#anyway ned coates seems like a guy who knows his history so

[cakesandfail]

Every time I get to this bit I wonder how much Sam Vimes looks like Suffer-Not-Injustice Vimes, because if they do look alike then this is even better than it already is

[forasecondtherewedwon]

Slow Mover

Pairing: Peter Parker x Michelle Jones (Spideychelle) Rating: E/NSFW Word count: 12k

Summary:

When Ned backed out on rooming with Peter during their first year of college, MJ felt like it was no big deal to take his place. Now that she's about to lose it, she's confronting the fact that she may have grown attached... and not to the apartment.

Monday, February 1st

I’m gonna pack my things and leave you behind/This feeing’s old and I know/That I’ve made up my mind ― “I Love You So” (The Walters)

MJ’s been thinking about moving out for awhile. As far as roommates go, Peter’s a slob, not that she has a frame of reference since they’re only in their first year of college and she declined student residence in favour of splitting a lease with her Academic Decathlon underling.

If the term ‘underling’ seems harsh, it’s not. Peter’s earned her disdain in more ways than there are Disney Dalmatians. He mashes down the nibs of her Faber-Castell markers making hasty grocery lists on the post-its that inevitably breeze off their fridge door. He falls through the window almost every time he gets in late from Spidey-patrol and the thud wakes her up. He has socks everywhere. She has never seen so many. Fucking. Socks.

This was supposed to be him and Ned, she knows―his actual best friend, not the friend reluctantly given the designation because... why, again? How she won Peter’s friendship isn’t immediately clear. Except Ned decided to commute from home in a last-minute fit of separation anxiety. This was after Peter signed a lease but before the online application for student residence opened. MJ shrugged and said she’d help them out because the little walk-up is close to campus and about on par with what the college charges for housing. For Peter, the draw is the privacy to sneak in and out in his superhero getup. For MJ, it’s the quiet of not sleeping within the same four walls as a noisy roommate, on a floor packed with students, in a building of eighteen-year-olds who’ve just left the nest and are ready to party.

But, like she’s noted, Peter’s the worst.

It’s the first of February, with only two full months plus exams left in the term, and she’s still telling herself she might just cut and run. Very likely, she and Peter have the last good landlord in New York City (or the woman knows how fast she could rent their apartment with so many students, tourists, and other career transients coming and going) because they were told upfront that they could move out at either the end of the month or right in the middle, provided they gave two weeks of notice. When the 1st and the 15th of every month roll around, MJ re-evaluates. Obviously, she hasn’t dropped Peter on his ass yet, but she could. She has options. She’s met a handful of people in her figure drawing and art history classes who are living together on two floors of a ramshackle historic house somewhere that’s basically turned into an artist’s colony and one more person would be nothing to them. MJ could absolutely move in. The socializing demands would be an adjustment, but it’s a short sprint to exam season and she’ll be burrowing into a library study room at that point anyway.

Today’s another first of the month, another chance to announce she’s jumping ship. After considering everything during her walk back to the apartment from her afternoon class, MJ’s decided she’ll probably stay. She never records the factors that inform her decision, preferring to leave no trace. Put it down to her love of mystery and conspiracy, or her five solid months of rooming with a guy who leads a double life. Either way, her vast internal ordering system that leaves no physical sign drives Peter nuts. That’s why she continues to use it.

“Hey, loser, I’m home!” she shouts, twisting her key out of the lock and closing the door behind her.

MJ doesn’t see him right away, but she knows he’s here. His class schedule is as familiar as her own and she knows he’s just as hesitant as she is to engage with people―even people he’s friendly with in class―outside of school. He’ll be here. No need to rush the encounter.

She kicks off her slushy boots, hangs her coat, shoves her hat down the sleeve, and heads to her room. A living space and kitchen that are practically one and the same was evidently the trade-off the boys were willing to make for two bedrooms when they chose this apartment. Whatever. MJ isn’t dying for any meal that requires more than a foot and a half of counter space. And the bedroom all to herself is nice. Peter got the one with the window for his nefarious late-night purposes (saving people and shit), so her room’s away from exterior walls and beside the bathroom. She nearly always gets to the shower first and when she doesn’t... at least being a slow showerer isn’t one of Peter’s faults.

Hefting her textbooks and notebooks from her bag one by one, MJ assesses which she’ll need for homework tonight. Yikes, maybe it should be an exclusively laptop evening; she has a midterm paper coming up and the task of assembling citable articles from scholarly journals beckons in a voice that’s been shredded through a cheese grater. Mmm, cheese. She touches her stomach. Snack first?

Once she’s let her hair down to straggle around her shoulders and swapped her jeans for pj bottoms, MJ plods back into communal territory. She can hear Peter talking in his room through his door, probably on the phone. Part of her wants to knock and tell him to say hi to his aunt for her. The more persuasive part of her wants cheese. She shuffles onward.

He comes sliding into the kitchen like a young Tom Cruise, but with pants―god, the mental comparison is so embarrassingly bad that it’s making her start to blush―as MJ’s arranging a slice of cheddar on a cracker. The fact that Peter so clearly wants to tell her something encourages her to bite down and, mouth full of crunching food, cut him off with, “’Sup?”

“I just got off the phone with Ned,” he informs her. His arms are dramatically apart like this news is in any way important or unusual.

Treating him with heavily sarcastic seriousness, she plants an elbow on the counter and leans towards him like she’s fascinated.

“And Lego’s teaming up with Tesla to build a driveable, electric Millennium Falcon that roars like Chewbacca when you hit the gas,” she predicts.

Peter’s mouth hangs open for a moment and it’s adora―it’s amusing. Like, she wants to laugh at him. Because he looks like a dork. This nerd is so easy to bait.

“Oh my god, I wish. Get out of my fantasies.”

Her elbow almost slips off the counter. She finishes chewing, chastened by how she could’ve just bit her tongue in a grisly household accident.

“Spit it out then,” she suggests, because now Peter’s grinning, waiting for her to ask. “I don’t have another guess.”

Her roommate takes a deep breath to ready himself for something and she narrows her eyes.

“Well, you know how you keep talking about those people you know and their big house and how they maybe have a room or part of a room or something?”

MJ rolls her eyes.

“I mentioned it once, Parker.”

“Oh, well, I remember you saying that. I―well,” he interrupts himself, “Ned and I wondered if that was something you were still considering.”

She has no idea where he’s going with this.

“I have no idea where you’re going with this.”

Peter comes close to vibrating for a minute before he just blurts it out.

“Ned’s moving in! Or, he could be, if you were moving out. Shit,” he mutters, expression falling. “We’re not trying to force you out. It’s just that you said you might want to, and Ned’s been thinking about moving closer to campus for exams and―”

“Yeah, that makes sense,” MJ agrees, nodding quickly. “You guys are idiots for not thinking of that sooner.”

Are they? Was it them being idiots that kept Ned at home? No, that was anxiety. Was it them being idiots that made Peter wholeheartedly welcome MJ as a roommate? No, that was... Ok, she doesn’t have an answer for that one, but she’s already said her thing about idiots, so she scoops her plate of cheese and crackers off the counter and slips past the confused face of her roommate, muttering about peer-reviewed academic sources.

It’s infuriating and unfair, as MJ numbly abandons her snack on her desk and sinks to the floor of her bedroom with her head in her hands, that the instant she agreed to move out was the same instant she noticed how cute her soon-to-be ex-roommate looks in sock-feet.

 Tuesday, February 2nd

Is there more to this urge that lies in me/’Cause it feels like there’s something I can’t see/But I don’t know what it means ― “Patience” (Hollow Coves)

“You have your key, right?” Peter checks. It’s twenty after seven in the morning and MJ’s hustling him out their apartment door ahead of her. Honestly, she’s trying to kick the back of his shoes to speed him up, but Spider-Roommate’s a little too agile.

“Right here,” she assures him, flashing him the key ring in her hand.

“I just didn’t want you to be―”

“I know, loser.”

She observes as he hefts his backpack onto his shoulder and reaches past her to pull the door shut after them. He locks up and drops his key into his backpack. The solo key. Right in there, with all the other crap Peter keeps crammed inside. Half the time, when he has class and she doesn’t, she hears him arrive home and gets up to let him in. (Has she been listening for him? Not consciously.) Otherwise, he’s fumbling through his bag for ages for that key. Hilarious that he thinks he needs to take care of her like this, when she’s the one who’s been doing that for him.

Caring in a loose sense. Not actual caring. Just, making something more convenient.

They walk down the stairs. MJ’s instinct is always to hang back―like she’s trailing him or trying not to be seen with him―but Peter always slows down to her pace, never making it a thing. By this point in the year, their steps are in sync. The rhythmic thumps are an excuse not to speak. For her, anyway.

It’s early and MJ doesn’t have class until tonight. The explanation she’s been going with since this little morning ritual started is that it gives her more time to get shit done and keeps her established sleep schedule from getting fucked up on days that she has to be on campus before noon. The number of steps they descend together has grown familiar beneath the soles of her sneakers, she knows every little gouge in the wall. With Ned moving in, the number of days left for MJ to do this is suddenly pretty small. She’s nervous about it; she’s never been one for countdowns. Pulling her wool cardigan closed, she crosses her arms over her chest like she’s holding herself in and tucks her hands into her armpits.

“Have a good morning,” Peter says, moving quickly across the cramped lobby to push the outer door open. “See ya.”

She feels him glance back at her, but she doesn’t return the look.

“Yep.”

Alone, MJ turns to their shared mailbox. Another benefit of a key ring: carrying multiple keys at one time without the risk of losing any of them. She opens it up, extracts their measly haul, and flips through as she climbs the stairs back to the apartment. The journey feels a lot farther when she’s heading up―could be the roommate that makes the difference, or only gravity.

Halfway up, she has to pause. It’s just junk mail, addressed to Peter, but she realizes she’s going to miss getting mail with his name on it.

 Wednesday, February 3rd

Maybe you and I could live together if we ever learn to ease the tension ― “You & I” (Colony House)

Ned’s over when MJ gets home. Today’s the longest day of her week―six hours of class back-to-back, followed by an hour and a half of the work study she signed up for because her scholarship doesn’t cover rent outside of student residence. It’s just papering bulletin boards with student council notices, and the mundanity of the work is nice, but she’s reached her quota for expending effort today; she accepts Ned’s high-five as she drags her feet past the couch and heads to her room, lying face-down on her bed until it feels like she’s whole again.

Gradually (very gradually), she rolls onto her side and grabs her warped copy of Moll Flanders off the bedside table. Something about a woman living an extremely precarious life calms her. MJ’s breathing becomes slow and silent, but she stops herself after 15 pages. If she keeps reading, she’ll fall asleep. Instead, she sits up and trades her socks for the cozier version wedged under her mattress. She has a secret fear that Peter will steal them. He’s gotten a covetous look in the past, so she’s taking precautions.

She pulls her laptop to her instead of going to her laptop and tidies up the Works Cited page on her in-progress paper. This task of thoughtless precision is the only school-related thing she feels like tackling for the rest of the day. All of today’s classes are either of the Monday-Wednesday variety or once a week, so MJ isn’t in a rush to get the readings done. She stops to think, pulling up the digital copy of her planner, and stares at the test she has marked down for next week. Hmm. It’s before her paper’s due, meaning studying for it won’t be taking priority, but the test format is a mix of multiple choice and short answer. The class―a sociology course―is graded on a curve and she’s in there with a bunch of students from non-writing programs who are consistently shit at short answer questions. As long as she refreshes her memory about the material being tested, the grading curve will push her competent written answers to the head of the class. It’s all about working the system.

During her time alone in the apartment yesterday, MJ hammered out a thesis and introductory paragraph. Now, she approaches them ruthlessly to see if she can streamline. This is the most critical part; actually writing the paper is just her hands flying across the keyboard, tossing in quotations like air-dropped care packages to her primary source-obsessed professor.

No, no, her brain is rejecting it. She’s done enough today. She doesn’t exactly want to socialize, but Peter and Ned are generally good about letting her quietly stew in their company without expecting much from her. MJ heads to the bathroom to wake herself up by washing her face, then out into the living room.

“What are you nerds doing?”

Half of the reason for her question is just to scare them (not that that’ll actually work on Mr. Super-senses over there) because she can see they’re about to put a movie on. Peter spins around to look at her while Ned rises from the couch. Privately, MJ thinks it’s kind of nice how Ned feels so at home here, where Peter is. Then again, it is about to become his home. Fuck, she needs to talk to the art people about that room.

“We were just gonna watch Alien,” Peter offers.

“Again? Didn’t you tell me you guys did an Alien marathon over winter break?”

He smiles like he’s been caught and it’s cu―funny.

“Yeah, and Ned’s making hot chocolate.”

“Oh yeah?” MJ watches Ned stride purposefully into their tiny kitchen. “Finally making yourself useful?”

He waves a dismissive hand at her and she snorts a laugh. They’ve gotten to this good friendship place of brotherly/sisterly teasing.

“You wanna watch?” Peter asks, calling her attention back to him. She weighs her looming essay against the full day behind her.

“Ok.”

“Hot chocolate, MJ?” Ned immediately asks.

“Well, since you’re determined to be such a good host.”

Ned grins and turns back to the kitchen. MJ leans against the wall, watching Peter put the movie in―not watching, just, like, observing―then glances at Ned. He hasn’t made much progress with their drinks. A mismatched trio of mugs is on the counter and... that’s it.

“You need a hand?” she asks, pushing off the wall.

“Where’s the kettle? Didn’t it used to be in this drawer?”

Ned points into the sliding drawer at their heap of assorted pots and pans.

“It did,” MJ explains. “But that one broke, so we bought a new one. A new one, WHICH WE’RE HOPING NOT TO BREAK BY DROPPING IT INTO THE DRAWER THIS TIME, RIGHT, PETER?”

Her roommate gives a sheepish laugh.

“Our new one’s tucked behind the toaster,” she tells Ned, directing him with a jerk of her chin.

“You guys are buying appliances together,” Ned chuckles. “That’s adorable.”

It’s a somnambulant walk to the couch, where MJ huddles in the corner and zones out for most of the movie.

 Thursday, February 4th

You burn through my mind, again and again, again/And again and again ― “Luna” (Bombay Bicycle Club)

Feeling a burst of resolve before the weekend, possibly in rebellion against Wednesday evening’s confusing feelings, MJ decides to text one of her art classmates re: the spare room. Somehow, what she ends up texting is a question about their prof’s office hours. Which MJ already knows the answer to.

Another thing she does is read the same page of her art history textbook over and over and over and over.

