#wrapping every single character in bubble wrap for Thursday

[noodlekru]

Sam’s Statement still haunts me so I had to draw something for it, good thing this is definitely the worst thing that will ever happen to Samama Khalid and everything from this point onwards is gonna be fine. Right?

[astral--horrorshow]

Around-The-Clock Shadows

Platonic Yandere ROTTMNT x Reader

Info: This will be a full-length fic including multiple ROTTMNT characters, the main storyline revolves around the Mad Dogs

Fic Summary: You sure are likeable, aren't you?

《Previous Chapter》

Chapter 3: A Room With No View

Characters: Raph, Leo, Donnie, Mikey

A/N: I'm so so so sorry for the wait!! I had a nasty case of writers block for a while!! I'm going to try to upload every thursday, but that might change if the series continues into the school year.

If you want to be added to a taglist, just say the word! If you want to draw fanart or make anything based off of this, I would be literally honored. Please don't be shy, I will love whatever you make! If you have any questions about the fic, feel free to ask!

TW: Kidnapping, toxic relationships, reader gets hit with a tranq

I do not condone any of the behaviors found or done in this fic. This story is purely for entertainment purposes. If you or someone you know is being treated like this, please contact the authorities.

Chapter Summary: The brothers finally take you home

Word Count: 1400

☆~☆~☆

Your sock-footed shuffled across the carpet in your hallway, and into the bathroom. As you scrubbed your teeth free of any plaque that had built up over the day, your thoughts wandered to your favorite jacket and the Purple Dragons. Your jacket had been ruined, somehow. It had juice all over it! You didn't even know how it happened, and now it was runied! Even when you had ran it through the wash for the gajillionth time! You huffed sadly, forcing your thoughts to turn to your friends. They were acting weird. Kendra had been even more snappish and irratable, and she took it all out on Jase, who seemed relieved about something, but you couldn't fathom what.

Putting your toothbrush back in the mug on the sink, you started to head towards your bedroom when you heard footsteps. They were gradually growing louder, though you couldn't feel them.

The footsteps stopped.

You clenched your eyes shut, hoping that whoever it was would go away.

Then suddenly, a voice broke the uncomfortable quiet.

"Should I try to hide

The way I feel inside

My heart

For you?"

You opened your eyes again, recognizing the sound of the record player. You laughed at yourself as you went to turn it off. You should've remembered that the song opened up with footsteps. You finally headed to bed, relieved. You, ignoring how the record player was even turned on in the first place, assured yourself that you were in your own home, and you were perfectly safe.

Oh, how wrong you were.

When you were walking back to your bedroom, you felt a sharp pain in your neck. It was sudden, and before you had even been able to reach up and see what it was, you fell unconscious, your face plummeting towards the floor. Leo knocked Mikey out of the way and ducked under Raph’s arm to catch you, scooping you up before you could even hit the ground. He supported your back and the underside of your knees with his arms, pulling you close to his chest and spinning around. When his spin turned him towards his brothers, they were glaring at him, clearly irretated at his antics.

Leo merely grinned in response to their narrowed eyes and crossed arms, simply strolling past them towards the front door. His brothers shook off their annoyance, and excitement and relief bubbled in them as they walked out the door and shut it behind them, marking the last time you would ever see your home again.

☆~☆~☆

You felt terrible.

That is, your body felt terrible. Your mouth was dry and you could feel the bitter taste of the air on your tongue. Your entire being felt rusty, slow, wrapped in cotton and unable to move or produce a single coherent thought other than, “I feel terrible”.

You felt weak, and your bones ached like you were 100 years old. You opened your eyes to be greeted with a dark gray ceiling in a dimly lit room. Though it was extremely difficult, you pulled yourself upright, observing the place you were in. You were in a large bed with tons of stuffed animals, pillows, and blankets adorning it, in an odd bedroom. It looked like somebody furnished an underground bunker, because the walls were made of dark gray stone, and there wasn’t a window in sight. Turning your gaze to the bedside, you silently gasped and threw your hand to your mouth, which made a loud slap echo throughout the room. The creature that made you react the way you did was a sort of humanoid turtle wearing a bright orange bandana around his head. He looked up from his sketchbook, and his gaze locked on you.

Not for long, though, as his eyes lit up and he squealed in what you could only recognize as euphoria as he dropped the sketchbook and pencil he was using to the ground launched forwards at you, capturing you in an embrace that left your ribs aching and your lungs desperate for oxygen.

You panicked internally, who was this? What was he? What were you even doing there? Questions, panic, and fear mixed into a cocktail of emotions in your head, it was all too overwhelming for you. When he finally released his grip on you, he brought his three-fingered hands to your cheeks, and began to pinch and squeeze them like he was a grandmother doting on her grandchildren.

“You’re finally awake!”

You jumped at the sudden sound of his voice, and you tried to pull away from his blue-green hands. To no avail, however, as he had an iron grip and you had a weakened body. “Where am I?” You asked him, voice scratchy from dehydration. “Oh, you poor thing,” he cooed, “Have a drink!” He grabbed a water bottle from the bedside table, and when you tried to reach out and grab it, he held it away from you. ���Let me do that!” He cheerfully said, screwing the cap open and finally letting you hold it, although he kept his hands extremely close, as if afraid you might drop it. Feeling the cold, sweet water slide down your dry throat was akin to drinking nectar from the heavens. You tried to drink the entire bottle in one go, but the creature once again pulled the bottle away. “Don’t drink too fast, you’ll drown!”

Feeling much better, you asked your question again. “Where am I?” He gazed at you for a moment, before snapping back into his cheerful demeanor. “Oh, I have to call the rest of your new brothers! They’ll be so thrilled!” Before you could even wonder who the “rest of your new brothers” were, he opened the door, which you leaned forwards to try and see out of, and yelled down the hallway, his voice echoing, "HEY, GUYS, THEY'RE AWAKE!" You jumped yet again at his sudden yell, not knowing his voice could be that loud. Footsteps thundered down the hall from both directions, all sounding different. Three more of the creatures burst through the doorway, all of them different in many ways, but you could tell that they were all turtles. The giant one in a red mask held out his arms and approached slowly, like you were a small animal he was attempting to pick up.

"Hi, little buddy," he softly said, creeping ever closer. You instinctively backed up as far as you could go, frightened and confused. "What's wrong?" He asked, his arms lowering and his head tilting to the side. He actually looked confused about your discomfort.

You swallowed harshly, your widened eyes looking up at the turtles fearfully.

"I-" But before you could even get your sentence out, the one in purple spoke for you. "They're obviously confused, Raph," He said, putting a hand on his hip and frowning dissaprovingly at him. "I thought we all agreed that we were going to introduce ourselves first,"

"Raph was getting to that!" He said, his energy in the sentence leagues different than the soft demeanor he had just seconds earlier. He stood upright and cleared his throat, his head now turned away from the purple guy. He faced you again, a sweet smile on his face. "My name is Raph, little bud. These all are all of your new brothers," He said, gesturing around, "I'm the oldest!" He exaclaimed cheerfully, pointing his thumb to his chest and being the second to not elaborate on the "new brothers" part. The purple one stepped forwards, about to introduce himself, but the one in blue shoved him to the side and stepped directly in front of you. "I'm Leo, and I'm only just about the greatest ninja around these parts!" He boasted, also pointing a thumb to his chest.

"Yeah, okay, 'Nardo," the purple one said, shoving Leo in return. "Ahem. I am Donatello," it was all he had to say, and he looked down at you, as if he was studying you or something. "And I'm Mikey!" The orange one chimed in, raising an arm in the air. Once he was done speaking, they all looked down at you with something sinister in their eyes. "Okay..." You spoke with hesitation, "...Where am I?"

They all stared at you, and you froze. There was something more than sinisterness in their eyes. Raph spoke up.

"You're home, of course!"

☆~☆~☆

A/N: I'm sorry ya'll I originally tried to delete the part where Donnie is called a purple guy but i couldn't make myself. Also, chapters are probably gonna get a little longer from this point onwards!

Taglist <3: @yanteetle @ssak-i @oleander-nin @averagerottmntsimp @katswritingcorner

[cozy-the-overlord]

Crimson Curls

Summary:  A barista at the Avengers Tower coffeeshop goes missing. Her boyfriend, prominent Avengers engineer Michael Hauer, headlines a desperate campaign to find her, aided by the support of Tony Stark and the rest of the super-powered team. But as Hauer’s narrative begins to unravel, it becomes clear that a certain Asgardian prince knows more than he’s telling.

Pairing: Loki x Original Female Character

Chapter 3: Solace

Previous Chapter |

Word Count: 4,281

A/N:  Final chapter! Hope you like it :) Thank you so much for reading!

TW: domestic violence

Read it on Ao3

“Oh, did I mention that I finally convinced my mom to buy a smartphone?” Elaine was chuckling. “She just discovered the world of emojis. Every text I get from her is immediately followed by like twenty different happy faces!”

