionally dropping by on your lunch breaks to check on you. He was careless, but he didn’t anticipate things would go south so quickly.

The guy wasn’t a super villain, nor was he anything special by any means, but he was observant. And why would Spiderman be visiting some random bodega cashier so often unless you meant something to him?

It was practically over as quick as it started. The guy couldn’t even finish demanding his ransom before Peter had arrived to web him to the ceiling. You escaped with a few injuries, the worst being a palm-shaped bruise on your wrist. But Peter was fuming.

You were used as bait. You were leverage against Spiderman because he’d been so reckless. You got hurt because of him. You were lucky this time, but there was no telling if that luck would run out and the thought terrified him. Despite your gentle words of reassurance, he had made up his mind.

He would never forgive himself if he lost you. So he broke it off.

“I know.”

It would’ve been easier if you didn’t see each other after that. You think you’d feel differently if you weren’t frequently in his presence, nursing him back to health. Maybe if you didn’t exchange longing gazes and soft touches that were reserved for people that are more than friends. If he didn’t look at you like you held his heart in your hands, maybe you’d be stronger.

“Why do you keep coming back here?” He feels his chest tighten at the crack in your voice, even more so when you push his hand away.

“You leave your window open,” he whispers.

A scoff falls from your lips and you turn your back to him to wipe away the rogue tears that run down your face. He stares at your figure with a frown and hands that ache to reach out for you.

Peter Parker then decides he doesn’t want to be a hero. Heroes can’t afford to be selfish and put their own happiness above the wellbeing of others. Being with you would jeopardize your safety. It’d be selfish of him. He could never be with you like he wanted, craved, so long as he wore that suit. Can’t he have both?

He’s exhibited enough altruism to last him a lifetime, anyway. Certainly it was enough to hold you just for one night.

“I just needed to see you,” he sighs, voice meek.

“Peter, I think you should—”

“There’s never a day that I don’t think about you,” he interjects. He doesn’t exactly know when he started to cry. Suddenly his eyesight was blurry and he couldn’t breathe through his nose.

“Please.” The word pushes out like a sob. Your hand shoots to clamp over your mouth to hush the whimpers, but he can hear them.

“I’m serious, I…” He stands and moves to put his hands on your shoulders. His mask is forgotten on the floor. “Being away from you, it makes me feel crazy. Like I can’t breathe.”

“Don’t say that.” You turn in his hold to shrug his hands off, but you don’t try too hard. A sob racks through your chest once more when you see his pained expression. His nose is red and his cheeks are wet and his brows are sewed together. “Don’t tell me that, just go home,” you plead.

“You feel like home to me!” There’s a humorless laugh that accompanies the confession, it’s one of frustration. But the softness in his glassy eyes is unmistakable and it makes you melt under his stare.

“Please don’t cry,” he begs with a deep frown. He reaches to hold your face in his hands as he wipes the tears from under your eyes. The material of his gloves is rough and pulls at your skin uncomfortably, but you can’t help leaning into his touch.

He crowds your being. He towers over you so closely that you can feel his bated breath fanning your skin. You reach to hold onto his forearms, letting your eyes close to revel in the closeness. Peter presses a chaste kiss to your forehead, then to each of your cheeks, then your nose. He stops short of your lips.

“Say the word and I’ll leave. You know I will.”

“Don’t go,” you concede.

You’re not really sure what repercussions this will have tomorrow morning. You can’t really bring yourself to care when he kisses you.

[chaosisorderao3]

hiii i was stalking your account and your bio said ask about your fics so here i am. asking about your fics. what's been your favorite fic to write so far?????

Omg hiiiii

I think my two favourite right now are two steps forward, one step back and Daisy Evans, the girl who stood true!

The former is my biiiig mcu Parkner post NWH fic with two arcs written out of 6-7 arcs planned that follows Peter's life at MIT with a new group of friends and a new hero team. There's a lot of big life challenges the various characters are dealing with ranging from questioning queer identity to deep rooted trauma, but my characters always come out the other end because they have the support network and found family they need and they get nice things!

Daisy Evans is my harry potter fanfic/foefic following the titular character Daisy, trans girl kid who lived, in her time at Hogwarts. I'm using the overarching plot structure of canon but with my own worldbuilding and character changes. It's found family again but in the literal sense of Daisy gets adopted by people who were considered family by the potters and Sirius. One thing I love about it in particular is Daisy's character development over the seven years because she goes from this traumatised insecure meek girl with some seeds of immense courage planted from the start to an absolute warrior queen!! I've put a lot of work into this fic to unpack the bigotry that Rowling packed into potter verse and spitefully make it full of inclusion and representation :3

I think of my longfics I also have to mention What It Takes, which is a Naruto fic that I started writing on a whim quite some time ago, which considers the idea of what if Naruto grew up not being naive, and knowing exactly what it takes to become Hogake. Feat. genderfluid/nonbinary Naruto and his queerplatonic boyfriend Hinata and his romantic boyfriend Sasuke; Team 7 is Naruto and The Boys hehehe

Shorter fics my favourite to write was probably the honey and glass fic, feat trans girl spidey and lesbian Harley Keener. It's just very,,, two points in time of Sera's journey figuring out her identity but centred around the ship and how that played a role in her trans joy

[spiderpalms]

MASTERLISTS YOU MUST LOOK AT

updated 6/20

AVATAR

KUROGXRIX’S

TEYAMSKXAWNG

NORMSPELLSMAN

TIREDMAMAISSY

WISHUROSES

RANDXMTHXUGHTS

LOVEMYAVATAR

DIVINEEI

THEBLUEFLOWER05

LOAKSKY

GLORYY-VS

STARGIRLRCHIVE

TONOWARII

STRANGER THINGS

QUEENIMMADOLLA EDDIE MUNSON

HEADKISS STEVE HARRINGTON

HEADKISS EDDIE MUNSON

MARAUDERS ERA

SINGMYAUBADE JAMES POTTER

CELEBRITIES

SPIDEY-SOPHIE TOM HOLLAND

MULTI

ASTRXQ NETEYAM, LO'AK, ETHAN LANDRY, CHAD MEEKS MARTIN

ANYWHEREBUTHERE TSITP, HARRY POTTER, MARVEL

CRACKEDPUMPKIN HIRO HIMADA, MILES MORALES, ROBIN

WAITIMCOMINGTOO TOM HOLLAND, PETER PARKER, ARVIN RUSSELL

[riden5]

画像生成 クモの怪人的の8 調整したプロンプトでクモやり直し なんかヤケに緑色だしクモみ薄いけど割と珍しめ

プロンプトは (supervillain photograph, humanoid shaped, tokusatsu:1.4), (spidery mutant supervillain with spider characteristics:1.3), (fighting pose, violent action scene), bizarrerie, BREAK (raw photo, photorealistic:1.4), in midtown, face in frame, (dim soft lighting, professional lighting), (highly detailed, ultra detailed), best quality, BREAK (clear, clearly, sharp focus, technicolor), octane render, ray tracing, masterpiece, live action, HDR, global illumination, chaos, intricate, BREAK epic composition, (high resolution, absurdres, ultra high res), high definition, high brightness, high saturation, high fidelity, stunning clarity, dynamic angle,

ネガティブプロンプトは (spiderman, spider-man, Spidey, Peter, neighborhood:1.4), (lady, woman, girl, female), [kaiju, marvel, dc], affable, kindly, meek, meekly, (hard to see:1.4), (dark, darkness, unclarity, unclear, not clear, fuzzy, indecisive, misty, obscure, obscurely:1.4), Sfw censored Low resolution, bad anatomy, worst quality, gross proportions, blurry, bokeh, poorly drawn, text, error, missing fingers, missing arms, missing legs, short legs, extra digits, (semi-realistic, cgi, 3d, 2d, paintings, painting, sketch, cartoon, drawing, anime, comic, manga, illustration, illust, graphic:1.4), (text, watermark), cropped, out of frame, flat color, flat shading, analog, analogphoto, worst quality, jpeg artifacts, duplicate, morbid, mutilated, multiple angle, split view, grid view, extra fingers, extra digit, poorly drawn hands, poorly drawn face, blurry, dehydrated, bad anatomy, extra limbs, cloned face, disfigured, gross proportions, disconnected limbs, floating limbs, missing arms, missing legs, too many fingers, illustration, painting, cartoons, sketch, (worst quality:1.4), lowres, bad anatomy, ((monochrome)), ((grayscale)), ((sepia)), (cropped), oversaturated, imperfect, (bad hands), (signature, watermark, username, artist name:1.4), conjoined fingers, imperfect eyes, skewed eyes, error, lowres, ((bad anatomy)), text, extra digits, fewer digits, blurry, (poorly drawn face), ((bad proportions)), logo, cropped, worst quality, jpeg, ((jpeg artifacts)) (worst quality:1.4) illustration, illust, 3d, 2d, painting, cartoons, sketch, (worst quality:1.4), lowres, bad anatomy, (cropped), oversaturated, signature, watermark, username, artist name, conjoined fingers, imperfect eyes, skewed eyes, error, bad image, bad photo, dark, night, fire, darkness, backlit, backlighted, [masterpiece, ray tracing, octane render],

[kinsey3furry300]

I'm just saying that it's a pity we're yet to see Magneto in the MCU as literally most Avengers other than the Hulk (possibly? easily buried under shields, hammers and super-suits) and Scarlet Witch (possibly? his daughter depending on which continuity were using) has some sort of metal object they need to actually super-hero effectively.

So from worst to least effected by Magneto we have:

Utterly Fucked: Bucky, Rocket Racoon, Gamora, Nebula, Vison, Yondu, Stark before Iron man 3 (arc reactor in chest) or after Infinity war (nanites in blood); metal body or body parts.

Very fucked: Stark (any time), War-machine, Falcon, Meeks: Metal suits. Still Fucked: Hawkeye, Black Widow, Starlord, Drax, secondary Wakandan characters, Shield agents; Mundane metal weapons.

Kinda Fucked: Thor, all secondary Thor characters, Cap, Black Panther, Doctor Strange, Spidey; Hammers, Vibranium sheilds/suits, Sling rings, web-shooters and other magical/ exotic artifacts made of metal that they can still kindda superhero without, but at a severe disadvantage. Thanos is also in this category if he’s wearing the glove or his armour.

Inconvenienced: Mantis; No magical weapons, but requires touching his head fight him effectively when he always wears his helmet in a fight.

Not-Fucked: Hulk, Scarlet Witch, Captain Marvel, Groot, Korg, some of the Inhumans and Eternals, Daredevil and the rest of the Defenders.

Villains/ antagonists who are not fucked: Loki, Agatha, and other magic users. Abomination, Quicksilver and other Enhanced humans with no tech. Skrulls, some Kree and some other aliens if their close combat is good enough.

No data: Is Ego organic, or as a rocky planet does he have a metal core? Not sure.

[meekusleekus]

(Forgot to post this whoops...)

