Whistlingwillows - Tumblr Posts
mmm sad hours
Seventeen Candles
Pairing: Peter Parker x Reader
Word Count: about 1k
Warnings: swearing, fluff, angst, and infinity war spoilers (read at your own risk if you haven’t watched it yet)
Summary: You, MJ, and Ned celebrate Peter’s 17th birthday.
A/N: I hope Pete celebrated in the Soul World yesterday :’^) Also, thank you so much for 100 followers!
‘August 10, 2018,’ your phone read.
In all honesty, you just wanted to sleep until the late afternoon, stay in bed, and reminisce all day, but your body refused to rest after your eyes gazed at your harsh, bright screen for just second.
Your lock screen consisted of a picture of you and your three only best friends: MJ, Ned, and most importantly, Peter. All of you were in matching bright yellow decathlon blazers, squatting in front of the Washington Monument, and hands in a praising formation. You smiled, remembering how happy you were that day, disregarding the fact that soon after that picture, all of you would’ve plummeted to your death if it weren’t for Peter Spider-Man springing to action. Besides obviously Mr. Stark, you were the only person that knew about his alter-ego. You missed those times, and you kind of missed your friends as well. You haven’t left your bed all summer.
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don’t eat the candles, bitch.
Seventeen Candles
Pairing: Peter Parker x Reader
Word Count: about 1k
Warnings: swearing, fluff, angst, and infinity war spoilers (read at your own risk if you haven’t watched it yet)
Summary: You, MJ, and Ned celebrate Peter’s 17th birthday.
A/N: I hope Pete celebrated in the Soul World yesterday :’^) Also, thank you so much for 100 followers!
‘August 10, 2018,’ your phone read.
In all honesty, you just wanted to sleep until the late afternoon, stay in bed, and reminisce all day, but your body refused to rest after your eyes gazed at your harsh, bright screen for just second.
Your lock screen consisted of a picture of you and your three only best friends: MJ, Ned, and most importantly, Peter. All of you were in matching bright yellow decathlon blazers, squatting in front of the Washington Monument, and hands in a praising formation. You smiled, remembering how happy you were that day, disregarding the fact that soon after that picture, all of you would’ve plummeted to your death if it weren’t for Peter Spider-Man springing to action. Besides obviously Mr. Stark, you were the only person that knew about his alter-ego. You missed those times, and you kind of missed your friends as well. You haven’t left your bed all summer.
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Fate Strikes Thrice
A/N: Happy birthday to Chris Hemsworth! As a celebratory thing, I wrote my first Avengers piece for tumblr :)
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Summary: Then, Fate decided that perhaps she had looked too kindly upon Odinson, and cast her first strike.
Characters: Thor, Loki, Thanos, Frigga (mentioned), Odin (mentioned), Volstagg (mentioned)
Wordcount: 1.3k
Rating: T
Warnings: Infinity War Spoilers, death
Thor used to think he had it all. A father he looked up to, a little brother he cared for, and a mother who doted on the both of them as a mother should. He was a Prince, being groomed to be King; he had tutors, and lavish beds and bathes and feasts. He had the best of friends in Sif and the Warriors Three.
Then, Fate decided that perhaps she had looked too kindly upon Odinson, and cast her first strike.
I. “I remember a shadow, living in the shade of your greatness.”
He should have seen it coming. The way Loki steadily began to refuse to look him in the eye; the way his brother wouldn’t speak up when years ago, he would have argued until their throats were raw. But he had ignored all the signs. Loki was the trickster, the one who always put a smile on Thor’s face no matter his mood, the one always by his side. He’d never try to kill his own brother, would he?
How very wrong he was.
As he stared up at the Destroyer, knowing that Loki had ascended to a power much greater than before - the power to decide when to end Thor’s life - Thor thought that this is what his ignorance had led to. He should have been more observant, more sensitive. When he returned to Asgard, he’d make a promise to do better.
But then Loki slipped from his grasp, like sand between fingers. He let go and fell to his death, because Thor could see in his eyes - he knew what fate awaited him. Time in chains, his brother’s shadow cast over him again, leaving him to shrink and wither. And he thought that death was better than that. So Loki let go, and the place he once inhabited in Thor’s heart grew cold and desolate, bitterly squeezing whenever he looked for his brother to see if he was smiling at a joke Volstagg said too.
The first strike was mourning, pure agony that could not be controlled. When he saw his brother next, there was only forgiveness. Thor forgave everything Loki had ever done to him, because he was alive and that was enough. His heart sparked, and he felt that spot warm once more.
II. “I didn’t do it for him.”
There was something much more real, watching helplessly as Loki was ran through with that blade. Blood spilled from his lips and his skin was ashen and pale as he dropped. Thor could only cradle him close as the spark burned out once again.
Thor thought he had learned from the first time. He kept Loki away from trouble - away from harm and yet Thor was the reason Loki laid in his arms, dying with every breath. He coughed and the blond God watched helplessly as his brother drowned in his own blood.
“What good were you in your cell?”
“Who put me there? Who put me there!?”
Thor did not trust his brother, but he wished he could. With every fiber of his being, he wanted to trust him again, but not with what happened in New York.
That didn’t mean he didn’t love him. As Loki shook in his arms, no doubt feeling death overhang like a dark shadow, Thor could only let tears escape and try to commit his face to memory, and when he finally stilled, the only way Thor could tear himself away from his dead corpse was the fact that the Nine Realms were still in danger and there was still a chance.
There was always a chance Loki still lived.
III. “If you were here, I might even give you a hug.”
The third strike rings final in his ears. As Thor stays caged in a metal prison, mouth gagged and his people slaughtered around him, he watches Loki interject the Mad Titan. Thor thinks, in all his years, he has never known Loki to do something so stupid and prays that there is some trick up his sleeve.
They just became brothers again. Thor can’t lose him again. That is definitely not an option. Straining against the metal, Thor feels his muscles burn as if the ligaments themselves were tearing. Everything aches.
“Oh, mighty Thanos, I, Loki, Prince of Asgard, Odinson—” The vulnerability Thor had seen in his eyes made his insides twist and curdle like spoilt milk. But there was something else. Another emotion flickering in those eyes he knew so well and it was defiance. With the one word, Loki had pledged his life and loyalty to his brother— “the rightful King of Jotunheim, God of Mischief, do hereby pledge to you, my undying fidelity.”
