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- [ Peter Parker x Stark!reader ]

Summary:  AU, Peter survives the snap, everything else in endgame is the same, except, Peter and reader go to Vormir to collect the Soul stone.

Word Count: 1,436

Note: This is so trash, I am not good at writing so don’t expect this to be any good, I just got inspired to write something and this happened. Tbh I might delete it later :/

!!CONTAINS ENDGAME SPOILERS!!

summary: you had thought peter would always love you too, but it seems you were wrong. and you’re stuck missing him.

a/n: wow it’s been so long. everything is so hectic and when i have time to write, i lean towards writing my book!! that’s right, i’m writing a book! anyway, enjoy this lil request, even though it’s so bad

masterlist

You stare at the picture on your phone, watching two people whom you don’t quite recognize anymore smile happily together, their arms around each other and cheeks flushed pink. It’s hard to believe that once that was what Peter and you looked like when you were together, happy and so in love. It’s also hard to believe that that has changed—that Peter has most probably moved on and you should be on your way as well. So, why is it so hard?

   You want to call him. You do, oh so badly. You want to pick up the phone and tell him how much you miss him and that even if he doesn’t miss you, you’ll always miss him and always be there. But you shake your head when you realize how pathetic that sounds and how he’s so unattainable in his far off vacation in Europe. How, even if he was in New York, he’d still be unattainable. With Ned and Betty—who, together, make an adorable couple, you think—and Peter and MJ.

   MJ. Beautiful MJ who no doubt has Peter wrapped around her pretty little finger by now, who no doubt by now has Peter forgetting all about you. Beautiful, perfect MJ who seems to be everything you think you’re not. Beautiful, perfect MJ who brings out this horrible fire in you. This horrible fire that you can keep contained, lid on tight and never to be led out. A sweet enough girl, surely she’d have to be for Peter to choose her company, but aggravating all the same. You know you wouldn’t feel this way if they were simply friends, but evidently, they’re not, and you wish it didn’t hurt you as much as it did. But, pathetically enough, there’s nothing to do about it, except try to extinguish the fire.

You watch as the four of them post pictures of their grand time, heart panging with unrequited love and longing. You begin to wonder if it’s worse to love and to lose than to never love at all. If you had never loved Peter, and he had never loved you, it would’ve just been a sad crush you could’ve gotten over. But after loving Peter Parker for all these years, after two years of cherishing and loving and appreciating him, to have him slip your fingers—the bare thought of it is painful. It hurts and it’s like your heart is in a knot, completely unattainable and tied and wound so tightly that even the most skilled of fingers couldn’t undo. Nothing could undo what Peter’s love did to you.

As sad as you are, you know Peter Parker deserves to move on. You know he has when Ned begins to ignore you in the hallway and he himself  doesn’t wait for you after your class like he did even before the two of you began dating. It’s over. All of it. But you get a slight twinge of hope when you realize that he hasn’t told Aunt May, realization hitting you when your phone dings with a text from her. Of course he wouldn’t tell her, she loved you two together more than anything, she did. You shut your phone off, sighing. Your lock screen comes up once again.

Your lock screen is one of the only pictures the two of you have together. Peter isn’t the biggest fan of pictures. Or, at least, you thought. Until you saw all of them he’s been taking with MJ. People change, you tell yourself. It’s alright. It has nothing to do with me.

And since you didn’t have many pictures, you relished in memories and texts. Good morning ones, goodnight ones. All of them, affection seemingly seeping from every word. Ones that brought smiles and pink cheeks.

Good morning, I love you. Good night, you looked so pretty today.

Good morning, excited for school today. School is great everyday because I get to see you. Good night. Your chem presentation was impeccable. Beautiful and smart. I got a good one.

Good morning, sunshine. You outshine every star in the sky. Good night. I miss you. Even though I saw you a couple hours ago.

Good morning. Can’t wait for our date today. Good night. You look more beautiful every single time I see you.

And then, the more simple ones. Filled with just as much sweetness.

Good morning. Make today great! Good night. I love you.

And the last text from him you received. Right after he broke up with you. I’m sorry. And that was that. Just like that. Over. Nothing left .

You suppose there’s a time when you’re supposed to let go, when seeing him with another girl doesn’t make you feel the way it does. It makes you said, so sad you want to just cry forever and hole yourself up in your room in a blanket burrito, but there’s also melancholy happiness. Maybe she’ll bring him the kind of happiness and love I never could. Because, after all things, he deserves that at least. A hero deserves someone they love to come home to and kiss. You only wish that person was still you.

The text from Aunt May nags at you; it feels rude to ignore her, but what is there to do? It’s Peter’s choice when to tell his family. There’s no way you can make that choice, can you? Temptation gives in and you open it.

How’s Europe, sweetheart? Enjoy yourself and your time with Peter! Send pics!

Hi, Mrs. Parker, you type, I actually stayed back! Surprise, I’m still in New York! Peter seems to be having a lot of fun, I’m sure his pictures will be epic!

Not a lie, but sparing the truth.

summary: “i hope you never become one of those strangers with one of those laughs i can recognize from anywhere. that’s my only hope.”

a/n: whew it’s been so long, have a request!! based off the titular song by taylor swift

masterlist

Tom’s never been one for the clean up after the party, for the trashed living room and cracked red solo cups. He’s never enjoyed that, never found that kind of peace some do in cleaning.

Not before he met you.

You’ve always been the opposite. To you, the reorganization of chaos is one of the most peaceful parts of life. Whether it’s literal, or mental, neat and clean was always the standard to you.

He knows it’s stupid. He knows just how much he’d do for you—that being, anything—and it’s never too much for him. He wonders what he would’ve done a year ago. Call a cleaning service? Leave it be?

But he’s found the same sort of peace in the reorganizing of chaos, in the quiet that lies between the two of you as you sweep broken glass into a pan and he tosses red solo cups. He finds peace in spending the first day of a new type of adventure with you, of starting of the year the way he hopes it’ll end—with each other. In blissful happiness and a calming aura.

“I love you,” he says, tying a trash bag. “A lot. Really.”

“I know. And I love you just as much, if not more.”

It’s understood. There’s nothing left unsaid that the other doesn’t know, doesn’t feel. Tom watches as you pick up a glitter-covered Polaroid from the ground, shaking your head and laughing as you flip it around. He leans over your shoulder. The background is black, the lights off, and it’s just the two of you, both holding red cups. You kick your leg out towards the camera, finger in the air, as Tom wraps his hand around your waist. It’s happy. It’s celebration.