 Friday, February 5th

You’re the only one worth seeing/The only place worth being ― “Cold Cold Man” (Saint Motel)

Peter’s class finishes an hour before MJ’s, yet he always dithers with his packing, so they end up leaving the apartment for their trip back to Queens (courtesy of public transit) at the same time. Traveling with him is one of the less flawed aspects of a friendship with Peter Parker. He won’t glare manspreaders out of their prime seats like MJ would, but he knows the shortest routes and, while train and bus timetables never line up well for her, Peter’s memorized and mastered the schedule. They never wait around.

Also, there’s, like, a bubble of chill around him. No one in their vicinity behaves like a violent asshole―not verbally, not physically. Is it some kind of Spider-Man thing? Is Peter’s skin emitting a sedative to keep the other passengers relaxed? MJ isn’t relaxed. She sways into him multiple times, their overstuffed backpacks knocking together, and he smiles at her, unbothered, as her heart revs ineffectually like a remote-control car someone’s trying to urge up a steep slope.

They walk the last two blocks to the spot where their paths diverge. There’s enough sunshine that the light snow that fell overnight has already been transformed into the slimy grit crunched beneath their boots. Her bag’s beyond heavy at this point, but she knows, at any sign of lag, he’ll offer to carry it for her and she just can’t deal with that shit right now. ‘That shit’ being Peter’s thoughtfulness. MJ just... she needs a day, two days, to remember that she knows how to live without Peter always in the next room. Without joint ownership of a fucking kettle.

“So, text me when you wanna head back on Sunday and we’ll go together?”

MJ frowns. It isn’t clear if the question is the timing for the return trip or if they’ll be making it as a party of two. She shrugs.

“If that works for you.”

“Ok, awesome.”

She nods though it doesn’t feel like a situation where the word ‘awesome’ is called for.

“Later, nerd,” MJ says, aiming for her mom’s as she marches away.

“Hey, MJ?”

She glances back. Peter’s still standing there, plaintive look on his face, hands clutching the straps of his backpack. He never wears gloves. She keeps telling him to wear gloves. Is she supposed to be responsible for Spider-Man’s frostbite? What a pain in the ass this guy is.

Her attention’s enough to get him to continue.

“It’s ok, right? It’s ok about Ned moving in? It’s just, you were kind of quiet during the movie the other night and we didn’t talk much yesterday either...”

With a deep breath, MJ walks back to him.

“I’m just busy,” she says, meeting his eye, then letting her gaze drift off. “Big essay coming up.”

“...And about Ned?”

“Oh yeah, that makes sense, like I said. Did you forget?” It’s maybe the shittiest attempt at teasing someone ever made, but MJ doesn’t really tease Peter.

“But it’s not, like, bothering you or anything, is it? I mean, you don’t regret agreeing?”

Do you? she wants to ask and doesn’t.

“I’m fine, Parker, stop worrying about it,” she says instead. “If you bring this up again after Ned moves in with you, I’m going to have to come back to the apartment and booby-trap it, Home Alone-style.”

He smiles.

“Harsh.”

“Alright,” MJ concedes, “Parent Trap-style, like they did to the cabin. No swinging paint cans, just buckets of molasses.”

“Deal. Consider my silence bought.”

“I didn’t buy your silence, nerd, I ensured it through coercion. Aren’t you supposed to have experience dealing with bad guys? Yikes.”

Peter starts laughing and, incredibly, she does too, the two of them stalled on the corner.

“Ned’ll keep me out of trouble.”

“Yeah, well, he better,” she says easily. Too easily. Jesus, what the hell is she saying? “Because, uh, I need you alive long enough to pull off the Parent Trap thing.”

Shit, she made an offhanded reference to the possibility of his being murdered. Nice. Really great stuff. He won’t want her out on the 15th now―he’ll never want her back in the apartment with him again.

“Of course.”

Peter glances down, but when his face tilts back up, he’s smiling at her. Why the fuck does it feel like they’re saying goodbye forever? MJ nods an awkward farewell to end this strangeness. That’s when Peter moves towards her and she freezes. What’s he doing? They don’t have a secret handshake like he and Ned do. He catches himself when his arms start to lift and looks horrified.

“Sorry,” Peter blurts. “I don’t know what... I was going to hug you.” He laughs self-consciously. “That’d be weird, right?”

“And it’s managing to get weirder without even happening.”

He takes a step back, but MJ surges forward impulsively. She tucks her chin over his shoulder, her hands squeezing his sides because the backpack makes a full embrace impossible―Peter’s backpack is helping her make wiser choices than her own brain.

“Bye,” she says, soft and fast, and turns, jogging to catch the light.

 Saturday, February 6th

The longing never ends/Letting go of ways that we changed, still I pretend ― “Fire Flower” (Summer Salt)

Her gram comes over for dinner. Or, more like MJ and her mom pick her gram up from the apartment she shares with her sister and bring her back for dinner. Ever since Gram’s wife (they never made it official, but that doesn’t change who these women were to each other) died, she’s been living with her sister, but MJ’s great-aunt, 79 years old as she is, has a hot date tonight, so Gram has made time for them in her busy schedule. She’s a real jokester about that in the car, about how she’s missing Westworld for them. When MJ shoots back that she can and has watched Westworld any time she wants (she’s pretty sure Gram’s on her third rewatch of season one), her mom shoots her a look from the driver’s seat. When she adds that Gram only watches because she has a crush on Thandie Newton, they have to roll down the windows to let a little of the laughter out.

Her mom won’t let her wash dishes during her first visit home for over a month, but she has nothing against MJ drying them. As they work, Gram sits at the kitchen table and asks her all about school. Asks if she’s still drawing naked people (yes, Gram, the figure-drawing class runs all year), asks if Financial Aid’s trying to snatch her scholarship back (no, Gram, but I’ll call you if they try anything).

“And are you still living with that boy?”

Normally, MJ would laugh this question off, same as the others. Normally. Her hands still, holding a mug wrapped in a dampening tea towel.

“What’d you say, honey?”

Gram’s a little deaf and not used to MJ not firing an answer back immediately. She assumed she didn’t hear the response, not that MJ didn’t give one. MJ thinks for a second. Probably better not to alarm her gram with news of her upcoming change of living situation. She doesn’t want to be worried about and, technically, she is still living with ‘that boy’ for another eight days.

“Yes, Gram. Peter.”

“His name is not one of the things I need to know about him. I just need to know that he’s not getting in the way of your ascent to greatness.”

MJ smiles and finishes drying the mug.

“Nobody’s going to do that.”

“Good girl. And you feel safe there?”

“Gram, he’s an Avenger.”

Yeah, maybe that’s top-secret information. Whatever. Who’s her gram going to tell?

“I don’t mean do you think he’d pull you out if the building fell down―”

“Nice image, Mom,” MJ’s mother contributes with a roll of her eyes.

“―I mean how are you handling sharing a space with a boy who’s in love with you?”

MJ’s drying a fistful of silverware and it spills out of her grip, scattering across the counter. A lone spoon plops back into the sink’s soapy water. She clears her throat and reaches for the cutlery. Reaches even farther for her composure.

“He’s not, and what would that have to do with safety?”

“Let me tell you, he most certainly is.” Apparently, Gram’s rejecting the question. She never wastes her own time on words she can’t be bothered to speak.

“A boy and a girl can room together without there being... feelings,” MJ points out. It’s irritation that’s making her blush. Irritation at herself for being wrong-footed by her gram over Peter freaking Parker.

“Yes, they can, but I’m not talking about ‘a boy and a girl,’ I’m talking about Peter and yourself.”

“I think getting a Netflix account has made you suspicious,” MJ gently accuses. “What’ve you been watching on there?”

“None of your business.”

Gram changes the subject, letting her off the hook, but the next time MJ turns to look at her, Gram gives her a wink.

Well, she can think what she likes, even theorize aloud. Doesn’t make her right. If it’s between Peter and MJ, her own feelings are the ones that make her feel unsafe, unbalanced, unprepared. Maybe he’s considerate with her, maybe he’s kind to the point of being sweet (when she lets him be), but that’s Peter. That’s just Peter.

 Sunday, February 7th

You know I like you a lot, but/It still hits me like a rock ― “Hits Me Like a Rock” (CSS)

MJ’s breaking her promise to stay for lunch, bailing right after breakfast. She tells her mom she’d rather get back into school mode. Plus, she’ll be home for the week-long study break before midterms; only a week away. What she won’t think about is the possibility that she’ll be using her studying time for learning-to-cope-without-Peter-in-the-next-room time instead.

She doesn’t text him, by the way. Why cut his weekend short? True, escorting her home isn’t his responsibility, but he’d find some way to feel obligated. Definitely a Spider-Man thing. If only his overdeveloped sense of responsibility carried over into the putting his socks away department. Which is what she comes home to: Peter’s socks just inside the door of their apartment. On the floor, peeking out of every pair of his shoes like a grubby Beatrix Potter scene. MJ has no memory of things looking so dire when she left (they left―together). Must’ve been distracted by trying to remember if she had her transit pass, or whether her mom had asked her to bring anything home for dinner.

The sidewalks have become slushy again and, based on the wet spot near the toe of her left sock, she needs to re-waterproof her boots. For now, she troops straight to her bedroom, holding her dripping boots in one hand and a paper towel beneath them with her other. MJ settles them over the heat vent in her room. As she switches to dry socks, she eyes the boots like they should’ve known better.

It’s a cozy, forgetful few hours of solitude. Her paper’s due Thursday and the body of it isn’t exactly taking shape; she’s straining against the traditional essay format and finding it messy going, even though it feels like she’s on the right track. High school has underprepared her for this and overprepared her for things like... robotics. It’s amazing how few people give a fuck about robotics when she’s sitting in a lecture on the Dutch masters.

Peter never remembers to shut his bedroom door and, without trying to look, MJ gets a glimpse from the hall, right through his room and out the window, of snow lazily starting to fall when she rises to get a glass of water. The call of hot water is strong, but she showered his morning before breakfast. The best she can do is snuggle into bed and languidly run a highlighter over some readings for Tuesday.

MJ finds out she fell asleep when she wakes up to Peter’s disbelieving shriek. The sound isn’t loud, but it has her up and fighting her way out of her blankets to stumble into the hallway at the same time her roommate comes sliding into it from the kitchen. He sighs in relief. Spins, clutching his hair. That’s a little much, she thinks. What a fucking dork.

“What’s wrong with you?” she asks, ignoring how good it feels to see him again. Again? They were apart a day.

“You never texted me and then, and then―” He gestures behind him. “―your boots weren’t at the door.”

“They were soaked,” MJ explains slowly. “They’re drying in my room.”

Peter’s still getting over... whatever this is that’s happening to him.

“Your boots are always at the door.”

She looks at him carefully, surprised to discover he seems to be coming down from genuine panic.

“Are you ok?”

He does an odd shrugging motion and approaches her.

“I’m ok.”

“Do you need a―”

Peter claps his arms around her and MJ goes immobile.

“Yeah, I did,” he agrees.

She’s trying to figure out when she should tell him she planned to end that sentence with ‘doctor.’ Or something else, even. Something that would calm him. Only... he does seem calm. Feel calm. His hands are spread on her back. His body’s sturdy enough to pull her in and push her back out again with his every breath when he’s hugging her like this, but at least they’re slow breaths. It’s actually kind of ok. Nice. Warm. Confusing.

Before MJ can wrap her arms around his neck, caught up in this intermission from the Parker and Jones: Roommates and Nothing More sitcom, Peter puts his hands firmly on her waist and steps away from her. Then glances down to see where his hands are and drops them.

“S-sorry. I... I was... I overreacted.”

“I’m fine,” she says with what’s supposed to be a shrug but manifests as a twitch. “I’m good. Nobody murdered me on my way home. So...” Idiotically, MJ chucks him on the shoulder in a mortifyingly fatherly manner. “Thanks for keeping the streets safe, Spider-Man.”

“Uh, yeah, you’re welcome. Glad you’re safe.”

Peter’s red-faced, swinging his arms, looking at her and then not looking at her, as she retreats back into her room and closes the door.

Not safe. MJ is not safe.

 Monday, February 8th

I’ll speak a little louder, I’ll even shout/You know that I’m proud and I can’t get the words out ― “Everywhere” (Fleetwood Mac)

She’s wasting the one-hour gap she has between classes. It’s supposed to be for eating lunch and, these days, either studying for tomorrow’s test or adding something brilliant to her paper. It isn’t supposed to be for eating lunch with a couple of nerds who’ve braved the art building to join her. Ned’s awe of the building makes MJ start to smile before he changes topics to the reason he and Peter are actually barging into her schedule―discussion of Ned’s move-in.

Based on their landlord’s 1st and 15th rule, Ned will be an official renter seven days from now. To the boys, it therefore makes sense for Ned to be taking over that day. And to MJ too, of course. It totally makes sense to MJ. The 15th is also the first day of their break week, so there won’t be classes to plan around. Nothing could be more straightforward! MJ can get her stuff packed up this weekend (the 13th-14th) and have her mom pick her up in the car the next day to relocate her to her new living space. Which―fuck―she’s definitely going to text her classmate about. When asked about her living plans directly, she smiles and spoons hot soup into her mouth.

She’s good with it. Ned’s good with it. Peter’s... holding things up. He claims he’s only wondering if they need more time before Ned moves in because he doesn’t want anyone’s boxes to get mixed up. Ned pipes up with information on his thorough labelling technique. MJ just watches Peter. His eyes flick to her more than once, like she’s going to protest, maybe? She wouldn’t. She doesn’t want to screw this up for them. Rooming together is what these two losers wanted from the start. The only thing she has to do is step aside. Fine, she can manage that.

“And we’ll just... see each other around,” Peter says as the three of them are finishing lunch.

But he doesn’t say it to Ned, obviously. Not to Ned, who will be living across the narrow hallway from him in a week. He’s looking right at MJ. Damn his gentle, baby-animal eyes. She hadn’t really thought about this. When would she see Peter? They’re in different programs with classes in different buildings. Their schedules overlap in a way that was convenient for eating dinner together most nights, not in a way that means they’ll bump into each other on campus during their downtime. They’re overachievers who haven’t been able to sustain friendships outside of school. Except for with Ned. Except for with each other.

When Peter does this incomprehensible motion that, in another universe, might look like he was reaching for her hand, MJ nods in agreement. Then, as her eyes start to well without her permission, pretends to have burnt the roof of her mouth on her final spoonful of soup.

It’s been cold for half an hour.

 Tuesday, February 9th

Bless your body, bless your soul/Pray for peace and self-control ― “The World We Live In” (The Killers)

MJ isn’t sweating because she’s retroactively stressed about the test. The test went fine. She prepared; in fact, she overprepared―devoting her entire morning and too much of the afternoon to revision when she should’ve been working on her fucking paper. That’s why she hurried back. That’s why she’s sweaty and ready for a hot shower. It’ll refresh and refocus her and she’ll bang out a few paragraphs of the paper tonight, a few tomorrow (even though it’s the longest day of her week; she’s putting the nightmarish reality out of her mind for now), and have time to proofread the whole thing Thursday morning before she turns it in.

