angel cake ♡ tom holland/sebastian stan/chris evans oneshots

Phoenix // Peter Parker

   I carefully combed my hair back from my forehead and tied a bandana around it to keep it away from my face. I wiped around the wound with a cotton pad and cleanser, wincing whenever my shaky hand strayed. I put my hand down, throwing the bloodied cotton into the bathroom bin, then grabbed a tissue and tenderly pressed it to the gash to slow the blood flow. I opened the broken bathroom door and padded back to my bedroom, hand still to my cut. I lay on my bed, then bundled up the tissue and threw it across the room. It left a red mark on the peeling wallpaper and I sighed, then painted a galaxy on the back of a reciept from 2008 and stuck it to the wall to hide the blood. I stepped back and stared at my wreck, motionless. Why do I keep doing this? I think I'm doing it for good but it's just so AWFUL. You trying being an orphaned 17-year-old living alone in her dead parents' abandoned house in the middle of nowhere who goes out everyday and tries to fix everything with her pointless fire powers and handiness with a knife. 

   A single tear seeped out of my eyes as I closed the lids and leaned my head against the printer paper, the inside of birthday cards, the forgotten chocolate wrappers, anything I can find now to hide the splotches and cover with neat biro doodles or beautiful swirling paintings. My hand raised of its own accord and hovered over it all, ready to rip it down and see the damage I've created. I stopped myself, choking out a sob, then sniffed hard and wiped my eyes, wandering through to Mum's old study. I grabbed my paintbrushes and better paints, then hunted high and low for a canvas. I couldn't find a single one, not even a spare bit of space on one I've done, so I just calmly started taking down the calendars and reminders from one wall, then painted. I sketched out the shape of a person, three people, and filled them in with careful precision, not using the bright, bold colours I use for my own room, but real colours because after all, I'm painting me, and as much as I don't to be, I'm very much alive and real. I painted the first girl in black, knealt in front of twin graves inscribed with two names. MARTHA-MAY STEVENSON and THOMAS STEVENSON, my parents. I added a small one beside them: ELLE STEVENSON. It's weird looking at your own grave, especially if you know it isn't filled by anyone. I painstakingly painted the rest of the graveyard, then blended out the lines to the second girl. She was doubled over, a blurred mess of Thor's stupid hammer whizzing past. Her face was screwed up and a red-ish glow surrounded her. My own face twisted and I rushed the back - just a mess of grey almost indistinguishable as buildings. I moved onto the third girl, flicking the paintbrush a few times to imply fire curling from her palms. She didn't need a background - I was, after all, in here when I found out. Then I looked at the biggest wall in the room, nibbling my lip, and took the family photos down. I vowed to put them up in the kitchen, the one room I hadn't attacked with my creativity. I breathed out quickly and didn't sketch out the final picture. My paintbrush moved in fluid motions over the wall; a splash here, a smudge there, then I stood back and admired.

   It took me 8 hours to finish my messy mural. The final picture was still me, but bigger, and in the 'costume' I made - an old dark red silk sheet stitched neatly into a vest top, an old pair of large men's jeans snipped into shorts (held up with a ribbon from a long ago birthday gift) and a cropped black leather jacket. A strip of the silk covered part of her face, eyes peeping through. It wasn't a very thick mask but it was enough to make her unrecognisable. Her eyes glowed black and from her hands burst flames. Her face was deadpan and somehow gorgeous, black lipstick applied carefully over her mouth and little flames dripping from her lips. Her hair floated in a cloud around her pale face, honey-coloured and reaching out like tendrils. Her feet were hovering just above the ground and flames furled majestically around her frame. The back was a mess of stinging colour - an insight to her mind.

My chest tightened and instincts of living alone for two years kicked in - I wasn't alone. I smiled smugly, then dropped it and walked back to my paints, carefully slotting the tubes into place. My ribs crushed my lungs even further when I noticed the tiny metal spider on the ceiling, eyes glowing red and, quite obviously, recording me. I picked up an old paintbrush, thick with (flammable) paint. I turned slightly, holding the paintbrush up and facing the window as if inspecting it, ears strained for movement in the house. I heard it, right outside the study, then saw a tiny thing poke its head round the door. I'll show them who the fuck they're spying on. I sucked in my breath, paint fumes tickling my throat, then slowly, deliberately breathed out, flames flowing like water out into the air and onto the brush. It set alight (like I knew it would) and I smiled, winding it round my finger fondly. Then I quickly held it up to the spider, which started sparking and fell to the floor. I turned to the door, looking over my shoulder. Some idiot in a red and blue suit came round the door, walking a (fake) swag walk. I turned around and put my hand on my hip, one leg out and eyebrow raised. I knew that, even though I was wearing an unravelling navy jumper speckled with paint and sweats (oh fuck off it's my house I'll wear what I want), I looked intimidating. I might have been born in Scarborough, but you best believe I was made in fuckin' Sassgard.