And Tom wants that. He wants that drunken-midnight part of you, the part that needs him to take care of you and the part that needs him to dance with you. Tom wants to be needed. And he wants alcohol induced hiccups when you’ve had maybe one-too-many shots and have opened one-too-many bears. He wants the crazy and the thing you won’t remember in the morning.

But he also wants this. He wants the domesticity of cleaning up broken bottles, of dropping off trash and dusting off Polaroids. He wants to take care of you after the shots, after the beers. When your head is pounding and all you want to do is hide your face in your pillow all day. He wants every part of it, even the horridly annoying ones, and he’d do anything to get them.

Leaning down and finding another, his heart begins to dance in his chest. Your eyes are closed, head pressed to his chest, smiling as he grins towards the camera. Haz stands behind him, followed by Jacob and Zendaya.

And another, you and Zendaya. A third, Jacob, Haz, and Tom. A fourth of you, Sam, and Harry. And a fifth, a sixth, on and on.

He sets the Polaroids on the counter, picking up two trash bags. “Ready to go?” You motion towards the door and he nods.

The elevator down is quiet. Soft music pushes its way through the air, pushes its way into your ears. When the door opens, you’re met with a busy lobby. Girls carrying high-heeled shoes across the floor, calling cabs and checking phones. Confetti and balloons leave the hardwood floor covered, barely seen. You’ve never seen your dull apartment building so lively, so messy.

“Tom, if you don’t leave now you’re going to be late and we’re not going to make it back in time to set up! And, the cab is here.” Your voice rings through the apartment.

You always hate whenever Tom has to do press. It makes you anxious, anxious of the kind of invasive or rude questions could be asked. And you’d rather not have to have him do it on the day of New Years Eve, but it has to. And it’ll be fine. That’s what you tell yourself.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” he replies, holding his hands out in surrender.

The ride is slow. He holds your hand, occasionally squeezing it but consistently holding it close to his body. “It’s alright. I love you. It’s fine.”

And you feel okay.

“How’re you feeling? Went a little wild last night, did you?” He asks once you reach your apartment once again.

Your cheeks turn red. “Shut up… It was New Years!” You defend. “I don’t even wanna remember it, I was so smashed. Although, I only remember some.”

“Aw, no, love. Hold onto the memories. You’re cool.”

“Aw, thanks!”

“For now.”

“Asshole!” You throw a pillow at him.

“You hold onto the memories,” he grabs your waist, pulling you next to him on the couch. “And I’ll hold on to you.”

The world stops for a moment. He watches as a blush falls upon your face and your lips slowly turn upwards. He watches as you push a small piece of hair behind your ear, breaking eye contact and looking away. And he listens as he watches you speak.

“I hope you never become one of those strangers with one of those laughs I can recognize from anywhere. That’s my only hope.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Wish granted.”

And for some stupid, permanent reason, you can’t imagine that being a lie. You can only see Tom— Tom, you, and just the two of you for as long as your imagination can go and grow. It’s quiet for a minute before Tom begins to speak again.

“I want your drunk midnight adventure, but I also want this. The calm. Just the two of us.”

“I know, Tom,” you assure. “Me, too.”

“Good.”

“I love you.”

“I love you. I’ll hold onto you.”

summary: for as long as you’ve known peter parker, he’s loved halloween

a/n: IM RUNNING OUT OF GIFS!!! also this is a request uwu thank you

masterlist

For as long as you’ve known Peter Parker, he’s loved Halloween.

Not just the day of, no, but the whole season—the pumpkin patches, the movies, and activities, and yes—the day of. But you’ve never really been with Peter on the day of, only having meet him in January of this year and only having started dating in June. You’ve never experienced a true Parker Halloween Season.

Ned swears it’s the best thing in the world—that Halloween with Peter is always his favorite thing, always what he’s looking forward to. May says the same, although you assume she may have a small bit of bias, being his legal guardian and all. You don’t mind.

“Peter, I’m not really a fan of haunted houses…” you trail off, glancing at the big tent, stretched out for half a mile in front of you.

He grabs your hand. “Me neither.”

“What?”

“Well, I like them. A lot. But I’m scared of them, ya know?” explains Peter, grabbing your hand and standing in line.

It’s quite eerie. There’s a man with a chain saw standing out front, bloody face dripping onto torn, black shoes. He’s backed by the screams inside the haunted house, those of both the actors and current victims. You’re not quite sure you want to go in, but soon you’re at the front of the line, Peter handing the creepy-chainsaw-man your tickets, and walking in the entrance.

You grip Peter’s upper arm as hard as you can, not noticing the smile that lights up his face in the dark. You don’t notice the look of adoration he sees you with, and you don’t see the pink color lapping itself over his cheeks.

“It’s alright, babe,” Peter whispers, gently pulling you closer. “Nothing’s gonna hurt you.”

“Uh huh,” you mutter, completely unconvinced. “Uh huh.” And he laughs.

“Seriously, I really don’t think this is that bad. It’s not like— AH!” He’s interrupted by a demon-like figure, who puts his untamed claws on Peter’s shoulder.

“Not that bad?” you tease, turning a corner of the house that leads to what seems to be a butchery—a human one, at that.

You shut your eyes tight. “Nope. Not happening. Abso-freaking-lutely not. Nuh uh. In your dreams, Parker.”

The two of you keep walking for a moment, somewhat horrified and somewhat excited. It’s always been hard to tell with Peter.

“You can open your eyes, sweetheart,” Peter reassures, prying your hands from your eyes. “We’re our of the butchery. Into a winter wonderland—of horror.”

Opening your eyes slowly, you notice that your boyfriend has lied, and you are, in fact, still in the human butchery. “Peter, you ass!” You slap his arm, before yanking it back towards you and grabbing it rather tightly once again. “I’m traumatized. I’m sending you my therapy bill. That—that’s happen— holy freaking shit I’m going to slap the next person, demon, whatever that scares me!”

“Sorry, she’s— she’s never done this before,” he mutters to the girl dressed as a bloody ragdoll. “It’s her first time.”

You’re more angry than scared. Angry with yourself for agreeing to go to this stupid horror fest with Peter, angry with yourself for not being braver, for being scared. Angry with yourself for it all.

And terrified. You know these people are only actors, only doing this for fun or a quick buck—maybe both. You know they’d never hurt you, or Peter, or anyone else in the haunted house. It’s all just for fun. But for some reason, it haunts you and it hurts you and you just want to leave.

The two of you go through the next, and last, couple of rooms; your eyes are still shut and your arm grips Peter’s.

“That was…” your words die on your tongue as your eyes meet the sun. “Icky?”

“I’m sorry,” he opens the car door, getting in on the other side. “I feel bad.”

“No, no, no, don’t,” you put your hand on his. “You liked it. So I did.”

