da { KOTAH } — 20s | she/her | scorpio | bi // @wheeziepoot
hiiiiiiiii welcome to my marvel side blog ! i have been a fan of the mcu / x-men pretty much my entire life (thank you, father). i’m new to the marvel fandom space— but i am happy to be here! spidey pilled , power of friendship* , sylki truther ! ❦.────
summary: peter parker breaks into your apartment (on accident). it's snowing. he can't see that well.
w/c: 1.3k
a/n: hellooooo it's time i started writing for peter. i needed to add another sad white boy to my arsenal. this'll have another part to it coming sooooon :)
.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖ requests are open (as always), likes, comments, & reblogs are much appreciated !
The first time Peter Parker breaks into your apartment, it’s snowing outside.
It isn’t an intentional break-in, really— just an unfortunate miscalculation of floors due to limited visibility because of the snow. He only notices that he’s in the wrong apartment when he clicks the window shut, turns around, and sees you.
Your computer sits open on the coffee table, the old plush of your worn loveseat dipping beneath your weight. It seems to him like you’re in the middle of something, based on the way your fingers move tirelessly scrawling something in the notebook on your lap. It also seems like you’d barely noticed his arrival.
Peter stands awkwardly by the window, hands drumming at his sides. Should he wait for you to notice him? Should he leave before you do? He decides that it’s probably better that Spider-Man doesn’t gain the reputation of breaking into girls’ apartments and starts to pull the window open from the bottom, when—
“What are you doing here?”
He whips around to face you. You’re standing now, notebook and blanket thrown haphazardly to the floor at the sudden motion. You’ve got this shocked look on your face, because obviously it’s normal to be shocked when a masked vigilante breaks into your apartment. He curses himself internally and watches as your eyes scan the apartment.
“Is— is something going on? Am I in trouble?” You ask.
“No!” Peter interjects, and when you flinch at the volume of his voice, lowers it and holds his arms out in front of himself, “No, no! I just, uh— this is the, uh… it’s wrong.”
“It’s… wrong?” You echo.
What an idiot. He’s got such a way with words. If E.V. doesn’t play this on loop to embarrass him later, his brain will do it for her.
With a rapid flailing of his arms, he clarifies: “No! I mean, it— it’s wrong, because this isn’t my apartment.”
By the look on your face, you’re not as terrified by the intrusion as before. A small smile creeps onto your lips as you glance around, almost as if to prove his point. “Well, yeah, dude. I could’ve told you that.”
He inhales deeply. Exhales like he’s blowing away his inability to speak. Emphasizes every word like he’s trying to correct himself. “I am not in my apartment.”
At this point, you’re not as on guard as you were. Wordlessly, you sit back down, pulling the blanket over your legs and lifting the notebook from the ground. Your hand resumes its busy motion of writing in the notebook, gaze focusing back on the laptop screen that illuminates your figure.
You’ve, seemingly, gone back to work. Peter has not. He stands there like an idiot.
After a moment, you cock an eyebrow at him. “You good?”
His face is probably scarlet— not that you’d even be able to tell through the already red fabric of his mask, but it’s the pure notion of it. He opens his mouth once, twice, trying to get any semblance of a coherent sentence to tumble from his mouth. “I’m— I’m going to leave now.”
You smile— wide, genuine, a laugh huffing through your nose as you do. “See you, Spidey.”
Peter fumbles with the already open window, blindly shoots a web, and swings back out.
The second time he breaks in, it’s pouring.
He’s absolutely sure, even with the fact that he can barely see the building with the rain beating down on him, that he’s made it into the right apartment this time. There’s no way that would happen again. He’s absolutely sure of it.
That is, until his feet land on an unfamiliar floor and the smell of vodka sauce floats in the air. A spoon clatters on the kitchen counter.
“We have got to stop meeting like this.”
It’s you, wrong-apartment-girl from before. He did it again. Son of a bitch.
Footsteps pad through your apartment and as he begins to lift his head to glance around, he notices that he’s dripping water all over your floor. A thought from May creeps into the forefront of his mind, something about ice cubes and water and hardwood floors. He quickly goes to stand off the hardwood to save the floors, but then realizes he’s now leaking water all over your nice rug.
You return from what he presumes to be the bathroom or the bedroom with two green bath towels in your hands. You hand one to Peter, which he gratefully wraps around himself, and drop the other to the puddle of water on the hardwood.
“Sorry about that, by— by the way. And— about this.”
After pushing around the towel on the floor with your foot, you pad back to the kitchen and start to stir the saucepan again. “What? You mean the fact that you keep breaking into my apartment?”
“It’s not on purpose, I promise!” He stutters, hands moving so fast that the towel nearly falls to the ground. “It’s just— the weather, and I miscounted, and—”
“Relax. I’m joking.” You say, turning off the burner beneath a pot of noodles. “Would you come strain this for me? Colander’s in the sink.”
Peter, to his own horror, obeys. He walks to the kitchen, slips on two green gingham-patterned oven mitts, and watches as the pasta produces a cloud of steam above the colander.
“Rigatoni? That’s— a good choice.” He says, small, and realizes at this moment how ridiculous he must look: Spider-Man, wielding no weapon but two oven mitts, marveling at your chosen type of pasta.