Thor doesn’t know how to tell Loki that he does not deserve it.
He knows it will not end well upon seeing his dagger. If only he could open his mouth, say something, distract that Mad Titan from killing his little brother - the little brother who only acted out because he never got the attention he deserved, the little brother who was raised to hate himself, his little brother who would sneak into his bedrooms when the bedtime stories got too gruesome and scary and Loki was scared the Jotuns would get him in his sleep.
“Undying,” the Mad Titan repeats with such amusement. “You should choose your words more carefully.” And he takes Loki by the neck, hoisting him above the air. His younger brother immediately begins to struggle, clutching at the hand gripping his throat so tightly.
Thor thinks this must be part of the trick - he can’t be struggling, no this isn’t happening - and he stays silent, waiting, waiting, waiting. Where’s the real Loki? He calms himself by taking what breaths he can but he can feel the hoarse grating in the back of his throat, the taste of bile crawling its way up.
“You… will never be… a god.” Thor’s panic wells inside him like a volcano. No, no, no, no, no, this isn’t real. This is just an illusion. Just an illusion–
Loki’s struggle stops. He falls limp as a ragdoll. For a moment, Thor is silent.
Then it is as if a hurricane rages within him. A torrential tsunami of rage, grief, and pain makes him lunge against his bindings, to get to his little brother - to hold him and to make sure he’s alive and well and happy and Thor never wanted this for his little brother. This is all his fault, his fault, his fault, his fault…
Letting out a muffled scream, Thor feels the beginning of burning tears bead in his eyes as his shoulders heave for air. He needs to breathe, he can’t breathe-
“No resurrections this time.”
“Loki, I thought the world of you.”
“Sometimes I’m envious, but never doubt that I love you.”
The metal falls away and Thor falls to his hands and knees, immediately forcing his old, weathered body to crawl forward where Thanos had dropped his body like garbage. Grabbing his brother’s chest, he digs his fingers into the leather and pulls him weakly to no avail. His brother does not stir, he does not move or breathe or live.
Fate decides that this is final and Thor lets out a frustrated, tormented sob, his head to his little brother’s chest. He cannot bear to look into his face and see nothing within his eyes besides the bloodshot scleras and the empty, glassy, terrified gaze. The fire flickers and flares all around him, and Thor thinks that a life without his brother is no longer worth living. He does not raise his head when the ship’s metal begins to crack and melt, it’s bright purple flames licking at his skin.
Three times Thor had caused Loki’s death, and three times Thor had failed Loki as a brother. He thinks that the only punishment should be to die beside the one he failed.
The only thing that forces Loki and Thor apart for the last time is the explosion of their little safe haven that ended up being a hearse for half of his people.
“I’m here.”
TAGS: @teawithbucky
fat uwu
I Owe You
A/N: Have fun with my first Bucky x Reader. It’s set after the Winter Soldier, in Bucharest where they all speak Romanian. If you enjoyed, I’ll make it into a series. Gifs do not belong to me.
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Summary: When a random stranger saves your life, you make it your mission to repay him no matter what.
Characters: Bucky Barnes
Wordcount: 3.2k Rating: T (swearing)
You lean over the edge of the stall, tilting your head to the side upon seeing the rows and rows of plums. Reaching for one near the front, you gently prod it, testing how ripe they are. It’s hard to find places that sell better-than-average fruits and vegetables and you find that small businesses keep ones more honest than big ones. You deem it worthy enough, testing a second just to make sure that it isn’t a fluke before looking up at the man behind the trays. Holding up five fingers, you smile at the stall keeper who takes out a plastic bag.
“Thank you.”
You pocket your wallet when all your change is safely within. Turning around, you bump into a man who immediately lets out a sharp ‘sorry’. His head dipped low and his eyes covered by a cap, you can’t distinguish his features besides the stubble coating his jaw. You step back with a shrug, accepting his apology without much hesitation. He swerves around you, making a conscious effort to avoid more contact.
Thinking nothing of it, you swing your backpack around and carefully set your plastic bag within a stuffed jacket that cushioned whatever tussling will occur. Zipping it back up, you continue on your way back to the campus. Waiting for the street light to turn, you pull out your phone when you note how relatively quiet the streets are. Digging through your pockets for your earbuds, you begin to untangle the wire as you haphazardly clutch your phone with your ring and pinky fingers of your right hand.
With occasional glances up at the light, you begin to cross. Focused on straightening out your earbuds, you feel a hand tug you back and you yelp, dropping your phone just as a speeding car honks its horn at you. It’s almost in slow-motion the way you see your precious phone descend to the hard asphalt and clatter before being run over by a tire of the car who ran the red light.
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uwu
Rumour Has It
A/N: To the anon who wanted a Peter K x Reader, you’re getting a full series because once I started writing this, I couldn’t stop. GIFS are not mine!
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Summary: You didn’t come to university to get picked up by some lacrosse jock but when Peter Kavinsky offers a chance to prove unflattering rumours wrong… well, you never were someone to back down from a challenge.
Characters: Peter Kavinsky
Wordcount: 1.9k
You’ve never seen him before. Well, you have, but not really. You never paid attention to this guy with a loud personality and who’s fairly well known as the hunk on campus. You do know from what rumours say that this is Peter Kavinsky, here on an actual lacrosse scholarship because those existed. Then again, scholarships for basically everything existed so you shouldn’t exactly be surprised. Still, as he smiles rakishly at you, you can’t help but roll your eyes.
“What did you say?” you ask, pretending not to have heard him the first time because it’s so much funnier this way. He leans against the bookshelf, his arm along one of the taller shelves, fingers tugging and picking, playing with the silk ribbon of one of those books that used them as bookmarks.
“I asked you out on a date,” he repeats, frowning. You know his friends are just around one of the bookshelves that line the library as you return to picking out books, disinterested. You didn’t have to act, you just are. You didn’t come to university to get picked up by some lacrosse jock.
“Uh-huh,” you drawl sarcastically before lowering your voice. “Well, you can tell me what your reason really is because we don’t know each other and we don’t need to know each other.” You pull out The Handmaid’s Tale and set it on the table behind you.
“I can’t talk to a wondrous bookworm like you?” You’ll give him to a count of three. “I am genuinely interested in Margaret Atwood, by the way. Big fan.” One.
“Name three books by her.” You lean against the table with one hand, the other on your hip. Two.