Saw someone's spidersona on my fyp a couple days ago, felt the need to redesign something from my sketchbook

[lupiningwolves]

url change! now matching with @potteringdeers

marauders-lupin -> lupiningwolves

tagging my moots: @alpine-loves-bucky @robiedreamland @messers-moony-lupin @nevilleismywhore @helton-meeks @yesiwillchangemyurlstfu-daisy @ghost-spidey @siriuslyfun4423 @athenapotter @velvetcloxds @cupids-crystals @lonelyhe4rts @loonyloopylupin5 @wolfstar-lb @616films @couldibeanymorechaotic @sapphiccrisis @remuslupininskirts @regulusblackswhorecrux

[birdmitosis]

hmmm

I am working on ideas for a pre-Spidey, pre-villainy Spider-Man AU for some of my fave Spidey-villains, inspired strongly by the SSM versions but taking quite a bit as well from the comics and other sources and adding my own flair. I might work on it as a fanfiction project for NaNoWriMo? So basically, the catalyst is Miles Warren. He is not the main character; in fact, at a certain point, he slips from being one of the main four protagonists neatly into being a deuteragonist and then into one of the main antagonists, if not the main. He’s the catalyst because he’s the one who finds the secret, abandoned laboratory accessed from the basement of an abandoned building in NYC, a lab that lies under the city streets. He’s the one who decides to use it, and the one who decides to invite several other brilliant scientists he’s met to use it along with him. Under here is just kinda... character notes.

Miles Warren, the Jackal, early 40s First because (as said above) he’s the catalyst. A professor at the college Otto and Beck attend, he has also done work for Oscorp and met Adrian through that. Absolutely planning on shedding his humanity and probably already secretly a criminal. Ends up being responsible for helping save Electro, helping Chameleon, and helping Dr. Connors, but also experiments further on Connors, maybe turns John Jameson into a “werewolf,” is responsible for the spider-bite, clones the Venom symbiote and creates Carnage... He is very much amoral and more dangerous than his mild, calm, amiable manner suggests. Eventually goes full furry. Otto Octavius, Doctor Octopus, mid-20s A soft-spoken, meek biomimeticist that just wants a place to work when the college isn’t actually sold on their idea of wiring a rig directly into their own nervous system. An absolute genius in several connected scientific fields (zoology, biology, neurology, and med tech), they’re already at the tail end of their doctorate. Has problems at home, though not nearly as much as before their father died. Understands and gets along with tech better than people for the most part, but appreciates Professor Warren’s support and clicks astonishingly well with Adrian Toomes. Not really planning on crime but definitely has some repressed emotions; that goes to hell when someone tries to kill them and causes an accident. Adrian Toomes, the Vulture, late 40s/early 50s? A stubborn engineer at Oscorp who isn’t about to work on her own personal project (her flight suit) anywhere near where her employer can see it and lay claim to it. Incredibly passionate about flight; a bit more specialized than Otto (tech focus with an understanding of neurology and an interest in animals that does also lead to biomimetics). Older grouchy butch trans lady who has more patience for tech than people, but who gets along well enough with Warren (who is professional and good at what he does) and clicks shockingly easily with Otto. Not planning on crime at the start at all, that falls apart when Osborn somehow finds out about her flight tech and tries to claim it belongs to Oscorp. Quentin Beck, Mysterio, mid 20s An aspiring actor who’s currently primarily working backstage and mostly just getting understudy roles. Has a strong interest in practical effects and therefore, among other things, chemistry, and is actually legit brilliant at it; he’s double majoring in chemistry and theater arts at the same college as Otto and Professor Warren. They also already have some ideas about committing costumed crime with their skills. Also also you can use any pronouns for them so long as you’re referring to them. 8) Please talk about Beck. Chameleon, 30s? More minor character. An actor who is good friends with Beck, who very much wishes ey could shapeshift. Beck introduces em to some of their new friends, and Chameleon ends up working with Miles Warren to shed eir old identity completely… Maxine Dillon, Electro, late 20s/early 30s? An electrician with some interest in psychology who sometimes helps out at the theater, mostly because she’s friends with Mason. After an accident leaves her worse than electrocuted, Mason takes her to the lab rather than the hospital in an attempt to save her life (thanks to Chameleon’s whole deal), and Warren and Otto together help save her using electric eel DNA. Phineas Mason, Tinkerer, early 40s Also works as a stagehand at the same theater Beck and Chameleon are at; Mason is a technological genius who’s absolutely wasting his potential in a technical support job. He knows it, he’s frustrated about it, but he feels stuck. At first a secondary character until Electro’s accident gets him more involved with the main group, but he’s had feelings for Beck for a little while now. Other considered secondary and tertiary characters: Norman Osborn (obviously), Donald Menken, Dr. Connors, Eddie Brock and the Venom symbiote, the Carnage symbiote, Parker Reilly (trans Spider-Woman ;_;), May Parker, John Jameson, J.J. Jameson? Basically after a certain point I’d like a lot of the characters to start understandably slipping into revenge or other crimes. And then eventually for Parker to get bitten, but also approach the situation with sympathy even while trying to keep some of the characters from crossing lines. Not sure where I want it to go in the end, but yeah, that’s the basic idea so far.

[cassiecasyl]

nibble, nibble, little spider

By @cassiecasyl for @an-odd-idea 

Rating: Teen and Up  Relationships: Peter & Morgan, Peter & Tony  Characters: Peter Parker, Morgan Stark, Tony Stark, a witch  Summary: Peter and Morgan are lost in a forest, alone and hungry when they stumble upon a house made of bread and candy. It couldn’t harm to take a bite, could it? Well, yes, it very much could. 

Hunger weaved through the trees, riding on the wind directly into Peter’s lungs, causing the boy to cough. It was a screaming and scratching complaint of displacement. His stomach rumbled in answer to its sneaking sibling. Peter stumbled from the effects of their argument, catching himself against a trunk. The bark tickled his senses, the rough surface scratching at his skin. He recoiled from the sensation. The quick motion made him sway, and he fell back against the very thing he tried to avoid. He didn’t know what was wrong. He just felt so—

“Peter?” Morgan asked, watching him with big, brown eyes. They were the perfect mix of Tony’s eye color and Pepper’s concerned expression stabbing right into him. He could see the same pain reflected back at him. Peter closed his eyes. 

“I’m fine,” he assured her. 

She moved closer and leaned against his leg, tucking at his shirt. His spidey senses barely objected, uselessly hiding behind a headache. Peter looked down at his adoptive sister. Her intensive gaze looked right through his lies in the same way her father always did. They were heartbreakingly similar. 

“Can you try your phone again?” she asked, searching for hope. Peter fumbled it out of his pocket with shaking fingers and blinked against the artificial light. His heart sank into the void the lack of bars at the top of the screen signaled. He sighed. “Still no signal.” Morgan deflated slightly. 

Peter tried to swipe over to the GPS settings, to maybe get some information this way, but right as he did the screen froze. He grunted in frustration, shaking the device lightly. His head pounded as if obnoxiously cheering the phone on. Peter remembered the time he had landed near a stadium during one of his sensitive episodes, leading him right into a sensory overload then and there. -20/10, would not recommend. He’d needed two days in the soundproof tower to recover from that before even trying to go into louder environments again. 

Peter winced as the screen suddenly flashed bright with an app loading screen before turning completely black. Great. Any buttons proved useless. “Looks like it’s dead,” he confessed to Morgan. She nodded bravely, clearly holding back tears, little erosions in Peter’s heart.  

Peter slid down the trunk, shuddering at the sensation, until he was on eye level with her. He stretched out his arm, nudging Morgan closer and into his embrace. She buried her face in the nook of his neck as she cried. “It’s gonna be alright,” Peter promised, rocking her gently, “Tony will find us, you’ll see.” 

“Dad can fix everything,” she mumbled into the hug and Peter chuckled. 

“That’s right! So don’t give up hope, Mo.” 

They stayed in the relative silence the forest provided for a while. Peter stared up into the leaf-obstructed sky, the gears in his head scraping by just barely. The leaves whisper-sung false promises, inviting him to climb up towards the first stars visible in the darkening sky. He entertained the thought of climbing up to see where the damn woods ended, but the bark’s texture made him want to crawl out of his own skin. His stomach acted up again, not a fan of possible altitude, and his headache became nauseating in a warning. He hated it when his body conspired against him. But, he also couldn’t just leave Morgan alone on the ground. Especially not with night approaching. 

“I’m hungry,” whispered Morgan. 

“I know, Mo,” Peter answered and rubbed her back soothingly. There was nothing he could do. If only he knew enough about flora to know what was safe to eat. Though they didn’t have the option to wash whatever they found, adding further danger. “I’m too.” 

The nagging feeling only grew as they sat there, calling and pulling them away, as it caught them with an invisible string. It was a weird by-taste of hunger, one Peter had never experienced before. If they were at home - where he knew where to find food - the pull would make sense, but here, in the middle of nowhere, it puzzled him. He couldn’t even remember how they got here. All there was, was the forest and hunger, slowly taking over them. His spider sense buzzed loudly, sounding slightly like a radio without a proper signal. He wondered dully whether ghosts could speak through it. 

Suddenly, Morgan sat up, tearing Peter from his dazed thoughts. “I know what we have to do!” she exclaimed, standing up. “We can only follow the path we know,” she said and took off. Peter scrambled to his feet. 

“Wait, Mo,” he called out, “What do you mean?” The girl didn’t answer. 

The hunger’s call became louder as they walked. Peter could almost hear it now, the ringing in his ears resembling more and more a feast. He meant to smell chocolate and his stomach grumbled as if to ask how much longer? Huh, he realized, Morgan must feel it too. 

Old leaves crackled underneath their feet, a crystal clear signal of where they were. A deer looked up a few trees over, mustering them before fleeing, its flock following. But Morgan paid it no mind as she walked towards her goal with Peter on her heels. 

The boy couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. It felt like a trap almost, leaving them no choice but to fall for it to survive. His dizzy mind screamed for food, growing more excited the more signs of it hit Peter’s senses. 

They came to a brook and Peter signaled for Mo to stop. He leaned down to drink, hoping the water would quill some of the overwhelming hunger he felt. It was better than nothing. Underneath the pull, his stomach ached, begging, as if what had been there before was only a phantom, an illusion rather than the real thing. Peter blinked. 

A bird landed on the other side of the stream, picking at something on the ground. The spider looked up, meeting the animal’s eyes just for a moment, before it rustled its feathers and took off, carrying a big breadcrumb in its beak. Something was definitely wrong. 

Something about this all rang a bell, but he couldn’t find it. It rang and rang, a warning of impending nightfall, so annoying Peter wished he could just turn the sound off. It didn’t help in the slightest with remembering. An old story, he mused. A fairy tale, maybe?  

“Morgan?” he called, but she didn’t answer. He spun around, almost hitting a tree as he swayed in response. He felt sick and weak, and the moss on the ground looked so invitingly soft. He briefly closed his eyes in an attempt to regain focus. Morgan. Where was Morgan? She couldn’t be gone. Mr. Stark would kill him. His mind conjured up her image, covered in blood, gnaw marks on breaking her tender skin, half-rotten. His stomach grumbled, sending everything it had upwards, a meek army marching to attack his mind. Not one soldier passed the cavity of his mouth. 

“Morgan?” he called again after swallowing, panic inviting nausea to dance. 

“Peter, look!” the girl's voice finally sounded to the right of him. Peter breathed and steadied himself with the aid of a tree. Nodding a short thanks to his involuntary crutch, he stepped into the bushes to find his little sister. 

Now that he was back on the path, his muscles didn’t protest as much anymore. A strange peace joined the hunger-inducing air, washing over him and taking his care. Like gravity, he was pulled towards a place in the middle of the woods, and tired as Peter was, he let himself fall right into it. 