“You hates it,” deadpans Peter.

You nod. “Yes I did.”

The two of you end up at a little ice-cream shop, adorned with fake webs and little chocolate coffins for the holiday. It seems they’ve changed all their flavors to Halloween names—Jack-O-Lantern Jelly, Scary Cinnamon Spice: the works. The two of you sit at a small table, hands a little tangled in the fake spider-webs but enjoying it nonetheless.

“I’m sorry you didn’t have fun,” he apologizes as you swirl your spoon in the cup of ice-cream.

You shrug. “I was with you. Which means everything to me. I’d do it again if that means I got to do it with you.”

“Really?”

“If I really, truly, had to. Because I love you.”

“Good, because—because I love you, too.”

“Glad to here it.” The two of you go back to your ice-cream.

It’s a peaceful walk home, deciding to walk and go pick up Peter’s car later, wanting to enjoy the crisp breeze. The two of you hold hands, swinging them back and forth between you and watching the streets.

It’s the time of year when no building looks normal. Cotton spider-webs are slung across doors—to which you give Peter a knowing nod and wink—and fake witches are hung from roofs. Plastic spiders are found in the bushes, and witches hats in the windows of stores. There’s a Spirit Halloween that’s opened, as well as a wig shop and other season stores, soon to be replaced by Christmas trinkets and trees. It brings a smile to your face just thinking about it.

“I had a really fun time today,” you say, before adding, “Except the human butchery. Never—“ you point an accusing finger. “Ever take me to another human butchery. Or else that will be the last place you go.”

Peter laughs, brown eyes twinkling in your favorite way—little eye crinkles, dimples. “Deal.”

It’s silent for a moment, until he begins to speak again. “Was that really so scary?”

“You were scared, too!”

“Pft,” he looks around. “I’m Spider-Man. I’m not scared,” whispers Peter.

“Uh huh. Okay.”

“Okay.”

“Happy Halloween, Peter,” you squeeze his hand.

summary: “i hope you never become one of those strangers with one of those laughs i can recognize from anywhere. that’s my only hope.”

a/n: whew it’s been so long, have a request!! based off the titular song by taylor swift

masterlist

Tom’s never been one for the clean up after the party, for the trashed living room and cracked red solo cups. He’s never enjoyed that, never found that kind of peace some do in cleaning.

Not before he met you.

You’ve always been the opposite. To you, the reorganization of chaos is one of the most peaceful parts of life. Whether it’s literal, or mental, neat and clean was always the standard to you.

He knows it’s stupid. He knows just how much he’d do for you—that being, anything—and it’s never too much for him. He wonders what he would’ve done a year ago. Call a cleaning service? Leave it be?

But he’s found the same sort of peace in the reorganizing of chaos, in the quiet that lies between the two of you as you sweep broken glass into a pan and he tosses red solo cups. He finds peace in spending the first day of a new type of adventure with you, of starting of the year the way he hopes it’ll end—with each other. In blissful happiness and a calming aura.

“I love you,” he says, tying a trash bag. “A lot. Really.”

“I know. And I love you just as much, if not more.”

It’s understood. There’s nothing left unsaid that the other doesn’t know, doesn’t feel. Tom watches as you pick up a glitter-covered Polaroid from the ground, shaking your head and laughing as you flip it around. He leans over your shoulder. The background is black, the lights off, and it’s just the two of you, both holding red cups. You kick your leg out towards the camera, finger in the air, as Tom wraps his hand around your waist. It’s happy. It’s celebration.

And Tom wants that. He wants that drunken-midnight part of you, the part that needs him to take care of you and the part that needs him to dance with you. Tom wants to be needed. And he wants alcohol induced hiccups when you’ve had maybe one-too-many shots and have opened one-too-many bears. He wants the crazy and the thing you won’t remember in the morning.

But he also wants this. He wants the domesticity of cleaning up broken bottles, of dropping off trash and dusting off Polaroids. He wants to take care of you after the shots, after the beers. When your head is pounding and all you want to do is hide your face in your pillow all day. He wants every part of it, even the horridly annoying ones, and he’d do anything to get them.

Leaning down and finding another, his heart begins to dance in his chest. Your eyes are closed, head pressed to his chest, smiling as he grins towards the camera. Haz stands behind him, followed by Jacob and Zendaya.

And another, you and Zendaya. A third, Jacob, Haz, and Tom. A fourth of you, Sam, and Harry. And a fifth, a sixth, on and on.

He sets the Polaroids on the counter, picking up two trash bags. “Ready to go?” You motion towards the door and he nods.

The elevator down is quiet. Soft music pushes its way through the air, pushes its way into your ears. When the door opens, you’re met with a busy lobby. Girls carrying high-heeled shoes across the floor, calling cabs and checking phones. Confetti and balloons leave the hardwood floor covered, barely seen. You’ve never seen your dull apartment building so lively, so messy.

“Tom, if you don’t leave now you’re going to be late and we’re not going to make it back in time to set up! And, the cab is here.” Your voice rings through the apartment.

You always hate whenever Tom has to do press. It makes you anxious, anxious of the kind of invasive or rude questions could be asked. And you’d rather not have to have him do it on the day of New Years Eve, but it has to. And it’ll be fine. That’s what you tell yourself.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” he replies, holding his hands out in surrender.

The ride is slow. He holds your hand, occasionally squeezing it but consistently holding it close to his body. “It’s alright. I love you. It’s fine.”

And you feel okay.

“How’re you feeling? Went a little wild last night, did you?” He asks once you reach your apartment once again.

Your cheeks turn red. “Shut up… It was New Years!” You defend. “I don’t even wanna remember it, I was so smashed. Although, I only remember some.”

“Aw, no, love. Hold onto the memories. You’re cool.”

“Aw, thanks!”

“For now.”

“Asshole!” You throw a pillow at him.

“You hold onto the memories,” he grabs your waist, pulling you next to him on the couch. “And I’ll hold on to you.”

The world stops for a moment. He watches as a blush falls upon your face and your lips slowly turn upwards. He watches as you push a small piece of hair behind your ear, breaking eye contact and looking away. And he listens as he watches you speak.

“I hope you never become one of those strangers with one of those laughs I can recognize from anywhere. That’s my only hope.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Wish granted.”

And for some stupid, permanent reason, you can’t imagine that being a lie. You can only see Tom— Tom, you, and just the two of you for as long as your imagination can go and grow. It’s quiet for a minute before Tom begins to speak again.

“I want your drunk midnight adventure, but I also want this. The calm. Just the two of us.”

“I know, Tom,” you assure. “Me, too.”

“Good.”

“I love you.”