“The Handmaid’s Tale..” he trails off and you roll your eyes before returning to the shelves. “Two more slip my mind. I did read one of them for a book report once, though.” Three.
“Right. Well, if you can leave me alone, I’d like to look at those books,” you say with a point where his body’s covering some of the lower shelves near his waist. Crouching, you run a finger along the spines, mouthing the titles and taking one out. You read the summary but it doesn’t catch your attention so you return it back in its place.
“It was a dare,” he admits quietly once he realizes you’re gonna keep acting like he’s some invisible barrier who occasionally talks at you, and you snort, taking out another book. It’s The Help. You’ve read it before. Never mind.
“Riiiiight, and why me?” Sliding the book back into place, you continue scanning and slowly make your way standing back up. Your eyes flicker over The Hunger Games. You have a soft spot for that series and submit to your desires, taking all three books out and stacking them atop your first book. Peter Kavinsky eyes the stacks almost nervously like you’ll take out some thick as hell history volume out of your ass and smack him for whatever answer he’ll concoct.
“See, my friends think I’m a total loser and they want to get me a girlfriend-”
“Total loser,” you echo, totally incredulous. “Right. Peter Kavinsky, lacrosse champion, is somehow a total loser. I find that hard to believe.”
“Obviously, it’s not true,” he retorts and you grin at how snippy he sounds. Scooping up the books in one arm, you head for the desk to check out your books as he follows. “Look, can you just say yes?”
Pretending to think about it, you put down your books and swing your backpack around. Digging out your wallet, you take out your library card and scan it as you begin before checking out Mockingjay.
“Hmmm, no.”
“What?” Looking absolutely devastated, Peter Kavinsky brushes a hand over Catching Fire and you look at the offending limb, absolutely insulted. When he notices your glare, he removes his hand and you take the book, scanning the bar code before slipping it into your backpack. “Why?”
“Because I’m not interested in a relationship,” you answer, the confirmation beep from the computer for The Hunger Games punctuating your sentence. With the final book in hand, you chance a glimpse of his face to see it drenched in disappointment. “Oh, come on, Peter Kavinsky, you can’t be that disappointed. I’m not exactly a catch.”
Sharp mouthed, sarcastic, pragmatic, often hot-headed and more focused on studies than anything else, you tend to keep a wide circle of friends but none come any closer within five feet of your heart. That’s because none of those traits ring girlfriend or friend, for that matter. In fact, your lack of girlfriend material makes you more a girl who guys either try to avoid or have as bros. That’s why you have a lot more guys as friends than girls. Way less drama, way more camaraderie.
“You’re right. I do hear rumours about you, though. They aren’t all flattering.” Gasping in mock surprise, you widen your eyes and gawk at him, scandalized.
“And I thought they were calling the other person who lives on the fourth floor in the sixth dorm Medusa,” you comment, finally slipping the last book into your back and zipping it shut. It’s noticeably heavier and you sigh, sliding your card back into your wallet and logging out. Putting the wallet into your bag’s front pocket, you see Peter Kavinsky still standing there looking like an absolute idiot. When he realizes you’re staring at him, he blinks and looks away.
“Well, I just wanted to see if they were true. They aren’t.”
“I already said no,” you remind him and he blinks again, staring at you. “No amount of sweet-talking is gonna change my mind.” Shifting your bag’s weight, you continue, “I’m going now. Sorry about your dare.” You feel kind of bad at his downcast expression, so, smiling to yourself, you turn around after taking a few steps to add, “For what it’s worth, I’ve heard a few rumours about you, too.”
He perks up immediately. “Oh, yeah? And do you believe them?”
“Do you believe the ones about me? Answer honestly,” you challenge and he falters, staring at you for a moment. His curly hair springs into his dark eyes as he studies you before splitting into a grin.
“No. Do you believe the ones about me?” You shake your head immediately, thumb sliding up the underside of your backpack strap.
“I form my own opinions.” You smirk, arching a brow. “It’s quite shocking actually, when people form their own opinions based on their own experiences instead of hearing the shit campus gossips manage to blow up or make up or whatever.” That causes a chuckle from him and he glances at his shoes, rocking back and forth.
“Sorry I asked you out on a date on a dare,” he finally says lamely. “If you actually liked me, it would’ve felt like I was leading you on.”
“Don’t worry, Peter Kavinsky,” you reply, waving the matter away. “I’d never like someone like you.” He plasters a shit-eating grin on his face and extends a hand, all traces of that apologetic expression gone.
“I’d like to prove that and the rumours wrong.” Peering at the hand, you raise an eyebrow and shake it firmly. His eyes glitter with the thought of a challenge and you let go. “If you’d like, I’ll offer the same chance for you to prove your rumours wrong, too.”
“Well, I’m not one to back away from an honest challenge, Peter Kavinsky.” He rubs the back of his neck with a smile.
“You aren’t half bad, considering what the rumours say.”
For some reason, the way he says it is really touching and you look to your boots before glancing up at him. “Thanks. Neither are you.” An awkward pause, and then you try, “So, I’ll see you around?” It makes you cringe but he takes up on it.
“Yeah. You’ve cost me twenty, though,” he says accusingly and you shrug helplessly.
“Oh, but what can I do to help, Peter Kavinsky?” you almost sing dramatically and he rolls his eyes playfully. Pretending to swoon, you lean on the edge of the table, the back of your hand to your forehead. You toss him a glance, winking before slipping back into your act. “My poor, in-debt soul cannot aid you.”
“We can hang out tomorrow after class,” he proposes confidently and you give him a disbelieving smile.
“Right, well, I have plans.”
“See, this is why people think you’re Medusa. You’re literally gonna go home and study.”
“Not true,” you argue. “I have a very important date with books.” You gesture to your bag and he rolls his eyes. “And, we have midterms to study for, if you forgot.” The guilty look on his face says everything. “Have you even started?”
“They’re like a month away!” At your glare, he concedes, “Fine. How about I’ll come to you? We can hang out in your dorm and do whatever you want.” Knowing there’s no way to shake off a persistent fly, you just let it stick to you. At least, until you can get the fly ointment (AKA, your room/lair/home away from home, cave) and make it leave on its own accord.
“That sounds good,” you accept and he takes out his phone. Unlocking it, he extends it towards you with the phone app open. You do the same before taking his phone and adding in your number. When you hear a click, you see him posing with a wacky face.
