Webslinger Holland

All of the invitations had been sent out months in advance, inviting various lords, ladies, dukes, duchess, royals, and even members of parliament. The wedding was set to take place during the second week in May, which was a prime time since it was well into spring. 

The floral decorations had been ordered and were being organized by the hired help. The baker was going to be baking and decorating the grand wedding cake, which was rumored to be five tiers tall. The bridesmaids and groomsmen already had their proper attire pressed and readied for the wedding. The reception would be taking place in the northern palace, which was only a couple miles away from the capital city.

The princess was currently getting her last final fitting for her wedding dress. She stood on a small elevated step while her seamstress worked around her. The little lady placed a few more needles in to secure the dress’s fabric.

In the meantime, the princess’s ladies in waiting (who were also her bridesmaids) were lounging on the couches and drinking tea. 

“You look absolutely beautiful, your highness.” One of the ladies in waiting said with a warm smile on her face.

“Do you really think so? I feel like I am simply drowning,” the princess commented on the heavy dress. She felt lost in the ruffles and lace. While the princess believed it was a beautiful dress, it was almost too much for her.

“I’m sure the prince is going to love it,” another one of the ladies said with a sly smirk on her face. Upon hearing this, the princess immediately perked up. She spun around on the heels of her feet in order to analyze herself in the mirror again. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as she thought.

“Speaking of the prince...” the princess’s voice seemed to fade. She glanced down at her hands, fiddling with them nervously. “I am afraid I had something rather embarrassing to ask you,” the princess said.

At once, the three ladies lowered their cups of tea onto the saucers in their hands. They turned their attention to the young princess standing in front of them, looking at her with a sense of worry on their faces.

“You see...as I am to be married in no more than a week...I find myself in a dilemma about what to do on the night of,” she confessed quite slowly. She was trying to hint at what she wanted to talk about without being too direct.

The three ladies were quick to straighten their backs in posture as this was quite an awkward subject to discuss. However, they were more than willing to educate the princess on those matters.

“I want nothing more than to...please my husband,” the princess claimed. She went to sit down on one of the couches. “It is my womanly duty. But I have no idea how I would do so or what I should even expect,” the princess sighed in defeat.

The young princess turned her head to look at one of her ladies in waiting, singling her out since she was the only one that was actually married and experienced in that area.

“What was it like on your wedding night?” The princess questioned. She was quick to sit up in her place, leaning forward in anticipation. She hoped she would share some of her personal stories or experiences.

“Well, it was nothing like I ever expected,” Margaret began. She thought about her choice of words very carefully. “It was wonderful and absolutely...magical,” Margaret said with a small smile creeping onto her face.

The princess seemed to shift even more forward in her place. She settled her elbows on the tops of her knees, resting her chin in the palms of her hand. She listened intently.

“He began kissing me and touching me in places I never thought should be touched,” Margaret said. This caused the princess to widen her eyes slightly in surprise. “I felt so wrong and yet so right,” Margaret explained.

“How so?” The princess pressed without realizing how awkward the conversation was heading. 

“I shouldn’t be saying such things,” Margaret scoffed with a nervous smile on her face. “It’s not ladylike,” Margaret scolded herself. 

“No! You’ve been a great help to me,” the princess exclaimed. 

“There is nothing to fear,” Victoria intercepted. “The prince would never do anything to hurt you intentionally. He is too much of a gentlemen,” Victoria predicted.

“I am not worried about that,” the princess claimed with a small shake of her head. She never dreamed that he would harm her in any way. “Just mainly how I can make him feel good,” the princess said so boldly.

“Let’s just say you won’t have to do much,” Margaret giggled which caused the other two girls to copy her. The young princess looked between the three of them with a small look of confusion on her face. She guessed she would just have to find out herself in a week’s time.

Meanwhile, Thomas and Harrison were being fitted themselves in the prince’s quarters. Instead of wearing a wedding suit, the royals traditionally wore a field marshal uniform. The prince even wore his war medals on his left breast, which proudly displayed his royal standing. 

The uniform was a deep shade of black, which kept to the traditional wedding attire. It was adorned with gold buttons and gold ribbon. The white tie was to be secured tightly around the neck. It screamed rich and royalty. 

“Seems rather tight,” Thomas noted. He tugged at the sleeves of his suit jacket, hoping that it would reach a little further down his wrist. He grabbed the flaps of his jacket to straighten it out.

“It’s supposed to be tight,” Harrison explained. He went to stand behind the young prince. He took hold of the jacket’s shoulders, slipping it off the prince’s body. He folded the jacket nicely and handed it to the man who did the sewing.

In that moment, the doors of the prince’s quarters opened to reveal the two twin brothers. They were both wearing the exact same attire as their older brother. However, Prince Sam and Prince Harry showcased different medals on their jacket. They had a different standing in the army.

“Don’t you look dashing,” Prince Harry teased his older brother. He went up to him to slap his hand onto his brother’s backside. He turned his brother to look at himself in the mirror once again.

“I wonder what the princess will be wearing,” Prince Thomas’s voice trailed off. 

“It’s more intriguing to think about what she won’t be wearing the night of your wedding,” Prince Harry changed his way of thinking. 

Upon hearing this, Thomas could feel the heat rising to color his cheeks bright pink. He lowered his gaze to stare down at his feet in hopes of hiding the evident blush on his cheeks. The two brothers chuckled to themselves wickedly. They had no shame. 

“I’d rather you not think about my future wife in such a way,” Thomas said but he still couldn’t hide the smile on his face. He wasn’t necessarily upset, just didn’t want to be teased.

“So then, what have you been thinking about recently?” Prince Harry pressed. He went to sit down on one of the couches, propping his feet up onto the armrest. He placed his hands behind his head.

“Perhaps the wedding night,” Prince Sam interjected. 