“I love you. I’ll hold onto you.”

summary: you’d like to believe your friends are going to love peter parker

a/n: this is a request !! sorry i HAVENT posted in so long… school is crazy

masterlist

Not going to the same school as your boyfriend sucks.

Which is a blunt way to put it, but truthful. There’s less seeing him. There’s no sappy hugs in the hallways or kisses before class. There’s only waiting in the parking lot and five minute stories of people you don’t know.

But it could be worse. You could have horridly strict parents who never let you see Peter on the weekends or after school, or maybe Peter could’ve. But for the most part, yours and Peter’s Aunt, May, were both supportive and understood the need for two teenagers who were dating to see each other whenever they could.

And maybe that’s why you’re here, now, at Midtown School of Science and Technology, a school you don’t even go to, leaning back on the front of your small Volkswagen Bug, arms crossed. A small, pleated, beige skirt sitting atop your thighs and a white polo with your school’s emblem sitting on your chest, waiting for Peter Parker to walk out of his last period class.

“Parker, over here!” You call, noticing a messy head of curls appear from the door. You wave your arms over your head.

“Looks like Parker got himself a girl,” some kid calls, a tease in his voice and a haunt in his step. “And a Midpoint one, too? Damn, someone’s got rich taste.”

“Shut it, Flash,” Peter wraps his arm around your shoulder. “Ready to go?”

“Yeah, get in loser,” you joke, motioning to the backseat. He complies, gently sliding in before buckling his seatbelt.

“So, anything I need to know?” He asks. “Like, are any of your friends vegan? Or… like, I don’t know— a Tony Stark anti? Because those are dealbreakers.”

You laugh, quickly turning onto another street. “You have no problems with vegans, Parker. Shut up. I know that for a fact because of when May went through her vegan phase. And about Tony Stark? Maybe.”

There’s silence for a minute. Not awkward, no, but comforting. Lasting. A warm blanket of safety.

Peter’s nervous voice breaks it. “Are your friends like… super rich?”

“Uh, some of them,” you check your rear view mirror. “Peter,” you put your hand on his thigh. “Don’t worry, okay, baby? They’ll love you. A lot. I promise.”

He bites his lip nervously, fiddling with his thumbs slowly. “I’m just— I know how much they mean to you. I wanna make this right.”

You press your foot to the gas petal, watching as the light turns from red to green. “I know, I know, Pete. And you care so much about me and I love you but, just trust me, okay? They’ll love you. Almost as much as I do. Almost.”

The worry lacing his voice leaves. “Okay. If you say so.”

You pull into the parking lot. “I do say so.”

You’d like to believe your friends are going to love Peter Parker. Your friends have always been— been somewhat difficult. They’ve always tended to make up their minds about people very quickly, and that’s what scares you. As much as you believe that they’ll adore Peter, accept him, there’s a worrying ache in your heart that they won’t. And that would hurt so bad. That would be so painful for so many reasons. You just hope you’d never have to know why.

Peter holds your hand on the way up, gently swinging it between the two of you playfully. He pulls the sleeves of his flannel over his free hand, pushing the door to the frozen yogurt shop open. The bells rings above your heads. Loud voices giggle from across the shop.

“Y/N/N! Y/N/N!” Shouts a girl, running across the treat shop. Peter notices she’s wearing the same thing as you. Uniforms, he thinks.

“I saw you an hour ago,” you giggle as her arms wrap around your waist. You pull away. “This is Peter, my boyfriend. He goes to Midtown.”

She grabs your hand, leading you to your table. “Midtown? The science school? How fancy,” she teases.

Pink runs itself onto Peter’s cheeks. “Uh, yeah, I guess?”

“Don’t play dumb,” you chide. “He’s really smart. Builds his own computers and stuff. And he has an internship with Tony Stark!” You slide into the chair he’s pulled out for you.

“Y/N!”

“What? It’s true. Anyway, this is Kate, Kiana, Eloise, Preston, and Chris.” You point as you say their names. “Guys, this is my boyfriend, Peter.”

“Hi,” he waves nervously. They blink.

And for the second your fleeting thought begins to linger. What if they don’t like him? What if they tell you he’s bad for you, or not a good match? What happens if some of the most important people in your life don’t get along?

But all those thoughts go on their merry way again as the minutes tick by and Peter seems to get more comfortable by the minute. His laughs echo loudly down the shop, followed by those of your friends overlapping his.

“Peter!” You slap his arm as his story begins to get embarrassing. “Why would you tell them that?” You cover your face with your hands.

“So… no head?” He asks.

A beat. Silence. A weird thing to say. Something out of character. Your friends gawk, releasing small giggles of second hand embarrassment.”

“I’m sorry, what?” asks Eloise.

“Uh… the vine?” Peter explains, searching for any sign of remembrance.

The group erupts into noise once more. “Oh! Damn, Y/N, I really thought you were, you know, for a second there.”

“Shut up.”

An hour goes by, and then another, and the notion of school tomorrow lingers above you head. “Me and Peter really gotta go, guys—“

“Peter and I!” interrupts Preston. “Nuh uh, your parents don’t pay big money for you to come to Midpoint just for you to not understand basic grammar mechanics.”

“Shut up, dumbass.”

He holds his hands up in surrender.

You say your goodbyes, quickly hugging each of your friends and smiling brightly when you see Chris pull Peter in for a hug.

“So,” you pull the driver’s seat door open. “Thoughts?”

“They’re great, really. I really love them. Although, Chris is team Cap, so we’ll see about that one.”

“I love you, so much, Pete.”

summary: the ends of books are often the most beautiful parts

a/n: number eleven on the angst prompts!! it’s a request!! happy back to school, my loves. hope you find a peter parker this year. also im running out of gifs.

masterlist

Your phone rings every Monday afternoon at four with a call from Peter Parker.

You don’t overthink it. Or, at least, you try not to. There’s nothing to overthink. There’s nothing to think about. Peter is your friend, and that’s that. That’s all he’ll ever be. And friends call each other.

So it’s safe to say it’s unsurprising when his name flashes on your screen at the same time every week. Only this week, you two deem it important for one reason and one reason only.

Midtown Highschool always emails students their schedules one week before school starts. And ever since sophomore year, it’s been a tradition that you two open it together. And ever since sophomore year, the two of you always had many, many classes together. And you didn’t expect that to change.

“Hi, Y/N!” His face flashes on your phone. “Wanna come over? I just got the email. Haven’t opened it,” he sings in a childish voice. “Come on, it’ll be fun! We can do back to school shopping, the usual. It’s our last year of highschool. Let’s do it right.”

You rool your eyes playfully. “Fine, fine,” you see his face light up through the screen, you mutter as your grab your purse. “I’m on my way, see ya.” And you hang up.