“What?”
“What are you doing?”
“Setting a profile picture,” he says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. To him, it might be, but you aren’t that sentimental to set pictures for contacts. Still, you don’t stop him as he tries various poses while you enter in your phone number. When it comes to the name, you smirk. If he gets profile picture, you get nickname.
Medusa
And save.
“You need a profile picture,” he informs with a frown once you get your respective devices back.
“No.” He raises his phone in a typical photo-taking hand formation. “Peter Kavinsky,” you warn with a glower, “you take that picture and our challenge is done.”
“Woah, woah, woah, you don’t mean that.” He pouts and you snort. “Please. You’re gonna ruin the aesthetic.” He lowers his phone when you don’t stop scowling. “Hold on, hold on, hold on, lemme just-” His disappointment is so palpable that your annoyance fades and your defiance crack.
“Give me your phone.” It’s admitting defeat but the way his face lights up like the goddamn stars are in his eyes make you want to smile. However, you hate admitting defeat so you school your features into a indifferent, small smile as you switch it to the front camera. Turning so Peter Kavinsky’s in the background, you raise your arm with the phone. He gets on his knees and lunges forward so he’s at least in frame. Your smile is genuine as you press the button. You lower the phone again and crop it so his head makes it just into the frame along with your half-smile and raised eyebrows.
“There.”
“Thanks, Medusa.” He winks and you adjust your bag straps, not really taking his shit. You open your phone to see what he set his nickname for himself and you’re surprised when it’s really just Peter Kavinsky. Turning the screen off, you pocket your phone. “It was nice meeting you in person, actually. Put a real face to the name everyone’s semi-talking about.
“Can’t say the same since I see your face, and your voice, clearly, loudly, every Tuesday and Thursday,” you quip and he shrugs, guiltless.
“What can I say, I’m a likable guy.”
“Whatever you say, Peter Kavinsky.” You turn, flicking up a hand in farewell. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“See you, Medusa,” he calls back, loud enough to have neighbouring tables shoot him dirty looks. You snicker underneath your breath at that as you push through the doors and enter the hall. For some reason, you’re really looking forward to tomorrow.
TAGS: @teawithbucky
lessgo
I Owe You - Masterlist
Summary: When a random stranger saves your life, you make it your mission to repay him no matter what. Set after Captain America: the Winter Soldier.
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader
Chapters: 1/??
Rating: T+
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4
fuck-
Wanderlust - Part One
Pairing: Peter Kavinsky x Fem!Reader
Word Count: 945
Warnings: Relatable school moods, a lil swearing, and fluff galore.
Summary: College!AU - With the end of the semester approaching, Peter decided to visit you and propose a summer getaway. There’s only so much video chats could do.
A/N: Okay as much as I love Lara Jean and Peter together, let’s pretend that in this AU they don’t end up together and instead, the reader steals her mANS. This series will be mostly based on movie Peter Kavinsky because I’m reading the first book right now and so far, book PK is kind of a dick lol. I hope you enjoy this series as much as I love writing it!
(Thank you @whistlingwillows for beta-ing ily/ihy uwu)
Dedicated to: The three anons who were excited about this series and PK works in general! I appreciate you guys!
(gif found on WeHeartIt)
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College was exhausting.
You were fed up with the constant cycle of waking up at ungodly hours in the morning, walking and bussing to campus, and sitting through mandatory long lectures that did not benefit your actual major. It didn’t help that your dorm was located on a steep hill, miles away from your campus (what kind of designer thought that this was a good idea?). You stayed in your hometown for post secondary, but your childhood home was just too far from where your college was located.
You preferred high school schedules over your college time table. The latest you had to stay was 5pm, and high school consisted of frequent breaks, a scheduled lunch period, and all of your classes were in the same building. College, on the other hand, was a different story. Lectures were in different buildings across campus, and you had to lug all your textbooks and your laptop for the whole day due to the lack of a locker.
After tuning out your professors for three solid hours, you dragged your body to the Corner Café; your favourite spot to spend time in since high school. Body enveloped in a giant hoodie, earbuds in, and a latté in your hand, you tried to kill four dreadful hours here before attending your last two lectures of the day by studying.
An hour into your study session, you started to feel spacey and your (Y/E/C) eyes started to sting from glaring at your laptop screen. You moved onto your phone and checked some unread messages, and one caught your attention rather quickly, causing your heart to flutter.
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my soft, running, lacrosse legend.
Seven Miles
Request: heyo, i was wondering if i could request something with Peter kavinsky? i have an art project in the middle of writing my final exams, im hella stressed & i get a lot of anxiety especially while working on my art because my teacher scares the shit out of me, so i was wondering if you could write something where the reader calls peter in the middle of the night cause she has an exam the next day & is panicking cause she cant remember anything & he comes over to make sure shes ok.
A/N: I hope this is okay, anon. I hope you pass your exams and get a good grade on your art project. Sending tons of good vibes towards you. GIF is not mine!
Special thanks to @teawithbucky for motivating me to write this and reading it over.
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Summary: Peter Kavinsky wakes up to a frantic call from you and immediately bolts to your campus. Unfortunately, the campus is seven miles away but that makes him no less determined to reach you.
Characters: Peter Kavinsky
Wordcount: 2.6k
Rating: T (swearing, mentions of blood)
Peter Kavinsky wakes to Africa by Toto and immediately sits up, knowing that that ringtone means you and you never call in the middle of the night if you can help it. It’s exam season and both of you need your beauty sleep to be actual functioning human beings so he can’t fathom why you are calling him at the god forsaken time of four AM, precisely, and ten hours before your actual exam. The one thing left before break is a huge exam you’d been studying for for weeks, and while Peter loves every minute of spending time with you, he knows that doing so now would result in a possible break in your relationship due to how serious you took your education. Which, being said, is probably why you’re calling him now.
Yawning, he grabs his phone blindly and unplugs the charger before answering. “Hey, Picasso, what’s up?” Despite his joking tone, the heavy breathing on your end has him up and awake immediately. “(Y/N)? Are you okay - are you safe?”
“Peter, I can’t - I can’t do this.” Your sobs mangle your words but Peter has an easy time deciphering it as he gets out of bed and heads down the stairs. He can’t leave you alone in your dorm like this, even if he does live like seven miles away from campus. God, he hates hearing you cry. “I mean, I don’t know what I’m doing taking art as a fucking major. What is that? Who even does that? Seriously - I don’t even know what to - I just - Oh, god.” Your voice thickens and he feels his heart constrict at the sound as you try to hold back whatever is choking you up. Then, he hears you throw up. Shit.
