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[waitimcomingtoo]

I’m Sorry. I Can’t. Don’t Hate Me.

Pairing: Peter Parker x ex!reader

Synopsis: You see Peter at a party years after your messy breakup and some truths come out

Masterlist

“How long do we have to stay?”

“It’s a party, Peter. It’s not going to kill you to be away from your apartment for one night.” Ned sighed as he pressed the button for the 13th floor in the elevator.

“It might.” Peter said out of the corner of his mouth.

“You need to get out more, dude.” Ned told him. “You’re starting to become Boo Radley, when really, you should be Jay Gatsby.”

“You never read either of those books.” Peter pointed out.

“No.” Ned agreed. “But I Sparknote-ed the shit out of them enough to know that you are becoming a homebody. And everyone knows that is the first step to becoming a serial killer who wears suits made out of unsuspecting women.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” Peter answered sarcastically.

“Just try to have fun tonight, okay? I won’t make you stay that long. But I want to see you taking to some people.” Ned requested as they walked into the apartment where the party was being held.

“But you’re the only person here that I….” Peter trailed off as the hairs on the back of his neck stood straight up. He stared ahead and felt the rest of the world fade away as his eyes landed on you for the first time in four years. You were leaning on a counter in the kitchen with a red solo cup in your hand and a lightness to you he hadn’t seen since the early days of when you were together. The music that had been playing when he walked in became a dull thump that Peter felt in his chest. You hadn’t caught his eye yet, too busy laughing at a story a girl he sort of recognized was telling you.

Your hair was different. Your clothes too. But there was something still distinctly you about you that brought Peter back to a place he didn’t know he still knew how to get to.

“Peter, I am so sorry. I didn’t think she’d be here tonight.” Ned said, pulling Peter back into his body. He managed to tear his eyes away from you, only once he processed what Ned had said.

“You didn’t…uh, is she…do you guys still talk?” Peter asked Ned with an undertone of betrayal.

“No, dude. I haven’t spoken to her since high school.” Ned assured him. “But I know she’s friends with Harry’s girlfriend. I just didn’t think they were close enough that she’d be here.”

“Oh.” Peter said quietly as his attention returned to you. He wanted to turn around and leave before you saw him, but it was too late. Harry, the host of the party, appeared in the doorway of the kitchen to greet him and Ned.

“Hey. Glad you guys made it.” Harry said as he pulled Ned into some handshake-hug hybrid.

“Thanks for having us.” Ned replied. “This is my friend-“

“Peter?” Your voice pierced him like a sword. Harry stepped to the side when he heard your voice, giving you a perfect view of Peter. He stared at you like he was staring down the barrel of a gun, unsure of what his next move should be.

“Oh, you guys know each other?” Harry asked as you departed from your kitchen counter and walked into the living room.

“We all went to high school together.” Ned answered right before you enveloped him in a hug. He shot Peter an apologetic glance before returning the hug.

“Ned. It’s so good to see you.” You said as you squeezed him.

“You too.” He answered quietly but genuinely. “It’s been too long.”

“I had no idea you all knew each other. What a small world.” Harry laughed as you and Ned pulled out of your hug. Your eyes slowly went back to Peter, taking their time as if you hoped he wouldn’t be there anymore by the time you looked his way. He was frozen in time as he stared back at you, taking it all the ways time had changed you since he saw you last.

“Um, is there something else?” Harry chuckled awkwardly when the uncomfortable silence between you and Peter became prolonged uncomfortable silence. Peter stayed quiet and let you decide how much information you wanted to share.

“Peter and I used to date.” You said without taking your eyes off of Peter. Harry’s girlfriend, Sadie, had joined the conversation at some point, but you and Peter weren’t sure of when.

“Wait, you two dated?” Sadie asked as she leaned on Harry’s arm. “I can’t see that.”

“Neither could he. Probably why we didn’t work out.” You said out of the corner of your mouth. Peter absentmindedly touched his lips, realizing he may have developed his habit of doing that from you. You laughed at your own joke, but you were alone in that. Your face fell when you saw how uncomfortable everyone else looked, so you looked down into your cup and took a long sip.

“Wow. Thanks for fucking up the vibe, guys.” Harry said after a minute. “Drinks, anyone? Or perhaps a blow torch to melt the ice between you?”