The walk to his apartment is nice. Although sweating in sweltering heart, New York always takes your breath away. In a literal and figurative sense. The cars screech and honk next to you, your feet shuffle beneath you. The noise gets softer and softer as you close the lobby door behind you.

Walking out of the elevator, you realize how relatively similar everything still is, even from back when you were freshman. Schedules with Peter. Buying binders with Peter. Peter.

You raise your hand to knock on the door, pulling it back in surprise when Peter opens it.

“Woah, hi, Peter.”

“Sorry, Y/N,” he blushes. “Looking through the peephole. Just a little bit excited, I guess. Senior year, baby!” He whoops.

“Yeah, yeah,” you pat his shoulder mockingly. “I’m excited too, I guess,” you mumble.

“You don’t sound excited.”

“Whatever, Peter. Let’s just, let’s open the emails,” you grab his hand and lead him to the couch.

Nothing has really changed, you suppose. The two of you are still sitting on that same old green couch in the middle of his apartment, you’re still holding his hand, and you’re still staring at him with wide, nervous eyes. You’re still terrifyingly in love with Peter Parker and even more terrified of school.

Senior year. Your last year at Midtown. Your last year with Peter Parker, with Ned, with everyone you’ve come to love over the past four years at that shitty science school you never thought you’d love. Much less with every fibre of your being.

“Okay,” Peter unlocks his phone. “3,2,1… print two and swap.”

And in two minutes, you’re both holding copies of both pieces of paper, confusion and sadness washing over your face.

He pipes up from next to you. “Zero classes.”

“I can’t believe this!” All the anger and frustration from all the anxiety from the summer, from the thought of the last day of highschool. From everything. It all comes rushing back from this one fucking thing, this one thing that isn’t even that big of a deal in the grand scheme of things, because after all you’ll still see Peter Parker outside of school, because he’s your best friend and he’s your boyfriend.

“I’m done with this!” You stand up to walk towards the door. A second ticks past. “And! And we don’t even have lunch!” You throw your hands up in frustration. “This sucks. Senior year is going to fucking suck!”

“Y/N/N, sweetheart, baby,” he walks over to you slowly. “It’s going to be fine, alright? We’ll see each other in the hallways, between classes, before and after school, weekends,” he grabs your hands. “So, just wipe your tears, okay, baby?” He reaches up to wipe tears you don’t even remember falling. “And we’ll go get school supplies, binders, notebooks,” he lets out a mocking gasp. “Highlighters!”

And your giggling through your tears. “Okay, Parker. Let’s go get assorted colored pens, okay?”

You walk quickly to the Staples store on the corner of fifth and Broadway.

“Alright, Parker, you know the drill,” you command as the two of you enter the doors. “Two carts. Thirty minutes. Binders. Notebooks. The works. Let’s do this.”

The thirty minutes pass quickly. You wander the aisles, dropping pens and pencils into your cart. And your mind wanders to a thought you’ve been avoiding for months now — this is your last time back to school shopping with Peter. The same thing you’ve been doing this same thing you’ve been doing since the summer going into seventh grade. Something you’ve been dreading.

You shake your head and throw a pack of erasers into the red cart rolling in front of you.

The first day of school comes faster than expected. You stand there next to Peter, kicking the cuffs of your jeans awkwardly.

“Y/N, Y/N, stop that,” he sticks his foot inbetween yours. “It’s gonna be just fine. And your anxiousness is really making my, ya know, senses go off a little bit right now, so let’s just take a deep breath and walk in. Senior year. You should be excited.”

“It’s over,” you mumble. “High school. The beginning of the end.”

“Don’t be so negative. It’s an adventure!” Peter exclaims.

ned: i’m sorry peter…..

peter, through tears: i’m begging you…. don’t do it…..

ned: it has to be done……..

peter:

ned:

peter:

ned: (places +4 card)

summary: it’s a lively and lovely night at the nederlander theatre

a/n: this is from the first request ever sent into my inbox a loooooong time ago. whoop im so sorry. i used the tour cast instead of the way cast. ben is ben cook and josh is josh burrage. also i START HIGHSCHOOL TOMORROW so fics will be coming out more slowly, so sorry

masterlist

“I’m going to be on Broadway.”

The words tumble out of your mouth faster than you prefer, faster than you wish they had.

You’re not sure what to expect from your friends. Yes, they all knew your time on Spider-Man would be short. A small part of Homecoming, that was set in stone from the beginning. They knew that all along. However, they did believe they’d have a little more time then a month or two.

And they also knew that, while you love screen acting, Broadway was and is your dream. It’s everything you love — dancing, singing, acting, live audiences — and they knew they should be happy for you. Most of them are.

“Oh my god,” squeals Zendaya as she wraps her arms around you. “What show? What part? When did you even audition? Answer me!”

“Well uh, I went when I told you guys I was seeing my parents,” you admit, twiddling with your fingers shyly.

“What?” Laura replies, shocked. “Why?”

Your voice comes out gentle and timid. “Well I, I just didn’t want to get my hopes up by letting other people know, so I kept it to myself.”

“Okay, so,” Jacob says excitedly. “What role? Show? When do you leave?”

“Well,” your cheeks turn red with excitement and happiness. “Katherine Plumber in Newsies!” You scream, unable to hold your excitement and eagerness in for much longer.

“Oh my god!” Zendaya puts her hands on your shoulders. “Isn’t that like, your favorite musical?”

“Yes, yes, yes!” You jump up and down, a hyper feeling filling your body.

“I’m so proud of you!” Laura giggles as she pulls you into a tight hug, rocking you back and forth.

Jacob pipes up from next to her. “Seriously, me too.”

“Tom?” You ask as you pull away nervously, pulling your sweater over your hands and onto your palms. “What do you think?”

You know you should be happy with your accomplishments, with what you’ve done. And the reactions of your other friends, the support they’ve shown you and are currently showing you. But you can’t help but wonder what Tom thinks, what’s going on in that beautiful and complex head of his, why he isn’t happy for you, or so it seems.

“It’s great,” he mutters dejectedly before standing up, turning away, and walking out the door.

You don’t say goodbye to Tom before you leave for New York. You try to, you really do, but he avoids you. When you walk into a room, he walks out. When you say hello, he mutters a quiet and short response before leaving.

You text him the day you leave. Standing in the Atlanta Airport, waiting for your flight.

To: Tom Holland

hey. am boarding soon. just wanted to say goodbye.

You sit send with a quiet sigh caught in your throat, by the lump that’s taken it’s place.

It’s a lively and lovely night at the Nederlander Theatre. Three months into your run of the show, three months of fulfilled dreams and happiness. Three months of little to no Tom.