“Yeah? Thanks.” You laugh, ensuring that each burner knob is set to off. A clinking of dishes sounds from behind, and as Peter turns, he’s met with two flower-patterned ceramic bowls on the counter top. “Wanna stay for dinner? I probably made too much for just me, anyways.”
At first, he’s hesitant. He broke into your apartment, and you’re asking him to have dinner with you? It’s all backwards— not that he’s ever enact it in the forwards way, anyways, but regardless.
At his lack of response, you smile and pour the strained pasta from the colander to the pot. “What, no time to eat? Old lady stuck in a tree, or something?”
He can’t help but laugh at your joke. What else has he got to do, anyways? It’s not like he’s got anyone at home to have dinner with. “I’ll have some. That’d— that’d be nice.”
Peter pulls his mask up to eat, barely above his lips. He’s cautious about lowering it in between bites as you sit across from him at your small table. He notices you stab multiple noodles onto your fork and bite down on them, fork now clean.
“So… Spider-Man.”
“So…” Peter echoes, voice trailing off slightly. “I don’t think I ever caught your name.”
“And I don’t think I ever caught yours.” You say, grinning, eyes shining as you corner him with words.
Peter huffs a laugh. “Touché.”
A rigatoni-filled silence passes while you both continue to eat. “Fine. Keep your secrets. Remain mysterious.”
“That’s the plan.” Peter grins. He gestures up and down to himself with his fork. “Masked vigilante? It’s… kinda my whole thing.”
“I get it.” You say, stabbing a few more noodles with your fork. “Anonymity is key.”
“Exactly.” He answers. After a few moments, he speaks again. “I still didn’t get your name.”
You don’t answer. You shrug, grinning as you finish off the noodles in your bowl. The way you’ve chosen to deflect the topic makes him laugh. “What? Am I just gonna call you wrong-apartment-girl forever?”
You laugh too. “Hey! If anything, my name should be totally-innocent-repeat-victim-of-home-invasions-girl!”
“That’s… something. Very wordy.”
“Well, not all of us can be Spider-Man.”
As if on cue, his phone beeps: Bank robbery. 51st street. What an appropriate reminder.
Peter stands, firmly tugging his mask back into place as he deposits his bowl in your kitchen sink. You smile at him from the kitchen table.
“Stay dry out there, Spider-Man.”
He tugs open the window and plunges into the rain once more.
your boyfriend was starting to get suspicious about that spider. seven times this month alone he'd saved you. seven.
who got mugged that often? apparently you.
at this point, your boyfriend was starting to wonder if new york had some sort of personal vendetta against you or if spider-man had somehow put your name on a priority list.
the eighth time happened on date night.
he was already sitting on the front steps of your apartment building, dressed in the suit he'd spent twenty minutes pretending he didn't care about, waiting for you to finish getting ready.
then he heard the familiar thwip echoed somewhere overhead.
he didn't even have to look anymore. still, he did. sure enough, a streak of red and blue swung cleanly around the streetlight, carrying you through the evening air like it was second nature. your laughter floated down before your feet ever touched the pavement.
his jaw tightened. the two of you looked a little too practiced at this whole saving thing.
"thereee we go," spider-man sighed as his boots kissed the concrete.
he absorbed the landing effortlessly, the last of the momentum rolling through his body before settling into yours. one gloved hand remained firm against your waist while the web detached overhead with a soft snap.
his grip comfortable. he'd caught you enough times to know exactly how much pressure you needed.
you let out a breathless laugh, still riding the rush of swinging through manhattan. your fingers lingered on his forearm for half a heartbeat as you found your balance before smoothing your coat back into place.
"thank you," you smiled, looking up at him. "again."
behind the mask, the white lenses narrowed ever so slightly. "you're welcome."
his hand stayed where it was.
only then did your eyes drift toward the apartment.
"...hey, honey."
your boyfriend looked up from the steps.
"spidey." he gave a polite nod. "nice seeing you again."
spider-man seemed to remember himself. he straightened a fraction.
"what is this?" your boyfriend asked, one eyebrow lifting. "eighth time this month?"
there was the slightest pause. behind the white lenses, spider-man glanced at you before quickly looking away.
he shrugged. "she was walking home, uh... alone. couple of guys looked like they were gonna give her trouble." he rubbed the back of his neck. "i happened to be swinging past. right place, right time, i suppose." another shrug. "game of luck."
"right."
your boyfriend nodded slowly.
his gaze dropped to the hand still resting against your waist.
spider-man followed his eyes.
"...oh." his fingers slipped away almost immediately. "sorry."
"it's fine." your boyfriend smiled politely enough. another beat. "thanks for... getting her here safe."
"of course."
"c'mon, honey. they held our table for a bit longer."
he finally pushed himself off the steps and crossed to you, slipping naturally into the space spider-man had just vacated.
you stepped toward him.
"thanks, spider-man," you said again, lifting a small wave.
"just doing my..." he rubbed awkwardly at the back of his neck again, searching for the words. "...you know. hero duties."
a laugh escaped you before you could stop it.
"stay safe," you said.
the corners of the mask creased faintly, as though he couldn't help smiling back.
"you too." he said your name almost absent-mindedly. his attention shifted to your boyfriend. "keep an eye on her, man." a tiny shake of his head. "she's slippery."
your boyfriend let out a short breath through his nose. "...yeah." his arm settled around your waist as naturally as spider-man's had only moments before. "i'll try."
for just a second, spider-man looked at the arm around you.
then he caught himself.