It’s a plan and she loves it. MJ heads to her room, vaguely noticing that Peter’s bedroom door is shut. Huh, maybe he’s hunkered down to do some studying of his own. She dumps her backpack and flings off her sweatshirt and, you know what, her t-shirt too when it wants to cling to the sweatshirt and be removed at the same time. The bathroom’s right next to her room.

MJ darts over in her bra and the sweatpants she wore to take her test and opens the door.

Just as Peter flips the bathroom light on.

She twists away and slams her back into the hallway wall. Jesus Christ. Blinking won’t wipe away the sight of Peter standing there with a towel tucked around his hips. Just the towel. Just that one towel. Fuck, she has to handle this somehow. The situation, that is.

“Sorry,” MJ blurts. “The light was off and, and I didn’t think and―”

“I like to shower in the dark. It kinda lets my senses rest and―”

“I finished my test early so you probably weren’t expecting me home and―”

“―then I needed the light on to shave because I cut myself enough with it on to have zero desire to attempt shaving my face in the dark and―”

Her heart’s pounding so loudly that between that sound and her own words, she’s barely catching any of what Peter’s saying.

“Such an invasion of privacy,” she sighs out in conclusion. He falls silent too. The bathroom door’s still open and a warm radiance stretches the width of the hall; MJ wants to reach her fingertips out and let them glow.

“So,” Peter says, urgency draining into timidity, “your test went well?”

“Yeah.” Looking down at her bare feet on the carpet of the hallway they still share, MJ smiles. “You cut yourself shaving?”

“You can laugh if you want.”

His tone isn’t offended and she knows he wouldn’t mind if she did laugh. Probably wouldn’t be surprised. She isn’t... she isn’t soft with him.

“I was just wondering why I’ve never noticed.”

“Oh, well, the cuts heal up pretty fast. They’re small cuts. I’m not that bad at shaving.” Peter clears his throat and she’s standing there yet, listening. “Plus, we don’t get close.”

A terrible, awkward, one-note laugh rips out of MJ.

“True.”

But her roommate doesn’t join in.

“We’re never close,” he says quietly. She shivers.

MJ’s back in her bedroom with the door shut―leaning against it―in a second. Maybe Peter started to move when she moved. Maybe he stepped out into the hallway with his raggedy towel and his squeaky-clean skin and the flush on his face from the steam because he heard her and thought she might be coming his way instead of hiding like a coward. She can’t know without witnessing it. His footsteps never make a sound.

 Wednesday, February 10th

It’s hard to know which way to go/Come and find me, come and find me ― “Between Days” (Far Caspian)

Clearly, despite her best intentions, MJ is giving off a vibe. Not her regular approach with caution vibe. No, no. She doesn’t know where that withering aura of distance has gone, but she’s lost it and the atmosphere around her has changed as smoothly as the colours in a mood ring. It must have, because Peter hugs her for the second time this week, pulling her into an abrupt embrace before she heads off to campus in the morning.

This is supposed to be the thing about roommates, right? Always invading your space. Only, through the decaying brick wall of her denial, she sees that this isn’t the same thing. He’s not rummaging through her search history or eating her groceries (besides―fuck―they’re kind of their groceries, like the whole kettle situation); he’s initiating moments of physical affection. MJ knows the hugs are affectionate and not perfunctory. If it were otherwise, if they were the kind of automatic hugs that happen in less established friendships upon every meeting and farewell, Peter and MJ would always have done them and it wouldn’t feel so momentous that, suddenly, he’s electing to hold her.

He doesn’t try it when she gets home. That’s a good thing. She’s tired and not so much cooking dinner as microwaving an assortment of shit from the fridge for the sloppy meal that will sustain her through wrapping up the final section of her midterm paper and writing the conclusion. Peter’s sitting on the couch with a textbook in his lap when she gives him a sharp wave and goes to her bedroom, closing the door firmly behind her.

The final section is an uphill (if the hill’s a ski slope slicked over by ice rain―and also there’s an avalanche rumbling down from the submit) battle that takes until nearly 10pm to complete. MJ’s focus is hanging by a thread and she’s rerouting all of her energy to keeping her brain on task. That means no getting up to hunt up a chocolate bar or make a cup of coffee. She can do this. She just has to force herself through to the end. It’s one more paragraph, or maybe a big one and a small final final one of a line or two, to bring home her argument with a little more flair.

MJ pushes ahead, but apparently, the scale of her determination hasn’t left enough space for her memory to function, because she’s mixing up the order of her sub-points, and she’s missing the first part of her thesis entirely. She keeps scrolling―up-down, up-down―to refer to the part she’s already written. It’s coherent, and that should be helping her now, but fucking stress or something is making her concentration worse the harder she tries.

She lives lightly in the apartment. She’s tidy and contained and quiet. The sound of frustration she makes as it feels like this whole assignment is unraveling (has she fucked it up from the beginning? Should she start over completely? Oh god, it’s eleven o’clock! How is it eleven?!) is hellish. MJ’s head slumps to her desk and she starts weeping. Why is this so hard? She’s tired.

It’s possible that she doesn’t hear his knock, but Peter barges into her room. She gets herself to sit up and wipe her fingers under her eyes, her palms over her wet cheeks.

“It’s not―” Coming together, she wants to say. Fair, she wants to say.

“I know,” Peter interrupts, walking over to her chair. “How ‘bout you step away from that for a minute?”

He puts his hand out to her and MJ sniffles as she stares at it. She slaps her palm to his and he holds on, pulling her up. Probably to guide her towards the TV or the kitchen for a hot drink, but MJ steps into him instead, her head on his shoulder, her nose against his neck.

It’s the smell she’s smelt when she hangs her coat on the hook next to his, when she sits on the couch and can tell he’s recently sat in the same spot. Normally, this is a following smell―the scent of coming upon him after he’s gone. Shock that it’s become a now smell makes MJ jerk back, realizing what she’s doing. She’s never practiced friendly hugs. She doesn’t know how to do them. Peter, on the other hand, hugs people all the time―mainly Ned and his aunt―and yet his failings are equal to hers. There’s nothing pal-like in how he puts his hands on her or flexes his arms around her or gently gathers her closer. When he lets her step back, she sort of wishes he hadn’t. But she’s not thinking. Fucking paper.

MJ swivels and sits on the edge of her mattress.

“I can’t end it,” she tells him bluntly.

Peter’s eyebrows raise... hopefully?

“No?”

She shakes her head.

“My introduction’s solid, but I’m getting lost somewhere in the middle trying to recap it.”

“Oh. Oh. Well, you could maybe― Is it ok if I sit down?” She nods. He continues, glancing sideways at her, a foot of space between them. “You could read it out loud? To me?”

“The whole essay?”

“If that’s what you need.”

MJ narrows her eyes at him.

“Parker, don’t you have your own work to do?”

He shrugs.

“I handed in a report today and I have a quiz on Friday. The grading for that class is, like, fifty percent quizzes. Pretty sure my prof just didn’t want to have to make up an exam.”

“Then my real question is, why do you want to do this?”

Why is she pushing him? MJ doesn’t know. Honestly, she’d prefer if it she shut up right about now and quit trying to get rid of her roommate. Her handsome, academically-capable roommate, sitting next to her on her bed. The only other time he’s touched her bed was when he helped her move it in here in September.

“Because it’s too soon to rewatch Alien?” She catches Peter’s eye and grants him a smirk as he laughs at his own joke. “Go,” he encourages, nodding towards her laptop. “Read it.”

With an indulgent sign, MJ lifts her computer from her desk to her lap. She mumbles a little at first; even if it’s a stupid paper rather than creative writing, they’re her words and she’s speaking them aloud for him to hear. But three paragraphs in, she glances over and Peter’s leaning back on his hands with his eyes closed. MJ almost snaps at him for not listening―incredible how fast the stress will flare up and demand an outlet―until she realizes he’s concentrating, eyebrows pulling together as she continues. Immediately after that, she stumbles over a full fucking sentence, but she comes out the other side with a steadier, louder voice.

When she reaches the end of what she has written, Peter nods and opens his eyes.

“I think―” he starts, but MJ shushes him.

Frantically, her hands trip and clack across her keyboard. The conclusion pours out, word after word after word. One big paragraph and a small final final one for flair. The second she’s done typing, MJ saves the document, puts her laptop back on her desk, and falls backwards onto her bed.

She takes three deep breaths, then says, “Now I just have to edit it.”

“Don’t I get to hear your conclusion?”

“In a minute.”

Peter drops onto his back beside her and sighs like he’s being denied something he really wanted. She rolls her eyes at him. What a nerd.

Their arms brush. He bounces his foot. Her back cracks when she pushes her shoulder into the mattress. She looks at him and gets the feeling that she just missed him looking at her.

“I’m waiting,” he whispers, and MJ laughs.

“Let it breathe, Parker. I just finished it.”

“Can you pass me that blanket then? I’m getting cold.”

“It’s like a hundred degrees in here,” she argues, but she thumps the blanket folded across her bed onto her roommate’s stomach.

After a minute of watching him get cozy, MJ’s jealous.

“Give me some of that.”

He lets her tug it over. The blanket’s big (Gram made it that way), but she’s pretty sure Peter moves closer with it.

She tucks her legs up and catches site of his watch as she arranges herself. A bit after midnight. Quarter-after. At quarter-after, she’ll get up, evict the dork from her room, and edit. MJ closes her eyes.

 Thursday, February 11th

I had a dream that I kissed your lips and it felt so true/Then I woke up as a nervous wreck and I fell for you ― “Fell for You” (Green Day)

They’ve made up for three years of nearly hug-less friendship in one night; MJ wakes up slowly to find her arms around Peter, and his around her. She keeps her eyes half-open. Evidently, they clung in their sleep, facing each other, and she’s never been so comfortable. But things are going to get uncomfortable any second when Peter stirs. She almost doesn’t want him to. Then, he shifts and she feels his erection against her thigh where it’s slotted between his. MJ tries to cautiously extract her leg―heart pounding in her ears―and Peter lifts his bowed head. His bleary brown eyes meet hers.

“Hi.” His voice is like rug burn.

“I have to edit my paper,” she remembers.

She’s waking up more now, noticing the light in her room. Not the lamp she left on last night, but the morning light that generally brightens the space, coming from Peter’s window across the hall. She puts her hand down to push herself up to a sitting position and it lands on his upper arm. In a blink, his hand’s gripping her arm, preventing a topple. Wow, those reflexes are something. MJ glances shyly down into her roommate’s face.

“Paper,” she says again.

“Right.”

He sits up quickly beside her―hair all sticking up at the back of his head―and she pretends not to notice him notice his erection.

“I’ll, uh, maybe I’ll see you for breakfast?”

MJ nods without looking at him and hears Peter stumble backwards out of her room, kicking away the blanket that’s tangled around his foot. He closes the door behind him and she does not see him at breakfast. The awkward energy from the situation that she doesn’t really take time to process sends her headlong into edits. When she does make it to the kitchen, it’s with her paper tucked inside a presentation folder and her hand snatching a store-bought muffin off the counter. She can hear the shower running and is grateful that she won’t have to face Peter yet.

No, that doesn’t happen until she’s on campus, between classes; she’s handed in her assignment without incident and it’s a huge relief. Not only does Peter know her schedule as well she knows his, apparently, but he also knows exactly where she’ll be on her break. She almost bumps into him coming around the corner of a building.

It feels like she’s seeing a one-night stand in the light of day―except they didn’t sleep together and MJ already saw him in the light of day. It’s just such a contrast between this morning and now. For one thing, they’re upright. For another, they’re both fully awake.

She offers an uncertain, close-lipped smile as they exchange ‘hi’s.

“Um,” MJ starts, “what’re you doing here, Peter?”

“Oh, I just wanted to find out how it went. With your essay.”

“Well, I turned it in and I can’t really tell you more than that until I get it back.”

They stare at each other for a minute before Peter goes, “Right. Right, right, right.”

“You wanna... walk with me?”

“Sure. I have class in twenty minutes, and I have to get over to the other end of campus, but―”

“Go!”

“You sure?”

“Yes! Go, you moron. What are you doing here?”

“I was gonna bring you...” He pats his pockets and she knows it’ll be fruitless before he tells her. If whatever Peter needs isn’t already in his hand, he’s forgotten it somewhere. This is a Rule of Peter. “A chocolate bar. I forgot it.”

She smiles.

“That’s ok.”

“I thought you might need the energy since it was a pretty late night.”

The girl walking past them darts an interested glance in their direction. MJ glares at her, but Peter really could’ve phrased that to sound more innocent. Because it was innocent. Wasn’t it? A couple of students collapse from the exhaustion of midterm assignments. That’s not a clever romantic setup, it’s overwork thanks to a system designed to crank them through the academia factory and spit them out at the end with a degree.

“Yeah. Um, I’ll survive,” she promises. “You better get to class.”

Peter takes a few steps and turns back like he’s struggling with something, wanting to speak.

“Seriously, Parker,” MJ insists. “If you’re late, I’ll almost feel bad.”

This is supposed to be the part where he laughs, but her roommate just looks conflicted as he walks away from her.

He almost brought her a chocolate bar. God, she is so fucked.

 Friday, February 12th

That’s not just friendship, that’s romance too/You like music we can dance to ― “I’ll Try Anything Once” (The Strokes)

“Have you been waiting long?” MJ asks when she leaves class and Peter’s standing right outside, hands in his pockets.

He scrunches his face up and turns to fall into step with her as they leave the building, then campus.

“It sounds better if I say, ‘no,’ right?”

She laughs and looks over at him.

“If you do, I’m going to assume that, on top of finishing class an hour before I do, you were also let out early.”

“It’s that obvious I’m trying that hard?” he asks with a sheepish smile.

What. MJ can’t respond.

After a minute, Peter sighs.

“I might as well tell you that my prof said we didn’t have to come today.”

“You didn’t actually have to be on campus at all?”

“No.”

“So, you’re just here...”

He nods at her implied ‘for me.’

“We’re on break now,” Peter reminds her. “Let me walk home with my roommate.”

“Might as well. Last chance.”

She feels him staring at her, but MJ does her best to look straight ahead as they walk back to their apartment.

He’s on the phone with Ned later, sitting on the arm of the couch in their living room. MJ starts putting her things together, neat piles of books and folded clothes that’ll be easier to pack tomorrow and Sunday. She leaves her door open. It used to annoy her (or she lied to herself that it did), how often Peter and Ned talk on the phone―don’t they know their generation isn’t supposed to do that anymore?―and the fact that her roommate’s soft voice carries so well through their apartment. Ok, fine, it doesn’t carry that well, she just listens for it. She can admit it now, in her bedroom, standing near the doorway to hear his happy voice.