Laughter erupted up around the small table. Kristine found herself giggling too, despite herself. She almost hadn’t come tonight. She didn’t think the others had expected her to come, either: Curt had invited her with a nervous sort of hesitance that gave her plenty of room to back out.  “It’s okay if you don’t want to come. We totally understand.”

The excuses had bubbled to her lips in an instinctual panic—I can’t, I have plans, I’m not feeling well—but she clamped down on her tongue before they spilled out. Her therapist was always telling her that the only way she could take back control of her life was to trust herself to control it. So, Kristine swallowed her insecurities and smiled at her coworker.

“I’d love to. What time?”

It hadn’t been a perfect night. Old habits die hard, and Kristine found herself looking over her shoulder more often than not. Every time, she’d turn back to the table, feeling stupid. What did she expect to see? Michael lurking behind the bar in his orange jumpsuit? Her fellow baristas had to notice—if there was one thing that this whole ordeal had taught her, it was that she was incapable of subtlety—but they were kind enough not to say anything.

It had been fun, though—more fun than she had expected. Kristine hadn’t realized how little she knew the people she worked alongside. She found herself learning all sorts of things. Curt played rugby on the weekends. Kristine hadn’t even known rugby was a thing in America, but apparently he was in an amateur league right in New York, and went straight to practices after work on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Tasha was a self-titled crazy cat lady, with five felines living with her in her small apartment. She passed around her phone with pictures of the newest kitten, a tiny orange fluffball named Tigger. Elaine was locked in a never-ending struggle with her 63-year-old mother to “introduce her to the 21st century.”

At first, Kristine had felt guilty that she didn’t have any captivating stories to contribute to the conversation. Her only hobby was her art, and there wasn’t much to say about that. I draw people when I’m bored. Certainly nothing compared to Curt’s gripping account of how his friend fractured his neck in a game two weeks ago. But there was no pressure for her to add anything, and slowly, Kristine relaxed, content just listening to the chat.

The couple at the table across from them caught her eye towards the end of their meal. They had been whispering to each other ever since they sat down, looking back and forth between Kristine and their phone screen. She stiffened as they gestured towards her. Getting recognized in public… that was a thing she still couldn’t wrap her head around. She didn’t understand why seeing her made people so excited… it wasn’t like she was a singer, or an actress, or some other type of celebrity. She was just… her. Normal. No different than anybody else she passed on the sidewalk.

Kristine tried to ignore the excited couple and turn back to the conversation, but it was hard with the tell-tale clicking of a cell phone camera to her right. She closed her eyes. Just ignore them. Just ignore them.

The camera shutter soon caught the attention of the others, however. Elaine stopped what she was saying and turned to glare at the other table.

“Hey!” she snapped at the couple. Kristine jumped at the sudden shout. “Knock it off! She doesn’t want pictures!”

The two were stricken. Mumbling an apology, they turned back to their dinner.

“Thanks,” Kristine murmured, eyes downcast. It seemed she couldn’t go anywhere these days without being interrupted by someone. She couldn’t imagine how annoying that must have been for those she was with. “Sorry about that.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Elaine said. “It’s not your fault that people act like dumbasses around famous people.”

Famous people.

Kristine wasn’t sure how to feel about that. Should she be upset that the whole world seemed to know every intimate detail of her broken life, or should she be honored that they cared? Because they did care—that was maybe the most shocking part of it all. Once she woke up in April, after the whirlwind of finding herself in the Loki’s penthouse room and getting examined by the Avengers’ private doctor team and being interviewed by police investigators for hours, she finally looked at the Twitter hashtags that had been trending while she slept. It was… surreal.

Just saw the news about the blood in the apartment and I’m crying. I want her to be alive so badly, but I don’t think she is anymore. Please, @NYPD, don’t let this monster get away with her murder. #ArrestMichaelHauer #WheresTheBodyMichael? #JusticeForKristine

He controlled her, abused her, and tried to blame her for her own disappearance. Do NOT let him get away with it. #ArrestMichaelHauer #WheresTheBodyMichael? #JusticeForKristine

She’s such a beautiful girl. I hope they find her and that the boyfriend gets what he deserves. #JusticeForKristine

There were thousands of them. Thousands, and not a single handle she recognized. Perfect strangers, rushing from across the country to fight for her.

When Loki had returned with tea, he had found her in tears.

“What’s wrong?” he had asked, rushing to her side by the computer.

Kristine shook her head. “There’s just so many,” she whispered. “I never thought there would be so many!”

After the announcement was made that she had been found, alive and well, she thought the support would stop, but the floodgates had only just been opened. She started getting messages addressed directly to her, from tweets that read like letters to actual letters in the mail. Kristine had never gotten a letter in her life, and yet here she was having to open a special PO box because of all the mail coming into Avengers Tower addressed to her.

She got letters from people who followed the case, people who were so relieved to find that she was okay that they had to let her know. There were people she had never met, writing to tell her that she was beautiful and talented and deserved so much better than the likes of Michael. There were people writing to tell her that they hoped she knew that they would always support her, even if they could never understand what she had been through.

And then there were the people who understood exactly what she had been through. Some days, she found herself reading stories from women she didn’t know that read like pages from her own diary. Kristine had always been aware that she wasn’t the only person with a significant other like Michael—she had seen the PSA’s on television, she knew the words “domestic violence”—but somehow, she had always felt like the only one. Who else in real life was foolish enough to get into such a situation, and who else was weak enough to stay? But there were others.

So many others.

Those letters were overwhelming in a completely different way.

Kristine hid them all away, in a cardboard box underneath her bed in her Avengers Tower apartment. She had been staying there ever since she woke up: Mr. Stark had insisted. She had never really liked Tony Stark. He was fun to draw, because his face was so recognizable, but to her, that was where his merits always ended. Maybe it was because he adored Michael so much: every party she went to, he made a point of telling her how lucky she was that she snagged such a talented man. He provoked a deep bitterness in her chest, masked only by her anxiety. Kristine never had any doubts that if it came down to her word against Michael’s, Mr. Stark wouldn’t even bother to hear her out.

She couldn’t believe it when Loki told her Stark had fired Michael. He had done it early on, too: before the blood and the knife had even been discovered.

“The phone calls?” she whispered hoarsely. “That’s all it took?”

Loki looked at her sideways. “Those calls were horrific,” he said. “He’d have to be soulless not to terminate him after hearing them.”

And then, when she realized that she would have to find a new place to live now that Michael was in jail, Mr. Stark insisted that she stay at the Tower, at least until she found a suitable apartment elsewhere. He told her to consider it his way of apologizing.

“But—you don’t have to—to apologize for anything, sir,” she stuttered, unable to look him in the eye.

Mr. Stark was adamant. “This whole shitshow comes back to me. I hired him, I hired you, he met you because of it. Matchmaker, remember?” He shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. “No, it all comes back to me.”

Kristine wasn’t so sure of that, but she was touched by his guilt. He had even offered to send his Iron Legion to retrieve her stuff for her, but she elected to do that herself, with Loki. There wasn’t much to retrieve: clothes, art supplies, little bits and baubles she had taken with her when she moved to New York.

She froze in the doorway when they first walked in. The floor was as clean as ever, and yet in her mind she could still see the sticky red trail, the sickly warmth seeping down her shirt. It had taken a minute to process that all that blood had been coming from her.

Loki squeezed her hand gently. “If you’d prefer,” he murmured into her hair, in a voice just barely loud enough for her to hear, “You don’t have to go in. Just tell me what you wish to fetch, and I’ll take care of it.”

She shook her head, squeezing her eyes shut. “No. No. I’m—I’m fine. Let’s go.”

Still, the events of that night played out in her head as she made her way through the apartment. How Michael had been ordering that she quit her job at the coffeeshop. He had been wanting her to quit for a while now, convinced that she was constantly flirting with other men while he was at work. If she loved him, he said, she’d prove it by doing this one thing for him.

Kristine refused. Honestly, her resolve surprised herself. At this point, she had learned that the only way to keep the peace was to cave to Michael’s wishes, but this demand stirred something in her. The barista job was the last thing she had left, the only thing he couldn’t touch. She told him he couldn’t make her quit even if he killed her for it.

She had regretted the words immediately. He lunged at her with wild eyes, that vein popping in his neck. When she tried to call Loki, he ripped the phone from her hands and flung her into the coat rack.

Kristine had scrambled into the kitchen area. She had grabbed the knife in a panic, some half baked idea of defending herself, but he was on top of her before she had time to think, shouting at her and wrestling for the handle.

And then it was in her.

She didn’t feel it go in. Even after it went in, it wasn’t that bad—just a dull stinging in her abdomen that seemed to pulse with her heartbeat. She looked down slowly, dazedly, reaching out to grip the handle buried in her stomach. Michael looked down too, mouth agape. Kristine remembered thinking that he looked like a fish.

She wasn’t sure how she got back into the hallway floor, but Michael was yelling at her again.

“What the fuck were you thinking, going for the knife? Are you fucking insane?”