You miss him. That much you can admit to yourself. Because as much as you don’t want to, as big of a dick he was before you left, your heart hurts and is heavy for the boy who’d become your best friend. You’re not sure what the two of you are anymore.

“Y/N,” Ben knocks on your dressing room door. “Five minutes,” he reminds you before shutting the door.

“Okay, thanks, Ben!” You call after him.

There are benefits to not being in the first couple of scenes of the show. You can listen to the audience and how they’re doing, what they’re reacting you. You can take your time getting ready. You can do extensive warm ups. You can long for a text from your best friend. The last one might be exclusive to you.

“Katherine, those boys are counting on you,” you recite, pushing yourself into your fake set chair. You can barely see the crowd, too blinded by the bright lights of the stage and the fourth wall, but you can feel them. You can feel their heat and their energy as you belt out your last notes before stomping off stage.

The rest of the show goes perfectly. Often, there are problems, like the splitting of the boys’ pants, or dropping of the newspaper. But it goes perfectly tonight, a rarity. You feel pride swell in your chest.

“Knock knock,” Ben says happily, opening the door to your dressing room. “Did you already go to the stage door?”

“Yeah,” you pull an earring from your ear. “Really nice audience tonight. Met a real cute little girl at the stage door, dressed as Katherine.”

He takes a seat on the little couch in the corner. “Think I saw her too. Simply adorable. Anyway, there are people waiting for you in the hallway. Also, stage manager got flowers for you. Someone dropped them off. Spider-Man?” He says, voice layed in confusion

“Really?” You stand up excitedly. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Calm down,” Ben laughs. “They’re not going anywhere.”

You bolt out the door, quickly pushing yourself through waves of cast members and friends. “Oof, sorry Josh, yeah, okay, sorry!” You scream in apology over your shoulder.

Laura is the first one you see. She’s got a bright smile spread over her face, her arms crossed as she checks her phone. Zendaya, Jacob, and Angourie stand next to her, basically doing the same.

“Guys!”

Their heads snap up. “Y/N?”

You squeeze Jacob, holding him tightly. “I didn’t know you guys were coming!”

“Well,” Laura starts. “We were in New York for a few scenes and couldn’t pass up surprising our favorite Broadway star! You were great!”

“Yeah, really amazing,” agreed Zendaya. “Now I see why Newsies is your favorite.”

“It really is the best, huh?” You joke, hands on your hips.

And then you hear it. A soft voice, laced underneath a British accent and a layer of light. Tom.

“Guys, the bathroom is— Y/N, hi.”

“Hi?” You reply awkwardly.

“We’re gonna give you guys some space. Meet some of your friends,” Jacob says as he pulls the girls away.

“So,” you rock back and forth on the heels on your feet. “Hi.”

Tom stuffs his hands into his pocket. “Hey.”

“What are— what are you doing here?” You motion to the room around you.

“I missed you,” admits Tom. “So much.”

The lump in your throat gets bigger. “We would’ve stayed in touch, if not for you.”

He looks down at his shoes, voice caught in his throat.

“Why do you do it, huh?” You press, pushing his chest with your finger. “Do you know how much it hurt? I thought you hated me! I still do. You were my best friend and you broke me. Didn’t even say goodbye.”

His voice cracks. “Were?”

“That’s all you got of that whole spiel, really? Selective hearing.”

You’re angry. Red hot, white hot. It’s clouding your vision and and your senses and your judgement. You can’t listen to a word that’s coming out of his mouth, too upset and too hurt. Sadness and anger were always something that went hand in hand with you.

“I—,” Tom moves his feet awkwardly. “Was scared. Am scared. Because, well I was losing you.”

“So you chose to lose me even more?”

“I’m stupid, I know,” he runs his hands through his hair. “But I’m just so goddamn in love with you, the thought of you leaving hurt me so bad. Because I thought if I pushed you away, it would hurt less, but God, Y/N, it still hurt so bad. Even more, I guess.”

“You’re so fucking stupid, Tom,” you cross your arms. “So fucking stupid.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“But I fucking love you, you fucking dumbass.”

“Yeah?”

summary: august 10th. 2001.

a/n: happy birthday to our lil webslinger<33 missing him extra today. also this sucks i was so rushed lol. requests coming up soon xoxo

masterlist

August 10th. 2001.

A day so important to you, so loved, your excitement builds up as if it’s your own birthday. As if it’s your special day and a day just, simply, for you.

It’s not.

It’s Peter Parker’s. It’s the day of a boy so sweet he makes maple syrup seem bitter, a boy so light that the flowers seem jealous, a boy filled with so much sunshine he only rivals the sun itself.

So the tenth of August is Peter Parker’s day, yet he’s nowhere in sight to celebrate. You’re not sure where he is, not since he left the school bus, and it’s been driving you crazy.

There’s not a day that you haven’t longed for Peter since he’s left. There hasn’t been a day that you haven’t prayed to whoever may be out there, prayed to whatever force that may help him, desperate for any sign of his life. Of his survival.

You fear Peter has met the same fate of many of your friends and classmates — gone in a poof, taken by the wind. You fear he’s somewhere, all alone, terrified, on a day meant to be happy and filled with giggles and friendly teasing. With kisses and five minute hugs. You can only pray that he has some of his friends with him, Avengers that would look out for the sixteen year old boy who risked his short life for a chance with the all-stars.

“Hey, May,” you mutter as she opens the door. “Brought some food, uh, pancakes and some cupcakes.” You motion at the takeout bag.

May Parker, bless her soul, has become a woman too hurt by the cruelty of the universe, a woman who’s lost so much, yet still smiles in the face of darkness. You wonder has she does it.

“Yeah, yeah,” she opens the door wider. “Come on in.” She reaches up to wipe a tear.

Walking into the apartment, you’re amazed by how empty it feels. Peter’s shoes no longer litter the doorway, a tripping hazard. Sweatshirts are no longer tossed carelessly along the couch. Forks remain in their place, not dirtied in the sink. It’s clean. Untouched. Untainted.

May carefully sets plates on the table. “How’ve you been, Y/N?”

“I miss him,” you admit. “And it’s hard. It’s so hard because what can I tell people? That my good ol’ friend Spider-Man is missing? Presumed dead?” Your voice gets increasingly louder as you talk, but you’re completely unaware of it. You’re only aware of the tears leaking from your eyes and the ache in your heart. “And I guess that’s selfish. Because you’re his mother, basically, and I’m just his girlfriend, but I wish he was here.”

She pulls your head into her chest gently, pancakes long forgotten as you sob.