Peter’s flopped backwards, off the arm and onto the couch and still talking animatedly to his best friend, when MJ emerges from her room. She walks directly to the couch and drops her balled-up cozy socks onto his stomach, fleeing before he can attempt to catch her eye.

 Saturday, February 13th

This is not a test, welcome to the party/I’ve been on my best behaviour, but I think it’s time/ You saw the other side ― “Best of Me” (Amanda Marshall)

MJ ruthlessly scours the apartment for every article of her clothing that could possibly be dirty. It’s not a tough job; unlike Peter, she mostly keeps her stuff in her bedroom. She has a sack for carrying her laundry to their building’s first-floor machines (because an actual laundry basket takes up too much space with its defined corners) and she stuffs it, lugging everything down there before breakfast. Waiting around is kind of nice because none of the other tenants have shown up yet. Plus, like always, MJ has a book. She transfers her load from the washer to the dryer and leans back against the wall, flipping through a yellowed, soft-paged copy of The Joy Luck Club.

Since she’s been doing laundry down here all year (except for when she goes home for the weekends and winter break), MJ knows the ways of these machines. Which is why it’s so disturbing when the dryer halts five minutes before its cycle should be ending. Unwatched, she jabs at the settings, but the machine’s completely crapped out, so MJ starts hauling her laundry back into the sack. The small stuff―socks, underwear, t-shirts―has dried, but her sweatshirts are still damp. Unfortunately, with the stress of assignments, the sweatshirts are what she’s primarily lived in the past few weeks, meaning all four of them were in there at once, and all four of them are too damp to put on.

She laughs bitterly at herself; at the last second, she’d even taken off the sweatshirt she had on over her tank top.

To stay warm and keep herself from running into anyone, MJ pounds up the stairs and slips into her apartment. She can pack up the dry clothes and hang the sweatshirts off her doorframe, her chair, wherever else seems suitable, until they dry. She’s flinging one over the shower rod when Peter comes walking down the hall and pokes his head in.

“The dryer...” she starts to explain, positioning her sweatshirt, but Peter disappears. MJ rolls her eyes.

In a minute, though, he’s back. When she turns to leave the bathroom, her roommate thrusts one of his own sweatshirts at her.

“Peter,” she sighs, “stop trying to take care of me.”

“Ok, I will after this.” He shakes the sweatshirt at her. “Put it on.”

“What are you trying to do, nerd? Mark me as your territory? Quit being such a Neanderthal.”

With a smirk, MJ brushes by him, but Peter tries to lay the sweatshirt over her shoulder. She shrieks a laugh, ducking to escape it, and suddenly her roommate has his arms around her waist, picking her up with her back to his chest.

“You’re gonna be cold,” he huffs, leaning backward as she squirms.

“I’ll get a blanket!”

“A blanket will get in the way while you’re packing!”

“I’ll cope! Let me go pack!”

“Just wear! My! Sweatshirt!”

She goes limp and he sets her on her feet.

“I surrender,” MJ declares.

“Good.”

Peter bends to pick up the sweatshirt she’s shaken off with all their goofing around, breaking his hold on her, and she bolts for the living room yelling, “Sike!”

Logically, she’s aware that she can’t outrun Spider-Man, but a giddy mania pushes her to attempt it. He tackles her into the back of their couch before she can clamber over. Well, it’s sort of a tackle. Actually, Peter’s barely touching her, but he’s behind her with his hands gripping the back of the couch to either side of her hips.

“There,” she says, feeling him at her back, “you saved me from being cold.” MJ turns with a prepared smile; as the silliness fades away, the way his exhalations hit her back felt too much like tension. She meets his eye, straightening up because he’s so close. What did he say? They’re never close? “I’ll just jog up and down the hall every so―”

Peter kisses her mouth.

Just as she begins to lean into it, brain swirling and spiking with confusion, he steps back. Then again. Again, again, again. He spins at the hall and goes right to his bedroom.

MJ doesn’t know what to do, so she stands there a few minutes, face working its way through a series of expressions dictated by the imaginary conversation she and her roommate are having in her head. The one they have because he stays put two goddamn seconds after planting one on her. His sweatshirt’s on the floor near the kitchen. MJ walks over and yanks it on, feeling vulnerable and bewildered.

Eventually, she plods back to her room.

It’s a shock when Peter knocks on her door a while later. She left it open, which was terrifying. She just figured, with this being the end, truly the end, she would allow whatever was going to happen to happen. If the kiss was an awkward misunderstanding, MJ will be leaving that behind with all the rest of her conflicted feelings two days from now.

“What’s up, Parker?” she asks, not turning around to face him. She’s packing up her printer, stuffing it back into the box it came in and taping it closed.

“Do you need any help?”

“Not really. You can help carry my mattress out of here when my mom comes on Monday though.”

She’s anticipating a quip rather than an evasion. Peter Parker is the kind of friend who will voluntarily carry your shit when you move. But he doesn’t give her either.

“You’re really going.”

Slightly annoyed, MJ turns to stare at him.

“Yeah, I’m really going. Hence the packing. It was your idea, remember?”

“It was easier when I thought you didn’t want to be here.”

She laughs the fakest laugh of her life.

“I don’t want to be here. You make loud phone calls and, and you come in late at night and you have socks everywhere. I think you might actually own every sock every human being has ever lost.”

He frowns at her.

“You never mentioned any of that. In the five months we’ve lived together, you never asked me to speak more quietly or put more effort into containing my clothes to my room.”

“Well,” MJ shoots back in exasperation, “now you know!”

“Are you mad at me for offering your room to Ned?”

“Peter...” She gives him a desperate look. It’s too late for this. Doesn’t he fucking get that? MJ exhales a sharp breath. “Peter, I’m moving out on Monday.”

“What if you didn’t?”

He’s being such an idiot. Everything is arranged. She can’t stay now that Ned’s about to come bounding in with his Lego and his best-friendship to be a better match for Peter’s roommate that she ever was.

“I texted my classmate on Monday about the room. It’s mine. I’m moving out of here, Ned’s moving in. Everything’s settled.”

“Could we unsettle it?”

Peter walks into her room, right up to her. His eyes are pleading and she doesn’t want him to see that this little trick of his works just as well on her as on anyone else. That she’s susceptible to him. That’s not who they are to each other; she’s made a very good career of being his sarcastic, distant friend.

“You just don’t like change,” MJ tells him. “You didn’t mean it.” The kiss. “It was just a misguided attempt to keep me here. Nothing more.” She crosses her arms.

“You’re gonna hate hearing this, but you’re wrong.”

“Maybe I’m right and you haven’t figured it out yet.”

Peter shakes his head.

“It can’t be just me who’s felt different since I told you Ned’s moving in. Something’s changed.”

She rolls her eyes.

“You think you’re an expert on my feelings because you saw me cry in a moment of stress.”

“And you saw me half-naked!”

MJ glances away in frustration and because she doesn’t want him to see her reliving that memory.

“Being first year roommates,” she starts after a long pause, “is a condition. It’s a state of being that’s meant to change.”

“Good! I want to change it! I want us to be more than roommates. MJ, why can’t this be easy?”

“Because you noticed me last week and I’ve had a crush on you since we were fifteen!” she blurts out. “And don’t goddamn ask me why I didn’t say anything because not everyone’s brave like you, Peter. Ok? Not everyone’s Spider-Man. Some of us are just the roommate across the hall. Let me fucking get over this in peace!”

“Sure,” he says, looking down. “Got it.”

Peter nods definitively and twists away. Reaching her doorway, he turns his head slightly.

“Just so you know, you only have me beat by a year.”

 Sunday, February 14th

By tomorrow I’ll be leaving/By tomorrow I’ll be gone/If you want to tell me something/You had better make it strong ― “Coming Down” (Dum Dum Girls)

On one hand, her mind knows the late-night assignment-finishing sessions are over for a while. On the other, it won’t let her sleep. MJ tosses and turns until almost four in the morning before she gets out of bed. In the dark, the only thing she can find to throw on over her pajama top is Peter’s sweatshirt, so she does.

Her thoughts felt so clear while she was lying down, but now that she’s up, things are hazy again. Did Peter really confess that he’s been interested in her since they were sixteen? Does that piece of information make her feel as mixed-up and, somehow, cheated as it did when he said it? Two morons in one apartment. Ned’s got a lot to live up to.

MJ leaves her room and crosses the hall to where Peter’s door is ajar, letting out a sliver of blue-white light. He’s probably sleeping. He won’t hear her coming if he’s sleeping. If he’s sleeping, she bargains with herself, she’ll turn right around and go back to bed. She eases the door open. Peter’s bedding rustles as he rolls over to face her.

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” she mumbles. Fuck. Worst possible icebreaker in this situation.

“If I invite you in,” he wonders, voice groggy with insomnia, “are you going to push me away again?”

“No.”

“So do you believe what I said?”

MJ sighs.

“I’m trying to.”

Peter waits a minute, then pushes himself up in bed to sit with his back against the wall.

“You can come over here if you want.”

She hesitates for less time than her reluctant nature wants her to. Putting her hand out low, MJ feels for the end of the bed and sits down. It’s miles from him. We’re never close, he said.

“You’re wearing my sweatshirt,” he notes when she doesn’t say anything.

“Don’t start with that again,” she warns, but it’s light. This time, he waits her out until MJ’s compelled to speak into their silence. She begins at a whisper. “Caring about you is really hard. When we were in high school, I sort of felt my role was the unnecessary third wheel to you and Ned, and it still feels like that. Like, I think about you and I worry when I don’t hear you come home at night and, yeah, Peter, I was hurt when you sprung the Ned’s-moving-in thing on me.”

“To be fair,” Peter chimes in, “I never thought there was a reason that shouldn’t happen. I thought this whole living together thing was just a favour you were doing me. So, when Ned brought it up, I thought, finally, I can give MJ a way out.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Yeah, well, so are you.”

MJ smiles down at her lap.

“I have to tell you all of it, ok?” Peter asks softly.

Her heart’s pounding too hard. The light in the room isn’t moonlight, just the glow of someone in the next build over’s TV through the curtains. MJ only looks at him when the mattress shifts; he’s getting out of bed, wearing a dorky shirt and plaid bottoms.

“Tell me all of it,” she prompts when he stops in front of her, looking like he’s forgotten his lines.

“MJ, I love you.”

It sounds so right, but at the same time, she’s so scared. It’s a painful thing, looking up at Peter’s face. One half aglow.

“So, that’s all of it,” she says, trying to digest his confession without being too distracted by the depth of his expression.

He laughs shortly at himself.

“Not quite.”

And he kneels.

“What the fuck, Peter,” she gasps, jolting backwards.

“I don’t have a ring because I really haven’t thought this part out,” Peter says. MJ can’t say anything. Her throat, tongue, and lips are all broken. “I just know that I can’t let you go. You promised your new roommates you were coming, and I promised Ned he was moving in here, and that’s fine. It doesn’t matter where you’re living, I’m going to love you. I can wait to get married, or even engaged for real, but I couldn’t wait any longer for you to know how I feel. That’s all of it.”

She’s stunned. He looks exposed and terrified, like he’s holding his skin open, waiting for her to snap his ribs one by one before ripping his heart out. It takes long seconds, many of them, for MJ to shift forward until she slides off the bed to sit in front of her roommate. She takes his hand.

“We are engaged for real.”

With a relieved burst of laughter, Peter grabs the back of her head and kisses her hard. Oh, she’ll put stipulations on later―no ring before graduation, no wedding until they’re both employed full-time―but right now, she’s following Spider-Man’s example and reacting on instinct.

“Oh, and I love you too,” she adds between kisses.

His hands slide down her back. Everything about the way he’s touching her says: finally. Maybe they’re skipping a step, the one where one of them asks the other out and they go on dates and meet each other’s families. But they kind of have done those things. They’ve been living together since the fall, eating dinner together most nights, easing each other’s tiny stresses most days. They know each other’s secrets and coffee orders. They know, period.

MJ loops her arms behind his neck to hold him against her while they kiss, but when they start to lean sideways, it’s Peter who mutters, “bed.”

He repeats it as a question and she nods, hands clasped in his as they help each other to their feet. It’s so simple, this part. Peter draws back the covers and they tumble and rearrange. Murmured admissions of inexperience and the way he blushes when she asks about protection―not because he hasn’t bought any, but because he has.

“You know we’re fucked if this part’s no good, right?” she checks. She’s only partly joking. “We’ve staked everything on this.”

“This is just you and me,” he replies. “Same as everything else.”

MJ has this vague plan to leave his sweatshirt on if he doesn’t say anything about it, but by the time they’ve shimmied each other out of their pajama bottoms, she’s ten thousand degrees. So she wriggles free of the sweatshirt and the t-shirt she sleeps in and Peter hugs her tight to him. He can’t be real. She puts her arms tentatively around his back, expecting her hands to pass right through him. But he’s solid and warm and on top of her, shaking slightly when MJ runs her fingers through his hair.

She keeps it up, smoothing his hair and stroking the back of his neck, as Peter’s mouth finds her collarbone, as his hand runs down her stomach to tuck between her legs. The hitch in her breathing makes him groan and bite down on her nipple. When she lifts her hips, he rubs her more fiercely. She orgasms digging her fingers into his chest―the other hand clammy against his hair line, maybe from her palm, maybe from his skin.

Chest heaving, he tells her they don’t have to do any more if she doesn’t want to. MJ reaches between their panting bodies and takes hold of his erection. Looks into his eyes as she moves her grip up and down. Convinced, Peter rolls off of her to bang open the drawer of his bedside table. She stacks his pillows, shuffling up higher, and when he returns to her, she raises her knees to cage him in. They both watch his hands put the condom on.

The next few minutes are measured in the evolving rhythms of their breathing. Peter works himself in and out of her incrementally, so much tension in his arms and back where her needy hands grasp. She needs him―it’s a miraculous revelation. That he’s been an essential part of her life, piece of her existence, and that it’s ok for her to need him, not just dispassionately or critically observe the best and worst of him. She holds him tighter and he clutches her thigh, pushing in all the way. This feeling is as much of a stranger to her as she’s been to herself.

Peter’s still for a minute. Quietly, he says, “We actually did this.”

“Yeah,” MJ agrees, tracing his spine.

Suddenly moving together takes priority over the disbelieving laughter they began to volley back and forth. She rocks her hips with and against his thrusts and it’s like they’re fighting to push the same swing from opposite sides―the movements don’t match up at first, but eventually, an instinctive force takes over and the swing swings. Peter breathes hard into her neck; MJ hooks her legs up around his hips. Single-mindedly, they grope for just the right speed, just the right pressure. He kisses her neck and her eyes roll back as she holds his face there.