She was breathing hard, and it hurt more with every breath, sending shockwaves of pain through her body. Blood was dripping down her front. Her blood, she recognized dimly.

That was the scene Loki had arrived at. She didn’t remember much after that.

That moment ensnared her as she stuffed shirts into her ratty old suitcase. Loki didn’t talk about what he saw much, but it was clear from what he did say that he was certain Michael meant to kill her. She supposed she couldn’t blame him—had she seen what he saw, she probably would have drawn the same conclusion. But as it stood, Kristine wasn’t so sure. Maybe he would’ve finished her off, had her Asgardian knight in shining armor not come to rescue her, but she couldn’t forget his shocked fish face recoil when the blade pierced her stomach.

“What were you thinking Kristine?”

Why was she so hung up on this? What did it matter what Michael might’ve done if given the chance? The only important thing was what he did do: he hurt her, he manipulated her, he stabbed her. Wasn’t that enough?

It was enough for him to be arrested. Or… remain arrested, she guessed. Of course, the murder charge was dropped once it was proven that no murder had taken place, but police were quick to smack him with attempted murder and numerous charges of assault and battery. News outlets were constantly reaching out for comment, but Mr. Stark shut them all down for her.

“Ms. Ververs has been through a very traumatic experience,” he said at a press conference. “She has no desire to comment on anything at the moment, and we at Avengers Tower would greatly appreciate it if you all stopped pestering her.”

“Well, Kris, it looks like you’ve made it,” Agent Romanov said to her as they watched coverage from the television in the penthouse. “You’ve got Tony Stark acting as your PR. You can either celebrate or be extremely concerned.”

Kristine forced a laugh. Out of all her new super-powered roommates, the Black Widow was easily the most intimidating. Still, she seemed to like Kristine for some reason. Actually, all of the Avengers seemed to like her. Dr. Banner seemed to enjoy striking up quiet conversation with her, completely unbothered by her inability to get a coherent sentence out when she was nervous. Captain Rodgers was impressed by her artwork, always ready with some new compliment that made her day. Thor never failed to greet her with a smile.

Kristine was pretty sure they were just being nice because they felt bad for her, but she decided not to let it bother her. It made her feel nice too.

They were all outraged on her behalf when Michael took a plea deal. He plead guilty to attempted murder in the second degree in exchange for all other charges being dropped and was sentenced to seven years in prison.

“Seven years,” fumed Loki when the news broke. “He could have killed you, and he only gets seven years. It’s ludicrous.”

Despite popular opinion, Kristine was relieved. If Michael had pled innocent, there would have been a trial. She would have had to sit on the witness stand and face him down as she attempted to tell her story in front of dozens of eyes. Seven years was more than enough for her.

The check was paid, and the group made ready to leave, still laughing and telling stories as they walked through the door. Avengers Tower was only a short walk up the street, so Kristine said her goodbyes and started on her way. She never really went out much after the sun set. It was strange to think that even cloaked in night, the city still was wide awake. The night air sent shivers up her bare arms, but Kristine didn’t mind. She was wearing short sleeves a lot more these days, now that she didn’t have to worry about covering up bruises. It was freeing, in a strange sort of way.

Kristine noticed one of her missing posters taped to the stoplight while she waited to cross the street. The ink had mostly been washed away by recent thunderstorms, but she could still make out the outline of her face, grinning awkwardly at the ground.

It was a really awful picture they decided to plaster across the country. Michael had taken it, the morning after the first night they spent together. Her hair was a complete mess (but then when was it ever not?), and she had that uncomfortable photo smile she wore in every picture ever taken of her. She wasn’t even looking at the camera!—why on Earth had they chosen that one?  

She glanced around for a moment. When she saw that no one was looking, she ripped the poster from the pole and crumpled it into her purse. There wasn’t anything wrong with that. She hadn’t been missing for nearly half a year now, no reason to keep them up anymore. Still, Kristine crossed the street with the feeling in her stomach that she had committed a capital offense.

If her mother could have seen her now, she would have been laughing. Diana Ververs never understood her daughter’s desperate need to be seen by no one. It had been a problem her whole life. There was one time, all the way back in second grade, when Kristine had come home begging her mother to let her dye her hair brown so that she wouldn’t be the only redhead in the school.

At the request, her mom had tilted her head and frowned. “What’s wrong with that?”

“Everyone looks at me!” Kristine cried. “It’s ugly and I hate it!”

“Oh, Krissy, that’s not true!” she said. “They look at you because your hair is the prettiest color in the whole world. That’s why I married your dad, you know.”

The girl hadn’t been convinced. “I want brown hair!” she said. “Like Ashley and Erin.”

“But if you had brown hair like Ashley and Erin, I wouldn’t be able to recognize you,” her mother said, pulling her into her arms. “I’d say, ‘where’s my pretty little Krissy with her red hair?’ I’d be sad and lonely. You don’t want me to be sad and lonely, do you?”

Little Kristine had faltered at that. “Nnnooo…”

“Then you’ll keep your red hair for me?” she asked hopefully, kissing the crown of her head.

“Alright,” Kristine agreed reluctantly. “Just for you, Mama.”

Growing up, it had just been the two of them. Kristine’s father had died in a car accident before she was born, and they didn’t really have any extended family nearby. Kristine had been exceptionally close with her mother, closer than she had ever been with any friends or acquaintances she met at school. When the diagnosis came in, the ground just fell out from under her. What had been simple complaints of back pain was suddenly stage IV lung cancer, and Kristine was dropping out of her master’s program to help her mom through chemo.

Everything spiraled so fast. Within months, she was gone.

While she had been asleep, Kristine had dreamed about her mom. Her dad had been there too: Kristine recognized the diabolical red curls that he had so kindly passed down to her. They had swirled around her in a mist-filled limbo, smiling and singing to her in voices too quiet to hear properly. Kristine had wondered if she was dead. It made sense to her healing-stone-drugged brain: dying young was in her blood, after all. Death and her were old friends at this point, might as well embrace it.

Frustratingly though, her parents remained just out of reach. Kristine cried and screamed and begged, grasping at thin air for her mother’s hand, but she couldn’t quite bridge the distance. It wasn’t until she opened her eyes into the elegant chambers of Prince Loki and felt her groan vibrate in her throat that she realized she wasn’t dead after all.

Actually, it seemed her life might have just begun.

Kristine slid her ID card in the door of Avengers Tower, smiling awkwardly at the night watchman, then swiped it again in the elevator.

So much security. Sometimes, she almost forgot that she was living on what was essentially a government base. The elevator chimed as the doors opened at the top floor and she slipped into the common room.

“Did you have a good time?” Kristine jumped. Loki was stretched out on the couch, legs crossed elegantly, not even looking up from his book.

She raised an eyebrow. “Were-were you waiting up for me?”

“Of course not. Not everything’s about you, you know.” Loki turned the page, but there was a glint in his eye that made Kristine smile.

“Um…” she pushed her hair out of her face. “I think I’m going to make some tea. Want some?”

“That sounds lovely.”

Kristine fumbled around the kitchen as she heated the water, feeling his eyes on her all the while. She found herself stealing glances back at him as well—he just looked so regal, lounging there as if he owned the whole place. She wished she could get away with snapping a picture on her phone, just so she could have something to reference for a sketch later. Kristine had been drawing a lot of Loki recently—after all, she had promised—but she had yet to show any of these portraits to him. The floundering, bumbling part of her was convinced that they weren’t good enough, that he’d hate them. Stupid, she knew—he had nothing but praise to shower on the artwork she did decide to show him, but still she was nervous.

She wanted him to like her so badly. Like them. The drawings. But her too. Kind of. And that was stupid as well, because she knew he liked her. He had saved her life, after all. But even excluding that, Loki had always been so nice to her. Kristine had often wondered if he knew how badly she looked forward to his little visits every afternoon at the coffeeshop, the silly little chats they’d share for a few minutes. And he never stopped looking out for her: even now, months after everything had been resolved, he’d still check up on how she was feeling.

Still, sometimes she wondered. Did he actually like her, or were his actions just out of pity? It was a strange thing to consider, especially given his tumultuous past (imagine trying to explain to the average New Yorker that Loki of Asgard might have spent months being nice to some random girl just because he felt bad for her), but she considered it often, nonetheless. She didn’t know how to feel about it.

Kristine brought the teacups over to the couch. Loki sat up, moving his legs so that she could sit next to him, thanking her softly as she handed him the cup. For a while, they just sat there, sipping their tea in silence.

Finally, though, she found the courage to clear her throat. “Hey,” she asked. “Remember when you asked me to dance at the Christmas party?”

He grinned. “How could I forget?”

“Why did you?” she asked bluntly. Her cheeks immediately flushed red. “I mean—did you—could you tell? That he—Michael and I—that we—”

Luckily, Loki seemed to get what she was trying to spit out. “Not exactly,” he said, stirring his tea methodically. “I could tell that you were unhappy, and that he was completely unbothered by the fact that you were unhappy, and I found that to be concerning. But at that point, I never would have guessed the extent of the situation.”