The woods smelled like freshly baked bread, like those obnoxiously sweet candies Morgan loved, like the brownies Happy baked one time, the best goddamn brownies he had ever eaten, like the hot chocolate he would drink with May on late nights when they would just talk and catch up with each other or simply enjoy each other’s company. 

Peter was positively drooling, sludging out into the little opening. A house stood there, idyllic in the middle of the forest, glowing with magic, promising every meal Peter had ever had and more. Its walls were covered with a little flour like a bread’s crust, and Peter could see the softness inside from where something had bitten into it. The windows were adorned with sugar, whipped cream, and colorfully sprinkled candies. The roof was the color of Minecraft’s dark oak, sturdy and soft. Peter reached up and broke off a piece before he could think. Morgan grinned at him, stuffing her mouth with candy. He tiredly smiled at her, taking in her happiness, gleaming louder than the sun. It was all washed away as the brownie roof touched his tongue. It was just the right temperature and consistency, and it filled his mouth with the taste of chocolate without being overly sticky. It was heavenly, it was every peaceful late night conversation and every birthday party combined. This was what ambrosia must taste like. 

His mind stopped screaming, and he was wholly content in his body with only one bite. The overwhelming hunger was suddenly satisfied, yet his stomach still rumbled. He didn’t feel it. Peter looked at the piece of heaven in his hand, smiling brightly in childish wonder. He wanted more. So, he devoured it and took another piece from the house. 

Dully, shushed by peace, a noise drummed on in the back of his head. It was hidden behind a labyrinth, closed off by heavy prison doors. It didn’t matter. Yet, why was it loud enough to bug him? Why couldn’t it just shut up? He rolled his eyes and reached out towards the soft bread wall. 

But, before his fingers touched the food, he stopped. This was wrong. He was stealing, wasn’t he? The buzzing grew louder. A warning. It was his spider senses, Peter then realized. They were in danger. He turned towards Morgan, panic slowly overriding the happiness, weaseling past every magic firewall. He opened his mouth to call out to her. They needed to go, to get away from here. 

“Knusper, Knusper, Knäuschen, wer knuspert an meinem Häuschen?” a high, scratchy voice sang behind them. Peter froze in horror. “Or should I say ‘nibble, nibble, little mouse, who’s nibbling at my house’? Such a peculiar translation…” 

~~~

A warning was drumming on his head, shaking him until he blinked his eyes open against the stabbing light. It roasted him and hung him up to cool down. Peter groaned. A stagger of noise opened his skull, and he flinched. Only after a moment did he recognize words, let alone the voice. 

“Let him out!” Morgan demanded with as much rage as the five-year-old could muster. Which was a lot, Peter knew from experience. She was an angry embodiment of human wrath, her narrow eyes staring down the witch towering above her. Morgan did not back down. 

“I can’t do that, Sweety. It’s for your own good,” the witch talked down to her with a voice like sugary wood. A shudder ran through Peter as he remembered the rough bark under his hands outside. He clenched his teeth, waiting for an onslaught of pain from somewhere as he slowly sat up. 

“He’s my brother,” Morgan argued, “let him out!” Her eyes turned the sunlight into weapons. The witch, a shadow, did not yet realize the danger she was subjected herself to, as self-assured as she was. 

“He is corrupted,” the witch judged, “You, on the other hand, are still young, little lady.” 

Morgan blinked up at her. “Do you know who my dad is? He’s Iron Man. He’s a hero. And he’s gonna come and rescue us,” she threatened. 

“Oh, I’m counting on it.” Her smile sent little spiders crawling down Peter’s back. They examed the walls of his cage for any way of escape, the tiniest crack, but ultimately, they gave up and settled in the farthest corner. She mustered Peter with predatory eyes, pressing her lips together in disappointment. “It’s really a shame you’re all muscle and bone. It’ll take longer to get you tender enough for the grand meal.” 

Peter’s wide eyes met Morgan’s deer-ey ones as they processed the words. “You don’t wanna fight Iron Man,” the girl threatened again. 

The witch sighed. “This is gonna be harder than I expected. He’s really grown his vines around you, didn’t he?” 

“What’s your plan here?” Peter asked. “Kidnapping children, provoking Iron Man while you’re at it, and now what? Waiting for your trial?” 

The witch laughed. “Stark’s a warmonger, but I am not afraid of him.” She quenched any protest from the kids with her next words: “He’s only made himself believe that he’s better now, that he somehow redeemed himself. It’s a mask. We’ll see how good the great Tony Stark really is soon enough.” 

She turned to her sugar windows as a crow landed on the windowsill, picking up some bread crumbs that had fallen from the damaged wall. Her yellow teeth showed in her evil smile, and Peter suddenly felt very self-conscious about the fact that he hadn’t brushed his teeth since the day before. Granted he hadn’t lost more time unconscious in a crazy fairytale witch’s cage. 

“Frolick, my children, he is on his way,” she cheered, spinning around in a dance towards the stove in the corner. “We will have a grant meal to greet the powerful.” Peter strained his ears in hopes of hearing the familiar sound of repulsors. He wanted to scream out, get out himself so Tony wouldn’t have to walk into this weird trap. He wasn’t even sure what the witch’s plan really was. 

The witch grabbed Morgan’s hand and pulled her with her. The girl struggled, hitting and scratching, grounding her feet into the ground as much as she could. She looked back at Peter in pure fear, mouthing a word. Peter frowned at her. 

“A wild one, are we?” The witch addressed Morgan, leaning down to her level. The girl spat at her. “Now, this is really not a way for a lady to behave,” the witch chastised, sighing. “Maybe you’re further gone than I thought. I really had faith… Maybe, we will have you for dessert.” 

Finally, Morgan tore her hand free. She stepped back, suppressing a shiver. “You’re joking like a pirate,” she said, emphasizing the last word and waving one hand at Peter behind her back. Peter frowned, and then observed the cell door he was sitting in front of. Half pin barrel hinges. With the right kind of leverage, he could open them no problem. They had recently watched the first Pirates of the Caribbean movie, much to Happy’s dismay, but Peter couldn’t be prouder of Morgan at that moment. 

He examined his cell as inconspicuously as he could. There was a blank in the corner, probably meant as a sort of bed, with stains Peter rather wouldn’t know about. He grabbed and pulled at it, and, with a crank, it broke free. Unfortunately, it also brought attention to him. 

“What are you doing?” With two big steps, she stood next to him behind the bars. Peter kept still, ignoring her to the best of his abilities. Morgan followed her and then clung to her hand demandingly. It did nothing but annoy the hag more. “I asked you a question, boy. What are you doing?” She spat out every word, spelling it out for him. 

Peter shrugged and finally looked up at her. “I just thought, if you plan on keeping me here, I might as well redecorate.” Morgan snorted and quickly ducked to avoid the veiny hand flying her way. 

“Do you think this is funny? Tony Stark waged war and I’m going to give him what he’s earned and you think this is all a joke?” Peter shook his head, slightly retreating. “And you, little lady, are truly your father’s daughter, aren’t you? I thought there was hope for you, other than for the boy who got drawn into the family that he doesn’t share blood with, but it seems it’s already too late.” 

She grabbed Morgan in retaliation, holding her even tighter than before. The girl screamed out in surprise and pain before going back to fighting. Suddenly, a rope snaked into the air and approached them curiously. It gently wrapped around Morgan, keeping her in place. The tears on his sister’s face might as well have been acid poured over Peter’s head. 

The witch sighed. “I should’ve done this earlier.” She turned to Peter then. “And now to you…” 

“Let her go,” Peter demanded. “You can do whatever you want with me, just, please, let her go.” 

“The time of bargaining has long passed, boy.” She looked back at the giant pot on the stove. “It’s time to get to work.” The door creaked as it opened, as ominously warning and high-pitched as his spidey sense. He stumbled backward, more crawling than walking, until the wall stopped him. It was giving into his touch, and it took all in Peter to not recoil from the touch that felt a little too much like mold. 

The rope peered over the witch’s shoulder, mustering its prey. Just as she reached out to grab his hand, Peter opened his mouth in protest and let the first words that came to his mind tumble out. “Do you know the Muffin Man?” 

The witch stopped mid-motion. “The Muffin Man?” she asked with raised eyebrows, entirely bamboozled. 

“Yeah, the Muffin Man,” Peter repeated, allowing himself to breathe a little, “You know, the one who lives on Drury Lane?” The hag’s eyes narrowed at those words and Peter suppressed a flinch. Fuck. 

“This is another of your jokes, isn’t it?” Before he could answer, the rope shot forward, rolling tightly around him, leaving no place for air. Soon enough, he joined Morgan on the floor, just as Peter’s ears picked up a familiar, wheezing sound. 

“I’m sorry,” Morgan whispered. 

Peter shrugged to the best of his abilities. “It was worth a try.” 

~~~

A knock on the door disrupted the sharp, unruly tension in the room. Peter tried to breathe, hoping, knowing it to be Tony. He heard the telltale sound of the repulsor de-powering and the suit landing. Yet, fear still continued its marathon through his veins. 

The witch sighed. “It’s a real shame,” she mumbled, “I will have to cook you with magic. Things always taste better if you let them cook naturally, but he’s not giving me much of a choice, is he?”  A shudder ran through the siblings’ bodies. 

“You could also just not cook us. Just a suggestion, you know,” Peter spoke up, earning a slap. Heavy air climbed onto his tongue, rolling up and falling asleep like a cat. He opened his mouth again, but nothing came out except for a quiet grunt. The witch was clearly amused by his attempts to speak. Without another word, she turned around and opened the door just wide enough to slip out. 

“Hello, Forest Lady,” Tony greeted the witch, “I’m searching for two kids. Have you seen—” 

“Well, if it isn’t the great Tony Stark.” Peter could hear the malicious grin in her voice. “The fabled merchant of death.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Tony dismissed her, “Listen, there are two kids missing, it’d be a great help if you could just tell me— Wait a minute, what did you just call me?” 

“You are who they call the merchant of death, are you not?” 

Tony was stunned into silence. Peter strained to hear his quickening heartbeat, wanting to cry out, Tony, we’re here, don’t listen to her!, but the airy cat on his tongue wouldn’t budge. Everybody knows that one doesn’t wake a cat, even if they trap you, and the spell took it to another level. It didn’t stop him from trying, however. The rope hit his thigh, annoyed by his constant movement. 

“That’s what they used to say, yeah,” Tony now admitted, “now they call me ‘Earth’s best defender.’” His cocky voice could not hide the anxiety in his veins, not to Peter. 

“Still, you’re wrapped in armor and weapons,” the witch pointed out. 

“Look, it’s not my job to justify myself to random women I encountered in the woods, which is not something that happens a lot, I must say. Actually, I think this is the first time. I’ve got better things to do at the moment. I’m looking for two kids, a girl of five years and a boy of 16. Have you seen them?” 

“Tony Stark, always so ready to fight,” the witch said, completely disregarding his recent words, “Take off that armor and I might tell you.” 

“So you know where they are,” he stated. Peter closed his eyes, letting the familiar clank of the Iron Man suit lull him in, but instead, it just cut into his skin. They were so close. So close to being found, so close to being rescued. 

“I was just preparing dinner. Why don’t you just sit down and stay? It’ll only take a few minutes.” The witch’s steps were silent on the grass. Tony’s vibrated through the ground, which meant he was still in his suit. 

“Now wait just a moment here, lady. You know where my kids are. Why don’t you tell me?” 