When he drags against her, catching her clit, MJ uses her legs to make sure those electrifying passes continue. But Peter can tell from the sounds she’s making too, she thinks. Though brief and disconnected, her cries are climbing in pitch. He picks up the pace when she asks him to. Soon, soon, soon, there. MJ pulls him down to her, arms around his neck, and climaxes with her forehead pressed to his shoulder. Her roommate, boyfriend, fiancé, swears and speeds up even more; it’s a few seconds of a sensation that buzzes more than thumps or thrums and then he’s curling his arms under her, grabbing the back of her neck.

Peter shifts off of her and, when she doesn’t immediately come with him, gathers her to him. Of course, then he remembers about the condom and gets up anyway. MJ snuggles into the warmth he leaves. After a minute, he pulls back the covers to join her again and they share a shy reintroduction, slipping back into their pajamas. It’s when he reaches first for her hand that she realizes she’s safe.

Across the street, someone shuts off the TV. Peter’s room goes dark. They fall asleep.

 Monday, February 15th

Seven miles below me/I can see the world and it ain’t so big at all ― “This Time Tomorrow” (The Kinks)

“I’m seeing you for lunch tomorrow,” MJ reminds Peter, tugging her hand out of his. The final box of her possessions is in her arms. Downstairs, her mom’s car is at the curb.

He groans in complaint and follows her down the hall, past the kitchen, to the front door. Ned should be here within the hour; they staggered her move-out and his move-in to prevent collisions. And to give Peter more time with her. He admitted to that motive this morning, cooking them an omelette while MJ leaned her forehead against his back, smiling into his t-shirt.

“Ned’s key,” she says at the threshold. She holds it out to Peter and he pockets it.

“Thanks.”

MJ takes backward steps, moving away from him. He looks like he’s barely keeping himself from springing after her. She sighs.

“Come on,” she says, smiling. “Walk me down.”

[malereader-inserts]

Birthday

Fandom: Avengers Pairing: Avengers & Male!Reader Summary: We're gonna have a good time, I'm glad it's your birthday. Happy birthday to you Word Count: 1,607 A/n: As it is currently past midnight, in honour of me turning eighteen (17th May), the reader is turning eighteen. Oh, and we’re going to ignore that Infinity War and Endgame ever happened in this fic to make somewhat sense (pretty sure timeline doesn't matter anyway)

It wasn’t that you hated to celebrate your birthday, it was merely because you had no one with to celebrate it with, you were an orphan from a young age and you never had considered knowing people long enough to be friends. So, you never really told the team how old you were nor when your birthday was. Not that it mattered as you would say, but obviously you were affected by it.

You’ve never got a present before for your birthday, no toys when growing up, no cool technologies, no clothes to pretend to like. You haven’t received cool cards which questionable messages.

You’ve been with the team since you were fourteen, and not once you had you been asked about your birthday. Truth be told, for an eighteen-year-old boy you weren’t exactly looking eighteen, pushing twenty if anyone would say. It was only recently when Peter had joined the group, he was sure he saw you around when his high school was playing sports - you were in the opposing team.

“Hey, (Y/n)?”

You looked up from your homework on your laptop, you were offered a living space in the Avengers compound, which you happily took since you had hated the orphanage, so if the team wanted you they could always find you, but they never knew where you would disappear off to during the day. As of now, it was Saturday and many of the team were chilling at the base.

“How old are you?” Peter questioned, recalling that MJ, Ned and him went to a school’s football game and he was sure you were playing quarterback of the opposing team.

“Seventeen?” You replied, knitting your eyebrows in confusion, as the team paused in what they were doing, “I’m a few months older than you dude.”

“Huh?” Peter squeaked, “So, that was you playing quarterback for Andrew Jackson High?”

“Oh, yeah,” You shrugged your shoulder as you directed your eyes and attention back to your history essay, “You watched your school get trashed?”

Peter’s lips quipped upwards, “You’re a Bronx boy?”

“What’s it to you, Queens?” You asked, there was a tease to your voice.

“Wait, wait, wait-” Tony waved his hands in front of him, as you looked at him, “You’re seventeen? Almost turning eighteen, you’ve been with the Avengers when you’re fifteen.”

“Fourteen, actually, almost four years with the team so thanks for noticing,” You commented dryly as Tony wanted to tell you off for the snark in your tone.

You had joined the team in the hopes of helping them with Wanda, Pietro and Ultron. You were Fury’s backup call and they were forever thankful for your help that you were immediately upgraded to the team after that, alongside Sam, Wanda and Vision.

“When’s your birthday kid?” Bucky asked as you looked at the date of your computer, “You guys don’t know his birthday?”

“Yeah we do-” Steve looked at the team members that joined after Ultron, who panicked and looked at the others, “Apparently not.”

“It’s in three weeks,” You softly answered, your eyes soft as you shrugged your shoulders making it not a big deal, “I wasn’t planning to tell you anyway.”

“Why not?” Clint asked, father mode instantly activated.

“I’ve never actually had a birthday, so it’s just another ordinary day,” You answered as you stand up, “Anyway, I have to do this history essay before tomorrow so I’m leaving so you can’t distract me.”

You leave the room as the team looked at each other, no one actually read the files of other members. So, of course, they hadn’t known that you were an orphan unless asked, they hadn’t know where you were born or raised. The first thing that happened was Tony asking Friday to read out your file to the group, their heartbreaking at your tragic past.

“What are you thinking, Tony?” Rhodey asked, noticing a familiar glint in his best friend’s eyes.

“I’m throwing a surprise party for him, just us invited, his family.”

The group sat up straight and smile softly, it was a great idea for a brilliant man.

It was easy to plan, you were off to school most days so they were able to sneak away party decoration. Tony, Steve, Peter and Clint were the main people to decorate the party. Peter was in the leaders because he was of your age, they value a teenagers opinion. Clint was there because he had children. Tony and Steve were to helm the ship.

Everyone was excited to make decorations for your party, some like Vision, was excited to cook for your birthday. But, what people were more excited was to getting you present, they wanted something memorable.

Tony wanted to build you new cool technology jacket, he was excited that he almost forgot to sleep and eat unless he was told to. But, his mind was whirling with new ideas, he was excited to shower you with love.

Thor had kept a lot of things from Asgard and he had found a small ring that his mother and father once gave him when he was younger. He had fatter fingers now but it ring size was perfect for you. A golden ring for a golden boy.

Steve couldn’t think anything to buy that was worth giving or seemed memorable. Until he found an untouched sketchbook, it was a few years old and he found sketches of you. He must have thought you were truly somebody else for him to draw you. He smiles to himself as he pulls up his favourite pictures of you and the team, and pictures of you and him. Along with his drawings, he would write something very meaningful for you.

Peter was like any typical teenager, but, he really wanted to get something that would touch his heart too. So, he got you a collage picture frames, with pictures of you and him. The script writing was “Brothers for Forever.” Peter had to admit he wanted to keep it for himself.

Sam and Bucky decided to collab on a present for you, they got you a custom metallic flask. However, it was custom and these two were idiots where together. So, they got their faces all over it as the design. Pictures vary from them being asleep, to making food in the kitchen, to questionable poses, to funny faces.

Clint and Natasha had their presents came hand and hand. Clint bought you a drone whilst Natasha got you a go pro, much to Tony’s dismay because he could do so much better, however the first video you will see when plugged into your laptop was Natasha and Clint wandering if the camera was working and then promptly videoing Clint trying to steer the drone before it crashed. It’s not scratched or damaged so it was still could be given.

Wanda and Vision also united together, finding a pocket watch and inscribing it with your initials and the year you had joined the team. 2015. It was a black metallic coating of the pocket watch with the inscribing was coated with gold, when open you found your superhero symbol inside.

The team had to make sure it was perfect for you, so when you had woken up on your birthday, you did not expect your room to be invaded by the whole team who woke you up by singing Happy Birthday at six in the morning.

Natasha was holding the cake, carefully picked out as it was your favourite flavour. You had noticed how big it was before the song ended, half awake you grinned sleepily and blew out the candles.

“What’s this about?” You hummed out, blinking away the sleep.

“It’s your birthday bud!” Sam ruffles your bed hair, “We’re celebrating it.”

“Unfortunately after you go to school, we tried to convince Pepper about letting you stay off but we weren’t allowed,” Bucky contests as he pats you on the shoulder.

“It’s okay, guys,” You replied, your heart swelling three times bigger at this nice surprise.

This was something you hadn’t expected and you were slowly enjoying your birthday for once.

You weren’t expecting much when you returned home from school, meeting up with Peter in the middle of New York before Happy had picked up the pair of you to drive upstate New York back to the Avengers base. What you expected was a simple dinner with the gang. 

Not, a surprise party when you walk through the door. You see your team dressed up, Clint’s neck wrapped in a feather boa as Tony had convinced Rhodey to wear a sparkly jacket. Whilst every member of the team was wearing a party pointed hat. You felt someone tap you on the shoulder and see Peter behind you, sporting a pink pointed hat. In his hands, he gives you a purple pointed hat. 

You felt tears brimming your eyes as you took the hat out of his hands and placed it on you. 

“How do I look?”

“Ridiculous,” Peter laughs, “Happy Birthday (Y/n).”

Your chest tightens, tears threatening to spill, so this is what it means to be loved. To celebrate someone’s birthday. You choked as you felt arms wrap around you, before the crowd became overbearing, slowly suffocating you. When the team decided there would be no more hugging you give them a smile with watering eyes.

“Thank you.”

It was a whisper, but everyone heard, you were so thankful. You felt a part of something you have never felt before. No matter what they get you, what they have given you right now could not be topped.

“Happy Birthday!”

And that was a family.

[liamakorn]

Spoopy Love

Pairing: Peter Parker x Reader (Ghost-Hunter AU) 

Warnings: None. It’s a fluff fest y’all. Seriously, hand me Peter Parker, and watch my heart explode. 

Words: 5,092

A/N: GUYS!!! I had so much fun writing this, you have no idea. Somehow, it turned into a Buzzfeed Unsolved AU, and I aint even mad lol. This is for the August AU Writing Challenge by @after-avenging-hours . Hope y’all enjoy it as much as I did, our smol awkward boy deserves all the love! 

I tried to keep it as short as I could, lol, but uh....I think I failed. Sorry XP 

------

“I am so not going in there.”

A small whine that sounded vaguely like your name left his lips, brunette curls shifting in the small autumn breeze.

“Oh, c’mon, where’s your sense of adventure?”

Glancing at Peter, you must’ve made a face, because now he was chuckling, bumping your shoulder lightly with his own. A small, handheld camera hung by a cord on his wrist, swaying to and fro with every movement.

You focused your gaze on the house in front of you, trying to muster up some enthusiasm. It was cold, the sun was setting, and you really didn’t want to be here. How you’d managed to let him drag you on this “adventure”, you’ll never know. Oh, wait, that’s right, he’d flashed those puppy dog eyes and you’d just melted.

However, this was a little beyond your comfort zone. The house was huge, three stories in all. But what it had in grandeur was ruined by the state of the building itself; exposed wood paneling, the rotted porch with hardly a pillar left, shutters barely clinging to their windows. God, you could smell the mold from here. You noticed a few rats dart beneath the cracked walls and nearly fainted.

After another nudge, Peter finally grabbed your attention, pouting at your expression.

“Oh c’mooon! We’re about to catch the only known footage of Eliza Cartwright’s ghost! Aren’t you at least a little excited?”

Allowing yourself one last sigh, you managed a nervous smile, readjusting the heavy bag slung across your shoulder.

“This is a health and safety hazard.”

Somehow, you put one foot in front of the other, forcing your steps closer to the hell hole you were about to spend the majority of your night in. After a few seconds, you noticed Peter wasn’t following, glancing back with an eyebrow raised.

“Well, c’mon, Dimples. This ghost aint gonna catch itself!”

The crooked grin you received was worth every discomfort this house could throw at you.

It’s not like you didn’t want to believe in ghosts. You would’ve loved to have had the same enthusiasm for the supernatural that seemed to flow through Peter every time someone uttered the word “haunted”. It just seemed like there was always a more logical explanation, an answer that made more sense than the supposed “paranormal activity”. Banging in the walls? Faulty pipes. Scratching noises and flickering lights? Mice. Doors closing by themselves? Wind.

Yet, somehow, you ended up a moderator on Peter Parker’s ghost hunting blog, staring up at a dusty old house, on a Saturday. Life sure did have a sense of humor.

Stepping through the creaky front door, you were met with a wall of what could only be described as old people smell, kicked up to eleven. You couldn’t help but cough, taking stock of your surroundings. Dust hung in the air, catching the last few beams of sunlight creeping through the slats of decaying boards, which were haphazardly secured to the windows with rusty nails. The walls were nothing special, decades old paint flaking from the plaster, faded and worn from years of neglect.

The furniture was coated with a thick layer of dust and dirt, making it nearly impossible to discern what color each item had originally been. The cushions seemed to be missing; you counted that as a blessing. Who knows what would’ve been living in there.

A sudden achoo! startled you from your thoughts, shattering the silence of the otherwise abandoned house. Spinning on your heel, you just caught Peter’s wince, the brunette lifting the camera as you pressed your hand to your chest.

“Give me frickin heart attack, why don't’cha?”

His smirk was almost shy as he apologized, chuckling when you lightheartedly shoved his shoulder. You plopped your bag onto the couch, a cloud of dust kicking back into your face. You dug around for your own camera, hiding your face from view and trying to calm your blush. Jesus, how had he wormed his way under your skin so easily? You’d only known each other for a few months, having become fast friends after you’d transferred to his high school at the very end of the year. It was an odd experience, walking into this new school the first day and having Peter and Ned bombard you with greetings.

One minute you were the weirdo loner girl who couldn’t keep up with the new curriculum because she’d moved in fricken June, and the next, you had two amazing friends who actually wanted to hang out with you. Hell, it was that first day of school where Peter had nervously approached you and asked if you wanted to come with him to check out this stupid house in the first place. 

You’d been inclined to say no, but after looking at his expression...you just couldn’t. He’d sounded almost scared, like you would make fun of him or something. Well, needless to say, you’d caved, and here you were, the day before Halloween, hunting a ghost. And, despite your best efforts, enjoying yourself.

Heaving out a sigh, steeling yourself, you turned to face Peter, unable to keep the smile from your face at his fascinated gaze raking the dilapidated living room.

“You ready, Parker?”

An excited grin stretched his features, brown eyes sparkling in the dim beam of your flashlight. His enthusiasm was contagious, and you soon found yourself just as impatient to explore as he was. Attaching a go-pro to the side your head, you noticed Peter staring at you with an expression you couldn’t read. He quickly averted his gaze, clearing his throat and fiddling with the camera. You could’ve sworn you saw pink dusting his cheeks.

As happy as seeing Peter this excited made you, that was quickly dwindled by the borderline dangerous nature of your surroundings. Everything was either rusty, dusty, moldy, or all of the above. You noted the exposed wood of the walls, some of the panels rotted away completely, other rooms visible in some places. Meanwhile, your companion continued to monologue, recounting on camera the details of a grisly death.