"well..." he stepped backward. "see you around."
“hopefully not,” your boyfriend sighs. ""i'm gonna have to start getting one of those emergency buttons or something."
spider-man immediately looked offended.
"oh, nah." he lifted a hand. “those things are useless. you didn't see that study the boston police did a year ago? they don't do anything to prevent crime." spider-man paused. "’sides, i'm around, like all the time." he gestured vaguely upward, toward the skyline.
your boyfriend raised an eyebrow. "that's supposed to be reassuring?"
"i mean, yeah?"
"you saying you're constantly watching my girlfriend is somehow making it worse."
"i didn't say watching."
"you just said you're around all the time."
"because i'm a superhero. that's- you know, the whole job." spider-man pointed at him.
"you're being pretty weird for a guy who keeps finding my girlfriend."
"and you're being strangely defensive to a guy who's saved her eight times." a pause. "...trust issues, here, right?" he nods to him, talking to you now.
you rest your hand on your boyfriend's chest, a minor comfort.
"anyway—" spider-man pointed between the two of you. "have a good date night, alright?" a thumbs up, like the perfect tourist poster of new york.
“yeah, thanks,” your boyfriend mutters.
a web shot skyward.
he disappeared in a single smooth motion, swallowed by the skyline almost as quickly as he'd arrived.
without thinking, your eyes followed him.
they always did.
just until the flash of red and blue vanished between the buildings.
your boyfriend rested a gentle hand against the small of your back and guided you toward the restaurant, down the street. "...you really do need to stop getting mugged."
you smiled to yourself.
"i'm working on it."
he was quiet for another few steps. "...jameson keeps saying spider-man has a favorite civilian."
you laughed.
"i'm serious. i've lived in new york my whole life." another glance toward the rooftops. "i've never seen the guy until you started getting… every damn criminal after you in the city."
you looked away before answering.
"guess i'm just unlucky."
note from miss misery - totally got this idea from a funny ass tiktok of a guy this pov pls watch it heres the linklol
I recently saw this one post saying something about how Bucky would slot his dog tags between his teeth during sex to keep them from clanking or bothering during the moment y’know and I immediately thought of you. 😌
Would you mind writing something soul crushingly horny based on this?-
Much love. Mwah ❤️
. ୨୧ ݁ ꒰ 𝐁𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐃𝐎𝐖𝐍, 𝐒𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐈𝐄𝐑 ⊹ . bucky x fem!reader. minors are prohibited from interacting.
𝔀arnings 18+ : explicit sexual content, no use of y/n, rough sex, unprotected sex, dog tag kink, biting, metal arm kink, possessiveness, dirty talk and general filth
𝓪uthor’s 𝓷ote : ughhhhh this was so yummy!!!! love me some dog tags on buckyyy
Bucky’s on top of you, all heat and coiled power, his broad frame pinning you down as he drives into you with deep, relentless thrusts. His dog tags dangle between his bare chest and yours, cool metal kissing your flushed skin with every roll of his hips, like a silent vow, a reminder of the soldier who’s finally letting himself take what he wants. They’ve been brushing against you the whole time but now they’re clinking softly, rhythmically, against the smooth vibranium of his left arm, the sound mixing with your shared breaths and the wet slap of skin on skin.
He growls low in his throat, a sound that vibrates through you.
“Fuckin’ tags,” he mutters, voice rough like gravel and smoke. His hips don’t stop though, deep deliberate rolls that drag his cock along every sensitive inch inside you, stretching you open so perfectly it makes your toes curl. You’re soaked, thighs slick with it, trembling around his waist as he pins you down with that effortless super-soldier strength.
You reach up, fingers brushing the chain at his neck. “Leave them,” you breathe, because the sound is filthy in its own way, the soft metallic music of him claiming you.
But Bucky’s eyes, stormy blue, pupils blown wide with lust darken further. He leans down, mouth brushing your ear, breath hot. “They’re distracting you from what I want you feeling.”
In one smooth motion, he catches the tags between his teeth. The chain pulls taut against the back of his neck, the metal plates disappearing into his mouth. His jaw flexes, lips parting just enough for you to see the silver edge glinting against his tongue. The sight alone rips a fresh wave of heat through you, Bucky, the Winter Soldier, reduced to biting down on his own history just so he can fuck you without anything getting in the way.
He groans around the tags, the sound muffled and raw. Then he drives into you harder.
No more clinking. Just the wet slap of skin on skin, the creak of the bedframe, and the obscene sounds of your body taking him. His metal fingers dig into your hip, cool and unyielding, while his flesh hand slides up to cup your jaw, thumb pressing at the corner of your mouth like he wants to feel how wrecked you are.
“Look at me,” he demands around the metal. His voice is distorted, rougher, sex-drenched. Sweat beads at his temple, dark hair falling into his eyes as he fucks you with punishing precision, long strokes that bottom out and grind against that spot that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. Every time he bottoms out, his abs flex against your clit, and the tags shift between his teeth with the motion, a constant, visible reminder of how much control he’s exerting just for you.
You moan his name and he bites down harder, jaw tight, eyes locked on yours like he’s memorizing every gasp, every flutter of your cunt around his cock. The chain trembles against his throat with each thrust. You can see the way his tongue moves against the tags inside his mouth, the way his lips are shiny with spit, and it’s so fucking filthy you clench around him involuntarily.