No. It seemed no one could have guessed the extent of the situation. “Oh,” Kristine mumbled. “Is-is that why you asked me to dance? Because you were concerned?”

Loki raised his eyebrows, turning to fix Kristine with an amused gaze. “I asked you to dance because I wanted to dance with you.” When Kristine stared back at him in silence, he laughed. “Is that so difficult to believe?”

“N-no.” Now it was her turn to focus on stirring her tea and ignoring her companion. “I just… I’m not sure what happens now.”

“That would depend,” Loki said. “What do you wish to happen now?”

Kristine gulped. He had put the ball in her court. Even months later, she still found herself expecting someone to pop up and tell her exactly what to do. But Loki was waiting patiently. This decision was hers.

“I guess…” she started, speaking far too fast. “I mean, I wouldn’t mind if you took me out for coffee. Not in the Tower, I mean. There’s-there’s a place down the street. Unless you’d like the Tower better, that is. I don’t really care—”

Loki hushed her gently. “I’d be honored to take you out for coffee,” he said. “Would tomorrow morning suffice?”

It took her a full minute for her to fully process what he was saying, but once she did, Kristine couldn’t stop the smile from spreading across her lips. “Yeah. Yeah, that would… suffice.”

“Good.” Loki leaned back against the cushions, and silence lapsed around them once more. Kristine hesitated for a moment before following him, shyly resting her head on his shoulder. He stiffened at first, and Kristine made to pull away, but he wrapped his arm around her and held her closer.

She sighed contentedly. She was safe here.

Safe with Loki.

[lillianfromaccounting]

Love at First Slice

author: lillianfromaccounting characters: Clint Barton x reader, Steve, Natasha, Sam, other avengers word count: 1915 warnings: none, fluff, fake dating trope

Summary: A mission in Central Park gives you the chance to pretend to be your crush’s girlfriend.

A/N: This is my submission to @sincerelysaraahh ‘s sweater weather challenge. Thank you so much for having me! My prompts were: Date: Have a picnic at the park. Prompt: "I don't see how that has anything to do with what we were talking about."

Love at First Slice “Just try to act like you like me when we get to the rendezvous point,” Clint whispered in your ear, draping his right arm around your shoulder. A large picnic basket dangled off his left hand.

“I got this,” you reassured him. You took his lead and wrapped one arm around him, leaning into his firm chest. His grey henley felt super soft against your cheek and smelled like fresh linens. You suddenly remembered seeing him in the laundry room last night. It’s been almost a year since you’ve moved into the tower and it seemed like you ran into Clint around every corner.

No--running into him would imply chance. You may or may not have changed your schedule slightly in order to increase the chances that you would pass him in the hall at certain times. Maybe you got up a little earlier now to get to the kitchen about three minutes before he usually sauntered in so that you could empty the coffee pot and brew a new one, buying you ten minutes to chat about everything and nothing. You might have opted for the Thursday night yoga class to free up your Tuesdays for pizza and movie night, where more times than not, it was just you and Clint on the couch, with Lucky at your feet.

The laundry room was by chance though. Your room just happened to be on the same floor and you couldn’t help who was doing laundry. Granted, you did notice every time Clint was there, and maybe you found an excuse or two to walk by several times last night. You tried to find enough dirty clothes for a load of wash so you could join him, but thought better of it since you had done that a few days ago already.

It was a silly crush, nothing more. It didn’t matter that every time you caught a glimpse of his crinkly eyes, butterflies turned your stomach. It didn’t matter that your mouth went dry every time his hand ran through that spiky blond hair of his. It didn’t matter that you temporarily forgot how to talk every time he called your name. None of it mattered because at the end of the day, he didn’t seem interested, so you resigned to willing the feelings away. But it was so harder said than done.

You tried not to be obvious. Clint was pretty laid back and probably didn’t notice the extra attention you were paying him anyway. It wasn’t like you were lavishing him with gifts of chocolate and flowers. You just made sure that there was plenty of coffee and stocked his favorite beer when it was your turn to grocery shop. He would order your favorite pizza toppings and made sure you were warm enough on the couch. It’s what was expected of people who share the same living space, right?

He always spotted you at the gym. You’ve learned not to ogle when watching him at practice, even though his arms were mesmerizing. Everyone talks about Thor’s stature, Steve’s chest, Sam’s thighs, and Bucky’s abs; Clint was just as stacked as the rest of them.

And you were reminded of that right now, as the two of you walked side by side down a paved path in Central Park, his arm firmly around you. It had been a very mild autumn thus far; normally, by this time, most of the trees would be bare, but you caught them just as the colors were coming in. The vibrant backdrop was an added bonus to this fake date.

You approached the rendezvous point and immediately spot the mark in a black suit with a black shirt and skinny black tie. He wiped his trembling hands against his pants before lighting a cigarette. He could have been the average businessman, taking a quick lunch in the park, but the black duffel bag on the bench gave him away.

“Honey, how about this spot?” Clint asked, drawing out the word honey. He stuck his chin out toward a grassy patch near some rocks about twenty feet behind the mark. It was a clear day and the lake behind the rocks reflected the cityscape.

“I don’t know, babe,” you protested, wanting a more direct view of the target. “Wouldn’t that spot by the tree there be better? There’s some shade.”

“No, the last time we sat there, there was an ant hill, remember?” he looked at you and winked, reminding you that Scott had already set up by that tree. “Besides, the direct sunlight would be perfect for all those selfies you like to take.” Another hint--the camera angles were probably better from here.

Clint set the basket down, pointing the hidden camera in the mark’s direction. You rolled out the red and white checkered blanket while he unpacked various containers of food.

If the intel was correct, that duffel bag contained a very dangerous weapon. While it would have been easy to apprehend the guy, the team was more interested in the buyer, and the best way to get them was to catch them in the act. The team was scattered all around the park, waiting for the trade to happen. Just to be safe though, Natasha was to switch out the bags before the buyer showed.

“I’m one minute out,” Natasha’s voice came over the comm.

That was Scott’s signal to release a powder in the air that would make the mark thirsty.

Sam rolled up a metal cart and called out, “Snow cones! Get your snow cones here! A dollar a piece!

“Excuse me, do you have blue raspberry?” a little boy asked.

“Blue raspberry, just for you! On the house!” Sam said, handing over a blue cone to the tot.

Sam rolled the cart just out of reach of the mark. “Sir, can I interest you in a refreshing snow cone on this unseasonably hot autumn day?”

The mark hesitated, quickly glancing at the duffel bag but at the same time, reaching up to loosen his tie. He looked at Sam’s cart and then got up from the bench, pulling his wallet out.

“That’s the spirit man,” Sam encouraged. “I’ve got the best stuff in the whole park. All organic ingredients, natural flavors, certified kosher and halal, gluten-free vegan. You won’t regret it.”

“Uh yeah, just uh--two rainbow ones,” the mark said, handing over two singles to Sam.

“Sure thing!” Sam said, taking his time to prepare the snow cones, watching Natasha switch the duffel bag in his periphery. “Here, two rainbows.”

By the time the mark sat back down on the bench, you and Clint were taking turns feeding each other pieces of cut fruit. You tried not to flinch every time your fingers brushed against his soft lips. He made a game of it, trying to eat each piece of fruit whole, occasionally nipping at your fingers.

“Mark two just entered the park,” Steve signaled over the comm. “Get ready.”

You scanned the park and saw another suit with Ray-bans approaching the bench.

Clint slid his arms around you from behind and rested his chin on your shoulder. “I was thinking for tonight, pepperoni, peppers and mushrooms, Hawaiian, broccoli rabe. And two plains,” he whispered in your ear.

“Mmm,” you hummed. How did he manage to make pizza toppings sound sexy?

“Looks like he’s getting cold feet. Picnic, you’re up,” Steve said.

Clint jumped up and yelled, “I can’t believe you lost Lucky!”

You didn’t actually discuss what you were going to use as a distraction but you’ve improved enough of these scenes that it didn’t really matter. The point was to draw attention.

“Me?! You’re the one who took him off his leash!” you yelled back, willing tears to your eyes. You walked towards the bench, hoping to get both marks’ attention. “Lucky! Lucky! Here boy!” You paced around, pretending like you were looking for the lost dog, who was probably actually snoring beside the couch in the common room right now.

“Keep it up. Bystanders eyes are all on you now,” Steve said.

“We wouldn’t have lost him if you didn’t want to have this stupid picnic in the first place!” Clint spat, walking in the opposite direction. “Lucky! Here boy!” He whistled.

“Stupid?! It was your idea! Do you even remember what day today is? I bet you don’t even remember!”

“Of course I remember the anniversary of Lucky’s adoption from the pound! What kind of guy do you take me for? Lucky!”

Your voices were both getting hoarse from the yelling back and forth, but you knew it was working because you felt the stare of the audience around you.