“The first spirit we’ll be covering is Christopher Requaitt. He came from the incredibly small town of Seboeis, Maine, and had a relatively poor upbringing. And yet, somehow, he managed to graduate at the top of his class, earning him a job in the household of one James Cartwright. It was rumored that he had been working off a debt to Cartwright, and that, after it was paid, he was hired full time due to his incredible culinary ability. However, these claims were never officially documented.”

You hardly realized you’d stopped scanning your surroundings, completely enraptured by the way Peter’s lips moved as he recounted the tale. Even as you started fiddling with various settings and EMF machines, you kept an ear on him, glancing up every once in awhile, enthralled by the story he was telling. Although you were a skeptic, it was hard not to be interested in the lives of people before you, hearing their history sending a shiver down your spine.

Peter continued, the confident edge to his voice catching you by surprise.

“One night, Cartwright’s wife, Cheryl, became incredibly sick. It would soon be known that she was pregnant with her first, and only, child; but, at the time, she claimed to have food poisoning, contracted from undercooked chicken. Due to Requaitt’s incredible reputation and skill, many have speculated that the accusation was meant to get Christopher fired. She had made her distaste for the cook obvious, never missing a chance to denounce him to her friends and acquaintances.

It is widely believed, by both residents and historians, that James and Christopher had been in the midst of an affair, an incredibly taboo subject at the time. Cheryl, either jealous or afraid for their reputation, might have wanted to take drastic action to halt their activities. Although he was saddened by it, Cartwright had no choice but to fire the cook. Finding himself wracked with woebegone, Chris-”

A snort escaped your lips, earning a playfully annoyed look from Peter. You coughed, trying to disguise your giggles behind your hand. He raised an eyebrow, directing the camera at you, catching your amused expression.

“Something wrong, munchkin?”

You chuckled again, shaking your head.

“Nope, nothing, I’m good. Please, continue.”

Rolling his eyes, he readjusted the camera, a soft smile on his face.  

“Anyway. Finding himself wracked in woebegone-”

He stared directly at you as he emphasized the word, setting off a new round of giggles, prompting a wider grin to stretch his lips.

“-Christopher found he couldn’t live with James’ decision, stuffing his face in the deep frying, killing himself and burning his face off before they could make him leave.”

“Christ, Parker!”

He halted, furrowing his brows in bemused confusion. You tried for an aggravated expression, only just managing a mildly miffed look before a smile broke out.

“Could you be a bit more blunt?”

He chuckled, pink dusting his cheeks even as he shrugged.

“What? That’s what happened, what d’you want me to say?”

You released a huff of air.

“I dunno, Pete, just...you can’t speak ill of the dead, man, that’s like, rule number one in the ghosty handbook.”

Peter’s eyebrows shot up, an amused smirk on his lips.

“Oh, there’s a handbook now? Miss (Y/N) ‘I’m sure it was just the wind’ (L/N)?”

A flurry of giggles interrupted your sentence, covering your mouth to try and contain them. “I’m just saying, have a little respect, Parker!”

A victorious grin stretched his features, your heart skipping a beat when he let out the cutest laugh you’d ever heard.

“Oh, I’m so sorry. Should I mention the fact that the only way they could identify him was by his clothing, because his features had melted together-”

You faked a disgusted face, covering your ears. His snickering sent a warm feeling dancing in your chest, the smile on your face lingering even as your chuckles died. You admired him for a moment, the crinkles in the corner of his eyes, dimples fully on display with his wide grin. Even in the dim beam of your flashlight, shadows dancing across his features; god, he was breathtaking.

After a few seconds, Peter cleared his throat, a touch of shyness flashing across his face.

“You, uh, you alright there, munchkin?”

Snapping out of your daze, you nodded, fiddling with the EMF meter at your belt.

“Yeah, yeah, let’s move on. You mentioned a little girl?”

That familiar sparkle returned to his eye, gripping your wrist suddenly and practically dragging you up the creaking staircase. You fought a laugh, heart pounding at his touch, no matter how minor. You really needed to get a grip on your crush.

You ended up in yet another dusty room, covered wall to wall in what was once a pale pink, but had faded to grey over time. The same confident tone as before overtook his voice, face stone serious as he began his spiel about the area’s most popular spirit.

“Here we are in the bedroom of James Cartwright’s six-year-old daughter, Eliza. She was born barely a year after the death of Christopher Requaitt, leading the residents of the town to question Requaitt’s death. Though nothing came of it legally, gossip and rumors of the supposed affair between Cartwright and Requaitt resulted in Cheryl’s eventual suicide, leaving James with Eliza when she was only four. Tragedy would strike again two years later, when Valerie Peridot would witness one of the many supernatural occurrences in the home. Only, unlike the others, this one was fatal.

“Peridot was the most recent in a long line of women James Cartwright dated after his wife’s death. She had only been dating him for three months before moving in, treating Eliza like her own daughter. But, as she entered the little girl’s room, she was startled to find the large window open, the child standing on the balcony railing and speaking to someone Valerie was unable to see. She seemed upset, screaming at the unseen figure to go away. When Valerie opened her mouth to scold her, Eliza jolted, as if she was pushed, flying from the third-floor balcony to the asphalt below”

Your eyebrows shot up, catching Peter’s attention for a brief second. The crooked half smile he sent your way was enough to catch your breath, hoping to any god out there that he didn’t notice.

“After Eliza’s death, Peridot was obviously suspected, her story of an unseen man shoving the girl out a window seeming preposterous. However, diary entries were found of Eliza’s, mentioning an imaginary friend named “Krissy". Law enforcement thought nothing of it, but spectral enthusiasts disagreed. It was speculated that perhaps “Krissy" was actually the ghost of Christopher Requaitt, enacting his revenge of what was the product of his demise. Eliza mentioned Krissy’s distaste for her family, specifically her mother. Even after her death, the spirit had apparently denounced Cheryl to the young girl, trying to convince her to “remind her father of his sins”. While these claims are somewhat far fetched, is it impossible to believe that Requaitt, heartbroken and betrayed by his lover, would seek retribution in the way of Eliza’s death?”

Peter glanced at you again, tilting his head slightly in question.

“Are you cold?”

You furrowed your brows, confused for a moment. You hadn’t even noticed your own arms encircling your torso, goosebumps rising on your bare arms, too engrossed in his story. Shrugging, you tried rubbing your palms together, the temporary warmth doing nothing to soothe the chill.

“I’m fine. Just a bit chilly is all, let’s keep moving.”

After a few seconds, he nodded, but not before shrugging off his jacket and draping it over your shoulders.

“We’ll only be a few more minutes. Just wanna use the spirit box and then we can head out.”

He lead the way towards a narrow hallway, just missing your intense blush. You tailed him, whining slightly.

“Can we not? I fucking hate that thing.”

He snickered, glancing back at you briefly; your heart fluttered at his bashful smile, slipping your arms into the sleeves of his coat. The fabric completely obscured your hands, filling you with a warmth that rivaled the pink on your cheeks.

Leading into the maid’s quarters was a rundown hallway, barely any plaster left on the walls. This area of the house seemed...moister than the rest, a distant leak echoing around the space. It sent shivers down your spine that had nothing to do with the cold.

“Well....this is ominous.”

Peter laughed, pointing the camera at you once again.

“You scared, Munchkin?”

You lightheartedly shoved him, shaking your head. It was getting increasingly difficult to be annoyed when he flashed those stupid dimples. Peter began setting up the camera against a far wall, pulling out a small black gadget, explaining the mechanism simultaneously.

“So for those of you not familiar, what we’re about to use is called a Spirit Box. It uses radio frequency sweeps to generate white noise, which theories suggest give some entities the energy they need to be heard. When this occurs you will sometimes hear voices or sounds coming through the static in an attempt to communicate. It basically scans radio stations super fast to give the ghost a chance to roast us.”

Your chuckle is quickly cut off by a wince, plugging your ears to drown out the loud shrill given off by the hell box. After a few seconds of garbled syllables and static, you managed to catch what could’ve been either “starry" or “sorry". You decided on the latter.

“Sorry? For what?”

Peter shrugged.

“Maybe it’s sorry about the house?”

You snorted, trying to contain your giggles.

“Man, it should be sorry, this is a fuckin’ mess.”

Peter had the gall to look offended.

“Hey! Be respectful.”

That set off another fit of giggles, followed by a sarcastic tone,

“Oh, now you care about respect? Besides, what’s a pissy ghost gonna do?”

A sudden smirk found its way onto your lips.

“Ooh, maybe it’ll follow you hooome-”

He shoved you lightly, laughing nervously.

“Shut up! That’s not funny!”

You just giggled, vaguely paying attention to the spirit box. You could’ve sworn you heard something akin to, ‘I don’t want to go’, but you couldn’t be too sure.

After another few seconds of unintelligible nonsense, Peter sighed, switching the device off. Trying to hide his disappointed expression, he fixed the camera on his face, a small smile adorning his features. You began to pack up your equipment while he vlogged his outro.

“Alas, dear viewers, it seems that, while paranormal activity does reside in these walls, we weren’t able to catch much of anything tonight. Until next time, where we take a road trip to the Lizzie Borden Murder Hou-”

All of a sudden, a loud bang! followed by several shuffling sounds echoed from somewhere above you, startling the both of you nearly to death. Peter practically dropped the camera, eyes wide in what could’ve either been excitement or fear. Probably a little bit of both.

“What was that?!”

Your first instinct was that someone else had the same idea as you. Or a homeless man was squatting there. Or a wolf was hungry and craved the flesh from your bones. While some more far-fetched than others, none of those options seemed incredibly appealing.

You tugged Peter’s arm, trying to nudge him towards the exit.

“C’mon, Pete, let’s get outta here-"

Just as you said that, the shuffling got louder, swooping past your face and right past a terrified Peter. As the bird settled on an ancient chair, the two of you stayed silent for what felt like ages. Until the dam cracked, and the giggles you were trying to keep back came spilling out from your lips. When the terror had finally subsided, Peter chuckled a bit too, clutching his heart and leaning against the wall.

The giggles didn’t stop. Forgetting yourself, you’d stopped checking your surroundings, completely focused on Peter for most of the night. So, it’d be just your luck that you’d step right onto a spot of water damaged flooring behind you.

Good news? You’d found the source of that dripping noise. Bad news? Your foot went straight through it, sending you crashing down, banging your head on the wooden paneling. You might’ve heard Peter yell out, but your brain was swimming too much to notice, a ringing settling in your ears. You blinked rapidly, trying to clear your foggy senses, only to notice the intense pain shooting up your leg. It was like somebody had taken your ankle and bashed it against a rock a few times. You were almost sure it was broken. You just hoped to god you weren't cut anywhere. The last thing you needed right now was tetanus.

After a few seconds of confused blinking, the rapidly spinning room finally came to a halt; coherent enough to notice your surroundings, Peter came into view, a worried look etched into his expression. His eyes were almost teary as he fussed over you.

Grabbing his hand, you tried your best at smiling, only managing a grimace as your head throbbed. His eyes snapped to yours, squeezing your hand a little too tightly, his free hand checking your head as lightly as he could. When it grazed over the welt right at the top of your forehead, you winced, relieved when he pulled his hand back to cradle your cheek instead.

“Okay, okay okay okay, you’re okay. Can you hear me, sweetheart?”

Blinking a few more times for good measure, you nodded, soothing some of the panic in his eyes. Slowly, as gently as he possibly could, Peter supported your upper back and waist, lifting you to a sitting position, jostling your leg as little as possible. Even then, you let out a slight whimper. The nausea hit you all at once, forcing you to grip Peter’s arm until the room stopped spinning. Although you could barely pay attention to anything but your swimming senses, Peter continued to mumble out loud; whether it was to calm himself or you was unclear.

“God, (Y/N), I’m so sorry, I was stupid to make you come with me, I should’ve just taken you to get some damned coffee like a normal person, now you’re hurt and it’s my fault, Jesus I’m sorry, I’m so sorry-”

“Peter.”

He stopped altogether, eyes wide and terrified. Giving him another, more convincing smile, you sniffled, wiping your face on the sleeve of his jacket that you were still wearing. Taking stock of your leg, you couldn’t see or feel many splinters or cuts, which was a plus. However, your ankle didn’t seem to be faring as well, the throbbing having only worsened as the minutes rolled by. Getting it out of the rotted floor was definitely a priority.

“Alright...okay, Peter. We need to get my leg out, yeah? I’m gonna need your help.”

Peter nodded, visibly swallowing, clenching your hand to the point where it almost hurt. He reached down, careful not to impale himself on the cracked wood, and began to clear as much of the debris as he could. Although the thought of shifting your leg was nauseating, you tried to help as much as you could, knocking splinters away so there was a clear passage you could slip your foot through. 

Taking a deep breath, you squeezed Peter’s arm, cautiously lifting your foot out of the floor. Even that minor jostling sent stabs of pain up your leg, an unintentional cry escaping your lips. Peter tried his best to make the endeavor as painless as possible, supporting your leg and back, moving anything that could bump into the injury. You saw his pained expression at your cry, brows furrowed in worry.

Eventually, you managed to free your ankle, a sigh of relief escaping your chest. You hadn't even noticed you were holding your breath. Once able to shift without feeling like you were going to die, you released Peter’s arm, wincing at the red marks you’d left. He barely seemed to notice, cradling your ankle to assess the damage.

Despite the awful situation, you couldn’t help but notice how beautiful he was. Cheeks flushed, jaw flexing every few seconds, a nervous tick you’d noticed over the past few months. His eyes were trained on you the whole time, a softness to his gaze that sent your heart racing a mile a minute.

Hesitantly, you reached up, tracing his cheekbone with your fingertips. His eyes snapped to yours, the blush you earned filling you with satisfaction. You had no idea where this sudden confidence came from, and you were sure it wouldn’t last. Still, you couldn’t help but make the most of it.

Your voice was barely audible when you whispered,

“You’re so pretty…”

If you thought he’d been red before. Oh boy. Now he was like a tomato, a shy smile stretching his lips before he could stop it. Catching your gaze briefly, Peter chuckled, continuing his examination of your ankle.

“You probably have a concussion. We should get you out of here.”

Giggling, you couldn’t help the fond look you gave him, a dopey grin on your face.

“You’re taking me out? Like, on a date?”

He grinned fully, 50 shades of pink, standing to help you up.

“Alright, you definitely have a concussion. C’mon, let’s go.”

Gripping his hands, you allowed Peter to lift you to your feet, shocked by his strength. Careful not to lean on your bad leg, you hardly noticed when you began to fall, the room suddenly spinning. Peter caught you by the waist, keeping his hold on you until you could focus on anything but keeping your balance. 