“A little,” Prince Thomas confessed in such a low tone of voice as if he was embarrassed or ashamed to admit so. “Though I am mainly worried about my performance,” Prince Thomas stated. 

“What’s the matter, Tommy boy? Can’t get it up?” Prince Harry teased with a smile on his face. This only resulted in him getting a swift smack in the back of the head by his twin. He protested.

“What seems to be the problem, your highness?” Harrison provoked further. He seemed to ignore the twin’s bickering in the background.

“It’s not that,” Thomas commented on his brother’s accusation. “I don’t even know where to begin,” Thomas explained further. 

“There is nothing more bewitching than a woman’s body. Your wedding night is your chance to explore that new territory. See what she likes or what she doesn’t like,” Harry suggested.

“What do you know of such matters?” Thomas wondered.

“I know enough,” Harry rolled his eyes. “Though I am not proud of it,” Harry confessed. 

“Don’t ever tell mother that. You’d give her a heart attack,” Sam mentioned with a small smile on her face.

At this, Harry rose to his feet. He sent his twin brother a snarky smile. He began to walk towards the table with alcoholic bottles, preparing himself a glass of scotch. He poured the copper liquid into a crystal glass. 

“Thomas,” Harrison began.

It was very rare for the prince’s personal assistance to ever use his name. He only meant to use it in the most serious situations. Since the two had been friends for the longest time, the prince was not offended when he heard his name being called by his assistant. 

“Though I am not experienced in this area, I do know some things. There is a very big difference between lust and love,” Harrison said while taking a single step forward.

The room fell into a deep silence. Not only was the eldest prince listening to his personal assistant intently, but the other two princes were quite intrigued with where the conversation was heading. 

“On your wedding night, when you consummate your marriage, you should do so in love. True love is a unity of souls. Do not act on your own selfish desires. You can really get lost in the pleasure,” Harrison suggested. 

The prince found himself sitting down on the couch. He slowly leaned forward in his place as if that would help him hear better. His interest was peeked. 

“Be gentle with her. Be sensual,” Harrison commented. “Be intentional. Go slow,” Harry finished. 

“Thanks mate,” Thomas nodded his head in appreciation. 

After this, Prince Thomas stood to his feet and went to approach the mirror. He looked at himself in his reflection, watching his brothers and personal assistant come to stand behind him. All three of them looked at the young prince in the mirror. 

“Around this time next week, you’ll be a married man,” Prince Harry said. He sent his brother a small smile, almost as if he were proud to say that. 

“I know,” Thomas said with a hint of nervousness laced in his voice. 

On the day of the wedding, the commoners of the northern and eastern kingdom had gathered in the streets of the capital city. The royal carriages were scheduled to travel through the streets around ten o’clock. The people were most elated for the special day. It would be a day to write in the history books. It was going to be the wedding of the century.

The palace was decorated in the most grand decorations. There were thousands of white bouquet displays situated throughout the hallways of the palace. The throne room had been converted into a temporary dinning hall for the reception. Each table had lovely white tablecloths and beautiful centerpieces on display.

At the given moment, Prince Thomas was dressed in his proper attire for the wedding. He climbed into his private carriage outside the palace. He would be arriving before the princess and he would be waiting at the end of the aisle for her.

For a brief second, Thomas lowered his head to stare down at his hands. He wore his finest white gloves for the occasion. He almost couldn’t believe that in less than an hour, he would be wearing a ring that bounds him in matrimony. He felt this fluttery feeling in his chest, which caused him to break out in a smile.

As the carriage pulled away, Thomas glanced out the window to watch the palace disappear into the distance. His family was already waiting for him at the church in the capital city. He sat anxiously in his seat. He just couldn’t wait.

The prince’s carriage began to pass through the crowded streets of the capital city. The people waved at the passing carriage. The loud sound of cheering filled the streets of the city. The prince waved back to the crowds pleasantly.

When the prince’s carriage arrived at the steps of the church, the prince found himself climbing out of the carriage in a slow manner. He could hear the cheering become louder since he made his grand appearance. He sent a smile to the crowds before making his way into the doors of the church.

All the while, the princess’s carriage was making its way through the people-filled streets. It had taken the princess a couple minutes just to get into the carriage since the servants had to lift her large dress into the confines of the small space. Now, the carriage came to a halt in front of the church.

A member of the royal guard came to open the door of the carriage for the princess. He also offered his hand to her so that she could climb out with ease. The princess was careful to climb out the carriage.  

Some of her attendants began to gather the train of her dress and her long veils. Another attendant handed the princess her wedding bouquet of white flowers. The bouquet consisted of some of the princess’s favorite flowers.

Slowly, Princess Y/N lifted her head to look up at the grand church in front of her. She could hear the church bells ringing loudly, which meant the wedding was beginning. As if on cue, the princess began to ascent the stairs of the church.

The grand doors of the church swung open. The wedding guests rose to their feet to watch the bride walk down the aisle. The church organ began to play. At the end of the aisle, Prince Thomas was standing at attention. His gaze landed on his beautiful bride on the other end of the aisle. And he swore that she never looked so beautiful.

The princess began walking down the long aisle of the church. The wedding guests bowed and curtsied in respect for they had done the same when the prince walked down the aisle. The four bridesmaids were situated to walk behind the princess on either side of her wedding train.

Once the princess came to the end of the aisle, she went to stand right beside the prince. The two of them turned their heads to look at each other, sending small smiles to one another. Then they were quick to direct their line of attention to the archbishop standing before them. He began.

“Thomas, wilt thou have this woman to be thy wedded wife, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor, and keep her in sickness and in health, so long as you both shall live?” The archbishop quoted from the holy word.

“I will,” Thomas confirmed with a gentle smile on his face.

“Y/N, wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou obey and serve him, love, honor and keep him in sickness and in health, so long as you both shall live?” The archbishop addressed.