“That would be great, thanks.” You smiled tightly.

“I’ll be right back with that.” Harry said before heading towards the kitchen. Sadie squeezed your shoulder before walking off with him.

Peter turned to look at Ned, but no longer saw him standing next to him. He looked around the room and could see Ned absolutely cutting it up at a game of Just Dance through the open door of one of the bedrooms. Peter was fearful to turn back around because he knew that meant it was now just the two of you. Before he could psych himself out, he whipped around to face you. You were sizing him up, noticing the way his hair had grown out and how he’d lost his remainder of his teenage features.

“Well, this is a surprise.” You said to break the silence. You took another sip of your drink without breaking eye contact with Peter.

“It’s really good to see you. I didn’t think we’d ever see each other again.” Peter heard the sound of his own voice before realizing he was speaking. He had played out the moment he saw you again in his head a million times, but this version was something he hadn’t written in his mental scripts.

“Yeah, that was heavily implied by the post-it you left on my computer.” You said with a tight lipped smile. This response surprisingly put Peter at ease. It helped him to know where you stood, since the way he ended things left him completely unaware of how you felt about the breakup. He left a post-it note for you to find when you woke up three years ago and had zero communication with you until this moment.

“I’m so sorry about that. I’m sorry about a lot of things that happened between us. I was such a dick to you.” Peter continued, feeling like once he started to pour out all these bottled up feelings, he was not going to be able to stop.

“You said it.” Was all you said before taking another sip of your drink. Peter touched his back pockets and then the pockets of his jackets, looking for something to fidget with. He settled on toying with the zipper of his jacket while he search for the right words to say.

“Do you think we could talk?” He asked in a quiet voice. “Somewhere more private?”

“I don’t really think you and I have anything left to say to each other.“ You answered. Your tone wasn’t harsh, just honest. Peter began to chew his lips and felt his chance to make things right slipping away.

“I think I have a lot of things left to say to you, actually.” Peter said with an awkward chuckle.

“Then maybe you should’ve sprung for a bigger post-it.” You shrugged.

“Please.” Peter said softly. “Just one conversation. Maybe we could go outside or something?”

“I’m sorry. I can’t. Don’t hate me.”

“What?” Peter frowned, feeling like he had heard that once before.

“That’s what your note said.” You reminded him. “On the same kind of yellow post-it we would use it remind each other to run the dishwasher. I’m sorry. I can’t. Don’t hate me.”

“That’s not….thats all I wrote?” Peter asked in embarrassed disbelief. He had left in such heightened state of emotions that night that he couldn’t remember the exact wording he had chosen.

“You don’t remember?” You asked him, seemingly more amused than upset.

“I’m sorry. I don’t.”

“Wow.” You said sarcastically. “And here I was thinking we both would know it by heart. Guess it’s just me.”

“That’s awful. Oh my God. You should’ve found out where I was and dropped an anvil on my head or something.” Peter replied, unexpectedly making you let out a dry laugh.

“Hey, I still can.” You reminded him. He felt himself dare to smile the slightest bit.

“You’re being unreasonably civil with me considering the circumstances.”

“Well, if you had shown up before we played that last drinking game, this conversation would be going a lot differently. But lucky for you, I’m too drunk to remember just exactly how much I hate your guts.” You replied, making the smile fall right off his face. Hearing that you hated his guts was painful, even though he knew he deserved it.

Before Peter could respond, a guy a full foot taller than him bumped his shoulder and pulled you into a hug. Your demeanor changed and you tensed up, making eye contact with Peter over the man’s shoulder. He felt his heart sink and knew his face was not hiding how he felt.

“Hey, beautiful.” The man greeted you as he pulled away. Your blank expression became a fake smile the second he could see your face.

“Hi!” You said in a tone Peter recognized as your voice when fake niceties were being exchanged. You made eye contact with Peter again and stared at each other. As angry as you had been with him, you did not want him to be in this situation.

“Sorry, did I interrupt?” The man asked when he noticed you staring at Peter.

“Kelly, this is Peter. He’s a friend of a friend.” You explained. Peter made a face for several reasons. Kelly did not seem at all phased by hearing Peter’s name, so you had clearly not told him about your relationship. That, and you had lied about how you knew each other.