It feels like you can’t breathe. Like you can’t breathe and oxygen is Peter Parker. But of course, you’ve run out of oxygen. And air is scarce. And so is happiness. Smiles are hard to come by these days.

“I know, I know, sweetheart. I miss him, too. But he’ll be here. Tony, and, and the rest of them — they’ll figure this out. As much as I hate that Stark, he cares about Peter. He’ll fix it.”

You can only hope she’s right.

“A very happy birthday, baby,” you whisper to the sky.

May gives you a small smile. “Happy birthday, Peter. I miss you, son. Come back to me.”

Peter Parker keeps track of the days.

He counts them and counts them, until the day comes he’s been waiting for. August tenth. His seventeenth birthday. A day meant to be spent with loved ones. On Earth. Not in some imaginary realm of death. Not crying. Not in pain.

“Kid, what’s wrong?” He feels Bucky’s metal hand on his shoulder.

“Nothing, Mr. Barnes,” Peter mutters, kicking a rock at his feet. “I’m okay.”

“Alright, c’mon kid.”

“Fine,” Peter turns to look at him. “Today… today is my birthday. August tenth. Seventeen. And me and my girlfriend, ever since we were nine, we’d always go to Coney Island with my Aunt and my best friend Ned, and eat pancakes, watch Star Wars, yaknow? And it’s my first birthday in nine years without Ned and Y/N and May,” his voices catches in his throat. “I’m sorry, Mr. Barnes. It’s not your problem.”

“Wow, uh okay,” Bucky takes a seat on the rock next to Peter’s. “First off, happy birthday, kiddo. And second, well, your girlfriend, she sounds lovely. And from everything you’ve told me about her, not just now, you never shut up about her, she’s celebrating for you. She’s down there, waiting for you to come home, because god knows that she loves you. And we’re going to get out of here. Steve and the others, we’ll be just fine. We won’t be here much longer.”

Peter rubs the tears out of his eyes. “Thank you,” he whispers, before hesitantly leaning his head on his shoulder.

“And, now that I know it’s your birthday, your last one until you’re no longer a kid, we’re gonna celebrate.” He extends his hand, standing up.

“Uh, how?” Confusion laces his voice.

“You’ll see, kid.”

And he watches as Stephen Strange begins a light show with Groot, only thinking of how much you’d love it, how much you’d adore the multicolored fireworks and illusions. The pop of the prisms and the fireflies.

“Happy birthday to you,” Wanda sings quietly, shooting him a wink.

Stephen places an illumination of a candle in front of him. “Make a wish, kid. Happy seventeen.”

Not that he’d ever tell anyone, but his only wish right now is you, May, Ned, and Coney Island. He whispers a quiet message to the sky. “I love you, Y/N. Have at the pancakes today, my love. I’ll be home soon.”

And you so desperately wish he could hear yours, far down on Earth, a desperate call for him to come home.

summary: but you can’t shake the feeling that bucky barnes hates you, and bucky barnes is your boyfriend’s best friend. and it’s important to you that he likes you

a/n: last part :-(( enjoy some modern!hs!preserum!steve aus

masterlist

“Stevie!” You call across the hallway, waving your hands over your head. “Stevie, wait up!”

Your feet hit the ground quickly, maneuvering around the groups of students. “Good morning, baby,” you cheer when you get to him before kissing his cheek. “Happy Monday.”

“There’s nothing happy about Monday, Y/N,” Bucky grumbles, shuttling his locker and walking away. The smile drops off your face.

“What’s wrong with him?”

“Dunno. He was fine a couple minutes ago,” Steve shrugs as he wraps his arm around you. “Let’s just go to class, alright?”

You’re brain is scattered. You know you should be paying attention, you know that if you don’t you’ll fall behind because Mr. Alba is ruthless. But you can’t shake the feeling that Bucky Barnes hates you, and Bucky Barnes is your boyfriend’s best friend. And it’s important to you that he likes you. And wants to around. Because Steve is important to you, and Bucky is important to Steve.

“Pst, Stevie,” you whisper when Mr. Alba turns his back to the class.

He turns his head to the side to look at you slowly. “Yeah?”

“Does— God this sounds so stupid… Does Bucky hate me?” Your voice, albeit a whisper, is soft and timid, quiet and insecure. It’s different than your usual happy and boisterous voice, partly because you’re in class, partly because you’re scared. Scared of his answer.

Steve runs his hands over his face. “Y/N, is this really the time? Now?”

Horror spreads over your features as the words fall out of his mouth. “That means no!” You poke your finger at him. “He hates me. Your best friend hates me. Your girlfriend.”

“Okay, one, stop whisper-yelling or whatever it is you’re doing, it’s not as quiet as you think it is, and two, Bucky doesn’t… hate you. He just doesn’t… enjoy your presence,” he admits, fiddling with his fingers.

“Fine.” And the two of you don’t speak for the rest of the class.

The walk home is awkward. Brooklyn is never quiet, and your mind is racing with insecurities and plans and propositions. Steve’s arm around you is the only comfort you’ve felt since class.

“I just, don’t understand!” You throw your hands up in the air. “I’ve only ever been nice to him. This sucks,” you kick a rock sitting at your feet.

“Sweetheart… he doesn’t hate you. Bucky is just, well, protective of me, and he’s my brother, well, not really, but still, and best friend and—“ He rambles on and on and on until you bring your hand up to quiet him.

“Sh, baby, you’re gonna have an asthma attack,” you tease, poking his side.

“It’s not my fault that I’m five foot four of skin, bones, and breathing problems,” Steve retorts, pulling your hand away from his side and taking it in his.

“Yeah, well,” you watch as he pulls his keys out of his backpack and slides them into the lock. “Who’s is it? Your mom?”

Opening the door, he shrugs. “…I guess.”

“No,” you shake your head. “Sarah’s an angel. She can do no wrong. Not her fault.”

Steve’s apartment is one of your favorite places. It’s homey, a strong scent of sweet orange filling your senses. There’s pictures of Steve and his little sisters littered across the walls, and fluffy pillows atop the couch. It’s everything you can imagine. Only a place so cozy could raise the beautiful boy that is your Steve.

“Is Rosie here?” You ask as you drop your backpack.

“No, I think she has horseback riding or something like that. Cuddle?” He motions to the couch.

You wordlessly move to the couch, sighing in comfort as Steve wraps his arms around you.

And it’s fine. There’s no school, no Bucky, no parents, just the two of you, holding each other, relaxing. There’s no stressing because Steve is there, and he’s right next to you, so close you can hear his heart beating out of his chest.

And the sound of his voice breaks your reverie. “Why do you care so much whether or not Bucky likes you?”