“I will,” Y/N agreed.

Now Thomas went to step forward in his place. He took hold of the ring placed on top of the archbishop’s book. He then turned to face his bride standing beside him. He gently grasped her hand and began to slide the ring onto her finger.

“With this ring, I thee wed. With my body, I thee worship. With all my worldly goods, I thee endow,” Thomas spoke in such a soft voice. “In the name of the father, and of the son, and of the holy ghost. Amen,” Thomas concluded.

“I pronounce that they be man and wife together,” the archbishop announced in celebration. The whole church began clapping for the young royal couple. They were finally married.

The prince and the princess went back down the aisle to leave the church. The glorious sound of church bells were ringing through the air. The people were cheering even more loudly now that the couple was married. It was a beautiful day in the capital.

Back at the castle, the beautiful reception was taking place in the throne room. It was dressed with the most extravagant decorations, curtsy of the queen. The wedding cake was just as marvelous as the baker described when he proposed the idea and look of the cake. It was indeed five tiers tall!

As per tradition, the young royals drove the serving knife into the lowest tier of the cake. The guests clapped respectfully. The first slice was served and handed to the young prince. Without hesitation, the prince placed the fork into the soft cake and offered it to his new bride. She gratefully took a bite of cake and was surprisingly impressed with how well it tasted.

Throughout the reception, the lords and ladies would curtsy or bow when the royals approached them. They were offered many forms of congratulations from their guests. As the hours passed, nightfall soon approached the castle. The royals said goodbye to their companions and they would soon depart for their honeymoon. 

The new bride had changed into more fitting traveling attire, sticking to the white theme though. She wore a solid white bonnet and silky white lace gloves. In the carriage, the princess waved to her new brother-in-laws standing at the front entrance of the castle. She reassured them that she would be back in a week’s time. 

For the carriage ride, barely any words were exchanged between the newly married couple. There was a tender silence in the carriage. The two of them could feel this giddy bubbly feeling in the pits of the stomachs as they eagerly awaited to arrive at their destination.

Carefully, the prince shifted his hand off the top of his knee. His hand grazed the top of her hand in the most delicate manner. He took hold of her hand. The two of them turned their heads to gaze at each other, sending one another a small precious smile.

The carriage arrived at the castle where the family took their vacations. It was located on the northern shore of the country, basically in the middle of nowhere. A servant came to open the carriage door for the royals, welcoming them to their destination. The prince climbed out of the carriage, then proceeded to help his wife out.

Once the royals entered the castle, the line of servants bowed and curtsied out of respect. They welcomed the couple to the castle. After a moment’s hesitation, the young prince went to address his new bride. He stood back from her.

“Why don’t you go upstairs? I’m going to check to make sure the trunks and luggage are in order,” Thomas tried coming up with an excuse. He wanted to give her some privacy in case she needed to change. “I’ll be up soon,” Thomas reassured her. 

“Alright,” Y/N nodded.

The head maid went to escort the princess to their temporary quarters during their stay at the castle. As the maid opened the door, the princess walked into the grand room. It was beautiful decorated in many wax candles situated on tall candelabrums to give the whole room this romantic ambiance look. It was illuminated with the warm tint of yellow from the fire’s flame. 

The head maid helped the young princess undress and remove her traveling attire. The maid carefully placed the white dress on the chair sitting in front of the vanity. She also helped the princess remove all the pins in her hair, which allowed her hair to fall gracefully over her shoulders. After this, she went to dismiss herself and closed the door behind her. 

Meanwhile, the princess slipped a white nightgown over her head and let it fall to her feet. She went to the vanity and sat down promptly. She brushed the little flyaway hairs with her hands. She pinched her cheeks in order to get that pink blush look she wanted so badly. She wanted to look perfect for her husband. 

Afterwards, the princess made her way to the large bed on the other side of the room. She stood in front of the bed, facing the door. She honestly didn't know how she should look when her husband walked into the room. She changed her mind and climbed into the bed.

The princess situated herself to lay on her side by propping her head up in the palm of her hand. She thought this made her look more appealing. But she also didn’t want to look like a fool.

Now, the princess shifted to sit on the edge of the bed with her legs hanging over the end. She plopped her hands in her lap, fiddling nervously to herself. 

In that moment, the door of the bedroom quarters had opened and then closed. When the princess lifted her head to look at the door, the prince stood looking over his shoulder at her. He released the door handle. 

For some reason, the princess rose to her feet. Her nightgown was quite loose on her, but it showed off her body in all the right places. In response, he turned slowly to face her. 

He drank in her appearance. He looked her up and down. He breathed steadily to himself, hoping to contain his composure. He took a single step forward in his place. 

Without regard, Thomas went to throw his suit jacket on a nearby chair. He continued walking towards his new bride with a certain look in his eyes. He came to stand right in front of her. 

“Do you want anything?” She wondered. Her voice sounded so soft and innocent. There was a slight quiver in her tone as she was filled with nervousness. “Some water or more blankets?” 

“No,” Thomas said with a shake of the head. 

“No?” She copied him by shaking her head. “I-Is there anything you do want?” 

Ever so gently, Thomas raised one hand to cup her cheek and the other hand found her waist, which drew a small gasp from her. His thumb swiped against her cheek lovingly and he found himself getting lost in her eyes. 

“Just you.”

She leaned into his touch instinctively, surprised by how safe it felt. “I must confess,” she whispered. “I am…nervous.”

“Then we’ll take it slow.” Thomas promised and Y/n nodded in acceptance. 

Leaning forward, he captured her lips in a soft and unhurried kiss. He pulled her closer by the waist, desperate to feel every part of her body against his. With hands sliding up his forearms, they came to rest on his broad chest. She fumbled with his shirt and he pulled away to help her discard it. 