“What’s up, man?” Kelly said and held out his hand. Peter panicked, not knowing if he was supposed to shake his hand or do the weird handshake hug-hybrid he just saw Ned do. He ended up doing an awkward mix of both and saw you turning your face to the side to laugh.

“Not much.” Peter answered with a similar fake smile to yours. The three of you stood in the most awkward silence of Peter’s life until Kelly cleared his throat.

“Can I get you another drink?” He asked you.

“Yes, thank you.” You nodded and handed him your cup. Once he was gone, you and Peter exchanged another look.

“Kelly?” He asked you with raised eyebrows.

“Don’t start.”

“Of Blue Book fame?” He continued, making you give him a lethal stare.

“It’s a unisex name.”

“Are you sure about that?” He mumbled, but you heard it.

“Don’t start.“ You repeated, this time with a warning finger.

“I’m not. I’m not.” Peter said and held up his hands in defense. You shook your head and looked away, but he could tell you were trying not to laugh.

“I’m not seeing anyone, if you were wondering.” He said, making you look at him again.

“Oh, I wasn’t.” You assured him, but there was a playfulness to your tone. He reminded himself that you were drunk so that he didn’t read into things.

“Oh. Well, now you know anyway.”

“What a relief on behalf of women everywhere.” You replied. You turned away again, but this time, you couldn’t hide your laughter.

“What’s so funny?”

“Kelly Blue Book was a low blow.” You told him. “We are not rekindled enough for you to say that.”

“Does that mean we’re rekindled somewhat?” He asked, making you roll your eyes in a playful way.

“No. I’m just drunk and I have a soft spot for you.” You said like it wasn’t a big deal.

“You do?” Peter asked with softened eyes. You opened your mouth to speak, but were cut off by the sound of a girl laughing loudly in the kitchen. You both turned to look and saw Kelly leaning very close to a girl to whisper something to her. Whatever he was saying must’ve been the funniest thing she had ever heard because she was slapping his chest as she laughed. You folded your lips in as if this didn’t surprise you and didn’t meet Peter’s eyes.

“He seems-“

“I don’t want to hear it.” You cut him off and walked away.

Peter was smart enough to give you space, but curious enough to make sure he always knew where you were. He stayed by Ned for most of the night, but made sure you were never out of his peripheral vision.

He saw you laughing and doing shots with your friends in the kitchen. He noticed when you were dancing to a song from a movie he had forced you to watch once upon a time. He was aware when you went to the balcony by yourself to stare at the city skyline and catch your breath. His eyes stayed on you as you got yourself another drink and came back to the living room. Your eyes went to something in the center of the room, so Peter’s followed. There he saw Kelly dancing between two girls and looking like he didn’t have a care in the world. Peter looked back at you and saw that you weren’t exactly watching Kelly, but not unaware of what was happening either. Peter was glaring daggers at him on your behalf with his disdain building by the minute. One of the girls whispered something in Kelly’s ear and he nodded before going over to you.

“I think I’m gonna head out soon.” Peter heard Kelly tell you.

“Really? But you just got here.” You said with your fake smile.

“Yeah, but, uh, my friends want to meet up. He’s really upset and needs me.” Kelly told you without bothering to keep his eyes off the girl he had just been dancing with. Peter could see on your face that you didn’t believe him. You pulled him by the arm onto the balcony, rendering Peter unable to hear the rest of your conversation. He could, however, see the two of you fighting through the window. He quickly looked away when you came back in, but he could already tell you were crying. You went straight for the bathroom as Kelly went out the front door, one of the girls he’d been dancing with not far behind him.

“I’ll be right back.” Peter told Ned. He made his way over to where the bathroom was so that he could catch you on the way out. When you didn’t come out for a while, he took it upon himself to knock on the door.

“It’s Peter. Are you okay?” He asked through the door. He heard the sink turn off a few moments before you opened the door.

“I’m fine.” You said without trying very hard to convince him. He opened his mouth to say more, but decided you were probably in no mood for any form of comfort from him. You were staring at him through your tear smudged black mascara, almost daring him to try to cheer you up. Instead, he silently pulled a tissue out of his pocket and handed it to you. You looked down at it and he couldn’t sworn he saw the tightest hint of a smile from you. You took it, gave him an appreciative nod, and went on your way.