“You’re a warmonger, Tony Stark. Why would you ever think I’d leave kids in your care?” Peter laughed out loud in irony, but it was muffled by winding fur catching in his fur. Coughing made it only worse, so he took a deep and slow breath to take back control. 

Tony sighed. Iron Man opened his suit, and it cracked and screeched slightly, and Peter was reminded of the joint he had been meant to oil. His heart sank. “There, I’m out of the suit. Now, will you tell me where my kids are?” 

After a moment of silence, the witch asked: “Did you ever count?” 

“Count what?” 

“How many children were killed with your weapons.” Peter sucked in a breath in shock. 

“Roughly 2.47 million people were killed by Stark missiles. Approximately 9.4% were kids. Probably more. It’s hard to tell. Plus, about 50 billion dollars damage to property—”

“Money,” the witch spat out, “Of course you care about the money more.” 

“It’s just easier to estimate that number,” Tony tried to defend himself, but the witch wouldn’t hear it. 

“All that money will never buy back your soul,” she judged. With that, she walked back to the door, leaving Tony to stand outside. Peter stared at her through tears as she came inside. He almost missed the slight hand wave she pointed at the door, presumably to prevent Tony from following her. 

He changed, you know, he wanted to tell her, but still found his tongue pinned down. He’s a better man now. He’s not responsible for his father’s sins and being dragged into that business. 

The witch glared at him. “Don’t fool yourself, boy. Stark has blood on his hands. People like that don’t change.” Peter blinked up at her in surprise. 

You can hear me. 

The witch groaned and rolled her eyes. “You’re too loud,” she decided and grabbed him by the living rope enwrapping him. Peter tried to kick her, but it was more a battle with the snake of a rope than with the witch. She laid him down next to the stove. The steam from the pot wandered down to caress his cheeks, whispering false welcomes into his over-heating ears. He was sweating, staring into the fire that burned high in the fireplace opposite the kitchen. The taunting flames danced, showing off their relation to hell. 

“Stark Tower is falling down, falling down, falling down. Stark Tower is falling down, my fair lady,” the witch sang quietly as she prepared the last few things. Peter couldn’t tell whether the shiver he felt was from the sweat cooling his skin or from fear. 

Finally, the rope loosened. He stretched his limbs while moving as little as he could. Then, just as the witch came to pick him up, Peter sprang up. The hag waved her hands at him while she mustered him with raised eyebrows. As if he wasn’t intimidating her one bit. Peter channeled his hate into his stare and shot forwards, grabbing her hands to prevent her from casting her magic. All the while, he tried to keep Morgan out of the witch’s view. 

The witch pulled him back, making Peter stumble. He caught himself and kicked at her feet. His feet connected with something soft and he inwardly cheered. Though, somehow, the witch fell forward right towards him. Peter panicked. He did not want an old witch on top of him, not ever. He could already imagine the jokes Tony would make and ew. Stepping back, he evaded her falling body barely. 

Only then did he realize that he had let go. Shit, he thought, somehow dodging a spell. It whirled in the air next to him, wooing before splatting against the wall. The cat on his tongue moved a little and Peter almost hoped it had woken up. 

He launched at her again, struggling to grab her hands. Something hard bumped into his back, sending pain up his spine. Peter tried to push forward with the stove as his leverage, but the witch was heavier than expected. She didn’t budge, instead continued to struggle against the hold he had on her hands. 

Somehow, in the whirl of their fight, Peter’s elbow connected with something hot. He wailed and jumped as it burned him, pressing it protectively against his body. But the witch didn’t follow him. Peter watched as she stumbled back with burns everywhere on her body. In a disoriented attempt to get away from the pot of steaming water Peter had knocked over, she staggered and bumped against the fireplace. 

The witch fell into the flames with an ear-piercing scream and was never heard of again. Peter was shaking, staring at her, heavily breathing even as the air cat left him. Morgan came up next to him, hugging his legs. 

Peter barely registered as the door opened. In a frown, he remembered  the knocks and blasts he had heard during the battle but had ignored. He was there, frozen, forever entranced in the flames’ deadly dance. 

“Daddy!” Morgan screamed and left his side. Peter flinched at the noise. 

Despite the warmth, Peter knew that hell was freezing. It was frightening and un-moving and icy and he had just killed a person. He had ended someone’s life. Watched as they burned without any attempt to help them. I’m a terrible person, he thought. His pledge or morality to never kill was broken forever. 

Warm arms wrapped around him, trying to melt the ice that had claimed him, and Peter broke. “I—I killed her. Oh my god, I killed her. I killed someone. I didn’t mean to. Tony, you have to believe me, I didn’t mean to.” He sobbed into a shoulder he didn’t deserve to.

“Shh,” Tony soothed, gently rocking them and moving his hand in circles over his back. “It’s okay.” 

“No, it’s not okay. I killed someone, Tony. I’m a murderer.” Peter couldn’t tell whether he was snapping for air or snapping in self-directed anger and disgust. Yet, as much as he wanted to recoil, to flee, and just run, he couldn’t move. He was trapped here in comfort that he didn’t deserve. 

“You did it in self-defense. She was gonna— God, I don’t even wanna think about what she was going to do to you.” Tony held him even closer if that was possible. Though, his right hand left him briefly to invite Morgan into the hug. 

“You saved us,” Morgan said as if that was all that was needed to be said about the situation. 

“Let’s go home,” Tony decided, and Peter melted into the touch as all the tension suddenly left his body and he was drowned in exhaustion. Home sounded like heaven, it sounded exactly like the place he wanted to be right now, and the place he may didn’t deserve to reside in anymore after what he’s done. But Tony pulled him along, guiding his kids home, never once faltering to assure himself that they were safe and that Peter was welcome. 

[shakespeareanqueer]

Knight in Shining Armor

Peter Parker x Stark!Reader ; IronDad 

Summary: Tony Stark’s kid is captured by some of Kingpin’s men, and Peter Parker comes to the rescue

Word Count: 1,299 words 🕷️Contents: Mention of capture, fluffy awkwardness

A/N: This is several days late and I am so, so sorry! But it is for JBBuckyBarnes’ Writing Challenge; the prompt is bolded, which is “Can we please pretend I never said that?” - “Never, cause I love you too.” I’m also using it for Tony Stark Bingo T4: Kidnapped!

I saw advice not to include tags or links in fic posts to improve searchability, so I’ll tag those blogs, plus my taglist, and link my masterlist, in a reblog. Enjoy!

Peter’s Spidey-Sense (or, as his aunt called it, his “Peter tingle”) was on full blast the moment he walked into the compound. He was so on edge, in fact, that it took several moments for him to notice that the building’s alarms were also going off. Once he realized, though, he had to clasp his hands over his ears to try and keep himself from going into sensory overload.

He’d been around the compound before when the alarms had gone off to signal a high-stakes, time-sensitive, all-hands-on-deck mission. But it had never been this intense—the lights were brighter and more colorful, the alarm was louder and shriller. Perhaps it was partly his own spider-sense that was heightening the sensations, but Peter also got the distinct impression that everything was more.

As if FRIDAY herself were freaking out.  

Peter found Vision, who was usually so calm and collected, as frazzled as he’d ever seen him. He was charging head-first into doors and walls, seemingly having trouble with his phasing abilities.

“Vision!” Peter called, jogging to keep up with the floating cyborg. “What’s going on?”

“Miss Stark has been captured,” he stated matter-of-factly, before phasing too aggressively and falling through the floor. Even he was immensely affected by the state of events.

Peter’s head was spinning. You were kidnapped. This was the worst possible thing that could ever happen. He needed to help, immediately.

Before he realized what he was doing, Peter was sprinting through the compound, trying to find someone; anyone.

The first person he stumbled upon was Pepper, who was pacing frantically in her office and screaming into her desk phone.

“So I’m supposed to care about her less because she’s my step-daughter and not my biological daughter, is that it, General?” she shouted. “I don’t care whose womb she originated from, Ross; she is my kid, and nothing—not the Accords, and certainly not you —are going to stop me or my husband from doing our utmost to find her. Do you understand me?”

With his enhanced hearing, Peter picked up the meek acquiescence from the typically aggressive Security General Ross before Pepper slammed the phone back onto the receiver.

“Ms. Potts?” Peter asked cautiously, poking his head through the office door. “What’s going on? What happened to Y/N?”

Pepper heaved a big sigh and hung her head. “Someone incapacitated her suit with a highly specialized blocker, then took her, right in the middle of the day while she was walking back from school,” she said. “Tony and Rhodey are out looking for her now.”

“I’ll help,” Peter said resolutely, already walking to the window. He tapped his watch, and the nano-particles enveloped his body.

“Peter,” said Pepper sternly. He halted in his tracks. “I’m supposed to tell you to wait for the General’s permission.”

Peter reached out and put a hand on the window, still looking Pepper right in the eye with a neutral expression. Her lip curled up slightly, a barely perceivable shift in expression.

“Bring my girl home, please,” Pepper finally whispered.

And in an instant, Peter was gone.

🕷️

Peter found you in a being kept in a warehouse by Manhattan Beach. When the first beam of light shone off his glinting metal Iron Spider suit, your heart swelled with hope and joy at your impending rescue.

After an epic battle with some of Kingpin’s men that would make quite an impressive story for Happy’s voicemail inbox, Peter returned to the compound, victorious, with you in his arms. There was no need for you to still be cradled in his embrace; a few blocks away from the warehouse where they were holding you, the reach of the sonic inhibitor ended, and your suit would have powered up just fine. But it made Peter feel better to keep you where he knew you were safe, where he could not only see you but feel you.

He could also hear you from that position, and the two of you had a nice long chat on your swing home from the warehouse. A very pleasant chat that began like this:

“I’m just so glad you’re safe,” Peter gushed.

“Why, thank you,” you replied. “It’s nice to be wanted.”

“You are wanted,” he assured you, not even really noticing what he was saying, since he was too busy focusing on his webslinging and not dropping you.

You giggled. “By you?”

“Huh?” he asked distractedly.

“Am I wanted by you?” you asked again in a low voice, pulling yourself tighter into his chest.

You couldn’t see for sure, but you had a strong suspicion Peter was blushing under his mask.

“I, uh, I mean..” he spluttered.

The conversation continued in this vein until it reached its inevitable conclusion. A conclusion you knew your father would not be happy about, so you decided to cushion the blow.

“Hey, Dad!” you greeted, running into his arms and squeezing him tightly.

“Kiddo,” he sighed into your hair. “I’m so glad you're home.”

“It’s all thanks to Peter,” you said, disentangling yourself from your father’s embrace to indicate the teenage superhero standing awkwardly in the corner.

Still holding onto your hand, Tony walked over to Peter and clasped him tightly around the shoulder.

“You did good today, kid,” he said. “Thank you for bringing my baby home.”

“Dad, I’m not a baby,” you admonished. “In fact, I think I’m old enough to date now,” you asserted, removing your hand from his and placing it on your hip.

“Oh you do now, do you?” he asked with a quirk of his brow. “And did you have someone in mind?”

“I did, as a matter of fact,” you replied. “This guy right here.” You walked over and took Peter’s hand in yours. His hand was already sticky with nervous sweat and his own spider-web-sticky-stuff, but you didn’t mind.

“Oh no no no no no no no no,” your dad immediately launched into a repetitive mantra. “Not a chance.”