The air was cool on his skin, but her touch was warm as her hands rested on his chest, over his heart. They stood like that for a long moment, simply looking at each other. 

He pulled back slightly. “You okay?”

She nodded again. “Yeah. It just feels…different.”

“It should,” he murmured. He gently pulled her nightgown over her head, leaving no barrier now. “It’s not like the stories. It’s just us.”

The firelight cast a golden glow on her skin, and for a moment, Thomas forgot how to breathe. He saw not a princess, not a political alliance, but a woman. His wife.

He let his fingers trail along her arm, slow and featherlight. He watched her face, not just for permission, but for the small signs like the sharp inhale or the way her eyes fluttered when his touch made her shiver.

He led her to the bed, not in command but in invitation. She sat down on the edge and he began to unfasten his pants, dragging them down slowly. Her breath hitched upon seeing what lay between his legs. 

Her heart pounded mercilessly in her chest, threatening to break forth any moment. And there was no hiding the blush that dusted her cheeks. He stood again, exposed but not ashamed. The look in his eyes was reverent, like he was seeing the divine.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, voice hushed like a prayer.

They lay down together, the sheets cool against their skin. He kissed her again, and again, each one a promise. A promise of patience, of partnership, of a future they would build brick by brick, kiss by kiss. The duty of the night was there, a quiet presence in the back of their minds, but it was overshadowed by something far more important: the gentle, terrifying, and wonderful task of learning the person beside them. 

He kissed her collarbone, her sternum, the soft curve of her stomach. When he kissed her inner thigh, her whole body jumped—and he paused.

“Too much?” Thomas asked. 

“No,” she breathed, cheeks flushed. “Just…new.”

He smiled. “Tell me if anything doesn’t feel right.”

And his head dipped down into the space between her legs. 

The first touch of his tongue was a deliberate stroke that sent a jolt straight through her. A sharp gasp escaped her lips, her hands flying from the sheets to tangle in his hair. It was an entirely new language of sensation, one her body understood instantly even as her mind struggled to process it.

Thomas was patient, but not hesitant. He explored her with a focused intensity, learning the landscape of her with every flick and swirl. He paid attention to the way her breath hitched, the subtle shifts of her hips, the soft, involuntary sounds she made. When he found a spot that made her whole body tense with pleasure, he lingered, repeating the motion until she was writhing beneath him, her head thrown back against the pillows.

He introduced a finger, sliding it slowly inside her while his mouth continued its relentless work. The dual sensation was overwhelming, a fullness that complemented the sharp pleasure he was lavishing upon her. The coil within her snapped. 

A wave of ecstasy, more powerful than anything she had ever imagined, crashed over her. Her body arching off the bed as a cry tore from her throat. He didn't stop immediately, but gentled his touch, guiding her down from the peak with soft, lingering kisses until she was limp and breathless on the bed. Her limbs feeling like warm liquid.

He moved back up her body, settling his weight on top of her by keeping his forearms on either side of her head. In the firelight, his face was shadowed, but she could see the satisfied curve of his lips.

"How was that?" he asked, his voice was a low intimate rumble.

She couldn't form words, so she just nodded, a lazy, blissful smile spreading across her face. She eventually found her voice, feeling a bit shy to confess. “I--I liked it.”

His smile widened. "Good."

Slowly, she leaned in and kissed him again, tasting herself on his lips. It was a bold, possessive kiss, a stark contrast to the tentative ones from earlier.

Her hand began sliding down his stomach to wrap around him. He was hot and heavy in her palm, and he let out a low groan as she began to move her hand, learning his shape and his rhythm. 

Thomas let her explore for a few moments, his breathing growing ragged as her fingers stroked and teased. But then he caught her wrist, stilling her movements. His eyes, dark with a hunger that mirrored her own, locked onto hers.

"My dear," he breathed, his voice thick with need. "I need to be inside you."

The raw honesty in his words sent a fresh thrill through her. She nodded, her consent silent and absolute. He shifted over her, settling his hips between her thighs. He propped himself on his elbows. He reached down, positioning himself at her entrance.

He kissed her then, a deep, slow kiss that was a promise in itself. As their tongues met, he began to press forward into her. There was a moment of resistance, a sharp and fleeting sting that made her catch her breath. He stilled immediately, his body tense, waiting for her.

She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him closer like a silent invitation to continue. He took it, sinking into her in one slow deliberate movement. The slight pain dissolved into a profound sense of fullness, of completeness.

He began to move, his strokes slow and deep at first. It was a gentle rocking, a rhythm that was both comforting and incredibly arousing. She met his movements, lifting her hips to take him deeper, her hands roaming over the broad expanse of his back, feeling the muscles bunch and release beneath her fingertips.

The pace gradually increased, the gentle rocking becoming a more urgent, powerful rhythm. The room was filled with the sounds of their shared passion: the soft slap of skin, their mingled breaths, the whispered words of encouragement and need. The tension that had been released earlier began to rebuild, coiling in her belly once more, but this time it was different. It was a shared tension, a current flowing between them, growing stronger with every thrust.

She looked up at him, seeing the sweat beading on his brow and the raw pleasure on his face. His eyes were locked on hers, and in that moment, their connection was absolute. They were no longer two separate people but a single entity, moving together toward the same precipice.

"Thomas," she gasped. His name sounded like a plea and a prayer on her lips.

"I know," he groaned, his rhythm faltering for a second. "I'm right there with you."

He shifted his angle slightly, and the new pressure sent a jolt of pure ecstasy through her. That was all it took. The coil inside her snapped with a force that stole her breath. Her inner muscles clenched around him, and the feel of her pulsing around him was his undoing.

With a deep guttural groan, Thomas buried his face in her neck and thrusted deep; his own release flooding her. She felt the powerful shudders of his body as he poured himself into her. His release was a warm intimate tide that mingled with her own.