Peter kept his eyes on you for the next hour. The party was dying out, making it easier for him to keep track of you. When he saw you repeatedly opening and closing the clasp of your left earring, he knew he was running out of time.

“You heading out?” He made his way over to ask you.

“Oh. Uh, yes actually. How’d you know?”

“I saw you playing with your earrings. That usually means your social battery ran out ten minutes ago.”

“How could you possibly see that from the other room?” You cracked a smile as you asked him.

“You’re the only thing I see.” He said simply. Your teasing smile turned into a sad one and you looked away.

“So, um, I know you said you hate my guts, but I think it would be good for us to talk sometime. Do you still like that coffee shop near the movie theater?” Peter asked timidly.

“I haven’t been there since we were together.” You shook your head. Peter was about to ask why not, but he knew why not. You didn’t want to go there because you didn’t want to risk seeing him.

“Could I take you there? I just want to have one conversation. To clear the air and everything.”

“Peter, you broke up with me on a post-it note.” You reminded him. “I don’t care what you want.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry. What do you want?” He finally asked.

“To get past you and go home.” You answered and pointed towards the front door.

“I’ll walk you.”

“That’s okay. I don’t need a chaperone.”

“It’s late and we’re not close to the subway. It could be dangerous.” He told you, wanting to add “and you’re wasted”, but didn’t.

“I’ll take the risk.” You said as you moved past him to get to the door. Peter made the bold move to stand in front of you to block you, hoping you would understand when you were sober.

“Don’t be stubborn. I’m walking you. I’ll walk a few paces back so you can have your space.” He stated, making you roll your eyes.

“Fine. But I’m gonna fart a bunch so you have to walk through it.” You grumbled and let him walk with you out of the apartment.

“That’s fine. Whatever you need.” Peter nodded. You stopped walking and looked at him with a smirk.

“Jesus.” You laughed. “I was joking.”

“Oh. Sorry.” He smiled in embarrassment.

Peter kept his promise and walked a few paces behind you. He sent Ned a quick text about where he had gone, to which Ned replied with several suggestive emojis. Peter rolled his eyes and put his phone away so that he could keep a close eye on you. The cold New York air felt amazing after having been in that apartment with all those people. You were stumbling a little from being intoxicated and looked over your shoulder every so often to make sure he was there. When you were about halfway home, you turned around.

“This is weird.” You said as you shoved your hands in your pockets and walked up to him.

“What is?”

“Knowing you’re behind me. I think it’s putting me more on edge than if I was walking alone. I keep forgetting it’s you and getting freaked out by the footsteps.”

“I can walk lighter.” He offered. You shrugged and kept going, with Peter taking lighter footsteps this time.

“It’s not working.” You sighed. “I still know you’re there.”

“I could go across the street?” He suggested, but you shook your head.

“Come on. Walk next to me. But don’t talk to me.” You warned him. He nodded and quickly fell into step beside you. He snuck what he hoped were discreet glances at you every now and then. It was so insane to him to be walking beside you after believing he’d never get the chance to talk to you again. Every time he looked at you, he got a pang in his heart that radiated in his whole body. And everytime he remembered the interactions between you and Kelly that he witnessed, he felt white hot anger coarse through his body.

“Just ask.” You said, breaking the silence.

“What? I didn’t say anything.”

“Your face did. Just ask me what you’ve been dying to ask me.” You permitted him. Peter hesitated, then went for it.

“So, you and Kelly?”

“Oh my God.” You laughed. “Of course.”

“How long have you been together?”

“We’re not. It’s not serious.“

“Oh. So you guys just social distance and talk about unsexy things together?” He asked, making you laugh again.

“That about sums it up.” You nodded in agreement.

“Is he good to you?” Peter asked, making you give him a look.

“You’re nice to pretend you didn’t see us fighting.”You sighed. “But to answer your question, when his eyes aren’t wandering, yeah, he can be pretty nice.”

“His eyes wander from you? Not possible.”

“Very possible.” You told him. “And constant.“

“Why do you stay with him then? Why even give him the time of day?”

“It’s complicated. College can be really lonely.” You shrugged. “But he tells me that I’m pretty and kisses my head before he leaves. So it’s okay that he doesn’t see me as an equal.”

“Is it okay?” Peter asked you, making you give him another look.

“No.” You admitted. “But, you know, college can be really lonely.”