“That’s it,” he growls through clenched teeth, the words barely intelligible but vibrating straight down to your core. “Milk me, doll. Let me feel how much you love this.”
Your hands scramble up his back, nails digging into scarred skin and metal plating alike. He’s relentless, hips snapping faster now, the wet sounds louder, your slick coating his balls as they slap against you. The dog tags stay right where he put them, trapped between those perfect teeth, catching the light every time he pulls back to look at where you’re stretched around him.
You’re close. So fucking close. And Bucky knows it, he always does. He drops his forehead to yours, tags still clenched tight, breath coming in hot pants around the metal. His voice is a broken rasp:
“Come on my cock while I’ve got these between my teeth, baby. Want to feel you fall apart knowing I’d do anything- anything- to keep fucking you right.”
The orgasm slams into you like lightning under your skin, sudden, devastating, unstoppable. Your back arches sharply off the mattress, a broken cry tearing from your throat as your pussy clamps down hard around his thick cock, fluttering and pulsing in relentless waves. Pleasure rips through every nerve ending, white-hot and overwhelming, leaving you shaking uncontrollably beneath him.
Bucky doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even falter. He keeps fucking you through it with those deep, grinding thrusts, hips rolling relentlessly as he chases his own release, dragging out your climax until you’re a whimpering, sobbing mess beneath him.
Only then does he let the tags fall from his mouth, spit-slick and gleaming, dropping heavy and cool against your heaving chest. He buries his face in your neck, groaning your name like a prayer as he spills deep inside you, hips stuttering, metal arm braced beside your head so he doesn’t crush you.
For a long moment, there’s just the sound of your ragged breathing and the faint, final clink of the dog tags settling between your sweat-slick bodies.
Bucky kisses the side of your throat, soft and reverent now, his lips brushing tenderly over the spot where his teeth had been clenched moments before.
“Next time,” he murmurs, voice hoarse, “I’m putting them between your teeth. See how quiet you can stay while I ruin you.”
one thing about 40s!bucky? he's a cocky ladies' man. this man knows he is attractive. he is charming. he can be sweet. he can wrap you around his finger and you don't even know it. he knows all the moves and if he wants you he will get you. in this version this is not a kid from brooklyn. he was raised in a very rich area and he is so confident in himself... always mr popular. his whole life every girl in school wanted him. now he is in his 20s and he is using his charm on a lot of pretty ladies.
reblogs, comments and requests are appreciated!! ♡
read more: firefighter!bucky (fic) || cowboy!bucky || brother's best friend!bucky
TAGS➝ inspired by you are in love (taylor swift); songfic but not really?; sort of tower fic; soft; implied smut; angst; nicknames (doll, baby, sweetheart, honey); references to dr. strange 2
READER NOTES➝ gn!reader (let me know if it isn’t so i can fix it)
AUTHOR NOTES➝ i have no idea how to write songfics, but the themes in this are close to my heart, and you are in love is one of my favorite taylor songs EVER. i hope i did it justice! 🩵
The lights in the bar are dim. The crowd is noisy. It’s the kind of place that has sticky floors and good enough vibes to ignore them; a place that celebrates and mourns every tick of the minute hand.
Nothing could stop life from messily oozing out every breath in these four walls. Not even the larger-than-life presence of Earth’s mightiest heroes.
After the difficult mission they just completed, their first order of business is to feel something.
You’re surprised you’re here, an agent tagging alongside others who are admittedly more familiar with this environment. But Natasha and free cocktails are enough to persuade you. Before long, you’re on your fourth drink (or is it fifth? They’re surprisingly delicious), tracing people’s silhouettes to pass the time, trading the health of your eardrums to do so.
Everyone is outlined with red neon.
The bass thumps louder than your heart. It reverberates in your chest, almost replacing the organ entirely with song. There’s smoke emanating from a corner that paints the scene with ethereality you’ve only seen in blurry pictures from yesteryear.
As your eyes sweep across the room, you realize you’re not the only introvert who’s people-watching.
Person-watching would be more accurate: Bucky’s gaze catches yours all the way from the counter where he sits, like it usually does. Somehow it always does. His staring problem is for everyone, but that look is intended for you and you alone.
Around him are Sam, Steve, and a boisterous Thor, who gestures like he’s challenging everyone to one drinking game or another. As if the God of Thunder needed more booze in his system—regular alcohol barely works on him, and he’s loud enough as is.
Bucky, on the other hand.
Quiet, brooding Bucky looks handsome tonight, with or without the sensuous light: leather jacket, boots, metal hand coiled around a whisky glass. The devilish red that casts a glow over the room should be polluting his blue eyes, but they remain brilliantly clear as they pin you to the wall. Like he’s amused to see you rooted there.
You look back from the rim of your glass and take a sip.
Something in his face softens. Enough that you can tell, even from this distance.
Then a second later, you’re stolen by Natasha’s hand around your wrist. She leads you to the dance floor.
You’re not sober enough to say no.
The ground under your boots is sticky, and the air is thick with sweat, heavy with unthinking optimism.
Strange, because in the heavy throng of limbs, every part of you feels light as a feather—save for your chest. You don’t know if it’s your wild heart or the bassline it has melded with, but something within that godforsaken cavity tugs you to where your feet aren’t.