For a long moment, they lay tangled together, their bodies slick with sweat, their hearts hammering against each other's chests. The world slowly came back into focus—the crackle of the fire, the cool air on their skin, the weight of his body on hers.

He rolled onto his side, taking her with him, keeping them connected. He brushed a damp strand of hair from her forehead, his touch infinitely tender. She snuggled closer, her head resting on his chest, listening to the steady, reassuring beat of his heart. There were no words needed. They lay in comfortable silence, the aftermath of their shared climax a warm, blissful haze that enveloped them both. 

The minutes stretched into hours and there was still no word. All the news channels were reporting on it.

"Shock today as Spider-Man arrived at Bellevue Hospital with a bullet wound, seemingly at death's door. The reclusive crime fighter is in critical condition as the city's top medical experts work to save him."

A crowd of people gathered outside the hospital, carrying signs and flowers. They lit candles for him and waited eagerly for any news, hopeful for anything.

Frank sat in the waiting room. He stared at Peter's phone screen; his thumb hovering over the call button hesitantly. He pressed it and then brought the phone to his ear as he waited for her to pick up.

"Tonight, all eyes are on Spider-Man. The hero who saved New York so many times is now in the hands of its best and brightest. And the people of New York hold their breath."

The next morning, Peter was still sleeping in the hospital bed with a breathing mask over his mouth and nose. His eyes began to flutter open and his mind became less foggy. He turned his head slowly to see all the cards, balloons, and flowers at his bedside.

What caught his eye was the drawing of him and Ned building legos together that MJ drew only a couple days earlier. He heard snoring, which caused him to look over and see Frank sleeping in the chair next to him.

"Frank?" He quickly woke up and leaned forward. "Where am I?"

Peter removed his oxygen mask. "No, no, no, hey."

"Where's my mask?" Peter asked.

"Don't worry about that. I got you covered. Hey, you're good." Frank confirmed.

"Where's Jean? Is she okay?" Peter wondered, barely remembering what happened after he was hit.

"Yeah, she's okay. She's okay," Frank almost laughed.

"Where is she?" Peter repeated.

"Kid," Frank began. "I think maybe she just left. She was using her magic voodoo shit to keep you alive. Yeah... she's alright." Frank explained.

Peter slowly looked around the room again, seemingly confused about the whole ordeal. Frank thought for a moment before speaking again.

"I'm sorry," Frank said.

"Frank, it's okay." Peter leaned back against the pillow, but Frank kept going.

"Just... I'm really sorry for what I did. And it's a lot of things but it sure as shit ain't okay, alright? I've seen... I've seen real bravery, kid, in my day. But that... that was something else." Frank confessed.

A smile crept up Peter's face. "You crying, Frank?"

Frank scoffed out a laugh. "No. I ain't..."

But Peter's laughter cut off his words. Frank rolled his eyes playfully, leaning back in his chair.

"You know, you look the exact way I thought you would." Frank added and Peter's smile softened. "You know, a nice kid. Never had a friend like that."

"Are we friends now?" Peter inquired curiously. There was a beat of silence between them before Peter smiled to himself again. "I can't believe I just saw you cry."

"I didn't cry. What are you talking about? Bullshit," Frank waved it off like it was nothing.

Peter looked toward the empty doorway. Frank noticed it and folded his arms. He knew what he was thinking.

"She's come to see you almost every day," Frank informed him. Peter's head snapped to him so fast that it physically hurt him.

"She did?" Peter's eyes lit up.

Frank nodded. "Sat right there."

He pointed toward the chair beside Peter's bed. And Peter's eyes followed to stare at the spot.

"Talked to you." Frank added.

Peter swallowed. "I didn't hear anything."

"Wasn't for you to hear." Frank shrugged. "She stayed by you for hours."

"Was she...sad?" Peter wondered.

"No," Frank confessed truthfully. "Mostly angry."

"At you?" Peter smiled.

Frank gave a dry smile. "Mostly."

Peter laughed quietly. "Can't blame her."

"No. You can't."

A gentle knock came from the door. Both men looked over. The door eased open. And she appeared with another bouquet of flowers.

Seeing Peter awake caused her to halt in her steps, slightly taken back and not entirely sure how to proceed. Peter tried sitting up in bed as best as he could, now suddenly very subconscious of how he looked.

Neither of them said anything initially. Frank kept glancing between them, noticing immediately that they probably wanted to speak in private. So he stood, stretching his stiff back with a wince.

"I suddenly remembered I need coffee," Frank excused himself. Right before he slipped out of the room, he stopped to stand beside her and leaned down to whisper in her ear. "He's excited to see you," Frank confessed.

A faint blush crept up her cheeks upon hearing that, but he left shortly after to give them privacy. She gently placed the flowers on the table beside him with all the other gifts that people brought him.

Peter's throat suddenly felt very dry. "...Hi."

She walked closer until she stood beside the bed. There were faint circles beneath her eyes that hadn't been there before.

"How are you feeling?" She wondered.

"Like I got shot," Peter joked, but she gave him a look that meant she was serious.

"You scared me." She admitted.

"I know." He looked down at the blanket covering his legs. "I'm sorry."

"The doctors said they didn't know if you'd wake up." Her voice cracked, and hearing it broke something inside him.

"I was just—" Peter swallowed. "I was just trying to save her."

She smiled at him. "I know."

"When it happened... it was strange." He searched for the right words. "I'd never felt anything like that before."

She stayed quiet, letting him continue.

"I kept thinking about everyone." His eyes drifted toward the window.

She stayed silent for a moment, still staring down at him.

"May. MJ. Ned." His voice softened along with his eyes. "And you."

Her expression cracked just enough for him to notice. And her breath caught in the back of her throat.

"When everything went black..." His voice was barely above a whisper. "You were all I could think about."

He hesitated before giving a nervous laugh.