“Targets acquired,” Steve said. You turned your head, quickly scanning the park. You saw Bucky and Natasha escorting Ray-bans out of the park, while Sam and Scott escorted bench guy out another exit.

“You—you do remember!” you gasped loudly, running towards Clint.

He braced himself for your tackle; you both fell over, landing serendipitously on the picnic blanket.

“I love you!” you blurted.

Clint brushed a piece of hair away from your face, sliding the back of his hand down your cheek.

The sea blue green of his eyes drew you closer to his face.

“We’ll meet you guys back at the tower,” Steve’s voice broke your focus.

“Um, we probably should head back,” Clint said, helping you up.

“Right,” you said. Your stomach dropped. Him not acknowledging your not quite fake declaration of love felt worse than outright rejection. You looked around and saw that most of the team was already gone. Whatever audience you had earlier had disbanded. “We should head back,” you said more to yourself than to Clint.

You cleaned up the picnic, putting the containers back into the basket and folding up the blanket, desperately fighting the swell of emotions bubbling in your chest. When you were done packing, Clint was in front of you, offering you a small bunch of wildflowers.

“What’s this?” you asked.

“For you,” he said, shoving them into your hands. “You like the purple ones.”

“Um, yeah,” you confirmed. “Thanks.”

He looked towards the ground and signed pizza.

“Pizza? I don't see how that has anything to do with what we were talking about,” you said.

With his pointer fingers up, he tapped his thumbs and fingertips together. Date.

Flowers. Pizza. Me. You. Date?

“Me? And you?” you asked.

“If—if you want,” he said. “If you’ll have me.”

You reached over to lift his chin, looking into his eyes. He had his best signature Clint Barton poker face on, but you can tell he was chewing on the inside of his bottom lip.

“Sounds like a solid idea,” you said.

He pulled you into his chest and touched his lips to yours, setting your whole body on fire. You felt the tension release from his shoulders when you kissed him back. He hungrily nipped and sucked at your lips, up your jaw and down your neck, and then crashing back to your lips. When you came up for air, you were on the park bench and you don’t remember how you two got there.

“Uh, if you two are done sucking face, please turn your comms off,” Tony’s voice rang in your ear. “Also, we’re waiting for you to get back to the tower so we can debrief. Not de--not like that. We need your reports. Paperwork. And get a room before you get arrested for public indecency.”

[bevioletskies]

20 questions [4/20]

characters: peter/gamora, guardians-centric

fandom: avengers academy/marvel cinematic universe

summary: wasp has a new competition in store for the students of avengers academy, and there’s money involved. so obviously, peter and gamora have to pretend to be a couple in order to win. wait, what?

chapter preview: peter and gamora begin a new game, yondu brings a new scheme into play, and peter has meredith quill feels (same, tbh).

word count: 4958 | total word count: 118k

a/n: this chapter marks the beginning of these two really getting to know each other...my babies ;_;

ao3 | previously | next | masterpost

Gamora woke up to an insistent throbbing in her skull and leg, and the sounds of someone attempting to hold back tears. Alarmed, her eyes shot open, only to find herself staring down an unnecessarily bright light. Groaning, she turned in an attempt to bury her face into her pillow. Wait, this wasn’t her pillow.

“Medbay?” she croaked. She vaguely sounded like Peter the mornings after he’d partied too hard at Club A.

“Oh, Gamora,” Janet sobbed from somewhere on Gamora’s left. “You’re okay, yes, you’re in the medbay. That was super scary.”

“The Sovereign…”

“Gone! Agent 13 was a little genius and managed to confuse them, along with Doctor Strange’s help in manipulating their sense of time and space,” Janet said, waving her hands haphazardly. “Um, but you don’t care about that. You’ve had glass removed from your torso and your leg, but you’ll need the rest of the weekend to heal up and you should be okay. Your body mods are super good on that part, they just gotta help your stitches along.”

“The others?” She managed to open her eyes again. Janet was uncharacteristically wearing all black, and a cold sweat broke out over Gamora’s forehead. “Did...did someone die?”

“Peter’s right there,” Janet said, pointing to the bed next to her. He looked asleep, not unconscious, as his arms were shifting slightly as if he were trying to find a more comfortable position. His entire face, neck, and arms were covered in tiny little bandages. “The others are shaken, bruised, but no real injuries to put them here. Um, a couple of SHIELD agents died in the battle. We’re going to hold a funeral in the quad on Monday once we’ve flown their family in. But no students. You and Peter have the most injuries, but you should both be out by tomorrow night.”

She finally settled down into the chair next to Gamora’s bed and exhaled shakily. “Groot’s a bit traumatized, the poor little thing. The rest of the Guardians are keeping an eye on him on the Milano.” She brightened slightly. “Almost forgot, Natasha sent you this.” Janet pushed an envelope into Gamora’s hands.

Gamora opened it to reveal what appeared to be a generic Hallmark ‘get-well-soon’ card. Raising her eyebrows, she opened the card, where a bank card and driver’s license fell out. On the license was a picture of a woman who vaguely looked like Natasha on it, but the name on both cards wasn’t hers. Scrawled underneath the printed ‘hope you feel better soon!’ was some neat cursive that said “Bank account for some rich widow who owes me a favour. French accent. Only withdraw $10k at a time. Get some new equipment”.

She straightened up a little in her bed, frowning. She tried her best not to look back over at Peter, who had just let out a lazy sigh in his sleep. “I could have done better,” she said. “I have suffered far worse than a bit of glass to my leg.” She pushed the envelope back. “And I’m not taking this.”

“I didn’t think you would,” Janet said with a weak smile. “You are super strong, Gamora. I wish I was more like you.”

“No you don’t,” Gamora said firmly.

“Yes, I do,” Janet said back, a fierceness in her face that she usually reserved for supervillains and people who talked badly about her friends. “Don’t say mean things about yourself! You’re like, the coolest girl in school, you’re super pretty, and you’re the most dangerous woman in the galaxy. One bad mission is whatever, but don’t let anything or anyone get you down. Especially not you.”

Gamora chewed on her bottom lip, considering. “Thank you, Janet,” she said softly. “I am honored to have you as a friend.”

“You should be,” Janet said, suddenly switching back to her cheerful, bubbly self. It was a bit jarring to watch. “Oh, Peter’s waking up!”

A long groan emanated from the bed on Gamora’s right, and she turned to see him laying his forearm across his forehead, only to wince at the contact of his many little bandages rubbing against each other. She could only imagine how sensitive his skin was right now, how long it would take his body to heal itself from all the little cuts while her thigh stitched itself up in a matter of hours.

“G’mora?”

“Hi,” she said, turning onto her side so she could lay her head back down on her pillow. “Are you feeling alright?”

“I’ve got about a million holes in my skin, but I’ve had worse,” Peter said, attempting to shrug. “How about you? When I woke up, you were getting glass removed from your gut - it was super gross - like, the docs had you on some super hardcore anesthesia or something - ”

“I need no details,” Gamora interrupted. “I feel a faint pain in my head and leg, but otherwise I’m already bored of this place.”

“Guess you won’t be able to make your date with Adam after all. Sorry about that,” Peter said, twisting his mouth in sympathy.

“Date with Adam?” They both started slightly, having forgotten that Janet was in the room with them. She was eyeing them both suspiciously.

“He is teasing me,” Gamora said, turning over to look at Wasp. “Adam offered to help me with the equipment at Club Galaxy tonight, that’s all. But I suppose I will be stuck in here all weekend with...my boyfriend...instead.”

“Sounds like a date to me,” Peter said, grinning. Janet smiled back, satisfied with their answers.

“Well, in that case, I’ll leave you two alone,” she said with a wink, getting to her feet. “But I’ll go tell the nurses you’re awake, Gamora. And I’ll let the Guardians know you’re both okay now. Oh, and Fury wants to talk to you guys, so he’ll be in at around 9.”

“Visiting hours are between and 8 and 5 every other Thursday,” Peter called at Janet’s back, but she was already gone. “Damn. I’m really not looking forward to it.”

One of the nurses strolled in briskly, holding a medical chart and holo-tab. “I heard Miss Gamora was awake? Oh, and Mister Quill, Mister Udonta is waiting outside for you, should I let him in?”

“Never mind,” Peter sighed. “Two bad visitors. Can he at least wait til after you’re done checking on Gamora?” he said to the nurse. She nodded, stopping by Gamora’s bedside to pull her bedsheets back and push her hospital gown up.

Peter suddenly turned away, flushing slightly at the sight of Gamora’s skin, feeling very much like a little boy who had never seen a woman before. Granted, growing up alongside the Ravagers, he sometimes saw a little more of women than he should have at that age, but something about seeing Gamora’s bare skin made him remember how vulnerable she must be feeling.

The nurse inspected the stitches closely, checking for any residual bleeding or potential infections. When she was satisfied, she continued pushing the gown further up to expose her stomach. Gamora twitched uncomfortably, crossing her legs despite the fact she was wearing undergarments, grateful that Peter was definitely not looking.