You turn your head around to face him. “Well, uh, I just… Bucky is so important to you, you know? And I would like to assume I’m important to you, too—“

He cuts you off. “You are.”

“Sh, you asked, now let me finish,” you tease. “And I just feel like the important people in your life should get along. Like me, and your mom. And for the second reason, I don’t even know why he doesn’t like me. I can’t think of a reason. I know I’m annoying and everything but, whew, he really hates me,” you bite your lip softly. “And I just want to know why. So I can, ya know, fix it.”

Steve takes a big breath. “He doesn’t hate you. He’s just worried. He’s scared that you’re going to break my heart or something stupid like that,” he admits.

“Yeah, I can’t fix that. Really?” You push away the hair falling in his face. “You knew? This whole time?”

“Yeah, and I’m sorry. I just knew you’d get like this, all worked up, and I thought we could avoid it.”

Your voice becomes sweeter, happier. “And that’s it? He’s just overprotective?”

“Not exactly, no,” he mutters. “He’s also a little bit jealous.”

“Jealous? Of what?”

“Well, him and Nat have been my only friends, for like, ever, and I guess he’s just mad that he has to split time three ways now, instead of two,” Steve reasons.

“Yeah I get that,” you hum. “Totally. Sharing you is tough,” you say, pinching his cheek jokingly.

“Now that that’s out of the way… What do you want to do?”

“Well, something I really enjoy doing, is this…”

You push your lips onto his, moving your hands to the base of his neck. It’s good. You feel calm, refreshed, and in love. In love with the blonde boy sitting in front of you, the skinny little nerd with a heart bigger than his whole body.

He pulls away as his breathing becomes labored. “A-asthma,” he mutters dejectedly.

“Aw, baby, do you need life support?”

summary: it’s hard, to be such a softie and be dating a boxer

a/n: second to last part!! boxer!tom au whoooo how basic

masterlist

Tom Holland was never the person you saw yourself with in the beginning.

You saw yourself with a boy who wore big sweaters and read books on autumn days near the fire. A boy who spent snow days putting up decorations and sliding around in fuzzy socks.

You never saw yourself in love with the boy who attended the gym you worked at. Usually, all the boys there were hotheads with a knack for snapping when you least expected it. And to be honest, it scared you. They scared you. Boxing scared you.

He was, is, completely and utterly different than every boy you’d been with before. He’s both a fighter and a sweetheart, while you were just the latter. And every boy you’ve been with had the same. A sweetheart. A softie. Never a fighter.

And you tried. You tried so hard not to love him, solely because you couldn’t stand the thought of watching him get hurt, or hurting others. Your heart couldn’t take it. So, you decided and promised yourself you wouldn’t follow him. If only you’d followed through with that.

And he’s not what you expected. Because to the public, Tom Holland is a macho, manly fighter, a boxer, to be specific. And to you, well, he’s simply Tom, the boy who likes peanut butter on his waffles and strawberry syrup on his pancakes. The boy who comes in late to bed because he was busy playing with his dog. He is everything you wanted him to be. He’s body warmth on a cold night and comfort on a lonely one.

It’s hard, to be such a softie and be dating a boxer. It was hard to patch him up, and hard to watch him do what he loves. To watch him get hit and spit out blood and watch him be pummeled — or pummel someone else. Hard to watch his matches, even though you know he loves it when you do. Hard to tend to his wounds and disinfect his cuts and wrap his joints.

“Tom, you’ve got to stop coming home like this… I thought it was just practice!” You exclaim when he walks through the door, bloody and beaten. “You told me you were just going to practice. At the gym. As in, alone. As in, no possibility of being hurt!” You throw your hands into the air in frustration.

“Yeah, thank you, Y/N, I had a nice day. Thanks for asking,” he teases and flops down on the couch next to you. “It’s just that Nick was there, and I thought I’d get in a little extra practice before the math. It’s not a big deal, I’m fine.”

He leans over to kiss your cheek, pulling away at the sound of your voice. “I’ll go get the first aid.”

“Baby,” he pushes his arms out like a child, making grabby hands. “I don’t need the first aid kit! You’re being overdramatic,” Tom calls as he watches you leave the living room.

He knows you worry. And he knows how hard it is for you. But he also understands that this is his sport, job, and passion. And as much as he loves you — which is so much — he also adores it, and he knows you try your best. He knows.

You return to room holding a small white box. “I know, I know. I’m just worried about you, is all. Boxing is scary. It’s dangerous. And I love you. And I don’t want to see you hurt,” you admit, fiddling with the latch. “Now, turn towards me. No, other side.”

“I swear if you put that stupid cut cleaner I’ll— ouch! Sweetheart!”

You giggle. “Stop acting like a baby! Tom Holland, very big, very macho, boxer, scared of a little hydrogen peroxide. What would the media say? Huh?” You tease, using the voice you reserve for children under the age of nine.

“That’s just rude,” he mutters. “Are you making fun of me?”

“Oh yeah! Totally,” You reply, tossing a dirty gauze into the trash can. “Was it too obvious?”

“Oh, now you’re really gonna get it,” he laughs as he pushes you down and his hands attack your sides.

“Tom, s-stop! Sto-o-op!” You manage through your laughs.

“Say you’re sorry!” He warns.

“Never!”

“Fine… you asked for it,” he taunts. And the look in his eyes makes you want to stay there forever.

His hands stop moving and his voice pipes up. “I really want to kiss you right now…”

“Then do it,” suggests you.

And he is. He’s kissing you and it tastes a little metallic because of his split lip and it’s salty from sweat but it’s him. It’s him and you love him and you can’t believe that he’s yours and you want to kiss him forever. You don’t ever want to let him go back into that godforsaken ring that you hate so much, into that violent and bloody sport you can’t bear to support, but have to, because you love Tom and Tom loves boxing.

You gently push him off you. “Okay, okay. Sit up. Let me see your knuckles.”

He reluctantly sits upright, pushing his hands towards you. They’re fine, for the most part, dried blood at the knuckles. Blisters and callouses littering his palms.

“Tom?” You lift your head. “Did you practice without gloves again?”

“…yes?” It comes out more like a question, but you know he’s sure of it. He’s done the one thing you’ve asked him not to do, but you’re not disappointed. Or angry. Or sad. Just worried.

“I’m sorry, love,” he takes your hands. “I won’t, anymore. I promise.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, go change out of your gym clothes, you smell,” you push him off of you. “And then maybe we can watch Jane the Virgin?”

“Really? Jane the Virgin?”

“Yes,” you don’t skip a beat, looking him straight in the eye.

He kisses the top of your head as he stands up. “Fine.”

You shove him away. “Go change.”

“Y/N?” He stops and turns around.

“Hm?”

“I love you.”