The both of you were barely an inch apart, your head the perfect height to lay against his chest. Which is exactly what you did, sighing as your senses began to return to normal. You could just about hear his heartbeat, thumping rapidly against his sternum.

God, you must’ve had a concussion. Or some sort of permanent brain damage. There’s no way you’d be acting like this in your right mind. Peter didn’t seem to mind, though, leaning his chin gently against your hair. It was so calming, you almost forgot about your ankle entirely, letting it droop to the floor absentmindedly.

Immediately on contact, you yelped, clutching Peter’s shirt in a vice grip. He sighed, keeping his arm circled around your waist to support you, becoming your crutch and letting you lean practically all of your weight onto him. Still, he didn’t complain, giving you a reassuring smile.

“Alright, Munchkin, let’s get outta here.”

When you showed up to his apartment, banged up from your adventures, May practically forced you into a cab, taking you to the nearest hospital to be checked up on. You didn’t end up having a concussion, thankfully, just some minor bruises and a sprained ankle, as well as a tetanus shot for good measure. You did, however, get what felt like an eternity of a scolding from Peter’s aunt. Which, to be fair, was incredibly valid. What had possessed the two of you to go to an abandoned ass house, on the night before Halloween, by yourselves, was completely beyond you.

You found it hard to be upset though, laying on Peter’s bed, watching him set up a pillow and blanket on his floor. It was far too late to go home, so you’d convinced May to let you stay for the night. You sighed again, pouting at Peter.

“You really don’t have to sleep on the floor, Dimples. It’s your bed, I can take the couc-"

He paused his activities, a tired smile on his face.

“Are you kidding? You think my injured friend is gonna sleep on the couch? We found that thing on the curb, you’d end up with god knows what.”  

He wandered over, fussing for the millionth time with your pillows and blankets, making sure you were comfortable. You rolled your eyes, groaning.

“You’re acting like I’m on my deathbed. A little fall isn’t gonna kill me, Pete.”

He just chuckled, and, after a few seconds hesitation, brushed some of your hair behind your ear.

“I know, I know. Just...let me take care of you, ‘kay?”

A heavy blush settled on your cheeks, rendered speechless by his sudden shift in demeanor. Wordlessly, you nodded, biting your lip to keep the smile off your face. His eyes caught the movement, focusing on your mouth for a few seconds before falling to his hands. Slowly, almost cautiously, he sat at the edge of the mattress, brows furrowing. As if he was thinking about what to say next.

“Listen…(Y/N)... I wanted to tell you something. And I’m not...well, I’m not exactly sure how to say it, but I feel like this is a good time, because realistically, I know you’ll be fine, but if you’d really gotten hurt in there, I don’t know what I would’ve done, I just-"

He cut himself off, keeping his gaze locked firmly in his lap. Finally, he seemed to focus, taking a deep breath before continuing.

“I asked you to come with me on my stupid ghost hunting trip because, well, you’re just-”

Another deep breath.

“You’re kinda, sorta, basically always on my mind. And I wanted to hang out- well not ‘hang out’ but, I wanted to, y’know, ask you out, but I couldn’t find the words, and now you’re hurt and I-"

He kept rambling, but you barely heard it, too focused in on his confession to notice anything else.

Peter likes you.

Jesus, everything made so much sense now! How shy he was, how timid he’d been asking you to go with him. He wasn’t just asking to hang out. He was asking you on a date. Butterflies filled your stomach, a warm feeling settling in your chest. You couldn’t keep the grin from your lips if you tried. Peter likes you. Peter likes you.

Noticing your expression, he finally stopped ranting, an almost terrified look in his eyes. Clearing your throat slightly, you averted your gaze, mumbling softly.

“I, uh, I like you too Peter.”

His expression was almost comical. Eyes wide, mouth slightly ajar.

“W-what?”

You giggled, an affectionate grin on your face.

“I said, I like you too, you doofus.”

He visibly relaxed, features softening into a sweet smile.

“Oh.”

You both sat there, the silence of his bedroom settling over you like a blanket. You must’ve looked like idiots, sitting amongst his Star Wars sheets with lovestruck expressions, glancing at each other from the corner of your eyes. After a few seconds, he cleared his throat, blush never fading.

“So, um...do you, I mean, there’s a movie next week, would you maybe, uh, I dunno, um-"

“I’d love to, Peter.”

His smile widened even more, brown eyes sparkling as he nodded.

“Okay. Okay, good. So, uh...we should probably get some sleep.”

Peter moved to stand up, but stopped himself. After a few seconds of hesitation, he leaned over, gently pressing his lips to your bruised forehead. As he pulled away, you gripped his wrist, eyes fluttering shut to savour the moment. You were here. This was real. You felt his light breaths across your face, nose practically brushing yours. A breathy giggle escaped your lips, opening your eyes to see Peter already staring at you. You could see every small detail in gaze, golden flakes scattered in their chocolate depths. You kept your voice hushed, scared to shatter the moment between the two of you.

“Can you lay by me? Just until I fall asleep?”

His smile could rival the sun in its brilliance. A thrill went through you as he nuzzled his nose against yours.

“Alright.”

Careful not to touch your ankle, Peter climbed beneath the covers, wrapping his arm around your shoulders. Your head rested against his chest, steady heartbeat a little too quick to be casual. You smirked.

“You nervous, Parker?”

He chuckled, squeezing you in a hug.

“Shut up, Munchkin.”

God, you didn’t think you’d ever stop smiling. Closing your eyes, you breathed out a sigh of content. A year ago today, you never would’ve imagined you’d be here. A new school, ghost hunting blog, and sprained ankle later, and here you were, cuddling with the guy of your dreams.

Things were finally looking up.

Tagging: @captain-ariel-barnes @papi-chulo-bucky @after-avenging-hours @occasionalfics @aliciawentzshadows @writing-parker 

Sorry if you didn’t wanna be tagged in this, lol, I just tagged anyone who I thought might like Peter fluff XP 

[sassycassie-s-writing]

Proved Him Wrong

By: SassyShoulderAngel319

Fandom/Character(s): Avengers - Peter Parker/Spider-Man & Loki

Rating: PG-11 (minor violence)

Original Idea: I don’t know what role Loki will take in Infinity War (trailer hadn’t dropped yet at the time I wrote this and I’m still avoiding trailers because Spoilers) so I just speculated.

Notes: (Masterlist)(By Character)(About Me) Kinda fun, right? Teamwork!

^^^^^

Peter and I leaned casually against the floor-to-ceiling window, watching the others file in silently. Tony was standing at the head of the conference table, also watching as others entered and took their seats. I had one ankle crossed over the other with my arms folded across my chest.

The Avengers all looked around at each other. “Who are we waiting for?” Natasha asked.

“The Asgardians,” Tony answered.

“Plural?” Clint protested.

The door opened.

Thor and Loki entered.

“Nuh-uh,” Natasha exclaimed. “Big, Blond, and Beautiful is fine but not Curvy Horn Head.”

“Well that’s all well and good, but Loki has inside intel on Thanos that we need. So he stays,” Tony retorted. “Sorry guys.”

Loki glanced over at me and Peter, and then looked over to Tony. “Man of Iron, may I ask you to ask your young servants to depart from the room? This is not information meant for the ears of children,” Loki requested. My mouth dropped and I raised one eyebrow.

“Oh these aren’t servants,” Tony countered.

“Yeah we’re not even interns,” Peter added. I was still mad.

“Excuse me?” I demanded. “We’re Avengers.”

“You two? You're children.”

“And you're what exactly? You certainly act younger than us.”

“Why you pathetic little—” Loki began to snarl.

“I’ll have you know I could punch you through that wall,” I snapped.

“ANYWAY!” Tony shouted, regaining the attention of the room.

The rest of the meeting was boring. It involved a PowerPoint from Tony and Loki pontificating about what he knew of Thanos for what felt like an hour—but was probably like five to ten minutes. Peter and I barely moved the entire time. I mean, we didn’t sit down even though we could have. Peter fidgeted a lot but I was pretty stock still except to pick at my fingernails once or twice.

I also was still fuming just a little bit that Loki didn’t think we belonged on the team because we looked young and seemed to be kids. Sure we were teenagers, but that didn’t mean we couldn’t be Avengers.

Though I supposed wearing my hair in pigtail braids didn’t exactly help my case of trying to look like I was old enough and mature enough to be a superhero. But the pigtail braids were practical.

^^^^^

Peter and I strolled up the stairs into the rest of the building from the basement shop classroom. “No way!” I exclaimed. “In a hand-to-hand fight, the Winter Soldier would totally kick Falcon’s butt! Have you seen that metal arm? He has so many advantages tha—”

I was cut off by a loud THUD as we reached the populated hallways of the school. It was quickly followed by another. THUD.

Peter and I glanced at each other.

THUD.

Heavy footfalls.

The water in the bottle shoved into the pocket of someone’s backpack rippled—like a bad Jurassic Park reference.

I inhaled slowly and held my breath, listening for those footsteps.

“What is that?” Peter whispered.

I shrugged and flicked both my wrists, extending the triggers for my web-shooters out to my palms. Peter followed suit. We stood with our backpacks pressing against each other, listening to the footfalls and trying to find their source.

Our classmates started to notice.

“What’s that noise?”

“Am I hearing things?”

“Anyone else hear that?”

Then the footsteps stopped. Peter and I reached back, taking each other’s hands for a moment. Our senses were going crazy, alerting us to danger. Usually that sense was just a vague alert or a tingling on the back of our necks. But this one was loud warning bells, involuntary muscle tension, and racing heartbeats.

CRASH!

The wall down the hallway imploded, bits of bricks flying into a bank of lockers—barely missing a couple students—before crashing to the floor.

A man strode through the seven-foot hole. He was tall with overlong black hair, piercing icy blue eyes, and a thin pale face. He had on odd, otherworldly clothing and was obnoxiously familiar. I felt my nostrils flare in displeasure.

Loki.

Screams echoed off the lockers and brick as our classmates scrambled to get away from the Asgardian psychopath. If he was just trying to call us to an Avengers meeting, 1) Loki wouldn’t have been sent to get us, and 2) even if he was for some reason, he wouldn’t have blown up the wall. This was about conflict. Challenge. There was going to be violence.

Peter and I got a bit jostled as everyone pushed past us to get away. We were the only ones not fleeing for our lives. “Hope Ned and Michelle got out,” Peter whispered as the hallway cleared.

A fire alarm started blaring.

Peter and I dropped our backpacks to the ground, kicking them off to the side. I shed my hoodie and let it join them, revealing my arms and leaving my web-shooters exposed. “What’s this about?” I called to Loki, spraying some web onto my hand to thread it over the lower half of my face.

“Time to prove to the big boys that the little children can’t handle what’s coming for all of us,” Loki retorted.

I sighed. “Gee, you’d think we’ll need all the help we can get,” I mused sarcastically, both to Peter and Loki.

Peter snorted. Loki didn’t.

I rolled my eyes. “Alright. Let’s just get this over with,” I muttered.

Peter and I dropped into fighting stances, giving each other exasperated looks. “Just what we needed on the day our project was due,” Peter remarked.

An alert went off in my head on instinct. I pushed Peter away and ducked as a dagger flew between our heads—spinning through the air right where Peter’s face had been. We slid over the tile floor and braced our impact against the lockers with our hands. After gently bumping into the metal, we both straightened up, shot each other a quick look, nodded, and rushed at Loki. We knew he was a skilled fighter. We’d just have to prove that we were better. Or, at the very least, just as good as.

As we rushed at Loki, Peter followed my example and put a light amount of web over the bottom half of his face to cover up who he was in case anyone saw us and buttoned up his checked shirt just enough to hide the science pun on it.

To keep Loki distracted, I webbed his ankle and gave a hardy pull, knocking him off his feet with a surprised shout. I used the time he took to get back to his feet to push all of my hair together and coat it in a web to keep it out of the way. I knew I should have braided it that morning. Heaven forbid I ever wear my hair down the way I like it without a crisis arising.

I slid to a stop in front of the Norse “god” and planted a powerful punch that sent him stumbling back.

He looked up at me in alarm.

“Yeah. Stronger than I look,” I sneered.

I popped my knuckles loudly and stretched my neck as Peter caught up, swung from the ceiling, and kicked Loki in the chest with both feet. I followed Peter’s example, bouncing easily off a locker bank—denting the metal doors, whoops—and striking Loki in the face with my elbow.

Peter and I worked well with each other. Our similar powers and long history of friendship helped us know what the other was doing.

The fight dissolved into less smooth movements, though, as Loki retaliated.

Peter and I outnumbered him but he was powerful and tricky—in probably every sense of the word. I knew we were fighting him because his little illusions of himself weren’t this tangible. I'd seen an illusion figure kick a rock before, but every other time, something went right through it. And heck, that rock might have just been more magic.

Strikes like the ones Peter and I dealt to Loki that impacted meant he was very much there.

And it was very satisfying to finally deal blows on the man who didn’t think I was worthy of being an Avenger.

With two of us “Spiderlings”—as Tony called us—fighting against Loki, we ended up covering him with webs before taking him down. Literally.

I knelt on his chest, my elbow pressed into his throat, my webbed hair hanging over my shoulder. “Stay away from this place! There are innocent children here. Spider-Man and I may not be innocent children, but you will back off from our classmates. They're kids,” I snarled. “Understood?”

Loki made a choking noise.

“I’ll take that for a yes.” I looked over my shoulder where Peter was nursing his jaw from a punch by Loki. “Help me secure him,” I requested. Peter nodded. He stumbled forward. He probably took more hits than I had so I didn’t blame him for the stumble. He wrapped web lines around Loki’s wrists, binding them together.

“I'm going to call the others,” Peter whispered to me. “Keep watching him.”

I nodded, not taking my eyes off Loki. “No problem.”

Loki cocked his head. “There’s more to the two of you than meets the eye.”

I snorted. “So now are you going to believe that we’re worthy of aiding everyone in beating the heck out of Thanos?”

Loki sneered. “No,” he retorted. “The battlefield is no place for children.”

“Children who beat you?” I challenged. “Wow you're persnickety.”

Peter slid over to us. “They’re on their way.” He looked down on Loki. “And I heard your big brother isn’t happy, buddy. Sorry.”

^^^^^

Tony, Thor, and Steve burst into the school only five minutes after Peter called them, some of the other Avengers following close behind. “Nice work, kids,” Tony complimented as Thor hauled Loki unceremoniously to his feet and began lecturing him about something—I only caught attacking children somewhere in there. I was kinda sick of being addressed as a child.

“Thanks,” Peter and I chorused.

“What was this about?” Steve asked.

“Loki wanted to prove to you guys that we weren’t ready to fight Thanos,” I explained. “But we beat him. Luckily he didn’t hurt any of our classmates.”