“Whatever your body mods are doing for you, it’s working miracles,” the nurse told her, not unkindly. “You had four broken ribs when you first got here but now? Nothing. We didn’t even have to do anything.” She finished checking over her torso wound, replacing the bandages and gauze, and pulled the hem of the gown back to her knees. “Do you need painkillers?”

“I’m okay,” Gamora said, pausing. “Um, thank you.” The nurse had the decency not to look too surprised, and nodded in response, pressing a small device into her hands.

“Push the button if you need anything,” the nurse said. “I’ll go get Mister Udonta from the waiting room.” After she left, Gamora turned towards Peter, who was still facing the other wall.

“You decent?” he said.

“What?”

“I mean, are you covered?”

“I - yes,” she said slowly, confused, as Peter rolled back around, pushing his bedcovers back to reveal that he wasn’t wearing his hospital gown, on account of what looked like several layers of gauze wrapped around his torso, faintly blood-stained. “Quill,” she said, alarmed. She slowly moved as if to get out of bed, but the stinging sensation in her leg told her it was a bad idea. “Janet didn’t tell me there was more to your injuries.”

“A few shallow slices here and there. I’m gonna have some pretty awesome scars after this,” Peter boasted. “I am hot as hell, though, these bedsheets are weirdly heavy - ”

“Am I interrupting somethin’?” The doors swung open as Yondu strolled in, whistling idly. Gamora’s eyes darted around suspiciously for the yaka arrow, but it seemed to be firmly tucked into his belt without a single twitch. “Why don’t you have your clothes on, boy? Hope you two ain’t getting up to some nasty business in ‘ere.”

“I’m just overheating a little, Yondu,” Peter said, rolling his eyes as he pulled himself around to properly look at the other man. “Is everyone else doing okay? I should probably do something for Groot, the poor guy.”

“Twig’s okay, he stopped cryin’,” Yondu said, settling himself down on the foot of Peter’s bed. “Your sister’s goin’ a bit wild, though. Bug-girl thinks it’s all her fault that he got so freaked out.”

“Oh no,” Peter sighed. “Alright, I’ve gotta make it up to Mantis somehow, too. I mean, everyone, really. Rocket’s probably pissed at me.”

“School seems intent on puttin’ you two up on a pedestal, y’ask me,” Yondu snorted. “I mean, y’crashed and burned about 20 minutes into the battle, but some of them girls seem to find it romantic that you’re the ones stuck in the hospital.”

“That is ridiculous,” Gamora said. “It’s not like we planned this.”

“Sounds like we couldn’t have planned it any better, actually,” Peter admitted. “We could cook up some real good story about how we saved each other’s lives. I mean, you basically got me going again after I first got hit, Gamora, we could twist this a little further, get some sympathy votes?”

“That sounds dishonorable,” she frowned. “Are we not above emotional manipulation?”

“Not when there’s money involved,” Yondu said gleefully, rubbing his hands together. “Is just a little exaggeration, Gamora, nothin’ to worry about.”

Peter sighed. “Is there anything else you need, Yondu?”

The other held up his hands as if to surrender, standing up slowly. “Just checking in. I’ll leave you lovebirds be.”

“Please don’t tell anyone - and he’s gone.” Peter groaned, leaning forward to rest his head in his hands. Gamora tried not to stare too closely at the way his broad shoulders tensed up as he did so. “Well, this weekend isn’t going the way I’d hoped.”

She reached over as best as she could, and he shuffled a little closer in confusion, allowing her to pat him on the hand. “It could be worse. You could be stuck in here with Rocket.”

Peter laughed, then immediately winced in regret, clutching at his bandaged torso. “Yeah, I guess. I mean, you’re probably the best person to be stuck in here with anyways. Drax would unknowingly insult me the whole time, Mantis would just worry like crazy, and I won’t exactly be having interesting conversations with Groot.”

Gamora smiled, nodding encouragingly. “Exactly. After all, I am your best friend. And your fake girlfriend.”

He looked down at her hand over his, contemplating for a moment before he turned his wrist so he could interlace their fingers and squeeze. “Hell yeah.”

______

Yondu was practically skipping up the ramp of the Milano, a spring in his step. He was satisfied to confirm his suspicions - Peter had it bad. Less than five minutes in the room with them, and he was staring at the girl like she put the stars in the sky. No, not even that. Like he would put the stars in the sky for her if she asked.

So, new plan. Instead of having him whining and denying like he was a kid all over again, get the two to date for real. Maybe it would result in some romantic crap Yondu (and let's face it, all the other Guardians aside from Groot and maybe Mantis) would want to hurl at, but it would be a right sight better than Quill mooning after Gamora forever.

“Hello, Yondu,” Mantis said from the weapons rack next to the ramp. She was helping Rocket reorganize everything after he grumbled at her about being too injured to do any heavy lifting. “Are Peter and Gamora alright?”

“Jus’ peachy,” Yondu said cheerily. The girl smiled so widely it made his cheeks twinge in sympathy for hers. “And I got a new idea. You'll like this one.”

“Should we have a team meeting, then?” He nodded, gesturing for her to follow him to the common area.

Drax was fast asleep on the couch, one foot on the coffee table and the other outstretched across the length of the seat, his snores rumbling throughout the cabin. Groot was sitting on his shoulder, nodding off. Rocket was at the table, replacing the bandages on his arm, and as expected, Nebula was nowhere to be found.

“Team!” Yondu barked. Drax jerked out of his sleep immediately, and Rocket yanked his bandage too tightly, cursing under his breath.

“Hi to you too, big blue,” Rocket sighed. “How's Quill and Gamora?”

“Safe and sound,” Yondu replied, settling down in the armchair. “And I have an idea. About them two.”

Mantis stood by the kitchenette, looking both delighted and confused. “Oh, I did not know about this part of the idea. Do tell!”

Yondu glanced around, making sure he had everyone's attention before beginning. “Quill’s been a little out of it lately. He been starin’ at Gamora since they met, but I don't think he's even so much as winked at another woman the past few months. Migh’ not sound like much, but I known him longer than any of you. Means he's in love.”

“He's probably just really getting into being a team leader now, ‘specially since we're known to the public. Doesn't want any bad blood with any of the girls on campus or his reputation’ll go down the drain,” Rocket scoffed.

“But you see that look on his face whenever she's around? Don’t make that face at anyone else.” Yondu grinned as Mantis nodded along. “See, bug-girl knows what I'm talking about. And she knows feelings. I think the best way to get Quill to focus is if he actually dates her for real.”

“Seems like a waste of time to me,” Drax frowned. “Quill needs to find a woman who will dance, like him. Gamora is a warrior, an assassin.”

“Don’t mean she can't learn how to dance.” Yondu had an odd look of delight on his face he usually reserved for big scores of units or rare trinkets. “Listen, all we gotta do is push ‘em both in the right direction. Talk to ‘em about their feelings or somethin’. And maybe, once they stop focusing on this dumbass plan o’theirs and actually date? We won’ have any more mishaps like today.”

Rocket stood on his chair, arms folded. “Surprised, Yondu, woulda thought you'd want them apart, not together.”

“You saw how mis’rable the boy was back when Gamora was talking ‘bout going back to the Cosmic Conservatory? Or when Warlock first got here and he thought she was gonna run off with him? Nah, separatin’ them’s only gonna make Quill sad.”

“He was weirdly passive-aggressive when Gamora and Golden Boy were talking on the comms this morning,” Rocket admitted. “Maybe you've got a point.”

“Can I help?” Mantis said, practically bouncing on the balls of her feet. “As Peter’s sister and Gamora’s friend, perhaps it would be best if I talk to them first.”

“Sure, girlie, but don't go messin’ with their heads or readin’ their minds,” Yondu nodded. “Let’s get this nonsense outta the way so we can get back to the real missions.”

“You are still not a member of the Guardians yet,” Drax reminded him. “You and Nebula have yet to prove yourselves.”

“It’ll happen, don’ you worry,” Yondu said, waving a dismissive hand.

“I am Groot.”

“Don’t give him hope,” Rocket said, moving to scoop up the little guy from Drax’s shoulder.

“Twig believes in me,” Yondu said confidently. “And that’s all I need.”

______

Peter and Gamora ended up sleeping for the rest of the afternoon and evening, Peter because he was bone-tired and Gamora because she honestly had no idea about what to do with her time. Her holo-tab could only keep her entertained for so long as she relayed more details of the mission in her “Academy Girls <3” group chat (created and titled by Janet, of course), her weapons were back at the Milano, and Peter’s presence currently consisted of him snorting in his sleep.

Director Fury’s visit, unsurprisingly, consisted of about five minutes of him giving them a stern dressing-down, and two minutes of him inquiring after their well-being. Oddly enough, he told Gamora that Adam had been by to see them (read: just her), but had been stopped along the way by Yondu.

“Yondu came back?” Peter groaned, rubbing at his temples.

