peter my husband

my mom: why are you crying on the floor?

me: chris evans may be quitting as captain america after infinity war

my mom:

my mom:

my mom: *starts crying on the floor with me*

10

Zooming in on David Tennant

5

“I know a lot of you probably don’t have much use for religion. I didn’t either, for a major portion of my life. I’ll be honest, I wear a collar sometimes, but I still have doubts. Big ones. If anyone tells you they don’t, they’re lying. Because life is mysterious, death more so. And I don’t pretend to have all the answers.”

They Wanna Make Me Their Queen

( Prompt: princess diaries style “I grew up not knowing I was royal and suddenly my royal grandparent showed up out of nowhere and told me I was so now I guess I’m the heir to the throne and you’re my crush from my pre-royal days but I still have a crush on you” AU ) 

PART 2

A/N: Yeah, okay, I have had this fantasy playing out in my head. Picture it: me, a princess of some small and obscure island, and my long-lost grandmother tells me I’m a princess and I get married to Tom Holland AND WE ALL LIVE HAPPILY EVER AFTER. Okay, on a serious note - Princess diaries AU anyone? I watched the movie and it was great. 

Taglist: @mainspidey | @x-wing-starwriter | @tomsleftbrow | @tryn25 | @tanglefire | @midnight-memorial


You drop your backpack on the floor inside your front door. It’s the area that your mum not-so-fondly refers to as the ‘shoe graveyard’ where everyone who comes in leaves their coats, shoes, umbrellas, and in this case, a backpack and a soggy cherry-printed umbrella.

(Y/n)? That you?” Your mum calls from the kitchen.

That’s odd. Mum doesn’t usually get home from work until six o’clock. Shaking out your rain damp hair, you head down the shadowy hallway and into the sleek, modern kitchen of steel and chrome. What you see there makes you gasp.

Mum’s gotten out her best china, gold-rimmed and floral, the ones she’d gotten as a wedding gift. She’s sitting and having tea and fancy pastries with the strangest-looking woman you’ve ever seen. She has pale skin, ruby red lips and hair piled up on her head in an elaborate bun. Small and bird-like, with a stern expression on her wrinkled face, she’s sitting ramrod straight, staring and assessing your every move. She’s dressed in a black cashmere cardigan, and flowing jersey pants, her legs crossed delicately at the ankles. On her feet are black Chanel ballet slippers.

“This is her?”

“Yes,” Your mum answers, glancing up at you with a too-big smile. “This is my daughter, (Y/n).”

“Um,” You say intelligently, glancing at mum for help. You want to ask the woman, Who are you? But you think that might come across as being a little rude. “Um?”

“This is your Grandmother,” Your mother says, waving you forwards. “Your father’s mother.”

“I thought he died.”

“He did, but now his mother – your grandmother – wants to see you.”

“What, after years of total radio silence?” You snort, flinging yourself down into an empty chair. You grab a small finger sandwich, making a face when you realise you’ve grabbed a cucumber one. “What does she want from us? Money? My left kidney?”

Lips pursed, voice clipped, the old lady says, “I can assure you, I have no need for such frivolities.”

“Frivolities? Really? Who even says that anymore?”

(M/n), if you do not tell her, I shall,” Your grandmother says sharply, brandishing a butter knife and heaping a large dollop of clotted cream onto a scone. “There is much to be discussed.”

(Y/n), the thing is . . .” Your mum’s tripping over her words, and you tilt your head to the side as you always do, saying nothing but willing her to continue. “You’re a princess, (Y/n).”

And grandmother nods sombrely along to every word, as though she has to give up her left kidney.

As for you? You take the news remarkably well.

You faint dead away, right then and there.


The worst part about this whole ‘princess’ thing, you think grimly to yourself as you stomp down the hallway of Midtown High, is that you’ve been forbidden from telling anyone. Not Ned Leeds, not Michelle Gonzales, and most certainly not even your best friend, Peter Parker. You’ve just become princess of a small island called Serangoon, have a queen for a grandmother, basically have unlimited power and resources at your fingertips, and you’re not allowed to talk about it. Grandmother had explained – rather impatiently, in your opinion – that if you told your friends, the information would spread like wildfire. You could – and would – be compromised, assassinated like a character in Game of Thrones. This was for your safety, she’d assured you.