“Dad,” you said firmly. You refused to whine like a child. “You literally just congratulated him on a job well done. You like him. What’s the problem?”

“Nope. No. Absolutely not.”

“Dad!”

“Negative. Nada. Noperino.”

“DAD,” you shouted sternly. You stared him down, getting upset now at his unreasonable stubbornness. “Give me an actual, logical reason why I can’t date Peter.”

“Too dangerous. You’re just gonna end up heartbroken when he gets hurt!”

“Well, yeah! I love him! Of course I’m going to be heartbroken if he gets hurt, which is likely ‘cause he’s a superhero, but denying my feelings and not going out with him isn’t going to change that!”

Peter’s gaze had been flitting back and forth between you and Tony like a pingpong match, but now it was firmly on you. A stupid grin spread across his face at your admission.

“You love me?” he asked quietly.

You spun on your heels to face him, and could feel your cheeks heating up. “I, uh, I mean…” your spluttering was nearly identical to his when you had confronted him under an hour ago.

Tony heaved a large sigh.

“I guess there’s nothing I can do to stop you love-sick punks,” he resigned himself. “Stay safe.”

With that, he left the room, leaving you alone with Peter.

Peter’s smile had transformed from shy to cocky. “So you love me, huh?” he asked, a sly lilt to his voice.

“Can we please pretend I never said that?” you pleaded.

He sauntered over and wrapped his arms around you. “Never, ‘cause I love you too.”

You beamed with joy as he gave you a tender kiss on the cheek.

It was the start to something beautiful, much to your father's chagrin.

[riden5]

画像生成 クモの怪人的の4 ちょっとプロンプトを変えた ネガティブプロンプトは変えたかわからん

プロンプトは (supervillain photograph, human shaped:1.4), (spidery mutant supervillain with spider characteristics:1.3), tokusatsu, fighting pose, violent action scene, bizarrerie, BREAK (raw photo, photorealistic:1.4), in midtown, face in frame, dim soft lighting, professional lighting, highly detailed, ultra detailed, best quality, clear, clearly, sharp focus, technicolor, octane render, ray tracing, masterpiece, live action, HDR, BREAK global illumination, chaos, intricate, epic composition, high resolution, absurdres, ultra high res, high definition, high brightness, high saturation, lifelike images, high fidelity, stunning clarity, true to life colors, dynamic angle,

ネガティブプロンプトは (spiderman, spider-man, Spidey, Peter, neighborhood:1.4), female, [kaiju, marvel, dc], affable, kindly, meek, meekly, (hard to see:1.8), (dark, darkness:1.8), Sfw censored Low resolution, bad anatomy, worst quality, gross proportions, blurry, bokeh, poorly drawn, text, error, missing fingers, missing arms, missing legs, short legs, extra digits, (semi-realistic, cgi, 3d, 2d, paintings, painting, sketch, cartoon, drawing, anime, comic, manga, illustration, illust, graphic:1.4), (text, watermark), cropped, out of frame, flat color, flat shading, analog, analogphoto, worst quality, jpeg artifacts, duplicate, morbid, mutilated, multiple angle, split view, grid view, extra fingers, extra digit, poorly drawn hands, poorly drawn face, blurry, dehydrated, bad anatomy, extra limbs, cloned face, disfigured, gross proportions, disconnected limbs, floating limbs, missing arms, missing legs, too many fingers, illustration, painting, cartoons, sketch, (worst quality:2), lowres, bad anatomy, ((monochrome)), ((grayscale)), ((sepia)), (cropped), oversaturated, imperfect, (bad hands), (signature, watermark, username, artist name:1.8), conjoined fingers, imperfect eyes, skewed eyes, error, lowres, ((bad anatomy)), text, extra digits, fewer digits, blurry, (poorly drawn face), ((bad proportions)), logo, cropped, worst quality, jpeg, ((jpeg artifacts)) (worst quality:2.0) illustration, illust, 3d, 2d, painting, cartoons, sketch, (worst quality:1.4), lowres, bad anatomy, (cropped), oversaturated, signature, watermark, username, artist name, conjoined fingers, imperfect eyes, skewed eyes, error, bad image, bad photo, dark, night, fire, darkness, backlit, backlighted

[sj-thefan]

Becca’s 366 Day Reblog Challenge - September

* means smut or 18+ content

Challenge Masterlist

This month has honestly been a rollercoaster. Hockey finished up and the Stanley Cup was awarded; no, the Islander’s didn’t win, but at least they were beaten out by the Stanley Cup champions. School started, which is super fun. I had to film everything for my school project in a week. It’s looking like the lock down will be coming back soon (I’m in Toronto right now). On the plus side, though, I started writing again. Look forward to seeing some new updates soon.

Day 245 (Sept. 1)

The Pain You Feel by @meek-boy-rogers​

Day 246 (Sept. 2)

Till Death Do Us Part , As Long As You Both Shall Live and For Better or For Worse by @the-stories-in-my-head-95​

Day 247 (Sept. 3)

Hanging out with Dally while his rib heals would include…. by @xx-multi-fandom-fics

Day 248 (Sept. 4)

Roger loving on his sunshine girl ask by @brian-roger-deaky-and-fred

Day 249 (Sept. 5)

The Nurse and the Skywalker by @likesomekindofcheese

Day 250 (Sept. 6)

Colourblind by @shakespeareanqueer

Day 251 (Sept. 7)

bridal style. by @sunflowerazula

Day 252 (Sept. 8)

*ice cream. by @sunflowerazula

Day 253 (Sept. 9)

My Little Panther by @mirkwoodshewolf

Day 254 (Sept. 10)

General fluffy headcanons with Wyatt by @kiwifanfics

*Bolin w/ a breeding kink by @sunflowerazula​

Day 255 (Sept. 11)

Do You Believe in Magic? by @diary-of-deadweight

Day 256 (Sept. 12)

Wyatt Lykensen x Human!reader by @diary-of-deadweight

Day 257 (Sept. 13)

Mat during a pregnancy/baby h/cs by @generallybarzy

Day 258 (Sept. 14)

Free by @blog-of-a-multitude-of-fandoms

Day 259 (Sept. 15)

Temper by @devil-in-those-eyes

Day 260 (Sept. 16)

Temper Part 2 by @devil-in-those-eyes

Insane by @darling-i-read-it

Day 261 (Sept. 17)

Reputation by @lordofthemarauders

Day 262 (Sept. 18)

Clingy by @fav-imagines

Day 263 (Sept. 19)

Daylight by @angel-spidey

Day 264 (Sept. 20)

Breakfast by @blog-of-a-multitude-of-fandoms

Day 265 (Sept. 21)

forever? by @fav-imagines

Day 266 (Sept. 22)

Under The Mask by @catxsnow

Day 267 (Sept. 23)

It’s a bird...it’s a plane... by @harlotforhenry

Day 268 (Sept. 24)

Young Love by @twoidiotwriters1

Day 269 (Sept. 25)

rollercoaster! by @adoresobs

Day 270 (Sept. 26)

*Je T’aime by @confusednarcissistwrites

stop the flirting! by @adoresobs

Day 271 (Sept. 27)

*Pinned by @spideyyeet

Day 272 (Sept. 28)

*Not Like Him by @mrs-hollandstan

Day 273 (Sept. 29)

growing family by @tobiohno

Day 274 (Sept. 30)

*Bait by @tom-holland-is-spiderman

[monaisme]

One Week Later - Chapter 8

This is the sequel to my one-shot, “The Battle”

It could have been minutes... maybe even hours that Peter lay there, paralyzed in the rain. He couldn’t tell for the lack of natural light. The only thing he was sure of was that the sensory overload had gone on forever and fate had determined he’d stay awake for every. single. second. of it. The rain still fell, the thunder still thundered, and that was all Peter knew.

He wished that he could will himself to disappear, especially as two sets of footsteps entered the alley, coming closer to him, and pulling him back into his pained reality.

One lighter set, however, came to a complete stop right beside him.

“Holy crap!” A young voice suddenly called out. “Hey, Owen! You gotta come over here! I think I found a body!”  

Peter’s grunt of pain at the added pitch and volume reverberating off the brick walls surrounding them was drowned out by the sound of the storm.

“What are you goin’ on about?” A second, older voice—Owen called back from somewhere nearer to the mouth of the alley. “We don’t got time for your stupid make believe! We got work to do!”

“I swear on the dust of my mother, Owen! Come on!” The hint of whine pierced into Peter’s brain. “He must’a bled to death or somethin’ ‘cuz there’s a huge gash in his leg! Come and see!” The excitement was evident in his voice.

The approach of more footsteps through ever-deepening puddles brought tears to Peter’s eyes. How much longer would he be able to endure before the agony stopped?

It didn’t matter.

“Holy shit! You’re right!” The one called Owen exclaimed. The shift and rustling of soggy fabric ground through Peter’s brain and he could feel a presence nearer to him. “Quick! Help me check his pockets!”

“What?” The young voice stepped away from him. “But shouldn’t we call the cops?” The voice was hesitant. “I mean, it’s...”

“Look, I’m hungry. You’re hungry. Right?”

A meek, “Yeah,” replied.

“So do you want to eat trash or do you want to find some cash and get us some real food tonight? ‘Cuz I sure as hell know what I’m pickin’ if I get to choose!” Owen snapped out.

An awkward pause and then, “Okay, fine,” was all the warning Peter got.

A quick yank at Peter’s belt loops as his pockets were turned out set off his pain receptors in a way that the rain had barely touched. He prayed for it to end. It was too much, too much—more than too much.

They were mercifully quick, he thought, but he was shocked at being shoved away so harshly when the two were done. His breath caught, and still they didn’t hear him make a sound.

The young voice called out over the rain, “It’s a dud! There’s nothing here! We should just—”

“Shut up, Riley!” Owen cut him off, “Did you check his other back pocket? Is there a jacket around here somewhere?” He was sounding pretty frustrated. “There’s gotta be something?!”

“Of course I checked his back pocket! I’m not an idiot!” The voice now known as Riley responded petulantly. “He was probably dumped here after someone else got to him.”

“Dammit!” Owen shouted out and he stood up. Peter could hear his knees popping. Owen lashed out with a vicious kick to a bag of trash precariously close to Peter’s head.

Even in his current state, Peter’s spidey sense kicked in, and he flinched more than dodged the strike. There was no mistaking the movement.

“Oh, crap! Did you see that? I think it moved!” Riley announced, panic lacing his voice.

“Stop being a pussy.” Peter heard the younger Riley stumble, probably pushed. “If you don’t have the balls to do the work, I won’t bring you out the next time.” Owen jibed as he toed at what he still assumed was a corpse. He gave Peter’s broken ribs a rough nudge to prove it.

This time, Peter couldn’t help the more vocal grunt of pain as Owen’s sneaker made contact, nor could he help the weak kicks of protest at his mistreatment.

Oh, gosh, he hurt so bad.

Owen jumped back in shock. “What the—?” Peter heard him take a few more steps back. “Dammit!” Owen fumed as he started to pace. “What the hell are we supposed to do now?!”

Even in his muddled state, Peter knew that in HIS reality the next logical step would be to call for help... and yeah, he figured that Owen and Riley couldn’t exactly stick around for the police. He’d been in the same predicament as his masked vigilante counterpart too many times, so he got it.

But again and again, it all came down to the fact that five years had passed and Peter had already seen how the world had changed—all of the pain, desperation, and grief culminating into a misadventure like no other.