“Hold on, hold on, hold on, okay, (Y/N), you’re going to take deep breaths with me, alright?” he whispers, grabbing his jacket from the hook and shrugging it on haphazardly. Slipping on his running shoes, he remembers to grab the keys before heading out.
“Uhm, yeah, sure, but Peter–” Your voice is breathy over the mic– “I need to study and the test is in fucking ten hours and I am going to fail and then you won’t love me anymore because I will be an absolute failure.”
“Yeah, that’s not possible, sweetheart,” he says as he goes to the garage.
“Peter, the only reason we’re dating now is because I carried you through Basics of Spanish 101.”
“Muchos gracias, señorita. Also, not true. I asked you out because you look good with paint all over your face.”
“I was teaching colour theory to little kids, Kavinsky,” you scold over the phone but he smiles despite your words. If he can distract you long enough until he gets there, he can consider that a win.
Unlocking the garage door, he flips the switch for the light and finds that where a sleek-as-fuck Chevy (which he bought because he has a secret fetish for muscle cars) normally sits, is no longer there.
Right, his mom had taken the car to change the oil and it wouldn’t be ready until tomorrow since there was some kind of awful backup. Whatever, that’s fine by him as long as they don’t fuck up his car, but at this time, it’s extremely inconvenient.
Luckily, Peter is both a lacrosse champion and an absolute legend (if he did say so himself) and he starts off at a run after locking the garage once more.
“Well, I learned that red and blue equals purple,” he says breathlessly in reference to their first kiss. After a heavy battle of paintball with mutual friends where they fought on opposite sides, you had red paint over your face and he had blue. Well, let’s say the purple left on your face became his new favourite colour.
“You should’ve known that already,” you mutter. “Pete, seriously, I’m going to fail.”
“No, you won’t. You’re brilliant.” Seven miles is no problem if he didn’t have a time limit but he does and now he’s running full throttle. As soon as he starts running, he realizes how little he thought this through. He doesn’t mind when you’re a cowgirl, but he never wants to be a fucking horse outside the bedroom ever again. As his panting becomes more obvious, there’s static on your end.
“Uh, Peter?”
“Yeah, babe?” He inhales his first full lungful of fresh air as he stops at his first light. “Phew, you really like having me fit, don’tcha?”
“Peter.”
“Yeah?”
“Why are you running?”
“I am not running! It just happens to extremely windy seven miles away from where you currently are.” Swallowing, he sees the light turn green and continues at a milder jog. Better to save his strength so he can fucking bolt right at the end like he won some marathon. And honestly, this is the most exercise he’s done during exam season ever so it might as well be one.
“You’re a terrible liar, Kavinsky,” you say and he scoffs. You just keep presenting opportunities for him to distract you.
“Not true. One time I said I didn’t eat the whole box of pizza rolls and you believed me.” Your soft laugh has him grinning from ear to ear as you sniff over the receiver. “And, one time, during Valentine’s day, I said I didn’t get you anything but who bought you that frickin’ necklace you saw one time on your Tumblr dash?”
When you don’t answer, he rolls his eyes. “I’m waiting for an answer here, (Y/N).”
“You did.”
“So, in retrospect, I believe I’m a fantastic liar in some circumstances that don’t include me running seven miles at night without a warmup. I think I might tear something and then it’ll be your fault.”
“So you are running?” you ask, voice still shaky. With every sentence he bombards you with, you find yourself forgetting the panic that onset you mere minutes before. “Peter, you don’t have to. I’m fine, I think, I’m just stressed and-”
“When you get stressed, you turn into a fucking burrito of hormones, okay? I had to get you doughnuts before you could even reconsider talking to me again last year. One time, you locked yourself in your dorm room and I had to pretend to pull some Romeo-Juliet dying shit on you to even get you to unlock your door.”
“Not true!”
“Your hallmates beg to differ!” he screams as he runs down the sidewalk. The few strangers that are still up and roaming don’t even try to stop him as he dashes past them, his legs a blur. He knows that if he second guesses himself now, or stops, or focus on running itself, he will trip, fall, and potentially (dramatically) bleed to death.
“Okay, well, one time you didn’t study English Lit, failed an essay, and sobbed for three hours straight. I had to miss work so you didn’t completely break down,” you retort and he doesn’t deny it. It was freshman year and you guys had just become a couple. Peter had been busy with lacrosse, leaving him to ignore his studies despite the mounting stress which ended up in an F. He quickly learned, after his sobbing session with you patting his back and eating ice cream for the majority of those three hours, that he couldn’t ignore your advice or his studies ever again.
The rest of the streetlights are green as he continues on. By the third mile, there’s a stitch sewing itself into his ribs and his feet are cramping due to how hastily he had shoved into his feet into his sneakers. They aren’t tied tightly at all and he feels like his shoes will fall off but when there’s a long bout of silence on your end, he manages to gather his words and focus on you.
“Hey, sweaty, you still there?”
“Don’t call me sweaty,” you mumble over the line at last and he breathes a sigh of relief. His legs may be burning but hell if he doesn’t put you first.
“Okay, Van Gogh,” he teases but this time you don’t respond at all. “(Y/N), you there?”
“Pete, I don’t even know what I’ll do after university. I graduate, and then what?”
“Then we go from there,” he replies instantly, making the fifth mile. Two more to go. This has to be one of your longest calls yet. Normally the two of you have short, frequent calls.
“Pete.” This time, you’re so serious his heart wants to stop beating. It’s roaring in his ears and throat and in the tips of your toes, but one single syllable has him wanting to drop dead. “What if I don’t pass this exam? What if I can’t - I’ve been studying for so long and I just can’t read anything anymore. It’s like my brain is so full and nothing is going in or going out and I don’t know what to do.”
“Woah, woah, woah, Monet, you’ll be fine.”
“Pete, let’s stop lying to ourselves.”
“The only one lying is you when you say you aren’t going to pass,” he argues, keeping his eyes cast on the ground as he continues to jog down the hill towards campus. “Look, the only thing you should be worrying about is getting a good few hours of sleep.”