“Any idea what that whole altercation was about?” Fury said, ignoring Peter’s dramatics. Gamora shook her head, confused. Yondu wasn’t the most friendly of people, no, but since when did he have issues with Adam? “Quill, if I’m gonna have a problem with Udonta starting trouble on campus - ”

“It was probably just a misunderstanding, Director,” Gamora said. “We can talk to him after we’re released tomorrow.”

“Good.” Fury stood even taller, satisfied. His hands moved to his hips, causing his coat to flip out behind him, grazing the linoleum floor. Peter suspected Fury’s brain required him to do that move at least three times a day. “You two rest up. I don’t want to be having another chat with you in this room, a week from now, telling you not to be stupid. The Sovereign might be after the Guardians, doesn’t mean you go after them with a ship that isn’t yours. Get the Milano fixed.”

“With all due respect, sir, we don’t really have money?” Peter coughed. “Um, not that I’m asking for it. You’re not my father, sir - ”

“And I’m glad,” Fury interrupted. “Your daddy was a real troublemaker.” He paused. “I’ll see what I can do for the ship.”

“Thank you,” Peter called as the Director swept out of the room. “What’s with everyone not saying goodbye?”

Gamora chuckled softly, turning over on her side to look at Peter. The throbbing sensation in her body had gone down significantly, but the stitches were still sensitive to movement. “I think I’m too awake now. We’ve been sleeping for at least six hours.”

“It’s been a really long day, but it’s somehow only 9:30,” Peter said, glancing at the persistently loud wall clock. “You wanna do something?”

“Like what? There’s nothing here.” She looked around the room to see if there was anything she missed. Sterile white walls, white curtains, a couple visitor’s chairs, their medical charts on the holo-screens staring mockingly back at her. Their tablets and emptied dinner trays sat on the tables next to their beds, which could only provide a distraction for a couple more hours at most. “We could quiz each other for that espionage lab we have on Wednesday.”

Peter let out a whining noise that reminded Gamora of Cosmo when his more dog-like instincts came into play. “That’s boring. We could quiz each other on something else, though. Like, 20 Questions?”

“Is that literally just asking each other 20 different questions?” It sounded mundane to her, but anything would be better than attempting to fall back asleep again. Even though it was relatively easy for her body to shut itself down on command, Peter would probably be tossing and turning all night.

“Yes, but about ourselves,” he said. “Like, our favourite colours, or what book we read recently, or something. I figured it’d also help with the whole fake relationship thing. And if it gets too personal, we can just say we don’t want to answer.”

“Okay. I’ll play.” Gamora did her best to stretch, feeling a dull ache of stiff muscles settling in. “You start.”

Peter was quiet for so long she started to wonder if he had dozed off again. “What’s your favourite part of this school?”

She gaped at him. “You made it sound like you were going to ask easy questions,” she exclaimed, debating whether to throw a pillow at him.

“I didn’t think that was a difficult one,” he protested. “I can ask something else.”

“No, it’s...it’s fine.” Gamora fell silent, contemplating. “I like the different kinds of training we have here. I suppose I’ve gotten too comfortable in my own style of combat and structure since even you managed to con me when we first met.” Peter laughed at the memory. Although it might have been (physically) painful in the moment, he would’ve never guessed it would lead them to where they were now. “What about you?”

“The clubs, obviously!” he said with vigor. “Way more dancing here than at the Cosmic Conservatory, don’t you think?”

“Not sure I see it as a positive thing,” she said teasingly. “Your dancing has increased tenfold since we started going here.”

He smiled. “If you had to pick one non-Guardian classmate to join the team, who would you pick?”

“Danvers,” Gamora said almost immediately. “She is the most powerful person on this campus, as far as I can tell, and her cosmic origins would help us immensely on many missions.” Peter nodded in agreement - that would’ve been his answer as well. “Do you wish that your date with her had gone differently?”

Peter froze. He hadn’t expected that. His date with Carol had been back when he and Gamora barely knew each other, when their relationship was more antagonistic than friendly. The others knew vaguely of the details that had led to it ending poorly, but Gamora knew the least, on account of him just...not wanting her to know. “At the time? Yeah, for sure, but now, I just don't think we would've worked out no matter what I did.”

“Why not?”

“Is that your third question?” Peter countered. She shrugged, unsure if she could even think of twenty. “I dunno, there's just...other factors that make it less likely for me to want a relationship with her. Don't bother with asking what they are, you're just gonna waste a question,” he chuckled as Gamora began to open her mouth. “Alright, if you’re gonna ask me that, then I’m gonna ask you this - do you think Adam has a crush on you?”

She looked so caught off guard Peter almost immediately wanted to take it back. “This is getting more personal than I anticipated,” she commented. “I don't know if he does. We just have a lot in common.”

“Maybe you could try going out with him after we've ‘broken up’. You seem to get along with him way better than you do with us.”

Gamora frowned. “Is that what you think? That arguing with someone less means I like them more? From what I remember of our mission on Ego’s planet, we determined that we considered each other family because we fought so much.”

Peter looked sullen. “I only meant that it'd be easier, than say, if we were actually dating. Alright, new topic, this is getting dangerously close to arguing territory. What's the last thing you and Nebula talked about?”

It took her a moment to answer, still reeling from Peter’s comment. What would they be like if they were actually dating? Disastrous, maybe. As friends and basically co-leaders of the Guardians, they were already rather volatile. As a couple, the delicate balance of their position as students, as members of a galaxy-saving team, as part of a family, would explode. Possibly literally. “Um, we talked about whether it would be worth to teach Mantis more combat and weaponry. Her martial arts skills are admirable but she will eventually need more.”

“So you want Mantis to be a more offense than defense member of our team.” It technically wasn’t a question. “Is that something she asked for?”

“It’s not a matter of asking, though we have her consent to be her teachers,” Gamora said. “She is a valuable member of our team, despite being very new, and it makes sense for her to use more than her empath abilities. What was the last thing you and Mantis spoke about?”

Peter smiled, and she relaxed a little. Their innocent game was starting to veer into open discussion of emotions and intentions, both things she tended to keep close to her heart. Maybe this was the right direction to bring them back to a light-hearted ‘get-to-know-you’ chat. “So I didn’t really tell anyone this, but as soon as I found out Mantis was basically my sister, I asked Janet for help on what Terran girls liked to do for fun, since I don’t know anything about Mantis’s homeworld or if I would have access or time to get things on other planets. I only vaguely remembered things Mom told me about, but I wanted her to be caught up to modern times, not just, y’know, stuck in the past like me. Janet found this boxset of crafts she got from a bookstore, and I knew it was meant to be for little kids, but it just seemed like something that my mom would’ve done as a girl and something Mantis would want to do now. So, uh, long story short, the last thing I did was teach Mantis how to make friendship charm bracelets.”

She could practically picture it now - with the other Guardians occupied with other personal things, Peter and Mantis had spent Thursday night on the Milano alone. They were probably sprawled out on the couch, enjoying the uncommon amount of elbow room, with Peter placing the box on the coffee table and excitedly telling Mantis about this cool thing that Terran girls liked to do with their friends. Gamora could also imagine Mantis asking Peter how it worked, and then spend the rest of the night weaving together.

One little statement, however, had caught her attention the most. “You think you’re stuck in the past? Just because you like holding onto things from your childhood?”

“It feels that way sometimes,” Peter admitted. “Stark got me a Spotify account and taught me how to make playlists, gave me the newest Starkphone, and yeah, it’s great that there’s been a lot of positive change - socially, culturally, politically - last one’s debatable - and I don’t want to literally live in the 80s - but I always go back to the Walkman, the Troll dolls, the stuff that my mom gave me.”

“If I still had possessions that my parents gave me as a child, I would keep them around too,” Gamora said quietly. “A picture, even. I sometimes don’t remember what they look like. I only remember being told I resembled my father more than my mother.”

He burrowed himself a little deeper into his sheets (he had asked the nurse to switch out his bedsheets for something significantly lighter) and blinked slowly at her. “What do you remember about your parents?” It was barely a whisper.

“I was so young when Thanos took me,” she said, rotating so she was on her back, staring at the ceiling. “I think...I remember my mother being very funny. She was very good at making my father laugh, even though he was a man who did not necessarily like to laugh.” She turned to look over at Peter. “Not that he was an emotionless person. At least, I don’t think so. What was your favourite thing about your mother?”

Unsurprisingly, he answered near instantly, though there was a suspicious glossiness to his eyes that made her worry about her question. She thought back to his wistful nature when she had commented on the picture in his room, and wondered if this was a step too far. “Her heart. She had so much love in her heart - for me, for her big family, for people she didn’t even know yet. Like, a little girl who broke her ankle trying to climb the tree in our backyard. Mom didn’t even ask why or how she got there, just drove her to the hospital and called her parents. Or a tired old woman who yelled at the cashier for being slow, only to realize she left her wallet at home and couldn’t pay for the groceries to feed her sick husband. Mom paid, and bought her a bouquet of flowers, hoping it would cheer them both up. Things like that.” He chuckled softly. “I want to be as good as my mom someday.”