“Speaking of which,” Tony began, “you two better get out there and join that crowd before anyone gets suspicious of where you are.” Peter and I shared a slightly panicked look. We really didn’t need anyone else figuring out who we were.

“We’ll take care of this,” Clint assured us, glaring at Loki with narrowed eyes.

We nodded, simultaneously peeled the webbing concealing our faces off, wadded them into one big ball, and chucked it in the trash can. In a couple hours it would dissolve and no one would even notice it was there. Peter took my hand and dragged me out into the crowd of our evacuated classmates. No one even noticed that we came from inside the school or asked us any questions. “Guess being losers helps,” I remarked to Peter after pointing out no one realized we were missing.

Except Ned, who pushed his way over to us.

“Are you okay?” he hissed under the droning of hundreds of voices in varying degrees of concern.

“Yeah we’re fine,” Peter replied. “A little bruised maybe but I doubt anyone will notice.”

“What did he want?”

“To prove to the Avengers we weren’t worthy to be Avengers ourselves,” I grumbled bitterly. “We proved him wrong.”

[starksinner]

Such A Nerd

Summary: Peter knows that Spider-Man has fans, but what he doesn’t expect is for his best friend Y/N to take the meaning of ’super-fan’ to a whole new level.

Pairings: Peter Parker x Reader

Warnings: Swearing, Mentions of Sex, Buncha’ Fluff

“Spider-Man, Spider-Man! Does what ever a spider can! Can he swing from a web? Take a look, overhead! Hey, there — ”

“Y/N! Oh my, c-can you stop?”

Peter ran down the hallway, gripping the straps of his backpack tightly as he saw Y/N leaned up against his locker, belting out the Spider-Man Theme Song in front of their fellow pupils.

“Aw, c'mon, Pete! I know I’m no Glee member, but-”

“You don’t have to sing - that - every time you’re waiting to meet me!”

Y/N couldn’t help the smirk that crossed her lips as she confidently moved her back from Peter’s locker, eyeing him carefully as he imputed his lock code and grabbed his History textbook.

“I’m just so happy - that my best dude - is a motherfucking superhero!”

“Shhh, Y/N! You and Ned are the only people who know - I’d like to keep it that way!” Peter’s eyes were bulging out of his head as he stared frantically around the hall.

“I can’t believe you told him first, by the way.” She rolled her eyes, grabbing her phone out of the back pocket of her jeans. “You know - Falcon is, like, my favourite Avenger - and you went to Berlin to meet him! You didn’t even mention me!”

“It wasn’t a fucking Avengers meeting! It was a Civil War - and - we were on opposite sides!” Peter grabbed her arm, guiding her down the hallway as he walked his way to fourth period.

“You could’ve webbed him up - grabbed your phone - opened up  Snapchat - and made him say - ’Hey, Y/N! Peter’s told me so much about you! I love you, too! Falcon, out!’”

She gasped suddenly, yanking on Peter’s arm with such a force, he almost knocked into the lockers.

“Or even better - you coulda’ made him yell - Cut the check! … I just feel like that’s something he would say …”

“Oh my God - you’re such a nerd.” Peter muttered, locking his arm with hers as they headed up the stairs to the third floor.

“Me? A nerd?” She stared up at Peter, completely aghast, watching his curly hair bounce luxuriously as he weaved past other students.

“You and Ned practically had nerd-gasms when you saw The Last Jedi trailer! Don’t even fuck with me, Parker!”

Peter chuckled as he reached the landing, Y/N at his heels. He grabbed the handle of the door, gesturing out his arm for her to enter first.

“We’re both nerds, then - I guess.” He shrugged, looking over at her as she scrolled through Instagram, not even averting her eyes at the passing people.

“Anyways - Pete - I was thinking … pizza date after school? I’ll bring it to your place around five - pepperoni just like you like …” Y/N didn’t even look up at him, seemingly too occupied by Black Widow’s newest post to care about his wandering eyes.

“Sure. Will you help me with my English assignment while your over? I know you love Shakespeare.” He grinned slyly as he pointed to his History classroom, haulting at the door.

She srunched up her nose, raising her right hand to the sky, gripping her phone in her left. “To be - or not to be, Spider-Man! THAT - IS THE - QUESTION!”

“Oh my God, alright.” He shook his head at her amazingly, slipping into class with the other students. “I’ll catch you at five, then, nerd.”

“Hiya’, May!”

Aunt May returned Y/N’s warm grin, taking the young girls arm and inviting her in.

May grabbed the pizza box from her hands, placing it on the entrance table.

“You’re looking beautiful, Hun.” She complimented, playing with the ends of Y/N’s hair as the girl turned and took off her F/C sneakers.

Y/N looked back to her and smiled, taking in Aunt May’s dressier appearance. “Are you going out?”

“Only into town. Pick up some last minute things before everything closes.” May grinned, pointing her chin up to Peter’s room at the end of the hall. “I’ll give you two your space.”

Y/N shook her head and laughed, gripping the handles of her duffel bag tighter. “We don’t need space, Aunt May. Trust me on that. That - is never going to happen.”

May let out a short sigh, grabbing her purse from the coat rack. She sent Y/N a little wink. “Aw - c'mon! I dream of the day you two are together.”

“May - no! Please, don’t start with that!”

“Alright! Alright - fine! … I’ll see you before you leave, yes?” She grabbed her long, tan trench coat, pulling the cover up over her shoulders.

“I’ll be here. See you, May.”

Aunt May shut the door with a giddy grin, the automatic lock clicking as silence now filled the almost empty apartment.

“Peter!” Y/N yelled, sauntering over to his bedroom. She held her duffel bag in one hand, balancing the still warm pizza in the other. On the front of Peter’s door, his name in red letters flashed brightly against the baby blue paint.

She brought her knuckles against the wood, pressing her ear against it. “Are you’re pants on, Parker? You gonna’ let me in?”

On the other end of the door, she heard a loud gasp and the evident sounds of running and clothes being thrown from wall to wall.

Not a minute later, she heard the doorknob being grabbed, followed by a mumbling, aw, shit!

“Hey, Y/N.”

Peter’s hair was seemingly messy and fluffy, curly in all the wrong places and flat on the sides. His choice of a  quick wardrobe, a purple Stark Enterprises sweatshirt and bright green boxers, seemed to be going against all the laws of fashion.

“You weren’t - uh -” She took a step into his room, walking around him as she eyed the boxers and dirty t-shirts on the ground, stepping around the garments like a mine field. “- doing anything … R rated - were you”?

Peter rubbed the back of his neck nervously, shutting his door with the back of his foot. “Um - well …”

“God - Peter! Okay, then!” Y/N lightly tossed the pizza box on his dresser, his sheets not seeming like a great option. “I don’t know where to step! I don’t know what’s contaminated and what’s not!”

“It’s okay!” He reassured her, pulling his blue comforter over the top of his thin, white sheets. “Sit right there! It’s clean - I promise!”

She eyed him with fear, which he almost burst out laughing at, hesitantly sitting against his headboard that smacked against the wall as she sat on the bed. “Okay - this is - really weird …”

“Yeah, it-it is.” Peter hopped up on the opposite end, eyeing her black duffel bag that she was still clinging onto. “You’re … not sleeping over … are you?”

“Nah.” She chuckled, running her fingers over the zipper. She looked up at him, a glint of fire in her eyes.  "You want me to sleep with you, Parker?“

Peter didn’t think his face could grow any redder. All the warmth in his body felt like it had traveled up to his cheeks, leaving him in a burning daze.

“W-What - wait - l-like - what, okay - like sex? Or what - Y/N -”

“Oh my God!” She grinned, pulling on the sleeves of her jacket and shrugging off the leather. “You’re such a fumbling little, ball of fluff - aren’t ya?”

Peter glared up at her in awe as she pulled her hair into a lazy, messy bun and made herself comfortable. She always did everything with such ease and confidence - it just made him grow hotter.

“I - I - Y/N, what did you mean - by sleep with? I-”

“Aw, Parker, Parker, Parker …”

“That’s for me to know-” She reached over for the pizza box, dropping it right in front of him. “-and for you to find out.”

“What year was this guy born in, again?” Peter cocked his head to the side, a slice of pepperoni pizza being held in one hand, a series of Shakespeare novels being balanced in the other.

“1564.” Y/N grunted, picking up a rather curious piece of wet paper. “If Aunt May saw this room - you’d be a crushed spider.”

Peter let out a laugh, slamming the textbooks onto his desk. He finished eating the crust off the pizza, turning to Y/N with a weary smile. “You don’t have to clean up for me, ya know?”

The H/C haired girl grimaced as she began tossing loose papers into his garbage bin. “Yeah - I’m not doing this for you. I can’t be in a room this unorganized and … smelly - it’s driving me insane, honestly.”

“Always the clean freak.” Peter muttered, a sly smile filling his cheeks as he turned his attention back to his essay, finishing up the last paragraph. “I’m finally done, yo.”

“Congrats.” Y/N backed up until her thighs hit the back of his bed. She let herself fall on the mattress, mumbling a quiet oof as she suffocated herself in the comforter.

“Are you gonna’ tell me what’s in that bag of yours?” Peter pondered, getting up from his desk. “It’s been buggin’ me all night.”

“Oh, shit! Totally fucking forgot about that.” Y/N rolled over onto her stomach, watching Peter as he stood in the middle of the room awkwardly. “You gonna’ grab it for me, or what?”

Peter nodded quickly and rushed over to the end of his bed, tossing her the duffle bag as she sat up and crossed her legs.

“Um - it’s not, like - an explosive, right?” Peter hesitantly sat down next to her, watching as her fingers gripped the zipper.

“Why? Would it be a problem if it was?”

“Little bit.”

“Okay! You’re gonna’ have to close your eyes for this!” She poked the side of his face as he glared at her questioningly.

“What is this your planning? Honestly.” He observed her carefully as she slid off his bed with the bag in her hands.

“Well - on second thought - I’ll go to the bathroom and change. It might take a while anyhow.”

“Change? Why-why are you changing?” Peter’s eyes widened as she smirked and shut the door behind her. “Y/N?!?!”

“Are you still alive in there?” Peter tapped his fingers nervously against the wall as he stood by the door frame of the bathroom, pushing his ear up to the door. “Hello? Y/N, you there?”

“Yo! Get away from the damn door and close your eyes!” After what felt hours of silence, her voice finally came through.

“Why do I gotta’-”

“Just fucking do it before I slap you across your stupid, cupcake face!”

“Fine! Fine!” Peter held up his hands in defense and wandered back to the comfort of his bed. He leaned his back against the wall and shut his eyes, propping one open as he heard the door creak open.

“Close them eyes. I know your a sneaky bitch.”

He laughed as he imagined her walking out of the bathroom, a proud smile plastered on her lips. He decided to listen to her, covering his eyes with the palms of his hands. “Well, you know me really well.”

There was a long period of silence and shuffling before Y/N chose to speak again.

“Alrighty, Parker. Go ahead and open em’ for me.” Her voice was sweet and provocative - just like always - but Peter knew something was up.

“Okay, but - Oh my shit …”

If someone told him that - this - was happening today - he would have just shook his head and laughed. This could only be a dream … was it a dream … ?

He was completely and utterly flabbergasted. His mind was totally blank - everything was blurry and running fast. He knew his face must’ve been the colour of fire. But he couldn’t take his eyes off her - even if he tried.

Y/N stood in front of him, her hands settled on her hips, a nervous look etched across her enchanting features. She wore a skin-tight Spider-Man catsuit, accentuating everyone of her captivating curves and body parts. She looked good. She looked damn good.

“Ha - okay - I know it’s stupid - but I wanted to kinda’ surprise you and everything! You’re - like - my favorite superhero ever - which is super weird - and I know I’m a nerd and everything - but I though it was cute and funny- and-”

“Holy. Fuck.” His jaw was still to the floor as he continued to stare at her with wide eyes, his fingers gripping his sheets tight, almost as a form of support from completely loosing his shit.

Y/N’s brows furrowed, a frown dropping her lips as she focused on the silence. Her heart sank a little - he wasn’t saying anything. “You don’t like it, right? You’re gonna’ laugh at me? It was a fucking stupid idea anyway-”

“God, NO! God!” Peter jumped up from his bed, almost tripping over the forgotten, empty pizza box on the ground. He struggled for air as his breath caught in his throat. She was even more pretty up close - she literally just took his fucking breath away. Holy shit.

“God - okay - don’t slap me for sayin’ this …” He realized that his hands were growing clammy as seconds passed. What the hell was even happening, right now? “ …but - you look fuckin’ hot … Super hot. Ya know - you-you look - uh - great.”

Y/N was still and quiet for a moment before she timidly licked her dry lips and decided to make eye contact with him. She couldn’t believe she was even doing this. “Fuckin’ hot, huh? Not nerdy?”

Peter smiled as the tension between them seemed to thin out, a small smile breaking at the corner of her perfect, plump lips.

“Well - uh - no. You’re super nerdy - you look super nerdy. But I - I meant that - about you looking sexy - I mean - nice - great - y-yeah.”

She let out a roaring pit of laughter, shaking her head as she felt her cheeks threaten to turn rosy.

“Is this your way of confessing those - uh - feelin’ things I always try and hide?” She smirked as she felt him inch closer, his body heat mixing with hers.

Peter couldn’t help but laugh, the smile on her face and her little chuckle causing his skin to sweat. “I guess so … You dressin’ up as Spider-Man your way of tellin’ me?”

“Mmmm …” She grinned mischievously, glaring up at the ceiling, tapping her finger suggestively against her chin. “Not really … but this sure as hell is.”

“What’d ya’ mean by-”

Her lips brushed against his - but not innocently - she was a fucking tease. The kiss was hot, fiery, passionate, and demanding - all things she was and all things she will always be. He was loosing himself  - but he was so fucking okay with it.

“I hate myself for falling for you … I hate spiders …” Her voice was only a whisper, a quiet, angelic little noise.

He couldn’t help but lean in for another, clasping his hands on either side of her face, his thumbs brushing against her warm cheeks with such softness.

“ … That makes two of us …” He laughed lightly, running his finger over her lips as she smiled and stared into his eyes.

“Can I tell you somethin’?” She held onto his arms, running her hands along the cotton of his big sweatshirt.

“Yeah …”

“ … I also got some Spider-Man t-shirts, socks, a pencil sharpener, pajamas, and a wrist watch.”

She giggled as an almost horrified look overtook his features. She pressed her forehead against his chest, trying to contain her laughter.

“Where the hell did ya’ get all that?! And why?”

“Walmart, of course! They have a bunch of your merch there. I thought it was kinda’ fucking hilarious …”

“Talk about a super-fan …” He mumbled, mostly to himself. This was doing great things for his ego, that was for sure.

“Maybe I’m your only fan …” She looked up at him, shrugging causally. “ … the shelves were all fucking full.”

“God dammit!”