Peter understood all of it—for all of the loss he’d already experienced. But for him, especially after Ben—he’d been grateful that he’d at least had Spider-Man to channel his deep-rooted need to atone for his lack; something Peter would never fully be able to do.

The thought stirred up panic.

He still hadn’t done enough. Not for Ben, not for half a universe because he hadn’t been enough—that stupid glove. And May—if he’d only been around, he could have... he could have...

He had to do more.

The need for someone to come and help him struck Peter with an unexpected overriding hope and he knew he needed to get back to the tower. The two strangers would call 9-1-1. They’d talked about it, right? And then he could call Mr. Stark. He just needed to get them to—

“Help me,” he managed to croak out a quiet plea.

He’d anticipated some sort of response now that he was in the moment, but there was nothing but whispered bickering between the two about needing to mind their own business and other alleys with better restaurant scraps that didn’t have the issue of a dying man getting in the way.  

Maybe he needed to prove he was worth saving?

He pressed up and forced himself to roll over face down onto the filthy concrete, panting and dizzy from the exertion. Shit. How much blood had he lost? He just needed to get up off the ground—needed to push himself up. “Please help me,” he forced out, louder as he straightened and strained his arms.

The unexpected motion frightened the two men still standing over him. Or were they boys? Peter couldn’t be sure as he fought to keep from collapsing back down to the ground. All he was sure of was that any hope of aid left him when the one called Owen spoke one last time.

“Fuck this! Let’s get out of here before someone shows up and thinks we this.”

Peter wouldn’t have needed his enhanced hearing to follow the sound of frantic footsteps splashing through puddles as they got further and further away before disappearing completely into the chaos of the city streets.

The part of Peter Parker that lived for politeness and apologies wanted to scream out to the two that he hadn’t meant to scare them, that he was sorry, and to please come back, but they were long gone and the idea of getting up to follow them was more than impossible.

He tried to shift.

ow.

Peter clutched at his aching ribs.

He had wanted so badly to be gone and now all he wanted more than anything was to be snuggled up with May on the couch back at their old apartment watching Netflix on Peter’s laptop while popcorn popped in the microwave.

Then he wondered, oddly, what had happened to the Queer Eye guys while he’d been gone and if Mr. Stark would watch it with him if he asked—

That was his last truly coherent thought as weakness washed over him and he closed his eyes... he just to rest for a moment. It was all the time he could afford to take. He had to—he had to—he...

Peter’s arms couldn’t hold him and he dropped back to the ground.

And Peter knew no more.

* * * * * *

Peter woke with a gasp, unintentionally inhaling water from a puddle that had pooled around him, causing him to choke.

Pain wrapped around him, making each hack unbearable, but an inherent need to survive had set in and he pushed himself to move without a second thought. He made his way up out of the still deepening puddle and onto his tender forearms, ignoring the rain dripping from his nose and hair in favour of the pulsing in his head and ribs. Head hanging low and eyes closed, he took a minute to catch his breath... and tried to tamp down the unmistakeable need to vomit.

It took a few moments, the feeling passing for the moment, but spots of light danced at the edges of Peter’s vision even with his eyes closed and confusion overwhelmed him.  

Had he hit his head?

The thought of it didn’t make sense to him, but then nothing did just then.

He tried to think.

Okay. He was at the tower, and then... and then...

Lightning flashed bright, even through his eyelids and the nerves running through his body protested. His stomach lurched and he tried to breathe through the newest wave of nausea. His arms shook from the invisible current running through the air.

And then he remembered the storm.

It was clearer than anything else in that moment, not that it helped him.

He coughed again, not so hard as the last time, swallowing down the mouthful of hot saliva that came with the ‘maybe-not-as-loud-as-it-had-been-before’ thunder.

He needed it to be over.

He recognized the familiar symptoms of the overload, realized that it was a part of his current predicament.

But the rest of the pain didn���t make any sense.

Come on, Peter. Think!

Oh, gosh, he couldn’t think.

Okay, he’d been at the tower, he was sure of that.

And then he left.

But why?

Frustration overwhelmed him as much as the cold wind that tunnelled through the alley. He looked down at his bare arms as they trembled from the chill and strain of holding his weight, then saw the fresh bruises.

“Wha’ the—?”

He pushed himself up further. The brick and concrete swirled around him as vertigo kicked in and threatened to bring him back down into the water as he shifted back. If he could just get away from the shadows, he could see the damage—his arms, his ribs.

“AARggh!” Pain lanced through his leg as he put weight on it.  Peter collapsed back down into the puddle with a splash as he reached back to clutch at his thigh. The rush of adrenaline brought Peter clarity—May, the tower, looking for Ned, and then—all of it came rushing back to him in a montage of unimaginable despair and pain. His world was spinning off its axis and he was here; beaten, bruised, bleeding, and most likely concussed.

And he wanted to go home.

Mr. Stark came into his mind. Oh, how Peter wished he was here with him. He’d been so desperate to get away, and now?  Well, now he was well and truly screwed. No phone, no suit, no trackers. Mr. Stark was never going to find him. And any dreams of finding redemption were over. Yes, he remembered that, too. It didn’t matter what he wanted or that he’d changed his mind. The universe had made it pretty clear that it didn’t want him to stay.

Peter Benjamin, last of the Parkers, dead in an alley at the age of sixteen ‘cuz he pissed off a cab driver—It seemed especially poetic after managing to survive a battle with a literal Titan. How was that for luck?

He couldn’t contain the snort of laughter. How had that song that Ben used to sing go? If it wasn’t for bad luck, I wouldn’t have no luck at all?

... and the fight left him. Why bother?

Where before, he’d been so determined to find a way into the light, now all he could focus on was dragging himself further into the grimy gap between some overfilled trashcans. The rain, still falling heavily, washed away the blood sluggishly oozing from his leg. He faintly wondered why it hadn’t stopped bleeding yet, not that it was important. There’d be no trace of it by the time anybody found him.

The lightning flashed, and it didn’t bother him so much this time.

He managed to twist, crawl, and drag himself to sitting, leaning against the brick once again. The change in position, pain, and dizziness were too much though. The urge to vomit was immediate and irrepressible. Peter could barely tilt his head to the left before he gagged and a rush of bile forced its way up his throat. The pain in his ribs and head sparked with each weak heave and by the time he’d finished, he could barely catch his breath.

Peter closed his eyes. The lightning and thunder seemed to be moving on and all Peter could hear was the traffic in the distance and the rain pelting against the cement and black plastic surrounding him. It reminded him of the white noise machine Mr. Stark had gotten for him for when the apartment in Queens got too loud. It was almost soothing except for the smell of vomit, trash, and imminent death.  

His breath hitched at the inevitable. He was going to die alone in the alley beside the burnt out husk of his best friend’s former home. His chin quivered as he fought back tears.

He could be brave, accept his fate.

It was like his acceptance was all his body needed, and he slumped further against the wall he’d pressed up against.

He could be with his parents, and Ben and May...

His eyes started to slip closed, he figured for the last time, when a single set of steps running toward him caught his attention.

A different kind of instinct kicked in, and as the dark figure came closer, he had a thought, “...When you can do the things that I can, but you don't...”

The tears he’d fought back before came freely now. He understood. He was getting one last chance to make a difference before...  

“I’m sorry, Uncle Ben,” he whispered. “I’ll try my hardest this last time.”

Using the last of his strength, Peter pulled himself up and leaned heavily against the wall. He ignored the new, sharp pain in his chest that the action brought. He ignored the fire in his leg. He ignored the greying vision. There’d be no hiding in trash for Spider-Man’s last stand, whether whoever was approaching knew it was him or not.

“For you, Ben,” he panted as he balled up his fist to battle this one last foe. “See you soon.”

[thephantomofthe-internet]

Not Your Type 2

Steve Harrington x Reader

Read the first part HERE

Word Count: 5,651

Warnings: Swearing

Authors note: You want it, I found a way to do it! Sorry if I came off mean at first about doing a sequel, comments that are purely asking for sequels to fics are really disheartening because I get all excited about a comment and then it just feels like a demand for more with nothing else. But I found a thing I like so here ya are! Thanks to everyone who read part 1, I hope you like part 2 too!!!

Tag List: @moonstruckhargrove @hotstuffhargrove @carolimedanvers @thechickvic @alex--awesome--22 @lilmissperfectlyimperfect @so-not-hotmess @hipsmcgee @agentsinstorybrooke @sunflowercandie @kaliforniacoastalteens @songforhema @spidey-pal

It took him a full twenty-four hours to call. You suffered through the whole sleepover at Robin’s, filled with ‘I told you so’s’ and holding back her hair when she puked from a bad combination of sour belts and malt whiskey. She nearly puked on the lavender trumpet sleeves you’d lovingly built for Juliet herself and you nearly killed her.  You’d never bolted out of her house faster and back to your own, only a block away, to check your messages.

Unfortunately, there were none to check. You were insanely disappointed. But you held out hope, you had nowhere to be with the demon child’s parents taking him to the zoo for the day. You spent half the day cooped up in the living room on your couch, switching positions every thirty minutes and watching everything your tiny selection of TV channels, watching soap operas and the news and b movies from the fifties and reruns. You ate sparingly, flipped through every magazine on your coffee table, you found a great dress to recreate once you were done the Juliet dress, you did your makeup and then took it off-anything to fill the time.

And then, at five o’clock on the dot, he called.

Every phone call that had come through all day, you waited at least two rings on before answering. Both your parents worked full time, so you were free all day to do nothing. But with your mother home since four, you were risking her answering, so you pounced on the phone. You were glad that the first call the house had gotten was him, it meant that you could finally ignore the phone.

“Hello?”

“Hey, is this Y/N?” Steve asked. He sounded so nervous and awkward; he probably expected to get an older sibling or parent. He was trying so hard to sound polite. It was a little bit adorable. Just a little.

“Hey, Steve, what’s up?” you asked with a chuckle. The corded phone in the living room only reached so far, so you pulled the recliner’s matching stool to you with your foot and sat down again, resting your elbows on your knees and your head in your hands.

“Hey! Nothing much, how was Robin’s place?” Across town, Steve was fully laid down in bed, clutched his own phone to his ear. It had taken him all day to buck up the courage to make the call-he didn’t want to get your mom or some sibling he hadn’t heard about yet by mistake, that would be embarrassing and weird. He’d slowly given up on trying to be popular, but part of him wanted to live up to others expectations of him.

“About as fun as always. I half-watched Carrie for the fourteenth time and held back her hair after she drank too much and threw up. Party of the century...” you replied with an awkward laugh. You felt weird about making fun of Robin to Steve, but he laughed all the same and you didn’t want to seem totally lame and boring. In actuality, the night was boring and uneventful. You threw handfuls of popcorn at Robin’s younger brother Kyle when he tried to bust in all creepy. You hemmed a dress. You ate dinner with Robin’s mom. Nothing insanely eventful. Even the puking was fairly normal; Robin couldn’t hold her whisky despite her love for the stuff.

“No pillow fights and practising kissing?” Steve asked. He felt gross about it, especially knowing Robin, but he did it anyway. Maybe you’d laugh. Or say something snarky and cool.

You giggled, rolling your eyes “No, not really?” you replied, your tone turning up into a question. You couldn’t tell if he was serious. You hoped it wasn’t.

“No? Oh well...you’ll have to have one with me next time. Way more fun.” Steve propped his head up on his race car themed pillow.