“You’re already on your way, Quill,” Gamora said. “Just a bit more effort into school, maybe? And stop copying my answers, I saw your workbook for multiverse history and it was almost identical.”

He laughed at that. “Fair enough. Alright, last question. I know we’re only like halfway, but we’ll end up with a really messed-up sleep schedule if we continue. Do you like being a Guardian?”

She smiled at the ceiling, picturing the glow-in-the-dark stars of her bunk on the Milano. She could almost connect the dots between the speckles of the ceiling tile in patterns that closely resembled the constellations nearly ingrained in her mind. “Yes, I do.”

a/n: the game is on! who knows what else peter and gamora will want to know about each other ;) also i love yondu so much?? i’m also sort of working on a post-vol.2 fic and not having him around in that one hurts me.

[like-a-bag-of-potatoes]

With You By My Side - Three

A/N: I have no schedule for when I’m posting this, I will just post whenever a chapter is ready. Its planned out to the end, so all I really have to do is type it up, but I have a lot on my plate these days so I will make no promises. Thanks for all the feedback you all give me on this, that is always appreciated. And thanks to my beta @thorne93, you are the best. 

Characters: Jensen, Reader. 

Warnings: Angst, self doubt, cancer, language. 

Wordcount: 1837

You can catch up HERE

*not my gif*

The two of you sat in your backyard as you walked him through what your doctor had told you, everything from the surgery the upcoming Monday to remove both your breasts, the way the cancer had spread to your liver and how you were to start chemotherapy as soon as your body was strong enough after the surgery.

“But if they want to start you on chemo, it must mean they think you have a shot right?” he asked hopefully. He had hardly spoken a word since you dropped the news on him, he just sat there with your hand in his, giving you his full attention as you talked.

The slight glimmer of hope that rose in his eyes and voice damn near shattered you. You wanted so badly to wrap your arms around him, to tell him everything would be alright, but you had never been capable of lying to him, even how much you wanted to in this moment. “The chemo is to stop the spreading. There are very few cases of breast cancer where it spreads to the liver, and mine is rapid, it's spreading fast and the only way to slow it down, or prevent it from spreading any further is chemo.”

A single tear escaped Jensen's eyes and made its way down across his face. “How long?” he asked in a thick voice.

“They don't know until they see how my body reacts to the treatment, but around 18 months, maybe less.”

**

Jensen didn't leave your side before he had to go back to Vancouver on Sunday evening, and if you hadn't driven him to the airport yourself he wouldn't have gone at all. The thought of you going through that surgery with no one by your side didn't sit right with him, especially after you had made him swear not to tell anyone what was going on.

When you had told him that you wanted to see him, to talk to him, he thought maybe you had changed your mind about breaking up, or maybe hoped was more like it. He, for one, had walked through your doors ready to ask you to come back to him, he was ready to do everything in his power to get you back, but right now you needed a friend so that was what he was going to be for you.

It was late Monday evening before your name flashed across the screen on his phone. “Y/N?”

“Hey, Jay,” you said in a groggy voice. “I just got back to my room.”

“It's so good to hear your voice, sweetheart.” He hadn't been able to concentrate all day. He kept messing up his lines and missing his cues. Finally they had decided to call it a day and he could retreat to his trailer, where he had been pacing back and forth, checking his phone every two minutes. “How did the surgery go?”

“I haven't seen my doctor yet, but my boobs are gone so I guess it went as planned,” you chuckled, which made you wince in pain. In reality this wasn't funny at all. You had always thought that if push came to shove and you had to remove your breasts it wouldn't be a big deal, but now that it was a reality it was so much different. You felt ashamed, which was stupid because you hadn't really seen anyone yet, except from the overly chipper nurse that supplied you with morphine.

“How are you doing then?”

“I'm alright. They put some pretty kickass pain meds in my IV.”

“I hate that I'm not there with you,” he said, running a hand over his face.

“I know, but there isn't anything you could do here anyway so.”

“I'll be there Thursday. And if you want to talk, you just call me, doesn't matter what time it is.”

The two of you said your goodnights and hung up the phone after you had convinced Jensen you were doing fine.

Tuesday and Wednesday went by in a blur of morphine, doctors visits, cat scans and bandage changes. Normally you would have been released from hospital the day after surgery, but because of the cancer your immune system was basically non existent you had to stay a couple of days extra.

Thursday morning your regular, chipper nurse came into your room. “You ready to go home today?” she asked, flashing you all of her pearly whites. Had the circumstances been different you would probably have appreciated her light hearted spirit, but in your state her bubbly nature did nothing to comfort you.

“I guess so.” You shrugged.

“Great. The doctor will be in in a little while to walk you through everything about your release and I was thinking that you and I could change your bandages now, that way you’re good to go once you have spoken with him,” she informed.

You sat up in bed and threw your legs off the edge like you had done during the previous changes, fixing your eyes on a spot at the wall so that you didn't have to watch her do it.

“Today I thought we could do it in the bathroom so you can watch and learn. They have to be changed every other day and I bet you don't want to come in here to do it.”

No, no, no. You weren't ready yet. One thing was to know that they were gone, another thing was to see it, to feel it. She probably noticed the panic in your eyes, because her face clouded over with compassion. It took a while for her to convince you to stand in front of the mirror, but somehow she had gotten through to you.

Your eyes were squeezed shut as she helped you out of your robe and bandages, your heart pounding a million miles an hour, a lump forming in your throat as you felt the cool air hit your bare chest.

“It's time to open your eyes, sweetie,” the nurse said in a soft voice. “You can do this.”

You eased your eyes open, trying to fix them on anything but the reflection in the mirror. It took a few moments before you mustered up the strength to look at yourself. Tears flowed down your cheeks as your eyes traced the two horizontal lines across your now flat chest. It looked disgusting, a swollen red line with stitches across it. Your hands flew up to wrap around yourself as you turned away from the mirror. Sobbs raced through your body and you hunched over trying to focus on keeping your breath steady. The nurses warm hands were on your shoulders as she said things like ‘it's okay’ and ‘just let it out’ in a comforting voice, but you didn't find it comforting at all. A part of your identity was gone, was that a silly way to feel? Like you had been stripped of your femininity? It really didn't matter if it was silly because it was how you felt.

“I look hideous,” you said after you and the nurse had gotten you wrapped up and changed into an oversized hoodie and a pair of loose pants.

“You look gorgeous.” She smiled at you through the mirror. “It might take some getting used to, but I have no doubt that you'll be just fine. Besides, it will look a whole lot different when the swelling goes down and the stitches come out,” she assured. God bless her and her positivity, even if it did little to comfort you right now.

You wiped your eyes one last time making sure all the tears were gone before you went back into your room to face the doctor that was there waiting for you.

He walked you through the procedure you had been through, told you a little bit about what to expect in the next few days regarding pain and mobility and such. You were still very sore, and lifting your hands above your chest hurt like a son of a bitch. “And when you come in to remove your stitches in 10 days, we will see if we can start you on chemo. The sooner the better,” he informed. “Any questions?”

“How sick will the chemo make me?”

“That varies from person to person. That being said, chemotherapy has come a long way in the last few years. You may experience some nausea, fatigue, lack of appetite and so on.”

“Will I lose my hair?” With your breasts being gone, you couldn't stand the thought of losing anything else of what made you you. It sounded so juvenile and superficial in your mind, but your body was sick, slowly killing you from the inside, you felt like you needed it not to be visible. Like if you couldn't see it it wasn't as real.

“Not everyone does. Some lose all their hair, some lose the hair on their head, some lose the hair on their legs and arms… there really isn't any guarantee.”

You were pleased with your doctor. He was a very professional man, straight to the point. He handed you the release papers for you to sign, shook your hand and then left the room, almost colliding with Jensen in the door.

A wide grin appeared on Jensen's lips as he saw you. He stretched out his arms to hug you as he came closer to the bed where you were sitting, but you placed a firm hand on his chest to stop him from wrapping you in his arms. If he gave you one of those tight, comforting hugs that he was known to give, you would be pressed up against him and he would be able to feel that you were different, and you were not ready for that.

He furrowed his brows for a brief second before he shrugged it off, you were probably in pain he thought. “Ready to head home?”

“Yeah,” you sighed. “Thanks for picking me up,” you said with a half hearted smile as you got up from your bed. You couldn't look at him, you couldn't let him see you like this, the large hoodie you wore was the only thing that gave you any comfort at this point.

The car ride back to your house was spent in silence, Jensen didn't know what to say to you, or, he knew what he wanted to say, but he couldn't get any words out. You noticed the glances he stole from the driver's side and how his mouth opened and closed as if he wanted to talk, but your mind was occupied elsewhere.

Since the day you were diagnosed all you had thought about was getting through this surgery, this was the first stop on a long road of treatments. Somehow you had managed to forget what comes next, somehow you had managed to forget that your life was about to come to an end and there was nothing anyone could do about it.

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