"I remember wishing I'd told you how I felt. I kept thinking that if I made it through, I'd stop pretending it wasn't—"

"Peter."

He looked up.

"Stop talking."

Before he could ask why, she closed the distance between them and kissed him. It was soft at first, almost hesitant, as if she needed to prove to herself that he was really awake. Peter smiled against her lips, savoring the moment he'd been afraid he'd never have again.

His hands drifted up to cup the side of her neck, his thumb brushing gently along her cheek as he tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

She smiled into the kiss, careful not to lean against the bandages wrapped around him or disturb the IV lines trailing from his arm. Even in the moment, she was mindful of every bruise, every cut, every reminder of how close she'd come to losing him.

They tilted their heads, the kiss deepening as the rest of the world seemed to fade away.

The hospital room door suddenly flew open. Her eyes snapped open, and she immediately pressed a hand against Peter's chest—gently, mindful of his injuries—and pushed him back onto the pillow. She kept her hand on him. Peter blinked in confusion, still halfway leaning toward her.

"Kid, I raided the vending machine and got a whole bunch of snacks for us—" Frank stopped dead in the doorway with an armful of snacks.

Both of them refused to make eye contact with him, but he could tell by the red of their cheeks what happened when he was outside. Peter swallowed and she cleared her throat awkwardly.

Frank gestured behind him. "I can come back."

"I'd appreciate it." Peter smiled awkwardly. Frank excused himself and closed the door.

Leaning back against the pillow, Peter weaved his fingers through his hair and tugged it in frustration. He groaned to himself.

Yelena: You weren’t sure how Yelena had convinced you that making holiday cocktails counted as “team bonding,” but somehow, here you were— standing behind the Watchtower’s bar surrounded by bottles, sugar, and about six different kinds of alcohol.

The two of you leaned against the counter, peering into an old recipe book specifically made for holiday drinks.

“Okay,” you said, consulting the recipe for the hundredth time. “It says one ounce of peppermint schnapps, one ounce of vodka, and—”

“—four ounces of vodka,” Yelena interrupted confidently, already reaching for the bottle.

“No,” you sighed loudly, trying to take the bottle from her, but it was no use. She was already pouring. “We’re making Christmas drinks, not hospital trips.”

She smirked, pouring with dangerous precision. “I am Russian. I know what I am doing.”

“Famous last words,” you muttered.

The first drink was an unholy combination of cream, peppermint, and way too much alcohol. Yelena took a sip, blinked twice, and immediately coughed.

“Okay, maybe not perfect." Yelena coughed once again and grimaced. "It tastes like toothpaste and fire.”

You held back a laugh as she pushed the glass away. “Want to try again, mixologist?”

“Da. We improvise. I am excellent improviser.”

That second attempt wasn’t half bad. The third— with some crushed candy canes, a touch of cream liqueur, and the right amount of vodka — actually tasted festive. You both clinked glasses and tasted the final result.

“Oh,” Yelena said, pleasantly surprised. “This one does not make my throat cry. It’s good!”

You smiled, proud. “A Christmas miracle.”

Yelena grinned at you, cheeks faintly flushed. “You know, for all your soft music and cookies, you are fun at Christmas.”

You rolled your eyes. “High praise.”

“Mm, yes. You make drinks, I make chaos,” she declared, throwing her arm around your shoulders. “Together, we make perfect team.”

You smile, cheeks flushed from laughter and alcohol. “Deal.”

She leans in conspiratorially. “Also, do not tell Alexei I used his good vodka.”

“Too late,” comes his booming voice from down the hall, and you both immediately dissolve into laughter.

Bucky: The Watchtower had never smelled like this before. The warm smells of cinnamon, vanilla, and butter filled the kitchen; the kind of warmth that had no place in a cold concrete building meant for mercenaries and missions. You’d been in the kitchen for nearly an hour, sleeves rolled up and hair pulled back, humming under your breath to Bing Crosby while snow gathered softly on the windows outside.

You were focused— the sort of calm focus that only came from the perfect blend of music, candlelight, and half a glass of wine. And you didn’t even hear him come in.

Coming in from training, Bucky lingered in the doorway for a while, watching you work steadily. He’d meant to pass through, maybe grab a post workout smoothie and leave. But you looked so peaceful. And that was a rare thing to see around here.

You silently turned around with another tray of cookie dough in hand, opening the oven to slide the tray inside and set the timer. You wiped your hands of any flour remaining.

He finally spoke when you reached for the oven timer. “You look like you’re running a bakery in here.”

You jumped slightly, turning to see him now leaning against the counter. "I'm just getting things ready for the Christmas party."

He glanced at your spread— the flour on the counter, the variety of cookie cutters, a rolling pin, and a mixing bowl that hadn't found it's way to the sink yet. Off to the side, freshly baked cookies rested on a cooling rack just waiting to be eaten.

"I figured—" your voice drew him back. "Who doesn't like homemade Christmas cookies?"

“Didn’t mean to interrupt then,” he said, his voice warm, a little rough around the edges.

“You’re fine,” you said, holding up the glass bottle. “You want some? It’s a decent wine. Probably the only decent thing Val stocked for the holidays.”

He chuckled, crossing the room to grab a glass from the cabinet. “Sure. Little early for me, though.”

You poured him half a glass and slid it over. He took it, the corner of his mouth twitching up as he looked around the kitchen. “You’re really doing all this for Christmas?”

“Mmhmm.” You gestured to the counter— trays of cookie dough lined up like little soldiers waiting for the oven. “It's our first Christmas as a team. I want it to be special.”

He smiled faintly and stared fondly. "I like that."

The timer dinged, and you moved quickly, sliding on oven mitts. Bending down to get the cookies out of the oven, you pulled them out and placed them on the counter.

"Those look good," Bucky pointed out. "Perfect actually."