“Yeah. I get that.” Peter nodded along. “I don’t get you with him, though. I saw how he was tonight. Showing up late, leaving early, talking to other girls. That guy is an idiot. He’s not good enough for you.”

“No, he’s not.” You agreed. “But we accept the love we think we deserve or whatever the stupid tumblr quote is.”

“You don’t deserve that.” Peter stated. “Fuck Kelly, and his little blue book.”

You stopped walking and laughed at his joke before nodding to the building you were standing next to.

“Thanks for walking me. This is me.”

“Wait, you still live here?” Peter asked when he recognized the building.

“I do. But a different apartment. Remember that pipe in my bathroom?”

“That dripped hot water on your head when you least expected it? Sure do.”

“Well, it burst, so I had to move out.”

“You didn’t happen to leave the window open in the winter, did you?” He asked you, always knowing the answer.

“I still think that’s a myth.” You prefaced. “But yes, the pipe happened to explode after I happened to forget to close the window last January.”

“Totally not your fault.” He teased. “Do you like the new place?”

“Eh. It’s okay.”

“Did you hang all your sun-catchers back up?” He asked, causing you to look at him in surprise.

“I did.” You told him with a slight smile. “But one of them broke in the move.”

The fleeting image of Peter’s back being painted with rainbow light from your cardinal shaped sun catcher flashed in your mind. You blinked it away and turned your face, worried that if you looked at him too long, you’d start to cry.

“Not the frog one, right?” He asked, making you chuckle. You had bought that one together on your first trip out of the city.

“No, not the frog one. That one’s okay.” You said with a sad smile. You and Peter stared at each other for a while and he had the same longing smile that you did. You had to look away again, fearing that if you didn’t, you’d invite him to come inside.

“I should go.” Peter said to break the silence, and you just nodded in agreement. He began to step forwards, but felt like his legs were full of cement.

“I can’t move.” He told you, making you frown.

“Why not?”

“Because this might be the last time I ever see you.”

“Well, I don’t know. I didn’t expect to see you tonight. Maybe we’ll run into each other at a Best Buy or something in a few years.” You shrugged, making his heart sink.

“That makes me sad.” He admitted without meeting your eyes.

“Well, what did you expect would happen to us when you broke up with me?”

“I guess I always thought I’d get my life together and you’d…” He trailed off when he realized how stupid he sounded.

“And what? I’d be waiting for you?” You laughed dryly. “For my gallant hero to outrun his demons and come back to me? And reward me for patiently waiting and keeping my life at a standstill until he returned?”

“No. It’s not like that.” He shook his head. “I knew we were in wildly different places in our lives, and that you were going to be far better off without me dragging you down. I thought it would be some kind of a messed up favor to you to get rid of myself so that your life could go on. But I guess I thought we’d meet again one day when we were different people and…..”

“And?” You asked he he trailed off again.

“And remember why we fell in love.” He admitted, just in case this really was the last time you ever saw each other.

“It doesn’t really work like that, Peter. Life goes on. You made the decision to leave. We are different people now, but that doesn’t erase what happened.”

“I know. I know I can never undo what I did. I just…I just hope I see you sooner than a few years in a Best Buy.”

You were quiet for a minute and folded your arms as you looked at him. You stared for such a long time that Peter felt his face heat up.

“I go to the one around the block.” You said finally.

“What?”

“The coffee shop. I stopped going to the one by the movie theater and started going to the one around the block.”

“The one with the scary guy that yelled at you for taking too long to order?” He asked. “I thought you were never gonna go back there.”

“He’s pretty nice, actually. He was high strung that year because his husband had just passed. But he gave me a free scone when I came in here a few days after we broke up. He said he could tell I needed it.”

“Wow.” Peter smiled sadly. “I drove you to the point of visibly needing a scone.”

“Eh, I kinda live at that point. Don’t give yourself too much credit.”

“I won’t.” He chuckled. You smiled back at him, the first full smile you’d given him all night. Suddenly, your expression changed and the color drained from your lips. Peter was quick to hold your hair off your face as the last few drinks you’d had that night came back up. Peter blew on the back of your neck while he waited for you to be done.

“That was hot.” You groaned as you stood back up.

“It was.” Peter chuckled and timidly rubbed your back.

“You can go. The Cool Ranch Doritos I ate about to make a reappearance and I don’t want you to see that.”