“But-”
“Burrito babe, you are the epitome of perfection and you just need to believe in yourself some more,” he exclaims just as his foot catches on the little rise on the hill from a tree trunk digging underneath the sidewalk. Letting out a yell, he places his free hand before him and twists before rolling down the hill. Trying to stop himself, he tries to plant his feet on the pavement but fails spectacularly. Dropping his phone, he scowls deeply at the stinging in his palm as blood slowly trickle down his wrist.
“Peter? Peter!” His back feels sore and he scowls at the fraying of his pajama bottoms but he grabs his phone and continues on, clenching his injured hand into a fist to stem the pain. Setting his jaw, he sets off with renewed energy to get to you. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” he mutters. His leg feels funny but he’s gonna push through. “Just keep on the line. I need to make sure you’re okay.”
“Okay,” is your reply and he feels like hurling as a cold sweat layers his forehead but then it’s only one mile left, and then he’s on campus and he thinks he can walk out the fucking marathon he just ran without passing out.
“Babe, I’m here.”
“I’ll buzz you in,” you say flatly and he frowns at that tone. Heading to your dorm building, Peter pins in the call code and you let him in. He takes the elevator to the third floor before going down the hall where you reside. He finally hangs up and takes a quick check of his battery.
35%
Knocking on the door, he pockets his phone and flexes his injured hand. You open the door and he limps in. The adrenaline drains away and he collapses on your bed as you lock your door behind you and sit on the chair at your desk. It’s dark save for the single light you have illuminating the notebook and textbook you have on your desk. He rests on his side, watching you swivel towards him. He can see the exact moment you realize he’s bleeding but it’s not in the place he expects.
“What happened to your leg?” you ask, outraged and he glances down at his knee. A stain has bled through his plaid pant leg and he tugs the fabric up to reveal some rough scrapes. Sitting up, the brunet winces when he places weight on his injured palm. “Pete, oh, my god.” You get up and grab a towel.
“Fell?”
“I will be right back. Do not move,” you command furiously, embarrassed that he actually ran seven miles just to be with you. There’s a tender light in his eyes as he smiles and lays back down. When you’ve left, he gets up and takes a look around your dorm room. Plugging his phone into one of your spare cables, he checks the time. 4:57.
That means if he can convince you to fall asleep, you’ll still get a good eight-ish hours of sleep plus maybe even an hour of studying before the final at two. Sounds like a plan.
Taking this as his chance to explore your dorm, he tries to note the changes that have been made since he’s been here.There are numerous pieces of pinned up sketches and he smirks when he sees a whole row of an array of his different expressions. Those are definitely new. There’s two boxes of pads atop your dresser plus the necklace he bought you along with some unused scented candles. Just as he’s reading each scent, he hears the soft pad of footsteps.
The door clicks and he dives for the bed, lying down and acting as casual as he can. You come in with an arched eyebrow, not believing he listened to you for a second.
“Let me see,” you mutter and he extends his palm to you. You begin to clean out the grit and dried blood before turning to his knee. It’s mostly caked in dried blood and you wipe it away while he winces. “You didn’t have to come all this way, babe.”
“Well, you were panicking and you sounded like you were in serious pain so I ran.” You stop at those words, face warm. His tender smile has you blushing and you offer a small smile back, resting your chin on his uninjured leg’s bent knee.
“Talking to you helped,” you admit softly and he smiles, sitting up and taking hold of your chin with a free hand. He pecks you lightly on the lips before you cusp his jaw and press a full kiss to his mouth. “The scrapes aren’t that deep and they’ve already stopped bleeding, but you need to change pants because that blood is nasty.”
“Do you still have some of my clothes here?” he asks and you nod, opening a drawer dedicated to him. Since you live on campus and he doesn’t, and since you started dating, you’ve taken to storing bits of his clothes to wear or for him to change into if the need arose. Throwing him a pair of grey sweats, you wait until he hands you the plaid to toss in to your dirty laundry basket. Sitting down at your desk again, you stare at your notes blankly. These are words you’ve read over a thousand times and they don’t seem to sink into your brain.
“Peter, can you test me?”
“(Y/N), you don’t need to study anymore. You’re stressin’.”
“Yeah, because I’m going to fail and I can’t fail.” You worry your lip and he places a hand on your thigh, bringing the attention towards him. “Pete, I’m scared.”
“Darlin’, even if you fail, I’ll still love you. And you can try again.” When it’s clear you still don’t believe him, he scoots to the far edge of the bed and pats beside him. “Come here.” You sneak into his arms and he immediately wraps you in a huge hug, sighing. One hand tangles in his hair as his leg hooks around your waist and draws you close.
“Pete-”
“Sh, you need to sleep.” You press your ear against his chest as he burrows his nose in your hair. “Hey, did you get a new shampoo?”
“Peter…”
“Right. Assuring you that you won’t fail even though it’s totally unnecessary.” You roll your eyes and he ducks his chin, lips brushing against your forehead. “You know what? Even if you do fail, so what? You just retake the course, or you don’t. Maybe you don’t finish university, maybe you just become an artist. A degree doesn’t mean you’re better than who you are now,” he whispers and your eyes meet his. They glow warmly and you feel like putty in his arms as he resumes the tight hug. “No matter what, that doesn’t stop me from loving you.”
“But-”
“I don’t wanna hear about it, okay? You’ll do great, I know it.” You nod into his chest and he reaches over you to turn off the light. “Now, get some sleep.”
“Okay. G’night, Peter.”
“Good mor-ting, Titian.”
TAGS: @teawithbucky
girl, you know i already got it
Rumour Has It (2)
A/N: Here we go! The long awaited part two of Rumour Has It! Thank you so much for the support!
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Summary: You didn’t come to university to get picked up by some lacrosse jock but when Peter Kavinsky offers a chance to prove unflattering rumours wrong… well, you never were someone to back down from a challenge.
Characters: Peter Kavinsky
Wordcount: 2.6k
Rating: T (swearing, as always)
“Yo! Medusa!” As you slide your laptop into your bag, you raise your head to see none other than Peter Kavinsky with his friends. Sighing, you zip up your laptop and grab your notebooks to slide into the second zipper space. As usual, he’s wearing his trademark smirk paired with jeans and a jacket. If he wants your attention, he’s gonna have to come and get it because from where you are, you can hear his friends snickering and that isn’t shit you want to deal with. Ever.
