#spideychellemonth2k19

[spiderman-homecomeme]

Day One - When in Vegas

Prompt: future!au

It’s cutting it close, but here is my first contribution to @spideychellemonth! I’m gonna try my darndest to keep up, but I’m so excited for this guys!! 

This is potentially going to be multi-chapter, mostly because it was getting too long and I was having just TOO MANY IDEAS lmao Let me know what y’all think! This is also based off of an idea an anon sent me a week or so ago about a marriage pact!AU that i just LOVED the idea for 

Basically, the 1.7k Waking Up Married in Vegas!AU nobody asked for pls enjoy! <3

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Fuck.

It’s the first semi-coherent thought that pops into MJ’s head as she’s dragged into a sluggish state that can barely be described as consciousness. Her eyes, feeling as if they might fall right out of her skull, squeeze shut in an effort to stop the sun’s merciless assault. The groan that leaves her mouth as she turns away from the window is almost inhuman, her tongue heavy and dry, throat feeling as if she’d just swallowed barbed wire. If she moves too much, she’s sure whatever concoction of last night’s activities currently residing in her stomach are going to end up on the floor. 

Three gin and tonics, two vanilla screwdrivers, and a few too many—who was counting, really?—shots of tequila seemed like an okay idea last night, at least past-MJ thought. 

That was a problem for future-MJ.

Future-MJ hates past-MJ.

It was true, it was all true, she reflects as her stomach gurgles violently, lurching into the back of her throat. 

It’s a simple explanation, really.

Over time, the enzymes required to metabolize all that booze have started to weaken, no longer breaking down toxins with the same vigor, leaving the elusive acetaldehyde to roam free. 

In other words, she’s thirty.

Gone were the glory days where she could drink the night away and wake up with just a mild headache. The days where she could have as many different cocktails as her heart desired and not wake up feeling like death itself. The days where she could drink just one glass of pinot noir and not feel like an angry bull is stomping on his hippocampus.

But it had been Ned’s 30th, one of her best friends since high school, a real cause for celebration. They were in Vegas, for crying out loud. Sin City. What was she supposed to do?

Not drink?

(Well, yeah. That would have been ideal.)

But where was the fun in that?

Her hand brushes across her bare stomach, and she realizes with a small start that she’s naked. 

She’s not sure if she’s ever been more confused.

Come to think of it, she’s not sure she even knows what happened last night. There’s flashes, very brief flashes of club music, Grey Goose, way too much glitter, and a lot of highly questionable, dumbass financial decisions involving slot machines and poker games.

She’s pretty sure she’s still alive, about 62%, but she’s also fairly certain that her brain has been replaced with cotton and sewing needles. An ache that starts right around her knees shoots up her spine, radiating throughout her body as she pulls the blanket tighter around her and buries her puffy face into the pillow.

When she realizes that any chance of sleep is gone for good, and that she can’t just will this splitting headache away with her own mind, she cracks an eye open. She immediately regrets that decision as soon as the harsh sunlight hits, shaking her head, throwing her arm out in some kind of half-assed effort to fight it off. 

Her heart nearly stops when her hand hits something soft and warm next to her. She yanks her hand back, eyes shooting open to see someone—a man—face down in the mattress, head of chocolate brown waves turned away from her. A rather uncalled for heat swarms her body as her gaze drifts to his exposed back and lingers on the taut muscles there, drifting lower, the thin stop-sheet just barely covering the curve of his—

What the hell happened last night?

But dread starts to mix with the nausea gripping at her stomach as she realizes something about the naked mystery man in her bed.

She knows that curly mop of brown hair.

Immediately, she shoots up from the bed, gripping the sheet against her chest. 

A big mistake.

The nausea finally wins the battle, and she runs to the bathroom, not bothering to cover up as she empties the toxic contents of her stomach into the toilet. 

It’s a wonder Peter doesn’t wake up from her violent retching. 

She forces out a harsh exhale as she flushes down the remnants of her night out, hand reaching out to grip the bathroom counter as she rises on shaky legs. She grabs the complimentary bathrobe—how fancy—and shrugs it on before turning to the sink to splash ice cold water onto her face. 

And that’s when she sees it. 

The gaudy, cheap, obviously fake rock sitting smugly on her left ring finger, staring right back at her slack-jawed expression. 

What the fuck?!

It all comes back to her. 

They’d been so, so incredibly dumb. 

Both of them.

Peter looks stupid good.

He always has, of course, she wasn’t blind. 

But his late-twenties seemed to have been incredibly kind to him. He still had that boyish charm she’d always secretly liked, but now… now there was just something about him, standing under these neon casino lights, wearing a plain black suit with a white tee underneath, that brought back years and years of repressed high school feelings. 

Mutual feelings that neither of them ever acted on. Only joked about.

They would never have worked as a couple, they’d always say.

It was a disaster waiting to happen.