“Give me your key.” Peter said and held it his hand. You dug in your pocket and placed your key in the palm of his hand. He unlocked the front door of your apartment and ushered you inside. The doritos made their reappearance in the trash can of the lobby while Peter explained your situation to the doorman.

He let the two of you up and Peter somehow found himself in your apartment. It looked pretty similar to the last one, with several cabinets open due to your habit of taking things out and walking away. Your roommate’s door was closed, so Peter quietly led you to the bathroom. He couldn’t help but look around and try to gather bits and pieces of information about your new life. The candles that you burned the most, the things you hung on your fridge, and the various trinkets you kept on your coffee table. He absorbed it all as he got you a glass of water, wondering if the brightly colored cups in your cabinets were your idea or your roommates.

“This is not how I imagined tonight would end.” He laughed numbly as he handed you the cup of water. You gave him a gracious smile and then chugged it, hoping you’d be able to keep it down. He helped you get up off the bathroom floor and leaned against the wall while you brushed your teeth.

“How did you imagine it?” You wondered. “Like, what would’ve been your ideal outcome when you realized I was at the party tonight?”

“That’s a good question.” Peter said as he thought. “I think I would just want us to be okay with each other. We had so much love between us at one time. I hate that the way I left tarnished that.”

You rinsed your mouth out and stared at him in the reflection of the mirror for a while. It seemed like you were processing something, or maybe you were just sobering up and remembering how much you hated him.

“Then why did you do it?” You asked finally. “Why a post-it note? Why didn’t you just wake me up? Or end things before I went to sleep?“

“I couldn’t face you. I couldn’t look you in the eyes and tell you it was over.”

“Why not?” You demanded. Peter looked visibly surprised at the abrupt display of anger, making you look down at the sink in embarrassment.

“I want to say I didn’t want to see you look devastated, but I think I really didn’t want to see you look relieved.” Peter admitted without meeting your eyes. You actually appreciated his candor and smiled sadly, but still had a hardened look in your eyes that told Peter he was not yet forgiven.

“Can I ask you something?” He said in a wavering voice.

“Depends on what it is.”

“Did you ever think about me? Like, when you were waiting for an elevator or something? Did I ever cross your mind?”

Peter looked so small and fragile that you almost stepped forward and hugged him. You laughed humorlessly and nodded your head.

“Of course. Of course you did. I saw you in every pair of brown eyes I looked into since we broke up.” You admitted. That was the enough to break the dam and Peter found himself unable to contain his feelings any longer.

“I’m so sorry. I’m sorry about everything. All the missed dates and calls I didn’t return. All the nights I left you waiting until you fell asleep next to the plate you left out for me. And for leaving the way I did. You deserved so much better than what I gave you.”

“Wow.” You cracked a smile. “Look who’s found his words.”

“I know they’re late. But better late than never, right?” He said with a self deprecating smile.

“Never would’ve been okay with me.”

“Really? You would’ve been okay if we never saw each other again? Even just to tell me off about how much of an asshole I was?”

“But that’s the thing, Peter. You weren’t an asshole. You were a good guy who was dealing with something I couldn’t help you with. You went about it in the shittiest way possible, but you were right to end our relationship. You clearly couldn’t be in one at the time. And I don’t think you realized that until you were writing on that post-it.”

Peter stared at you in stunned silence for a moment. It was just like you to humanize him, even after he’d hurt you in ways that changed you to your core. He looked away in shame, knowing he was nowhere near as evolved as you were.

“You could always read me like no one else could.” He said quietly.

“I thought I could. But I still don’t know what it was that you were going through. I tried to figure it out, but I never did discover the cause of the wedge between us.” You said, causing him to look back at you. You had a look on your face that brought his mind back to a picture of you he’d seen at your mom’s house. In the picture, you were just a kid, staring at the ocean with a life jacket twice the size of you. The same curious but fearful look on your face was present now.

“There was only one reason I left.” Peter said before he could stop himself. You looked at him like you were trying to decide if he was messing with you or not. Peter felt anxiety in his chest, recognizing this as the last moment you would ever see him in this way. Instead of telling you and going through the motions of you not believing him, he shot a web at a hairbrush on your floor and handed it to you. Your eyes went back and forth between the hairbrush and Peter about a hundred times. Finally, you slowly peeled the web off the back of the brush and held it up to give it a good look.