“Do you need me to beat him up?” a girl asks from behind. You don’t know her name (it starts with a C, you think) but you know that she’s always reliable for any missed notes and assignments. Turning around, you shake your head with a smile. “Because I can. My sister is a personal trainer for like navy seals and quarterbacks and shit. I could get something together.” Her disgusted scowl directed at Peter Kavinsky makes you glad that someone’s on your side just in case.
“No, but thanks.” Sparing a glance at the jock, you see him getting tousled by his friends and let out a snort. “You know Peter Kavinsky?”
“Know? He’s basically shoved down our throats in the dorms. I swear, some girls have fucking posters of his face.” The girl lets out a whisper-scream at the thought, making a face.
“Admittedly disgusting,” you agree with a chuckle. Packing the last of your things, you take out your phone and check the time. 5:17.
“What’s he even doing calling out to you? He’s never bothered someone who sits in a front row before,” she continues and you shrug.
“I allowed him to call me Medusa,” you inform, defeated, and C (which is what you call her whenever you think about her) raises an eyebrow.
“You and Peter Kavinsky talked?”
“It’s shameful, I know,” you snort sarcastically and she cracks a smile.
“Medusa!”
“What, Peter Kavinsky?” you bark at last and he falters for a moment. His friends nudge him in farewell and leave as you sling your backpack on. C rolls her eyes and you send her a smile.
“I’ll see you Thursday.”
“Yeah, see you.” Heading over to the jock, you flick a hand. “Come along, Peter Kavinsky. We have to get going.” Heading out the lecture hall, you exit the building with him in tow as you walk the path back towards your dorm. His friends are nowhere in site. “How’d you get your lackeys to leave?”
“They’re my friends and they left because I asked them to.” His offended tone has no effect as you see your dorm building. “Why’re you so rude, anyways?”
“Why be nice to people who don’t deserve it?” you shoot back, swiping your card to get in. Opening the door, you’re surprised when Peter Kavinsky takes the weight and holds it open. Sending him a narrowed look, you enter and head for the elevator.
“Have my friends offended you in some way?” asks the jock and you let out a disbelieving scoff. “Did they bully you?” You don’t answer as you jab the 4 on the columns of buttons. He takes your silence as a yes. What are you gonna say? That one of his friends happens to be some stupid twat from high school who you used to date? “What for?”
“You realize that everyone has a reason to be bullied, right?” Yours used to be how gullible you were. God, you were part of the cheer squad. You were one of those girls who were deemed popular and were snotty about it.
“Oh, how the mighty have fallen,” he had said weeks after you two broken up. He had a new girlfriend then, the head of the cheer squad. What a dumbass. Clenching your jaw, you exit the elevator with Peter Kavinsky close on your tail.
“Yeah, but they’re my friends. I want us to get along.” Whipping around, you stop.
“Why? Because we’re friends?”
“Well, yeah.” A conflicted expression passes over his face and he frowns as you laugh. “We aren’t? Then, why am I here?”
“You invited yourself over. I’m not stopping you is all.” Grimly, you turn around and stop before your door. Unlocking it, you let him in first before closing the door and locking it. Unzipping your boots, you kick them off before walking in. Lucky for you, you have a single room to yourself but it’s still cramp as hell. Sitting down at your desk, you hear Peter mumble at what a mess it is.
“Have something to say?” you ask, turning on your swivel chair. He pauses mid step and smiles.
“Nope. It’s a perfect swamp.” Your arch an eyebrow at his reply. He collapses on the giant beanbag in the corner, grimacing when he reaches below his butt and pulls out a book. Setting it down by his feet, he glances up at you through his eyelashes and you shake your head when he catches you staring.
“I prefer lair.” Crossing one leg over the other, you tilt your head at him. Pressing your lips together, you survey what he’s doing. Currently surfing social media or something on his phone, he’s made himself perfectly at home. You had really expected him to leave already and have some alone time. “If you get hungry for dinner, you can leave.”
“Nah, don’t eat early.” Surprised, you turn to your notes and begin to pick up where you left off last night. Well, you suppose you don’t mind as long as he’s quiet.
“Me neither,” you say and you think you can feel his stare on your neck. Carefully, you turn your head to sneak a glance at him and you find your suspicions correct. When he’s caught, he simply smiles and resumes scrolling on his phone. Taking out your phone from your bag you had thrown onto your bed, you plug it into your charger. You take out your textbook as well and pull out your pencil case before beginning to scribble in notes.
“It was Pollock, wasn’t it?” asks Peter Kavinsky after a full hour of silence. You start. You’d forgotten he was here, so silent he was. “Jason Pollock?” Sucking in a breath, you debate on what to say.
“Who said it was?”
“I scrolled through your Instagram.” Raising your head slowly, you jerk your gaze towards him. He has one earbud in his ear, the other being rolled between his thumb and index finger. “I found a really old post, from like years back.”
“Oh, so you’re stalking me,” you snort sarcastically and he frowns deeply. You know you’re giving him more attitude than he deserves but you never wanted anyone to find that out about you. You’re better than that now.
“We follow each other. You - you followed me first,” he mumbles and you widen your eyes. Grabbing your phone, you whip out Instagram and click on your Following and search up his name.
ptkavinsky Peter Kavinsky
You really are following him. Clicking on his profile, you scroll through his pictures and realize you’ve even liked some of them as he continues to talk.
Peter Kavinsky UVC | #18 | Turned to stone 🗿
Your eyebrows knit together at his bio. You never noticed that before.
“Anyways, your first post…” He trails off and you turn around, leaning back into your chair. “In the comments. I didn’t mean to pry, I just wanted to know you better and I found it. I didn’t know you were a cheerleader.”
“Yeah, well, it isn’t something I’m proud of,” you growl, twisting to slam your textbook shut and getting up. You shove your backpack off your bed and lie down, head resting on your interlaced fingers as he stares at you, waiting for you to explain. “I dated Jason Pollock, so what?” He gets up and sits on the chair at your desk so he’s closer. His second earbud has fallen out and he unplugs the jack, stuffing them in his jacket’s pockets. His knee keeps jiggling and you can see it out of your peripheral as you continue to stare up at your ceiling.
“So, you were one of those popular cheerleader chicks.”
You know exactly what post he got that information from. It’s the squad photo and you have the caption blazing in your head because it was so chic at the time.
yourinstagramname: SQUAD goals. Here we come provincials!
Groaning, you pinch the bridge of your nose. So stupid.