It leads your eyes to the bar where he is.
Where he watches you.
You don’t look his way again for the rest of the night.
Because it’s—he’s—a little too much to handle for the fragile organ caged by your ribs. Unlike him, you’re sure the alcohol has begun to influence your faculties, threatening your stoic mask to reveal something honest—and because honesty is the weak link in a professional spy’s chains, you avoid him.
Another drink is placed in your hand. Nat.
Time starts tunneling around your conscious by the time you down it.
Before long, the dance floor suffocates, the voices grate, and you awkwardly weave your way towards the exit for some air. Sobriety marks every step.
By the time you’re outside, everything’s muffled, and you feel the ring of silence in your ear for the first time in hours. Breathing in the cold air kind of stings, but it’s nice. It’s refreshing.
It’s peaceful.
You count your heartbeat to ground yourself to the peace you shed blood for.
Bucky makes himself known to you on count twenty-two.
“You alright?”
His voice cuts the silence. There’s concern in it. You turn to see him look at you, hovering in front of the doorway, and briefly wonder what you look like in his eyes.
“Tipsy and a little overstimulated,” the words tumble out, measured, but unplanned. There’s that honesty you tried so hard to evade, except you don’t feel like you’re out of control. The sensation is subtle. Realizing it isn’t.
Deep down, you’re okay with the truth—because it’s Bucky you’re telling the truth to.
And because it’s him who’s out here with you, of course he has your coat in a grip. He’s already wrapping the wool of it around your shoulders.
You look down, feeling the hem brush over your clothed thigh. The fabric almost moves in slow motion.
“Thanks, Bucky.” You slip your arms in the sleeves.
Without being asked to, he’s buttoning it up for you.
You struggle to recall the day the ice broke between you and him. For as long as you can remember, he’s always been kind to you, even if he’s quiet about it. Almost like he’d prefer to be a hidden hand, someone who takes care of things from the backstage, needing no reward nor recognition: a cup of coffee the way you like it, a hand pulling you up from the training mat, the warmth of a blanket when you wake in the common room, unaware that you even fell asleep.
It used to be a poorly kept secret. Now he’s being kind to your face.
Bucky’s fingers work deftly at the front of your coat, clasping three buttons down your chest—enough to keep you warm for the time being.
If the night had shadows, his would fall on you with how close he’s standing. You’re allowed a few seconds to admire the length of his lashes. It’s unfair how beautiful he is.
The thought reinforces itself when those blue eyes look back up at you.
“You’re welcome.”
He says your name like it means something. Or perhaps everything.
The feeling that comes after is split-second, crystal clear: you don’t want him to leave, not yet. So you open your mouth, hoping for him to linger, to replace the warm buzz in your system with something more potent—his attention.
His fingers fix your sleeve. It says the same want in your veins out loud, translated differently.
You smile. “Bet you aren’t drunk at all.”
He smiles back. “They tried.”
There’s a lie in the easy lilt of his voice. His eyes are glazed with a layer you’re all too familiar with. Intoxication. Not the kind induced by alcohol—he’s basically immune, thanks to the serum.
Maybe it’s whatever Thor had. You buy time. If you don’t know what he’s drunk on, at least you get to watch him a little longer.
“You know, Bucky, I’m surprised you’re even here.”
The single, soft huff of a laugh he lets out is so boyish, his face appears a decade younger. You think he looks more like the pictures they show at the Smithsonian: not free of his own share of cares, but carefree in his own way.
Innocent, almost.
Then the chuckle dies down. He looks at you like you hurt him, and a twinge captures your chest.
His thumb brushes your cheek and you stop breathing.
You swallow instead. His eyes catch your throat move.
The rest of his hand, large and callused, cups your jaw, gently directing you to keep looking up at him—to keep looking at him.
“I’m here because you are, doll.”
The small ‘oh’ of realization is hitched on his cheek.
What happens next isn’t a surprise, but your heart hammers loudly anyway.
He slants his face over yours, fast in closing the distance, but slow when he actually kisses you. He hovers an inch away for one second, two, then three—prolonging the final moments of not knowing your taste—before he gives everything up.
Capitulation comes after one shared breath, bated and stolen just as he slots himself into you.
You welcome him and this moment that’s long been part of your dreams, hands snaking up his arms. He wraps them around you, the hand on your face sliding to the back of your head as if counteracting an escape. Why he thinks you’d run, you don’t know. The tips of your boots scrape his.
He pulls away with a soft sound that has your lashes fluttering, and your body shivers in protest at the loss of him, but then he’s on you again.
Deeper this time. You return it equally.
When you steal a breath, it’s with a relief that echoes a Quinjet ride ago: the two of you were crouched behind a concrete wall waiting for the rain of bullets to die down. He held you close while frantically scanning your person, eyes darting from one vital point to another, making sure you’re okay you’re not hurt you’re alive—all things he didn’t say out loud.
The relief of kissing him is double what you felt coming out of that battle alive. The relief of him kissing you back is a hundred times more.
You sigh his name. It pulls a sound from his chest, something ragged that gets poured right into your mouth.
His fingers in your hair card deeper. You tiptoe into him. He holds you closer, steadying you.