“I generally like to have a guy take me out on a date before I start planning sleepovers with them...” you twisted the coiled cord around your finger, looking down the hall to ensure that your mother wasn’t listening from the kitchen, or worse on the other line getting the full conversation. Luckily, she had her ABBA cassette on blast as she cooked in the kitchen, mouthing the words to dancing queen into her slotted spoon.

“Well, then I’ll have to take you out then, what’re you doing tonight?” Steve asked, checking the time. It was only five fifteen, he had all night to see you.

“Nothing much, where’re you taking me?” you asked. You’d need at least an hour, to wash your hair and change your clothes. And that was just to look less sweaty and awful, to be at the level you’d like to be for a date you’d need at least another hour.

“How about I pick you up at eight and I take you to this diner I know and we get some food. And then we can drive around for a bit, nothing crazy.”  Steve offered out, trying to not sound meek and weird. He was not exactly proud of the half-assed plan, but it would work for now.

“I think I can make that work...I’ll see you at eight at 1245 Orchid Lane, alright?” you said, grinning giddily.  Steve bid his goodbyes and you hung up, rushing upstairs to take a shower. You scrubbed your hair rigorously, filling your private bathroom with the scent of artificial roses. You wanted the scent to linger in your hair as long as possible, even though you were going to put perfume over top. You knew that perfume never lasted as long as a man’s cologne, so you wanted to make sure you still smelt good. You scrubbed your body in strawberry body wash and scrubbed your face in apricot face scrub. You turned off the water fast and jumped out of the shower, pulling on a massive ‘Hawkins High’ tee shirt.

“Y/N! Robin’s here!” your mother called from downstairs, clearly annoyed by your not telling her that someone was coming over for dinner.

“Send her up!” you replied, pulling your baby pink hairdryer from the lowest drawer of your vanity and plugging it in, blasting your hair with hot air and using a rounded brush to build some waves in your hair.

“Harrington called.” Robin mused with a smirk as she walked into your room, plopping herself on your twin bed.

“He called. He’s taking me out. You got one right, bask in the glow or whatever.” You huffed, talking over the roar of the hairdryer.

“And we’re doing our hair...interesting...” Robin replied, examining her short nails and their chipped black paint.

You turned to her with a scoff   “I do my hair for every date. Unless I have no time, I always try to bring a bit of glamour to the equation.” Robin chuckled at that, reaching for the Seventeen magazine on your nightstand. “Well, if they’re going to take me out, they should get a bit of a show, shouldn’t they?”

“Whatever you say...” Robin said “But I’m sure Steve isn’t putting in this much effort.”

Robin was wrong. The second he got off the phone, he rushed to start his own process. He had just washed his hair the day before, but the Steve Harrington hair process took a bit of effort and time. And his hair needed to be damp. So he rushed to get it wet under the bathroom sink, running water into his palms and then his fingers through his hair. He repeated the motion over and over again, until he deemed his hair wet enough. Then went in the Farrah Fawcett spray and the fluffing and preening until it was the right height and shape.  He thought about calling Robin for help.  He felt completely out of his depths with you: you were still an enigma to him, confusing and strange and hard to discern. One moment you were bitchy and snarky and the next you were funny and supportive. He couldn’t gauge where he sat with you. Sure, you’d agreed to this date with him, you even seemed excited, but that didn’t mean that he was in the clear with you. You could turn on him again. He wanted to be sure that this would go okay. But Robin might not know, or worse she’d tell you and you’d laugh at him.  He couldn’t handle that.

He put his focus on choosing something to wear, something that wouldn’t look like it too much effort and yet came off attractive.

Back in your bedroom, you were freaking out. And Robin wasn’t helping. She had taken to pulling clothes from your closet to laugh at. It was like she wanted to stress you out. You tried to keep your focus on the tiny foam tipped applicator brush between your fingers, smudging very light peach eye shadow over your lids. You’d already filled in your eyebrows and put on the faintest amount of blush, to look flushed but not caked with makeup.  

Robin sauntered behind you, holding up a teddy bear themed knit sweater with a cheeky grin. “I think this would be perfect for your date with Harrington.” She giggled, bouncing the material up and down behind your head.

You scoffed, rolling your eyes as you tried to apply some mascara to your lashes.  “Yeah, that’s a no.” You muttered, jabbing the wand back into its pot and pulling it out to force more product onto the brush, swiping it thoroughly through your lashes till they looked defined enough for your liking.  You reached into the cup you’d filled with various lip glosses and lipsticks, digging through to find the cherry flavour you wanted. It was just pink enough to look defined on your face, but it wouldn’t stain the skin if you made out with him. Not that you were planning to make out with him. Just a precaution.

But it wasn’t in the cup. You whipped around to glare at Robin, who’d returned to your closet, examining a costume from the regional theatre’s production of Sweet Charity, which you’d snagged before the theatre snatched up all your hard work to keep in their vaults. “Did you borrow my cherry lip gloss?” you snapped.

Robin turned to you briefly, deadpan “Why on earth would I touch your lip gloss?” she asked, her voice completely monotone. You knew she didn’t touch the stuff. You were just stressed out.

“Damn...it was my favourite one...” you sighed, turning back to the mirror, choosing two lesser glosses and deciding between vanilla and strawberry flavour.  “Hey, while you’re in there, can you dig out my acid wash skirt? The one I hemmed too short, not the knee length one my mom bought.” Robin did a mocking salute before pushing through the hangers roughly. You felt like making a crack about her going back into the closet, but decided it wasn’t couth.

“Y/N! Come down if you’re eating! And bring Robin, she’s too skinny!” your mother called from the stairwell. You got up with a sigh, grabbing Robin’s wrist as she threw the skirt on your messy bed. You picked at your dinner nervously, unsure if eating would be beneficial to you or if it would just make you look bloated. Across town, Steve ate cold pizza while standing in the fridge.  Neither one of you were exactly focused on eating, simply on killing time before they had to meet one another.

Once you were able to excuse yourself, Robin left you to panic on your own and you went back to getting ready. Time flew by much faster with Robin not looming behind you, you were able to relax again as you dressed and painted your nails. Your tight denim skirt and white imitation silk blouse weren’t exactly comfortable, but you looked good and when you saw Steve’s car pull up to your house, you made your break downstairs. You shoved your feet into your white tennis shoes and threw your purse over your shoulder.  

“Be back later! Don’t wait up!” you called, yanking open the door. You waved shyly at Steve, who you found waiting outside his car, leaning on the passenger side door.  He looked effortlessly cool and confident; he wasn’t even looking at you. You made your way quickly over to the car, muttering a quick hello which he didn’t return. He did come to your side of the car and opened the door for you. That was the first time he looked at you in your whole interaction and he looked...nervous. It only showed in his eyes, but they completely gave him away.

He rushed to his own side again and climbed in, starting the car fast. You sped off a bit too fast out of your street and off into the night. Steve had the radio on low and The Smiths were playing, softly filling the car. You watched him drive, how he slowly began to find himself with his hands on the steering wheel and his eyes on the road.  You watched the grin slide onto his lips and the way it lit up his face, how it warmed his eyes and brought a bit of colour to his paled complexion.

“So, where are you taking me here?” you asked, turning to look at him fully. You crossed your right leg over your left, tapping your foot slightly to the melancholic wailing coming from the stereo.

“I know this absolutely awful diner, just the worst. And I figured, since it’s always empty, we’d go there, since its quiet. And hopefully, if all goes to plan, you won’t let me eat there ever again.” He chuckled and you bit back a grin, nodding slowly. With anyone else, having a boy tell you that they were bringing you to a secluded, empty, crappy diner would make you nervous and annoyed, but Steve was so trustworthy.  He wouldn’t pull any tricks on you. So you let him drive you to the outskirts of town to a faded, desolate diner off the turnpike, its spinning sign spelling out ‘Benny’s Burgers’.

“Isn’t this the place where the owner killed himself? In like the dining room?” you asked, furrowing your brow.

“No clue.” Steve replied with a shrug. He put the car in park and climbed out easily. You took a breath and followed behind quickly, not wanting to be left behind in the empty, dark, and far too quiet parking lot. Steve held open the door for you and ushered you in quickly to the desolate diner. The bright, white florescent lights hit you like a wall and you went momentarily blind, squinting under their harsh glow. You hadn’t realized how dark it was outside until they smacked you in the face.

Steve found you a booth and you slid in, still not used to the lights. He looked over you, concerned. “You alright over there?” he asked, leaning his elbows on the table as the ancient waitress brought you menus and cups of coffee.

“Just regaining sight, why is it so bright in here?” you asked, rubbing your eyes rigorously.

“No idea, it’s always like this at night.” Steve shrugged easily, flipping open the menu.

“You spend a lot of time here?” you followed his lead, looking over the standard diner fare at the offer.

“Yeah kind of...” Steve muttered, looking up to meet your eye. You nodded, easing him into the rest of the story obviously on the tip of his tongue. “My dad is a big investor in a chain of hardware stores. He’s always off out of town and my mom goes with him most of the time, so I’m on my own a lot. Big empty house, gets quiet. Sometimes I come here.”

You nodded “I get it, kind of...my dad’s never home either. He’s a truck driver, so he’s always gone, driving something somewhere. My mom has a job here now, but before my sister was born, she used to be one too, that’s how they met.” You explained.

“You have a sister?” Steve asked, surprised by the news. He’d hardly heard of you, much less another one in the family.

“Yeah, she’s like seven years older than me. Lives in Kentucky now with her fiancé and their kid. You probably wouldn’t know her, she didn’t live her very long before she graduated and moved out.” You replied. Steve looked confused, so you added “I didn’t move here till like fourth grade, super late into the year.”

Suddenly, Steve’s face lit up into a look of pure realization “I totally remember you now!” he slapped the table. You raised an eyebrow, cocking your head to the side. Steve pulled his hand off the table, pushing himself into the back of the seat shamefully “From school, I mean...” he added.

“Oh yeah?” you chuckled awkwardly. There were two options here: one was embarrassing, the other flashy and cool. You were really hoping he remembered the cool thing, not the awkward one.

“Yeah! You were in my gym class that year, you totally yakked on the gym floor on like the first day!” he cried with a laugh. You felt your whole face turn beet red and you turned away, utterly embarrassed. You hated that memory; it made you feel so small. You were so nervous that day and the cafeteria had accidently served milk out of date, it was a recipe for disaster.

“Everyone called me puke face for like a year...” you muttered. That shut him up quick. Steve’s laughter died in his throat and he coughed to clear it, rubbing the back of his neck, heat rises up his skin.

“That sucks, man...” he said awkwardly, floundering for something to say to fix the moment. He found what he was looking for quickly. “If it makes you feel better, like a year later I ripped my pants in front of like the whole school at one of the big assemblies, Tommy never let me live it down.”

You smiled sadly “Yeah I remember, I laughed my ass off about your Spider Man undies.” This made Steve blush, which was cute. But a bit of bitter bile came up in the back of your throat and you let the words it carried with it out thoughtlessly. “But mostly I remembered the way your butt was the gossip of the school for the rest of the year. I was puke girl after what I did, but you were just hotter.”

Steve frowned “I mean, that’s not completely true: all the guys gave me the same amount people gave you. And the puke thing wore off after Ricky Scott got stuck on that chain in the woods and had to be rescued by the fire department.” He argued, crossing your arms over your chest.