You don’t even get a makeover like Taylor Swift in her You Belong With Me music video. You’re still the same old (Y/n), with your frizzy hair, less-than-ideal clothes and the acne scars on your face.

What you do get are princess classes – Mondays to Fridays, 3pm to 7pm. History classes, etiquette lessons, and basically whatever your grandmother saw fit to throw at you. You’d seen the disdainful way she’d looked at you. Because of course princesses had to be charming and graceful, with impeccable manners.

You’d tried to tell her that you had homework, a social life, but your pleas for mercy had fallen on deaf ears.

How is it that a freaking princess can be invisible, you think grouchily, slamming your locker with a little more force than is strictly necessary. The metal trembles violently, then stills, and you glower angrily at it.

Stupid locker, stupid grandmother, stupid, stupid, stupid!

“What did that locker ever do to you?” Peter demands laughingly, sidling up to you, a soft, sweet smile on his face.

Instantly, your mind goes fuzzy, a big useless snowstorm. Your mouth feels like it’s stuffed with cotton, and you gulp. That crush on Peter hasn’t disappeared at all, has it? It’s almost amazing to consider – you’re a princess, who will likely be married off to a prince/duke/king to provide heirs to both kingdoms ( or maybe this is your Game of Thrones obsession shining through ), but you still feel awkward and small around a boy you’ve known ( and liked ) since middle school.

Of course, the only way he’d ever notice you was if you became as gorgeous and as popular as Liz Allen.

If only you could tell the press …

But no.

“Earth to (Y/n)!” Peter’s laughing now, waving a hand in front of your face, his eyes bright and happy. “Did you hear what I said?”

“Um. Um?” You shake your head to clear away the fog. Your face feels far too warm for your liking. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Movie night? My place or yours? A new episode of Star Wars came out, and you agreed that we’d watch it tonight.”

“Thanks a lot, grandmother,” You mutter, cursing your grandmother out in your mind for scheduling princess classes on a Friday. “I can’t, Peter. Not tonight. I’m sorry.”

Peter’s face falls, and you’re kicking yourself for having to flake out on him and this time honoured tradition. For a moment, you think about just caving and telling him – but the resulting earful you’ll get from your grandmother is not worth it.

“I’ll make it up to you,” You say instead. “Promise.”

You glance anxiously at your watch. 3.12 pm. You’d asked Stanley – your chauffer cum body guard – to pick you up three blocks away from school, outside Hunan Kitchen, a dingy Chinese place, and you can practically picture his stern, youthful face as he waits, the engine of the Rolls Royce idling.

“Okay.” Peter’s smiling a little now, and that’s worth something, at least. “As long as you promise.”

2

Richard Madden as Peter Leigh in Oasis

They Wanna Make Me Their Queen

( Prompt: princess diaries style “I grew up not knowing I was royal and suddenly my royal grandparent showed up out of nowhere and told me I was so now I guess I’m the heir to the throne and you’re my crush from my pre-royal days but I still have a crush on you” AU ) 

PART 3

A/N: So my crush talked to me today ( it was just a simple hello but I DIED ), and I died again when I saw Tom Holland strip down to his boxers in that new trailer. My friends are probably sick and tired of hearing about me rant about Tom Holland’s abs and my new husband, Matt Murdock.

Taglist (temporary): @theactualscarletwitch | @moonlight53 | @intohook | @alaskayoung-x | @kubby14679 | @clean-and-claire | @fandoms-broke-my-life | @johnmurphys-sass | @queenofthelavalamps

Taglist (permanent): @mainspidey | @x-wing-starwriter | @tomsleftbrow | @tryn25 | @tanglefire |@midnight-memorial | @tiny-friggin-human


As it turns out, you don’t have to worry about keeping secrets from your friends for long.

After about a month of gruelling ‘after-school’ sessions with an endless string of tutors, of having to come up with flimsy excuses for cancelling on outings and get-togethers, of having to tough out the agony of avoiding Peter’s soft and concerned eyes that beg you to tell him what’s wrong, the paparazzi snap pictures of you and your grandmother having afternoon tea in the Hilton. They’d put two and two together, and before you could say, “I have a crush on Peter Parker”, pictures of you are splashed all over the front page.