“I was,” you confirm, turning your head to look at him, and he has a soft smile on his face. It kinda puts you off because all you’ve ever seen is a huge smile that digs into his cheeks, that classic smirk, and even that half-smile he sometimes sends to girls you’ve worked with before.
You never thought Peter Kavinsky could look so… tender. Your heart squeezes at this new side of him.
But eventually, that soft smile paired with those chocolate curls and molten brown eyes has you questioning both your ethics and why he’s staring at you. “What?”
“Nothing. It’s just I can’t imagine you as a cheerleader.”
“Oh, I’m full of surprises.”
“And you’re not the face I imagined when Jason told me the reason why he doesn’t date anymore.” Shock freezes your blood and you have your jaw hanging off your face, mouth unable to work. Trying to form words, you fail spectacularly. He chuckles. “He’s - he mentioned this girl he used to date in high school. He said she’s the reason why he doesn’t have a girlfriend anymore, and I thought that girl must’ve been a bitch to break his heart so badly.”
Jason Douchebag Pollock had no right to tell lies like that.
“Oh, I broke his heart,” you drawl sarcastically, sitting up and glaring at Peter Kavinsky. “Right, you tell him that his poor little broken heart–” You pretend to pout– “that he got what he fucking deserved.” Trying to keep your voice level, you flop back down and find the anger you had stuffed so far down from years ago to resurface like a magnificent, snarling beast.
“You know what?” he starts, causing you to look at him again. He has an easy smile as he sits down beside you. Scooting over reluctantly, you push yourself up by your hands and lean back onto them as he shows you his screen.
He’s on the Following page of his own Insta profile and you furrow your brow when you see his thumb hovering over the Following button next to one name.
jzpol J A S O N P O L L O C K
“He’s cancelled.” With two taps, one to request, and one to confirm, Peter Kavinsky no longer follows Jason Pollock. Surprised, your mouth drops open as his eyes crinkle. He’s smiling that smile again and it unnerves you so much you look away.
“Why’d you do that?” you mutter, scooting forward and getting off the bed. He stares after you, absolutely bewildered. Instead of touched, you look vaguely offended. In reality, you don’t understand what you’re feeling. You hate the thought that he really did something so passive aggressive. By midnight, you’re sure you’ll hear gossip about some fight between Kavinsky and Pollock. Why else would Peter Kavinsky unfollow Jason Pollock?
“What do you mean? You don’t like him, so I unfollowed him.”
“He’s your friend.”
“He was an ass to you,” exclaims Peter. You open your small closet and grab the first jacket you see, the camo that’s too big for you, and shrug it on. Rolling up the sleeves, you search for your combat boots. “He’s always been an ass and I shoulda stopped him when he started calling you Medusa but I didn’t because I didn’t know you. But I knew him and I trusted his judgement. I didn’t know you guys were a thing.” Turning around, you frown at his words. “Now that I know you better, I feel like I have formed my own opinion–” You let out a sharp ‘hah’ at his choice of words. How funny of him to use your own words– “and have therefore acted on it.”
Still, one piece of info burns and melts the ice in your veins. “He started the Medusa thing?” Disbelief clear on your face, you grab your boots and collapse on the beanbag, pulling the left one on. Like Pollock had any reason to make your life even worse. God, so you have him to thank for making you known on campus. Great. “You know name-calling isn’t exactly a good thing no matter the circumstances.”
“He was my first friend here,” he says. “Not that it excuses anything. I just thought it wasn’t my place.”
“It’s always your place to call out someone’s bullshit,” you comment bitterly, tying your boot tightly. Sitting up, you pin him down with a stone-inducing glare. “You know what? Why do you believe me, anyways? How do you know I’m not just making it up that Pollock screwed me over?”
“Because you’re honest.” Tossing him an unimpressed look, you allow him to continue. He seems to have the sense to realize you don’t want to talk about Pollock anymore and diverts the flow of conversation to the very reason why he’s even here. “You were right. We aren’t friends - we’re just two people who agreed to a challenge. So I get to be honest with you, and you get to be honest with me. Deal?”
“Deal.” Like you aren’t already honest with everyone you’ve ever met. You shove your foot into your right boot before starting to lace it up.
“To complete this challenge, I think we have to know what rumours we have to prove wrong. So, what are the rumours about me?”
“What, are we playing Truth?” you ask sardonically, finishing up your last boot and standing up. He gets up and shoves his feet into his sneakers before grabbing his bag.
“Yep. We each get a turn,” he says as you grab your keys and your card to get into the dorm building. Grabbing a small leather backpack, you stuff your wallet and a portable battery inside and sling it on while your other hand pockets your phone. He doesn’t even ask where you’re going and you don’t question why he follows as you two exit your room. “After I go, you go.”
“Okay, fine.” Searching your mind, you pull the threads of gossip you heard in passing and try to summarize it in a brief sentence. “They say you’re a tease, a flirt, that you can’t hold down a serious relationship with a woman for whatever reason and still for some inconceivable reason, girls still fling themselves at you.” He juts out his bottom lip, mulling your words over before nodding.
“Fair. Those are the rumours that we have to break, then,” he says with a glance at you. Your answer is a nod and a one-shouldered shrug. Then, an idea pops in your head.
“If I asked if you wanted to eat dinner with me, would you? You know, if girls heard you ate a platonic dinner with a girl and that you have friends of the female gender, then maybe they’ll realize that you, A, don’t have commitment issues, and B, are an actual human being behind all that flirting and shit,” you explain slowly, trying not to get his hopes up that this is a date. It is not. So you clarify this to him. “This is not a date. I am putting boundaries down. I have drawn them with a extra-thick Sharpie, in bold black, between us and if you cross that boundary, I will immediately block you from my life.” He blinks and then that stupid soft smile appears again.
“Girl, you had me at ‘eat dinner with me’ and ‘platonic dinner’.” Rolling your eyes, you press the elevator button. “You basically said we were friends,” he added triumphantly. Again, you over-exaggeratedly roll your eyes. “I can drive us. Where’re we going?”
“Does Chipotle sound good to you?”
“Sounds perfect.”
TAGS: @teawithbucky @shadowsndaisies @jcc04220 @uhltrons @goldenariana @http-natiii @yourwonderbelle @poseidons-lil-bitch @beyond-the-ashes @fallen-imagine-angel @dontstopxx @always-fletcher