“Sugar cookies,” you said happily. “The old-fashioned kind. The ones you can decorate later.”

"You gonna decorate them?" Bucky quirked an eyebrow and watched the way you bowed you head, nodding shyly.

"Wanna help?" You wondered, almost testing the waters.

Bucky's lips tugged into a smile. "I'd love to."

You handed him a piping tube, your fingers brushing his briefly and you felt it, that tiny spark of quiet warmth between you.

For the next few minutes, the kitchen filled with soft laughter and Christmas music. Bucky helped you transfer cookies onto the cooling rack, moving carefully with his metal hand, and you couldn’t help smiling at the sight of it: the world’s most dangerous man delicately handling sugar cookies like they were glass.

And when the next song came on— I’ll Be Home for Christmas— he didn’t leave. He just stayed there, leaning on the counter beside you, quietly humming along as snow kept falling outside.

John: The living room looked like Christmas exploded with tinsel on the couch, garland half-hung, and you sitting cross-legged on the floor surrounded by a glowing chaotic mass of Christmas lights.

The movie It’s a Wonderful Life played softly on the TV, half-distracting you while you muttered at the cords under your breath. You had a system—loop, twist, pull—but somewhere along the line, the wires decided to fight back.

That’s when John wandered in, still in a gray sweatshirt and sweatpants, hair damp from the shower. He stopped dead in his tracks.

He watched for a moment, enjoying the way you rose to your feet with arms extended holding out the tangled cord. It wrapped around your arms, twisted across your stomach, and swung around your ankle.

He leaned against the doorframe, chewing on a piece of peppermint candy. “Well,” he drawled, “looks like the lights won this round.”

You looked up, grinning despite yourself. “I almost had it.”

“Uh-huh.” He walked over, coming over to further inspect the mess. “You’re supposed to hang ’em on the tree, not wrestle ’em.”

You rolled your eyes and kept working, tugging at one stubborn knot. “I just need to get these untangled before the tree gets here. Valentina says it's supposed to arrive at 5 o'clock."

"Hmm," John hummed, glancing towards the clock and taking note of the lack of time left. "You've got plenty of time."

"Har. Har," you joked.

He chuckled at himself and reached to help, but a wire looped around your arm as you tugged to undo the mess. The whole string jerked—and you toppled sideways right into him. He caught you easily, steadying you against his chest with one hand wrapped around your waist.

“Easy there, elf,” he said, voice low and teasing.

Your cheeks warmed as you looked up at him. “Maybe the lights did win.”

He smiled, eyes glinting. “Yeah, but you put up a hell of a fight.”

He gently took the strand of lights out of your hands and began working steadily. He managed to disentangle the strands in seconds—somehow, effortlessly—and went to plug them in. The whole string came to life in a soft, golden glow.

You blinked at it. “How did you—”

“Military precision,” he said with a mock salute.

You rolled your eyes but laughed anyway. “Show-off.”

“Hey,” he raised his hands in mock defeat. “Somebody’s gotta make sure you don’t electrocute yourself before Christmas.”

You shot him a smile. “Thanks, Captain.”

He gave a half-grin, brushing some tinsel from your hair. “Anytime. Once that tree comes, I'll help you string the lights and decorate the tree. Don't want you to start fighting the ornaments next.”

You laughed, looping the first strand around a branch as George Bailey’s voice floated from the TV — “Merry Christmas, you wonderful old Building and Loan!”

John looked over, smiling faintly. “Yeah,” he murmured, “guess it ain’t such a bad life after all.”

Ava: The common room was quiet for once. There was no arguing, no blaring music, no Yelena daring John to do something stupid. Just you, the soft crackle of the fire, and the gentle rustle of fabric as you worked on customizing stockings.

You’d made one for everyone— deep red, stitched by hand, each with a name in neat gold thread. It had taken you days to get them all finished.

You made each one a little unique: Yelene's had tiny reindeer, Bucky's had stars, Bob's had snowflakes, Ava's had bells, Alexei's had cookies, and John's was doused in glitter just to piss him off.

You stood to your feet and began to hang each one on the mantlepiece. The last one in your hands read Ava.

You hesitated for a second, smiling faintly at the thought of her reaction.

“She’ll never admit it,” you whispered to yourself, “but she’ll like it.”

“You talk to yourself a lot,” came a voice behind you— quiet, a little teasing.

You turned, startled, to find Ava standing in the doorway. She had that half-invisible shimmer about her, fading in and out like light through glass.

“I didn’t hear you come in,” you said, laughing softly.

“Perks of being me.” She stepped closer, gaze moving to the stockings. “You made all those?”

You nodded, hanging hers in place between Bob’s and Yelena’s. “Yeah. I figured we should all have one. Makes it feel more… like a home.”

Ava stared at hers for a long time before speaking again. “No one’s ever made me something like that before.”

You smiled, stepping aside so she could see it better. “Well, there’s a first time for everything.”

She reached out carefully, tracing the stitched letters with a faint, almost disbelieving touch. Her hand flickered slightly, like she was afraid it wouldn’t stay real.

“It’s beautiful,” she said softly.

You shrugged, trying to play it off. “Just a stocking.”

She gave you a small smile, rare and genuine. “No. It’s more than that.”

You sat beside her on the couch, the firelight washing the room in amber and gold. For a few moments, you both just watched the flames dance, the row of stockings swaying gently above.

“Do you ever miss it?” she asked quietly. “Before all of this?”

You glanced at her, then at the names on the mantle. “Sometimes. But then I look at that,” you said, nodding toward the line of stockings, “and think… maybe this is better.”

Ava’s smile deepened— soft, almost wistful. “You’re good at this, you know.”

“At what?” You wondered.

“Making broken things feel like they belong somewhere.”

You didn’t know what to say to that, so you just leaned back beside her, both of you letting the silence say the rest.