So they both moved on. It was high school. They still had the rest of their lives ahead of them. 

Plus, the risk of ruining their solid friendship was just too great. 

So why, after nearly twelve years, is she having to actively fight back the stupid fluttering of butterflies when he so much as glanced in her general direction? 

It makes no sense. 

It isn’t like they haven’t seen each other since high school. Yeah, it’s been a few months since they last caught up, both of them being too busy with work and the like, but...

They were still friends—best friends, even.

She blames it on the second gin and tonic.

Yes, it’s the warm buzz of the alcohol running through her body that’s making her feel like she’s pretty damn close to walking on air. 

And she chases that feeling, returning again and again to the bar—sometimes with Peter, himself—giving up on actually counting her drinks after the first shot of tequila. 

Tequila was clearly not her friend in this case.

It could also have been the fact that she’s freshly single and she’s had to witness Ned and, now fiancèe Betty, making googly eyes at each other one too many times, and it’s entirely possible that she’s just feeling that creeping loneliness she’d tried so hard to stamp down.

She doesn’t know how they get here, maybe it’s somewhere between her second shot and her first screwdriver, but they’re alone in a booth in the corner. For the first time in a while, her liquid courage doesn’t help stave off the pressure of trying to come up with something cool to say, and she feels, once again, like she’s back in high school. 

It’s an incredibly frustrating feeling.

Peter ducks as he sees Ned looking for him, MJ snickering as she watches the whole ordeal. Ned’s drunkenly leading this poor, unassuming casino patron around, glancing around frantically as he wanders from room to room.

Odds are it’s just another person to try and hook Peter up with. 

Ned means well, he truly does, but frankly, Peter’s a little tired of the constant matchmaking. Yes, he’s been the perpetually single friend for a number of years now, but he seemed to be pretty content on his own.

And plus, he and MJ are having a pretty good time by themselves.

He doesn’t need anyone else.

“But, Pete,” MJ starts, words slurring ever-so-slightly, tone laced with sarcasm. “Everyone knows that being single in your thirties is one of the most shameful things in existence. It’s barbaric. You need to settle down, before it’s too late.”

He throws his head back, letting out an exaggerated laugh. “You’re right. My good years are gone.” 

She tsks, shaking her head. “Past your prime.”

“I’ve truly peaked.” He tips his glass to her, before taking a drink.

A smirk tugs at her lips. “What will you do now?”

“Well...” He laughs lightly, casually stirring the glass in his hand. He looks up at her, eyes glazed over, tilting his head as he fixes her with a fond, teasing smile. “We still have that pact.”

Ah, yes. 

The pact. 

The pact that they’d made—as a joke—when they were sixteen. 

It was simple.

If they were both single at thirty, they’d get married. 

That was the deal.

They even shook on it. 

But, official as that simple handshake was at the time for two hormonal teenagers, it wasn’t something that was ever in any universe supposed to be taken seriously.

Maybe it was just a ring, though. Maybe they didn’t get actually, legitimately, legally get married. They couldn’t have been that dumb. 

Or maybe this was some sick hangover hallucination her brain made up as punishment for drinking too much. 

The rest of the night is a blur, brief glimpses of drunken giggles, his hand in hers flashing through her mind. She vaguely remembers going somewhere outside the casino with him, stumbling through the streets as they pull each other along, bright lights dancing above them. 

Balloons everywhere. 

A corny chapel. 

A Tony Stark impersonator. 

Her expression is oddly calm, a contrast to the utter horror she feels in her gut as she stares at the sparkling ring on her finger. 

This isn’t that bad, she thinks. This can all be over in a matter of hours. 

An annulment was easy, right?

Right?

It’s not like they had sex or anything—

Wait, no, fuck, they did. 

Did they…?

Again, the later part of the night is fuzzy.

Another wave of nausea crashes into her before she has a chance to be confused, and in an instant, she’s hunched over the toilet again. 

And it’s while she’s puking her guts out, while she’s praying that the naked guy in her bed stays asleep where he’s supposed to be, does a boxer-clad-Peter step into the bathroom. He looks almost as wrecked as she is, his hair in wild disarray, bags under his eyes giving Gollum a run for his money. 

He hesitates, knocking gently on the doorframe. “MJ—?” At first, he looks as though he’s about to ask her why she’s in his hotel room, but his expression crumples into one of worry when he sees how sick she is. “Are you okay?”

She scoffs and gives him a weak glance over her shoulder, ready to throw a biting, sarcastic remark back at him, when she sees the way the color drains from his face.

He’s frozen in place, eyes wide, and she hesitantly follows his gaze, right onto that big, fake diamond on her finger. 

Fuck.

[agentbarton12]

Spideychelle Month 2019 Masterlist

collection of my contribution to spideychellemonth2k19

remember me (in the morning light) (fantasy!au) | part two

purple highlighters (college!au)