While your lips lock again and again, you faintly register his fingers drawing shapes on your neck. You do the same. The lines don’t make sense. Just strokes that spell desperation, like a poor attempt at signing your lives away to each other.
The sidewalk is your only witness.
Around the precarious dance that is a relationship, there is a veil. It keeps people within it safe from pain, content with shallow affection, while those who pass through it are rewarded with a burning bounty of a lifetime.
For you and Bucky, it takes time for the veil to lift.
But time is a funny thing—stretching around moments, making them last longer than they should, then racing like the wind when it feels like it.
It’s been months since you last wore your own clothes to bed. Months since he first brought it up, never to speak of it again.
You look good in his t-shirt.
Since that night at the bar, you rediscover how attractive he is: not just in the devastation of watching his form lean against a doorway, or in the cyclical metamorphoses of his hair, but also in the absolute pull when he’s around. It’s what attractive means, isn’t it? And how natural it is to be swept away by the gravity of him—like a wave to his shores.
Thankfully he’s no different. Constantly circling around you when there’s more than enough room in the kitchen, fingers brushing yours in the simple pass of a coffee cup.
The dance turns into a spin soon enough. Its centrifuge glues you together.
Limbs tangle in the dark, repeating the same dance under bedsheets and morning light. He whispers honeyed words into your ear while you say his name and monosyllabic words. More. Please. Yes. He eats them up one by one, tongue in your mouth, before moving to some other place that drools just as much.
Your body isn’t really yours anymore by the time hipbones kiss—but you’re happy to surrender it to him.
The hands that ruin you also put you back together with the help of warm, running water. They make you toast the morning after. It turns out a little burnt. You tease him about it.
What you get is the most earnest look on his face when he says: “You’re so distracting.”
Time spent with him teaches you of a force that was once foreign. It’s the same one that drives poets to ink and paper. The same one that keeps the two of you answering battle calls.
Somewhere along the way, the reason you risk your lives is whittled down into a singular point: each other.
It doesn’t matter what kind of fight it is—the kind with bullets or with words. You and Bucky will always end up side-by-side, breathing shared air. Air that reminds you where you are, why you are.
Repaired. Alive. Together.
It’s always these vulnerable moments that fuse your souls.
You like sharing a bed with him. It’s where you exchange pasts in whispers. Hold hands in the darkness. Look up at the ceiling and pretend you’re stargazing, what with how small you feel when faced with a primordial thing that’s doomed many who dared seek it.
The emotion hangs heavy in the space between your bodies—even if there isn’t much.
Even if it’s just four letters wide.
He murmurs into your cheek one night.
“…you’re my best friend.”
A pang hits you between your breastbone, so clean and unmistakable you almost gasp.
Instead, you squeeze the hand that wraps around your naked waist.
“Steve would be pissed if he heard that,” you hum.
He smiles, face in front of yours, gaze lingering on your features like he doesn’t have them memorized already. You feel warmth without touch: on your cheek, your nose, your lips.
Then he looks up, and you see eye to eye.
There’s never a time when you’re not on the same page, and tonight’s the same.
It just feels different.
Tonight, you’re bound by ink carved on a line. It writes out that four-letter word and closes the gap between you forever.
Neither of you say it. Neither of you have to.
The gunshot is strangely quiet.
You don’t hear the shouts, or his body hitting the ground.
Like a movie that’s lost its sound, everything is silenced when your eyes widen at the scene: he’s ten feet in front of you, falling backwards at the impact of a bullet that sinks right into his chest.
Except it’s not a movie. It’s real. The threat is known to everyone on that battlefield, screamed through the comms. Comms that you’re connected to—that he’s connected to.
He just decided to put himself in front of you.
There’s no ringing in your ear, no rapid pump of your heart. Just dust and a growing hole in the bottom of your gut as you leap towards him despite your weak legs. Your lips part, but there’s no scream. No words.
Not yet, at least. Not until you fall on your knees next to him, hand on his chest—peeling it away, you see blood.
Blood that should’ve been yours.
Your eyes lock. His begin to close.
Then the words spill.
“Bucky, baby, look at me, look at me—” you choke, putting pressure on the wound.
Life doesn’t stop gushing from under your palm. The comms blare—Sam, Nat, everyone—but despite being in your ear, they all sound so far away.
Bucky’s head sways to look at you. You don’t like the effort in that small movement: like he’s giving everything to show you he’s listening.
You scream for a medic. You don’t recognize your own voice.
“Hey,” he husks, the complete opposite of your desperation, too weak to be a good sign.
It sounds like acceptance.
Your vision cuts to a Bucky in the same position, bathed in blue. Laid down the same way in front of you, except he was on your lap: a scene from some morning that feels far away. The Bucky in your memory moves his lips—his voice carries the same kind of rasp as waking up…
Morning, sweetheart.
…or going to sleep.
“It’s okay—” he continues, but the tail end of it is sputtered out and your breath stops, too. Unlike the blood that still trickles out of him. The warmth sends a chill in your soul.
There’s wetness dripping onto his dirt-marred tac suit, darkening the Kevlar.
One drop, then two.
You only realize you’re crying when he thumbs at your cheek.
Again, your consciousness shocks you.
It pulls you further back this time: to a cold night, a sidewalk outside a certain bar.
He touched your cheek that night. Just like this. It was the first time he ever did it.
The first time he kissed you.