Your phone’s been buzzing non-stop, but you’ve been ignoring the messages and missed calls – Did you even know fifty people from Midtown High? – too focused on your very furious grandmother, who’s been pacing the room, a wild animal in cage. Peter’s face, coupled with his adorable smile, flashes across your screen for the tenth time; you flip your phone over so that you won’t have to see his picture.

“Grandmother, I’m sorry,” You apologise meekly. “This is my fault.”

Throwing the papers aside with an impatient huff, your grandmother rounds on you, her eyes fierce and piercing. You almost regret having said anything.

“Silly child,” She says, her tone warm and exasperated all at once. “How on earth is it your fault? It’s the damn press –”

You’ve never heard her swear before. It makes you giggle.

“Frankly, I’m surprised that we’ve been able to keep you out of the public eye for so long.” She shakes her head, deep in thought. “But now that the – How do you say – dog’s out of the kennel, we’ll just have to make the most of things.”

“What’s going to happen to my baby?” Your mother demands, going into full mother-bear mode, her voice holding an edge of protectiveness to it. “Is (Y/n) going to be safe?”

(M/n), I assure you that precautions are being taken, even as we speak. There will be increased security –”

You’re sure your face turns pale at the thought of having a team of beefy bodyguards on your heels 24/7.

“– We’ll enroll her in some self-defense classes, we’ll get her a Taser, some pepper spray … Whatever’s necessary. I swear on the Crown of Serangoon that I will do anything and everything in my power to keep (Y/n) safe.” Grandmother sighs then, having gotten it out of her system, and continues. “However, I think a press conference is in order. We’ll have to introduce (Y/n) to the public officially, and the date of Coronation Day will have to be pushed forward –”

Your mother and grandmother launch into a deep and lengthy conversation about banquets, fittings, classes. And all you can do is sit there, your head spinning, a satellite out of orbit.

At least you don’t faint this time. 

It’s progress, at least, you think.


You walk into school the next day, and nearly run out screaming for Stanley to take you back home, press camped outside the school be damned.

Stanley had had to muscle his way through about three feet of screaming paparazzi pressing themselves onto you from all directions, screaming out their questions, the camera flashes blinding and searing themselves into your retinas.

Everyone wants a piece of you, it seems. Kids goggle at you when you walk down the halls; in addition to the news article, there had been a news report filled with pictures of you: From a smiley, gap-toothed, pig-tailed (Y/n) to a teenaged (Y/n), smashing her cheek with Peter, clowning about for the camera. The press had raided your Snapchat, Instagram and Facebook accounts, it seemed. You’d had the misfortune of seeing the report at a diner, but the fortune of having Stanley and his limo nearby; you’d ran out before anyone could identify you.

Kids you barely know, have barely talked to in the past year – nerds, jocks, Queen Bees – all stop to talk to you. A year ago, you wouldn’t have been breathing the same air as them; but now, all everyone wants is to talk to you, to ask for your autograph, to invite you to parties.

Worse, your friends are slipping away. You manage to wave to Michelle only once, in a corridor, surrounded by your new fan club. She doesn’t return it. Her eyes are huge and dark and accusing, all at once. As for Peter – he’s taken to spending time with Ned, and he can’t quite look you in the eyes, even when you try to catch his gaze. 

You know that you have a whole lot of apologizing and explaining to do, but how can you possibly start if your friends have already decided that they want nothing to do with you? To avoid encountering Peter, you bury yourself in your phone and hurry away. Every instance leaves you with a frigid soreness buried so deep inside that no amount of heat could wring it out.

On second thought, you accept that party invitation.


You’re wearing a slim black Costume National sheath dress, a strand of pearls around your neck. Your hair is neat, your face made up with a thick layer of makeup. You look like you’re a famous model – or a princess – and you can feel the press staring at you as you walk into the room with Grandmother.

You’d caved, had tried to dial Peter on your cell phone with trembling fingers, but it’d gone straight to voicemail. You try not to think it’s because he hates you.

Grandmother handles the interview like a pro. Public speaking is not your forte – there had been an unfortunate incident in the fourth grade involving a judging panel at the annual talent show, and the front row of students being covered in vomit. All you have to do is fix a vapid smile onto your glossed lips, sitting stiffly between your mother and grandmother.