“The difference is that you had people on your side. You had Carol and Macy and Tina all telling the boys to stop. The right people. Anyone who stood up for me was shamed too, it was too much of a risk. And Ricky was left in that tree by Tommy H and Chris Samuels. Nothing would’ve happened to him if they had stayed to help him.” You fired back quickly.

Steve opened his mouth to speak, but shut it again. What could he argue? That it wasn’t a competition? He was battling against the hurtful memory of yours he’d brought up. He wouldn’t pretend that he didn’t call you that behind your back, that he didn’t laugh when people made fun of you to your face. He was a bad guy, he knew that. He was trying to be better now. And that meant, in that moment, to shut up.

You sighed, releasing the anger. You shouldn’t have brought up any of it anyway. You had let most of it go, that little bit was the last of it that remained. “But nobody really remembers puke girl now, except for you, I guess. I lived it down.” You said offhandedly. Steve nodded, his mind elsewhere, trying to figure out how to fix this.

“But you know who’ll never like her nickname down?” you asked. Steve didn’t respond, but you said it anyway. “Carol.”

“Carol didn’t have a nickname.” Steve muttered, clearly annoyed by the mention of her name. He really didn’t like Carol, not after what she said about Nancy way back when they were just starting out.

“Oh yes she did. Everyone called her period head in sixth grade. She got her period in Mr. Fitz’s history class and after that everyone called her period head, cause her hair matched her jeans.” You giggled at the memory. Karma was sweet: Carol was the worst about your cruel nickname, having her deal with the same embarrassment for a year was sweet revenge.

“Nobody called her that after seventh grade, when Tommy beat up Anthony Parks.” Steve countered, leaning on the table. You’d piqued his interest just a bit. Or maybe it was your smile. You looked so happy in the moment, it was hard to ignore.

“You and your friends might not have, but mine did. After she pushed Amanda Peats down the stairs in freshman year, we all started calling her that in silent protest. Amanda’s boyfriend, Arnold took care of actually going after Carol for it, and getting his ass handed to him by Tommy for it. Whenever we talk about Carol, she’s still period head.”  You said a bit too proudly.

Steve nodded, taking a sip of his coffee. Your waitress had returned and you couldn’t even remember what you had ordered as you handed back your menus, your focus solely on Steve and his pensive, thoughtful look. You didn’t think you’d ever seen him look pensive in your life.

“So, wait, what did your friends call me?” he asked, setting the mug down.

You scrunched up your face thoughtfully “Oh different people called you different things...Harrington, the hair, I know the whole soprano section of the Hawkins High choir called you heart stopper Harrington. My friends alternated between Harrington and that douche.” You replied.

Steve nodded “Sounds about right, I knew about the heart stopper thing. Don’t know where it came from.”

“You went to see the choir in junior year.” Steve shook his head, looking at you like you were crazy. “No you did, I remember I was there too, I went to see Robin perform with the band and you were there in the third row. You had detention or something, forced to see the show. You smiled at Tammy Thompson and she about near fainted. That’s where the nickname came from.”  

Realization washed over his face “I had to go cause Ms. Seymour gave me detention for skipping drama like four times in a row.” He added quietly before turning to you, wide eyed “How do you remember all this stuff?”

You found yourself blushing again, looking down at your lap “I don’t really know...I guess my life has just happened in parallel to your for awhile and I never noticed that it was weird till now.” You said shyly.

Steve smiled cheekily “I like it.”

You rolled you eyes, trying not to smile back “Well that’s cause you’re an egomaniac.”  Steve laughed at that and you watched him for a second. A piece of his puffed up coif had fallen into his eyes and his eyes crinkled up at the edges when he laughed. You wished freak Byers was wandering around with his camera, taking his creeper shots. You wouldn’t have a copy of this moment.

When he finally recovered and your food arrived, Steve looked you over, watching you for signs of discontent. He’d already fucked up once and you finally seemed to be happy again, he didn’t want to ruin it. But he had one moment he wanted to recount with you.

“I remember you for one more thing, you know...” he said softly, building a large pile with his corned beef hash, using the sides of his fork to mix everything together.

“Oh yeah? What’s that?” you asked, leaning your head on your palm, watching him lazily.

“You were in my drama class in junior year. It was the sophomore class, cause I didn’t have the credits for the junior one and I needed a class that I couldn’t fail.” He said confidently.

You nodded slowly “That all?” It wasn’t exactly a deep memory, it hardly had anything to do with you, just a glimpse of your life happening far in the background of his.

Steve swallowed. This was the part that could hurt him, he didn’t know how you’d take it. “No, I remember one more thing. We had to do monologues for our final. I don’t remember most of them, because they were shit. But I remember yours. You did this one from some Shakespeare play and I just remember how...beautiful you liked. Seymour insisted on having everyone stand under the spotlight on the stage in the cafeteria. And you were up there, and your hair looked so pretty under the lights, and you seemed so...confident. You were the only one who seemed confident about anything. You did the best job.” He explained.

You demurred. This was not the amazing moment you wanted to remember. That moment was really insignificant in your life. You preferred backstage work, you move onto crew quickly. Nobody else thought that scene was good, everyone liked Kristy McNeel’s scene better, she did the monologue about Santa killing her mom so naturally it was popular.

But you didn’t say any of that, though.

“You remember that?” you asked softly, almost in a whisper. You suddenly felt very seen and very shy.  

“Yeah, it was cool! You did like Romeo and Juliet or something. I didn’t really get what you were saying, but you sounded so dreamy and sweet. And then I actually met you and-”

“And I was a massive bitch, sorry about that...” it was your turn to be embarrassed and awkward. You reached up to run your fingers through the side of your hair, destroying the styling you’d done in one awkward movement.

“It’s cool, I was a douche like all of the time you knew me, it evens out.” Steve shrugged “So wait, what do you think? Did my reviews live up?” he gestured wide towards the empty seating around you.

You chuckled “Well...yeah kind of.” Steve chuckled, shaking his head. “But I can see why you’d want to come here sometimes. It’s peaceful in a way.” The diner wasn’t insanely loud, but it wasn’t dead silent. You could hear the hum of the radio in the kitchen, the distant chattering of your waitress and the cook in the back, the jukebox in the corner looked absolutely desperate to be played. When combined, it wasn’t bad company. Add in the sound of your forks scraping plates and the cups hitting the table and a good book and this place could feel like home.

“Plus it’s open really late.” Steve added thoughtlessly. You raised an eyebrow at him curiously. Steve swallowed hard, his throat turning dry. “I have a bit of insomnia.” It wasn’t a complete lie, he just didn’t give any reasoning behind it. He could rationalize holding back information, it made things easier.

You pursed your lips, nodding your head back and forth “I guess that’s good then, good to have somewhere to go.” You decided.  “But you know what this means, right? Now I know your hiding place. Robin has been trying to figure out where you go besides your house, work, the arcade with Henderson, and the occasional party. Now I know, I could sell you out to her in a second.”

“Don’t you dare! That girl has been trying to get me to go to a Chicago concert with her for the past week and a half! Do you know how much Chicago sucks? If she knew where I hid from her I’d never hear the end of it.” Steve pleaded jokingly.

“Oh she’s on you about that too? I won’t go see it with her either! I saw them once, with my mom when I was ten, and it sucked ass. I won’t do it again.  I can’t believe she’s bugging you about it now!” you moaned, shaking her head as the image of Robin heckling Steve over the counter at Family Video to come to the dumb concert filled your mind and made you cringe. Poor guy, Robin was persistent about those sorts of things too, he probably never heard the end of it.

“It’s not so bad; if it was like three towns over I’d go see it with her, but it’s right in Carmel, people will see me there.” Steve said.

“Oh, and I thought you were over caring about your rep in this town?” you asked cheekily, swatting his arm.

“A man’s gotta put his foot down somewhere. I choose to not be seen at Chicago concerts with girls who I’m not dating.” Steve answered truthfully. Your waitress brought over your check and cleared your half-eaten food away before either of you could pretend to want to take it home. Steve dropped two twenties on the check before you could even attempt to pull your wallet from your purse.

“So, and correct me if I’m wrong, but you’re saying that you’d be seen at a Chicago concert if the girl was putting out.” You asked with a giggle. The logic was so stupid, you had to laugh.

“Pretty much, you ready to blow this place?” he offered you his hand and you took it happily, letting him pull you up and walk you out of the diner. It was nice; his hands were warm and enveloped yours easily. You found yourself gravitating towards the heat his body gave off. And he smelt good, like good cologne and hairspray and something else, maybe laundry detergent? Whatever it was, it made the smell utterly intoxicating. You wanted to be wrapped up in that smell and that warmth.

Steve drove you home in comfortable silence, your hand held in his and your gazes switching from each other to the road ahead and back again. You felt giddy and drunk. You really liked him. That was weird to think, that you liked Steve. You remembered making fun of him with your friends in school, joking about how dumb his hair is and how stupid he was. But now...now, you saw something different in him. How self-aware he was, how focused he was. He was just a big old dork with money and a cool car and more than an ounce of charm.

You liked that he was a dork. It made him more approachable.

Steve already liked you. He knew that he liked you the second he saw you smile in Burger in a Basket the day before. He didn’t want you to stop smiling. You were too pretty to not smile. And you were smart and funny and you paid attention to people, to him. He wasn’t used to that. Nancy didn’t pay attention to him, especially after Christmas. He always paid attention to the girls he dated, especially Nancy, but you? You matched his attention at every move.  It was flattering. But it was also nice to feel as though his effort was matched by yours. It made him feel wanted.

“You know...in that drama class, I had a massive crush on you...” you whispered softly, running your thumb over his knuckles. There were scarred and jagged from some events you weren’t a part of. You wanted to know the stories behind the scars, the fights he’d won or probably lost. Everyone already knew that he lost a fight to Billy Hargrove, expected, and Jonathan Byers, very unexpected and kind of embarrassing.

“Yeah?” Steve muttered back, his expression softening.

“Yeah...I mean you were so cool and charming...it was hard not to like you. But I did fall out of it quick enough. You’re a terrible actor.” You chuckled, brushing a strand of hair out of your hair, grinning up at him.  Steve scoffed dramatically, rolling his eyes with a wide smirk.

“No, I’m serious you’re awful! You did that scene from A Streetcar Named Desire, which I’m sure Seymour chose for you since you were never there, and you were awful! You didn’t even know what you were saying!” You cried. Steve shook his head, laughing along with you. He pulled up to your house, parking outside.

The pair of you stared at one another for a moment, the laughter dying out in both your throats and your eyes locking onto one another. You weren’t sure what to do, but you couldn’t look away. You watched as Steve’s eyes flicked to your lips and yours did the same. You couldn’t tell who kissed who first, but you knew that Steve was a really good kisser. Top five at least, maybe even top three. He was firm and slightly aggressive. He kissed you like it was his last moment on earth and he needed to savour it. He set your whole body on fire in a single moment.

Steve broke away first, but you pulled him back fast, pulling him to your chest and letting his hands run up your back and to your hips. The gear shift was in your way, but it was clear that Steve wanted you even closer. You wanted him closer too.  

When you broke away again, your chest heaving in breaths, you nodded to Steve with a small smirk “Wanna go to your place?” you asked slowly, drinking him in.

Steve’s eyes darkened and he swallowed hard, nodding hard. He shifted the car into drive and slammed the gas, sending you flying back in your seat and laughing loudly.

This was going to be a fun night.