The stockings swayed again as the fire popped — six names catching the light, each one proof that somehow, against all odds, this strange team had found a home.

Alexei: The smell of cinnamon and pine fills the tower's lounge, and you’re sitting cross-legged on the couch surrounded by red fabric, fake white fur, and an oversized belt buckle. You hold up the unmistakable red coat with an expectant look on your face.

But Alexei looms in front of you with his arms crossed in defense.

“No. Absolutely not,” Alexei declares, glaring down at the Santa suit you’ve just held up. “I am Red Guardian, not—” he waves a dismissive hand, “— the fat mascot from Coca-Cola commercial.”

You sigh dramatically. “Alexei, it’s for the team Christmas party. Just one night. You’d make a perfect Santa.”

“Perfect Santa?” He snorts, settling back into the armchair like a sulking bear. “You think I am old and round enough to play him, da?”

You grin. “Exactly. And jolly. Sometimes.”

He narrows his eyes. “You are not helping your case.”

You set the suit aside and reach for the plate of cookies you baked earlier—soft, warm, perfectly golden. You hold one up. “I’ll give you cookies.”

His expression flickers. He looks away as if to appear uninterested. "—what kind?"

"Russian tea cakes," you say sweetly, leaning forward a little. “Your favorite. Fresh from the oven.”

Alexei eyes the plate suspiciously, as if you’ve weaponized baked goods before. “You think you can bribe the Red Guardian with cookies?”

“I think I can persuade him,” you counter, standing and moving closer. “Come on. You’d make everyone laugh. Even Bucky might crack a smile.”

He grumbles something in Russian that definitely isn’t festive. You drape yourself across his lap before he can protest, kicking your feet up. His hands settle on your waist to hold you in place.

“Please, Alexei?” you say, drawing out his name like a coaxing tune. “Just wear the suit for a few hours. Hand out gifts. Say ‘ho ho ho’ a few times. Maybe smile a little for the kids in the photos.”

He huffs. “This is manipulation.”

You offer him a cookie and he opens his mouth to accept it. “This is negotiation.”

He chews slowly. His expression softens immediately. “Hmm. Is good. Too good.”

“So you’ll do it?” You perk up.

He pauses, looking down at you on his lap like he’s already regretting agreeing to this. Alexei sighs, defeated. “Fine. I will be Santa. But I draw the line for Walker sitting on my lap. I want none of it!”

You bite your lip, trying not to laugh. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t.”

“Good. He is not child. He is grown man with bad haircut.”

You beam, sliding off his lap and holding up the bright red coat. “You’re going to look adorable.”

“I will look magnificent,” he corrects proudly, snatching the suit from you along with the plate of cookies. “The Red Guardian—Santa edition!”

You laugh, watching him march toward his room muttering about “saving Christmas for Mother Russia.” When the door closes, you catch your reflection in the window—cheeks flushed, smile soft. This was going to be fun.

Bob: The living room was a battlefield of colorful wrapping paper and ribbon. You'd since lost your first pair of scissors in the mixup and now desperately searched for your second pair.

You sat cross-legged in the middle of it, surrounded by chaos—torn wrapping paper, mismatched bows, and several crumpled rolls that had died valiantly in your attempt to make everything look nice.

An old jazzy tune played softly from a nearby speaker, but your patience had long since expired past enjoying it.

You groaned as another piece of tape stuck to your sleeve instead of the paper and you struggled to hold down another flap. “Oh, come on—”

A low voice interrupted. “Need a hand?”

You looked up. Bob was just standing in the doorway with his hands in his pockets, his hair looked a little messy, and eyes warm with amusement. He didn’t look like he’d slept much, but there was a calmness about him that made the whole room feel quieter.

You tried to wave him off. “I’m fine. I’m just… struggling artistically.”

His gaze dropped to the package in your lap—something roughly the shape of a small box but wrapped like a crumpled mess of paper. “That doesn't look right," Bob blankly pointed out.

You snorted. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

He walked closer, crouching beside you. “Who’s that one for?”

“Yelena,” you sighed. “I thought I’d get creative with the ribbon. But it looks like I used a weed whacker instead.”

He picked it up carefully, turning it in his hands. “You mind?”

You handed over the tape like it was a baton of surrender. “By all means, Mr. Sentry.”

He didn’t say anything—just set to work. His hands moved with slow, steady precision. For him, the paper folded perfectly, the tape was hidden beneath the creases, and the ribbon tied in a clean, flawless bow. No waste, no noise. Just quiet skill. It was like magic.

When Bob finished, he set the package down beside you. It looked like something straight out of a high-end boutique.

You blinked. “You’re kidding me.”

He shrugged. “Used to do the wrapping every year." He hesitated for a heartbeat. "Just kinda got used to it and got good at it."

You softened a little, the warmth in his voice tugging at something in your chest. “Yeah. No kidding. You really are good at this.”

“Guess it’s the one kind of control I don’t mess up,” he said lightly, though his eyes flickered with something deeper for a moment.

You reached for another box. “Okay then, show me again. But slower this time. I want to actually learn, not just be shamed by your perfect corners.”

He smiled faintly—small, shy, but genuine—and slid closer, his knee brushing yours as he demonstrated how to line up the edges. His hands guided yours once or twice, wordless, gentle, and steady.

You could feel your cheeks flushing with color, but you were certain he didn't even notice.

Before long, the pile of “presents from a war zone” transformed into beautifully wrapped gifts, stacked neatly beside the couch. Each one decorated with a nice bow and a handwritten address tag.

You leaned back against the sofa and exhaled. “You make it look easy.”

He gave a quiet little laugh. “It’s just paper.”

“Yeah,” you said, watching the firelight catch in his hair, “but you make it mean something.”

For a long moment, the two of you sat there in the soft glow of Christmas lights—the air warm, the music still playing faintly.