“Princess (Y/n),” Someone’s saying your name now, and you immediately glance up, more than a little startled at being addressed. “We’ve received pictures of you and a boy identified as Peter Parker. Is he your boyfriend?”

Your hands are shaking. Your knuckles are white when you ball them up into fists. You might have a security detail, a whole armoury of weapons and weekly self-defense classes, but Peter, Ned and Michelle don’t. If you’re not careful, someone could hurt them to get to you. 

And you don’t think you could live with yourself if it did happen.

Protect your friends, only to lose them … Or disregard their safety for your own selfishness?

It’s not even a choice.

Your mouth is dry. You have to practically force the words out of your mouth. “No. No, they – Peter was just a … He’s not important. None of them are.”

The moment the lie leaves your lips, you want to scream. You want to take all your words back.

But you can’t.

You Are Good At One Thing

Author: Juju

Pairing: Peter Parker x Stark! Reader

Summary: You are hanging out with the Avengers and celebrating the end of exams. The conversation leads to secret talents. After Tony, your dad, shows of his talent, it’s your turn. You wrack your brain trying to find something but you can’t. You’re just plain old Y/N. That’s what you thought until Peter decided to finally say something.

Warnings: embarrassment, and sort of shy reader I guess?

P.S. Y/N and Peter go to the same school, that’s why they finished at the same time and why Peter is there in the first place.

You and some of the free Avengers were hanging out in the common room and it was nearing midnight. And by ‘some of the free Avengers’ I mean: You, Natasha, Wanda, Steve, Clint, Bucky, your dad, and Peter. You and Peter had just finished your last exam of the school year and you were all celebrating. Everyone had had a couple drinks or two, except you and Peter of course. Tony wasn’t an overprotective parent but he wasn’t that loose. But by now, everyone else was. You were all reminiscing and laughing and it was the most fun you’d had all year. But you knew embarrassment was down the line once Tony started talking.

Keep reading

Me Against You

PART 1, PART 2 

A/N: I turned 18 today, on the 10th of April, and as a birthday treat, here’s an extra long chapter!! I wanted a date with Tom Holland for my birthday present, but needless to say, I did not get what I wanted. Someone please tell me that he’d love me as much as I loved him if we ever met in this lifetime. 

Warning: Angst, mentions of torture.


Everything happens quickly.

One moment you’re staring up at a wide expanse of blue sky, watching the jet disappear; the next, you’re surrounded by a group of soldiers rushing onto the scene in combat fatigues, pointing their guns at you.

Realization sends you backpedalling, but you run into something solid. You turn, already swinging, and nail one in the chin. He stumbles to the side and would have given you a clear shot to your friends, but three other soldiers take his place.

Before you realize what’s happening, a metal collar is snapped around your neck, sharp electrical pulses shooting through you. Suddenly, you can’t move, can barely breathe. Panic fills you, joining the adrenaline rushing through your veins, and your body isn’t sure how to react. Keep fighting, or shut down.

“W-What are they doing?” You hear Peter ask. You can’t see him, but he sounds scared. Panicked. “That’s a collar. Mr Stark, you said they were only going to talk to her!”

Stop it,” Agent Barton snaps. “That’s a child, not an animal, get that thing off!”

Keep fighting. Definitely keep fighting. The idea of sending your SAT scores to Attica instead of Cambridge is not appealing. You unleash it all with a scream. A plane explodes in a ball of fire, shaking the ground beneath your feet. Screams of terror fill your ears. The shock wave hits everyone within a hundred foot radius, knocking them backwards. You hit the ground hard, and a wave of pain sweeps over you.

“Run!” You try to shout, but only gurgles escape.

And then that familiar voice says your name, taut with pain.

(Y/n).”

It’s him.

“(Y/n),” Peter tries again.

You slowly lift your head up to stare at him.

He’d known what would happen. He’d done this. He’d betrayed you.

Peter’s scrambled to his feet now, hands outstretched, almost as if he wants to touch you, but can’t quite bring himself to.

With a feral scream, you launch yourself at him. You and Peter slam onto the ground, hard. Volts of electricity shoot through you, sharp and hot and carnivorous. You open your mouth to scream. Peter takes the opportunity to shove you off of him, shooting webs to pin your hands and feet to the ground.