“No,” you shake your head, voice cracked. “No, you can’t, you don’t get to—”
He smiles up at you, but you barely see him past the tears. His hand—the flesh one that’s shaky and turning cold—cups your jaw.
You hold it there.
He buttoned your coat with these fingers.
“I love you,” he rasps. His breath sounds thin. “I’m sorry it took this long.”
“I love you, too,” you cry, “so much, Bucky, d-don’t—you’ll get to say it again, please—”
He shakes his head. In defiance, you kiss him once, then pull away…
…just as he mouths those three words again. Voiceless this time.
His blue eyes slowly grow cold, but the smile doesn’t fade.
As if he wants to keep looking at you, even if he’s dead.
Time won’t fly. It keeps you hostage, paralyzed, feet frozen while the rest of the world moved past you.
Before long, you’ve lost him longer than you had him.
When the month of his passing rolls around, you realize just how much pain you’re feeling.
It starts right as you wake. The first deep breath doesn’t relieve you. Neither does the second.
You step out to the kitchen and smell toast. Burnt. Three seconds later, you realize it’s just a figment of your imagination.
You haven’t made toast in a long time. Not since the sight of bread sitting on the kitchen counter tricked you into thinking he was home: how silly, the way your knees lost their strength when you remembered, how you broke down on the tiled floors right then and there.
It’s never really quiet anymore. You swear you hear his voice. The sound of his laugh after every joke made with the hopes of lifting your spirits.
Sometimes, when you’re on the way home, you think he’d be there.
You’d open the door, and he’d immediately launch into a complaint about running out of detergent so soon after the last grocery run. Halfway through the rant, he’d pause, and really look at you. Then he’d scoop you in his arms, kissing you: one peck on each cheek, then a big one on your lips.
“But I’m okay now. My baby’s here.”
Sleeping with the night light on makes you think he’s sitting next to you, reading. You threw the thing away immediately.
A million nights after, alone in the darkest dark, you still see his eyes.
You close yours. Sleep comes eventually, but not before the tears.
You wake up with an aching, hissed-in breath.
The sheets are warm, much warmer than you’re used to. In the daze of slowly dispelling slumber, your skin tingles, wondering if the heat is an oncoming fever or the morning weather being very unusual.
You feel a draft. It makes you realize that you’re no longer under the covers. The air gently kisses your bare shoulder and thigh.
There’s something different in the beat of your heart. It pulses in your ear. Steady. Healthy. Like it’s ready to take on the day instead of encumbered by it before it even began.
Then your next inhale doesn’t hurt, and you know something is different.
“Morning.”
His rasp widens your eyes, and you turn to see his.
Blue, but warm. Awake.
Alive.
The sight of him hits you like a mallet on a bell: the first pang hurts the most, but the pain doesn’t stop echoing. Its impact is unending, witnessing his smile like this. Like nothing ever happened to him. Like he never stopped breathing.
Waves of emotion course through you unrelentingly, one feeling after another. Disbelief, longing, relief that cycles back to the shock of him—until you realize the sheets under your head is damp with tears, and Bucky looks at you with concern wrapped in softness.
“Hey, hey, what happened?”
He takes you into his arms like he has a million times before, yet you melt like it’s the first. The tears seep into the edges of his white tank top, near his collarbones. You don’t care. He doesn’t seem to mind. Never did. Instead, he coaxes your head closer to his body with a large palm and strokes your hair, cooing sweet words at you.
“Ssh. It’s okay, honey, you’re okay.”
It takes a while, but when your choked sobs finally slow, his fingers cup your jaw, gently guiding them up to look at him.
“You gonna tell me what’s wrong, baby?”
Your lips part. What’s wrong?
“Everything,” you breathed, and his brows knitted. The crease of it is like a familiar song. Unbidden, your fingers lift to trace its shape, his face, the parts of him you knew by heart until your heart was the only place he truly existed.
He tightens his hold on you.
Your whisper shakes even through his grounding touch.
“Bucky, you died.”
He doesn’t say anything. Not at first. Not until after you take him through the whole thing with barely-words that stutter the dream out loud: the mission that went sideways, the bullet that hit his chest, how you can still recall the sound of air that he struggled to keep when he finally said those three words.
Remembering makes you cry again, but he doesn’t stop you, just holds you through it. A large palm on your back draws calming circles, fighting against your body’s subtle tremors. Then a thumb on your cheek to wipe the tears away.
“—I was so scared, you were gone, you did it for me—and—” you choke, before swallowing a breath and willing your voice to stop trembling. “…I still am. I’m still so scared, Bucky.”
He kisses you before he speaks. Once on your brow bone, another on your crown, then three down your temple, cheek, and jaw. You count each one and memorize what the brush of his lips feels like.
You used to think he’d kiss you all the time. Now you know those kisses are numbered.
Just like his days are. And yours, too.
“You know,” he begins, as quiet as parting clouds, “it will happen one day.”
Death.
You look up at him. “That’s why I’m scared.”
Like he’s admitting a secret, he presses his words into your ear with another kiss.
“I’m scared, too.”
When you part, his eyes shine. The dawn begins to break. The sun’s first rays shine through the windows, illuminating him as though they owe him a personal favor to make him look even more beautiful.
And he does look more beautiful. You don’t know how that’s possible.
“But I love you,” he says, “more than I’m scared of losing you. That’s why we’re here. Together. Right?”