“You’re joking.” You said finally, no humor in your voice.

“I’m not.” Peter shook his head.

“Do it again.” You demanded and dropped the web into the trash. So Peter did it again, this time at your hand towel. He caught it with ease before handing it to you, which turned out to be a big mistake.

“You’re Spider-Man? You’re the fucking Spider-Man?” You asked as you smacked his shoulder with the towel. He let you hit him a few times before snatching the towel away from you.

“I am.”

“And you have been the whole time? Even when we were together?” You asked him as you visibly processed what you had just seen.

“Since before we got together.” He told you, making you start your processing all over. Your entire relationship played in your head and suddenly, all the missed dates on the night’s major crimes happened in the city made sense. You rubbed your face with your hands and sat in silence for a long time before looking at him.

“Is this why you left me? So I wouldn’t find out your secret?” You asked him in a quiet voice. Peter looked down in shame and nodded his head.

“The night I left, you and I got interviewed by the local news about our thoughts on the upcoming hurricane.”

“Oh my God. I forgot all about that.” You realized. “We were running to the bodega for ice cream. I had said I hoped we didn’t run into anyone we knew since I didn’t have my makeup on, and then we ended up on the news.”

“We did.” He smiled softly. “And in our interview, I said I was happy to have a girlfriend that buys too many blankets in case the power goes out.”

“I’m not following.”

“In that moment, I realized that if someone ever figured out my identity and wanted to hurt me, they could go after you. I called you my girlfriend on camera without even thinking about it. And all it would take is one person looking me up and seeing that video for you to be in danger. I couldn’t live myself knowing that dating you meant putting a target on your back.”

“So you threw us away because of a possibility?” You asked, sounding unsatisfied with his reasoning.

“It’s not just a possibility. Do you remember my Aunt May?” He asked you. You were about to ask what she had to do with your current conversation until you put two and two together. You did remember his Aunt May. More so, you remembered the way Peter never gave any definitive details on how she died.

“She knew about my secret and got too involved, and it got her killed. So it wasn’t just a possibility to me. It felt like it was only a matter of time before you got hurt or even worse because of me.”

“I didn’t know.” You said quietly.

“I didn’t want you to ever know. That’s why I wrote you the note on the post-it and left in the middle of the night. I thought if you hated me, you’d never come looking for me. And that would keep you safe.”

The change in perspective made the room spin slightly. You gripped the cold counter to ground yourself as your knees threatened to give out. Peter could tell you were struggling and stepped closer to you. He gently rested his hands on your waist to steady you. You looked up at him through your eyelashes and gave him a small appreciative smile.

“But what about now? Why tell me now?”

“Because you deserve to know the truth.” He said. “And it’s been so many years since we dated that we’re not gonna get back together. So there’s not really any harm in you knowing now.”

“But, just out of curiosity, does my knowing mean that now we can never be together?” You asked with a mischievous glint in your eyes. Peter’s eyebrows knit together, feeling apprehensive to read into your question.

“Why do you ask?” He asked as struggle to keep his gaze from falling to your lips. You reached up and gently ran your fingernails on his cheek, causing him to instantly melt into your touch. Peter hesitantly reached up and wrapped a hand gently around your wrist.

“Because I’m starting to forget all the reasons I cried at your hands.” You admitted to him through a sad laugh. Peter mirrored your melancholy smile and tilted your face towards his by taking your chin between his fingers. You stared into his eyes and felt his familiar magnetic force pulling you into him.

“You’re not gonna kiss me.” You shrugged with a knowing look in your eyes.

“I’m not?” He played coy.

“You’re not.” You said most assuredly. “Peter Parker is too much of a gentleman to kiss a girl when she’s drunk.”

“It’s true.” He chucked. “And it definitely has nothing to do with the entire bag of Cool Ranch Doritos I saw you house down and then puke up.“

You leaned into him while you laughed and Peter wrapped two arms around you. He held you tightly and placed a kiss on the top of your head, noting that you used to same shampoo you did when you were together.

“That’s a good call. I don’t want to kiss you when I can feel those Doritos seeping out of my pores.” You told him as you pressed your cheek into his shoulder and gently swayed with him.

“Yeah.” He chuckled softly. “But I’d like to. You have no idea how much I’d like to.”