(Y/n),” Peter manages. He sounds closes to tears now, his tone as tormented as his expression. “(Y/n), please, I’m your friend.”

You stare at him, your eye wild and feral-looking, your breath coming quicker and quicker from your parted lips. The pain is crashing over you in waves, the shocks making your muscles twitch and seize painfully, but you manage to raise your head, glaring at Peter with such soul-deep hatred that the blood turns to ice in his veins.

“We were never friends!” Your screams come one after another, scraping along your raw throat without pause. “I have always HATED you!”

For the third time that day, Peter recoils. He goes incredibly still, so still that you notice how his hands are trembling. He’s wearing a mask, but you know that his face is contorted in misery. There’s a quiet whoosh of air, followed by the sharp stab of pain in your arm. You can only stare at the small darts in your shoulder before blackness pulls you under.


“– How is she?” A male is saying. You recognize his voice. It makes you angry. Angry enough to force you out of your deep sleep, the only thing protecting you from feeling the pain in your body.

You blink, looking through eyes glassy from the strain they’ve endured. Tony Stark peers in through the glass window, looking at you as though you are a particularly interesting specimen under a microscope. Dark half-moons ring his eyes, and his arm is in a sling. You can’t find it in you to feel sympathetic for his injuries.

The anger magnifies, giving you strength. Strapped to the cot with metal shackles, you fight for freedom. Snarling like the very animal you might be becoming, you twist and buck, half-crazed eyes staring at him, wishing that you could do so much more than try to kill him with your eyes. All you receive for your trouble is another jolt of electricity. The bed shakes with the force of your shudders, the pain acute, gut-wrenching and soul-zapping. They’re going to kill you. How could they not? After a while, even your skin begins to vibrate and it doesn’t stop when the electricity does. Your bones feel brittle, as if they’re going to break at any second. Your lungs have to be filled with glass rather than air. Every breath is agony.

Tony Stark only looks at you again once your screams have stopped. His head droops. With shame? “The Spiderling wants to see you. You hurt him pretty bad.”

Good,” You snarl, surprised at the sound of your voice. You’ve shouted, but only a whisper can be heard. “Tell him I hate him and that I lied.”

Tony Stark closes his eyes, releasing a heavy breath. “He was doing the right thing.”

You raise your head to stare at him, eyes narrowed to angry slits. “No. He was doing what you asked him to.”

Tony Stark’s mouth opens and closes, and you know he’s searching for a response. When he finds none, he turned on his heel and marches out of the room.

“Good riddance,” Clint mutters.

Scott’s the first to recover, a curious edge to his voice. “What exactly did you lie about?”

You let your head droop back onto the pillow. “Having a good time,” You dead-pan, your eyes flickering up to the ceiling. “We went out a lot.”

Scott’s the first to snort in amusement. Slowly, the others join in, Clint and Sam snickering right along with him. It’s even enough to rouse a weak and rusty-sounding laugh out of Wanda, who’s been silent for the whole week that you’ve been stuck here.

It feels good to laugh. Even for only a moment.


You wake with wet cheeks, and a warm, calloused hand tapping at your face. You hope this doesn’t mean that the doctors are back to draw more of your blood; but the doctors at the Raft would never be that gentle with you.

(Y/n)? (Y/n), can you hear me?” The voice is pained, and you think you hear a muttered curse of, “Damn it, Tony.”

The pain is a constant throb in your head and limbs, you shouldn’t move; it will only make everything worse. Wincing, you crane your head up to see who has called your name. Blinking several times, you focus as hard as you can on the only face you can see. It is contorted with anger. His eyes are the palest blue you’ve ever seen, and remind you of clear summer skies and languorous lagoons. He’s not in the red and blue uniform, but in a plain grey hoodie, a white shirt and a pair of jeans. But you would recognize that face anywhere.

“Captain,” You croak weakly. “How was Russia?”

“Cold,” He answers wryly. “I prefer a warmer climate.”

He kneels, you hear the tinkle of metal being ripped apart, and your hands and legs are free. It’s difficult to move; fatigue has added weight to each of your limbs and your eyelids feel as if they’ve been replaced with sandpaper. Captain America helps you sit up, draping his hoodie over your shoulders.