He is right. So you nod. He smiles, thumbing your lower lip. Then, with the innocence of a child and the touch of a lover, he asks:
“Say it back for me?”
And yet his mouth is already on yours. You close your eyes, returning the kiss. There’s no choice but to feed your reply into him.
“I love you, too, Bucky.”
An alarm blares, high-pitched and sharp, and you open your eyes.
You wake up for a second time.
There’s no warmth when you wake. No Bucky. Just the cold, hard reality that the morning slams you into.
But this time, you’re not numb to it.
You cry.
You’ve dreamed of him too many times. Memories, mostly. That night you sat and stared at the sea together. Him walking around your room barefoot. A corny joke. His voice.
This time, it’s a dream with him, not just of him. A new scene designed to torture you, a fragment of what could have been.
Strange—the Sorcerer Supreme, not the adjective—told you about the cosmos once.
He talked about how it works. How, like a thread, it’s made up of much smaller fibers, infinite yet equally important to the whole. Many, but one. How each holds a reality—one that is as real as the one you’re living in.
How dreams are mirrors to your other lives in the multiverse.
He’s alive, your thoughts scream as you sob into your hands. Just not here. Not now. Not with you.
It’s been a long time since that bullet plunged into his heart and stopped it. Everyone’s already talked about him in past tense.
Everyone except you.
Because he’s not here anymore, but you hear him, see him, feel him.
❝if somebody's gotta get knocked around today,
it might as well be me.❞
— jude.
ִ ࣪ ⋆ ٫٫ #𝓐BOUTHIM :
Jude Alexander Stacy, born on April 12th 2003 is a 23 years old freelance photographer, part-time science tutor and the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man of Earth-K0964. A 6'1" man, clumsy on his feet and more nerdy than he wants to admit. His family is composed of his father; George Stacy, his mother; Helena Stacy, and his younger sister; Gwen Stacy. Member of The Spider Society and close to Miguel O'Hara, Jude is often sent on missions with Hobie Brown.
He has short platinum blonde hair, blue eyes mixed with sage green when the sun hits. Tall, lean build with surprisingly broad shoulders, with permanent scrapes on his knuckles. Jude often wears little bandages on his fingers he insists they are fashion accessories but it's mostly to hide accidental cuts. Wears oversized hoodies, colorful sneakers and vintage graphic shirts whenever he isn't in costume and always smiles at people.
ִ ࣪ ⋆ ٫٫ #𝓣HESTORY :
Nobody ever expected anything extraordinary from Jude Stacy; he wasn't a genius, wasn't a prodigy nor the kid destined to change the world. To people, he was simply George Stacy's easygoing son—the one who smiled too much, cracked jokes at the worst possible moments, and somehow made everyone around him feel a little lighter.
During a Midtown High science excursion to Oscorp at 16 years old, one of the genetically engineered spiders escaped its enclosure and everyone started to panic. It was chaotic all around, easy to be distracted for a second too long and Jude barely noticed the sharp sting against his wrist until hours later.
But by morning? All had changed: his eyesight had sharpened overnight, every muscle in his body felt stronger, lighter. He could hear conversations through apartment walls, cling to ceilings without thinking, and somehow knew exactly when danger was seconds away.
When he realized that every time someone nearby was in danger, his body reacted before his mind ever could, it terrified him. Not because of the new powers coursing through his veins, but because of what they meant. If he could stop something terrible from happening… and chose not to, could he ever forgive himself?
So he stitched together a mask, borrowed a hoodie, and stepped onto the rooftops of New York with no plan beyond helping whoever needed it. The suit became better after a few months, the organic fluid became easier to use and the name came later.
But the reason never changed: Jude never became Spider-Man because he wanted to be extraordinary. He became Spider-Man because, somewhere along the way, helping people simply became who he was. The mask wasn't what made him a hero, it just gave the city a name for the person he'd always been.
ִ ࣪ ⋆ ٫٫ #𝓣RIVIA :
He naturally developed a smoother, more acrobatic swinging style than most Spider-People, treating the city like one giant playground.
Peter Parker eventually became one of his closest friends.
Across the Spider-Verse, he's known as the smiling Spider-Man.
Breaks the fourth-wall.
Miguel often complains that Jude treats multiversal missions like school field trips.
Hobie Brown thinks Jude is proper sunshine, innit, while pretending not to like him.
Despite his cheerful nature, Jude has one unbreakable rule: if his family is threatened, every joke disappears. Suddenly, he's frighteningly focused; the kind of Spider-Man who doesn't smile until everyone is safe again.
ִ ࣪ ⋆ ٫٫ #𝓛ITTLEHEADCANONS :
Gives every pigeon around his apartment building a different name.
Keeps snacks hidden all over New York because Spider-Man burns through calories ridiculously fast.
Frequently photobombs tourists while swinging overhead.
Is often seen dancing on rooftops during patrol.
Is physically incapable of walking down the street without complimenting someone's dog or someone's clothes.
Has a playlist titled Swing First, Think Later.
Uses finger guns after successful rescues.
Gives handmade Spider-Man stickers to children after helping them.
ִ ࣪ ⋆ ٫٫ #𝓜ORE : asks and requests about this character are open and heavily appreciated! can be requested with . . . ♡ general readers or any of my !readers.