“The collar now. Okay?” He offers you a calm and steady smile, his eyes warm and kind. “One, two –”

Quick as a flash, he grasps at the collar around your neck. Your fingers dig into your palms, gouging crescent shaped marks into soft flesh. Bracing yourself for an electric shock, you nod tersely, and he breaks it apart with his bare hands. You exhale in relief, smiling faintly and wanly at him.

“We’re getting out of here, (Y/n),” Captain America says, smoothing back soaked and matted hair away from your forehead. “Everyone’s waiting in the jet.”

You’re unable to support your own weight; he has to half-carry, half-drag you for several paces at your insistence that you can walk. When what little strength you have drains out of you, you crumple into a heap on the floor. He gives up the charade of allowing you to walk on your own and unceremoniously lifts you up off the floor and into his arms, as if you weigh nothing more than a feather. Your head lolls against his chest as he carries you out of your cell. An alarm erupts, screeching through the empty room.

“I was mean to him,” You confess groggily, your voice strained. “Very, very mean.”

Him. That kid with the webs?” Captain America bends down, and rips a badge off the neck of an unconscious guard. “The one from Queens?”

“He’s called Peter Parker,” You confirm, tears springing into your eyes. “He’s got the warmest brown eyes, and the nicest brown hair. He’s funny, he’s smart, he’s nice. He always got picked on by Flash Thompson, but Peter never let Flash bully me. He’s – well, was – my best friend.”

“I’m sorry,” Captain America apologises, the pain naked in his voice. “I shouldn’t have gotten you involved in this. Tony shouldn’t have –”

You close your eyes on a pained sigh. “Tony Stark is responsible for many things. But he didn’t make me shove Peter out a window, or into a concrete wall. I did those. Me. I’m a horrible person.”

Captain America uses the badge to open the door to the hallway. The two of you enter a long, narrow, passage that you’re relieved to find is empty. Maybe he’s disabled all the guards already. You can only hope. You’re tired of fighting, of having to use your powers. All you want to do is curl up in a ball and fall asleep.

“Believe me, I’ve seen a lot of horrible people. You’re not one of them.”

It doesn’t make you feel any better. You close your eyes against the pounding in your head. “I said I hated him. I hurt him, really bad. Peter hates me now.” And I don’t blame him.

Down the hall. Around a corner. Another hall, another corner. In the stairwell, your breathing and footsteps echo off the walls. But these are the only sounds. No one is following the two of you. Others will be here soon, though. You’re certain the alarm’s already been reported to Ross, wherever that monster is.

A pained groan slips past your lips as Captain America carries you up, up the steps. As fatigued as you are, as undernourished, as wounded, your trembling seems to magnify with every new inch of ground the two of you gain. He opens the door to the landing pad, and you see the jet you’d helped to hijack sitting right in the middle of it.

It’s dark outside. Frigid air envelopes you, worse because you’re in thin prison clothes, with only a hoodie draped over your skinny frame. The cold sea breeze whips hair around your face, and, you think, slices at your skin. You huddle closer to Captain America, exhaustion glazing your moon-soaked features.

“Hold on,” Captain America says pleadingly, and you hear the worry in his voice as he practically sprints for the jet. “There’s a first aid kit in the jet. You’re going to be fine.”

Sam yanks the door closed as soon as the two of you are on the jet, strapped in and ready to go. Without a hitch, you’re shooting across the dark sky. Bucky turns, sympathy written in his eyes. He’s been through some horrible things, too. Wanda is curled up by Clint’s side, her face gaunt and her eyes closed. Scott’s already asleep, snoring like a jackhammer in the seat by the window.

“What if he hates me?” A sob escapes you, a testament to the still-fraying rope holding back your emotions. It won’t last much longer now. “Peter hates me, I hate me, I’m –”

(Y/n), do you want to know what I think?” Captain America asks kindly, kneeling down to look into your red-rimmed eyes, brimming with tears. He clasps your hands in his. It feels as though you’re holding the full blazing sun in your small palms, his so hot and yours so cold. “I have heard nothing but positives about Peter Parker. If this guy is as good a person as you seem to think he is, then I’m willing to bet he’ll forgive you when you apologize.”

Your chin trembles, a fresh round of tears threatening to fall. You lean forwards, pressing your face into his shoulder, and there is a sudden, hollow silence.