“I have some idea.” You told him as you pulled away and unabashedly stared at his lips. Peter leaned in but instead of kissing you, he grabbed the bottle of makeup remover from behind you and held it up.

“How about I do you even better and take your makeup off for you?” He asked. You threw your arms up in celebration and profusely nodded your head. Peter found your cotton balls and gently removed your makeup for you while you sat with your eyes shut and a content smile. When he finished, he went the extra mile and did your skincare for you. He’d seen you do it enough times back when you were dating that he was able to follow it the way you did. When he finished, he scooped you up off the counter and carried you out of the bathroom.

“Come on. I’m putting you to bed so it can be the morning faster.” He told you as he brought you to the room with your name marked on the door. Your laughter rang through your room as he gently placed you in your bed. You mumbled something incoherent once your head hit the pillow, already half asleep. Peter went to leave, but you caught his wrist and tugged him back.

“Hey, Spider-Man.” You said in a playfully demanding voice.

“Yes?” Peter chuckled. You seemed wide awake all the sudden and looked into his eyes.

“Are you gonna be there when I wake up this time?” You asked him, sounding completely serious.

“I’ll be there.” He promised you with no intention to disappoint you again. You smiled at him and rested your head back on your pillow, seeming to accept his answer.

“There’s a blanket on the couch you can use. There’s a lot, actually. I still buy too many. Goodnight Peter.” You said, eyes already shutting.

“Goodnight, honey.” Peter kissed his fingers and touched them to your forehead, not wanting to overstep but unable to just walk away.

When you woke up, Peter was gone. Your head was throbbing as you stared at the empty couch with a pit in your stomach. Before your heart could fully sink, you noticed the yellow post-it Peter had left on a newly folded blanket. Your hands shook as you picked it up, but it proved to be entirely different from the last time he left you a post-it.

“Went to get coffee around the block :)” He had penned in the same handwriting he once used to leave you. You cracked a smile at his risky joke just as Peter was coming back into your apartment with keys he had taken from the bowl by the door. He had two coffees in hand and a sleepy smile on his face.

“Good morning.” He greeted you as you walked over to him. “I took a guess at your order. I hope you still like-“

You cut him off by throwing your arms around him and kissing him, bringing you a feeling neither of you thought you would ever feel again.

“Oh, sorry. I thought you were Kelly.” You smiled teasingly when you pulled out of the kiss. Peter rolled his eyes to the ceiling before pulling you into another kiss.

“You were right about the coffee shop guy. He was very nice and gave me a scone when I said the coffee was for you.” Peter said as you walked to the kitchen together. You gasped in excitement and pulled the scone out of the little bag it was in before taking a big bite.

“Hey, you’re splitting that with me.” Peter warned you and pulled you by the waist towards him.

“I’m sorry.” You said with a mouthful of scone. “I can’t. Don’t hate me.”

Tag List 🏷️

This was loosely based on “In My Head” by Nell Mescal and Sex and The City! 🍔

@whatareyouhidingpeter @takenbyheartstrings

@imyourliquor-youremypoison @andreasworlsboring101

@peterparkoure

@justcallmehitgirl @jackiehollanderr

@emmamarshmellow @unbelievableholland

@sovereignparker @every-marveler-ever @undiadeestos @eridanuswave​ ​

@solarxmoonchild @canyouevencauseicant

@quaksonhehe @lovelessdagger

@thesuitelifeofafangirl @marshxx @nooneinvitedfascistbarbie

@maybemona

@alexxcorona113 @lethal-wisdom

@pandaxnienke

 @officialsimppage @itsemohours

@leysol

@olixerwxxd @leilanixx

@whereismytelephone @so-very-asleep

@spideyspeaches @hihiweezing

@mathletemadison  

@dhtomholland @insomniac-nerd-posts-things @prancerrparkerr

@hallecarey1 @adayasgeorgia @blackwidowisthebest @imawhoreforu

@ciarahollands

@nellabellaa @pinklxmonade @boogywoogywoogy @wordsarelife @caramelfondu

@anonymousprettygirl @roseidol

[inkievoid]

because i like you

Peter Parker x Stark!Reader

Summary: Peter has a crush on his mentors daughter. And he has no idea she feels the same until she saves him from a flying food.

Content Warning: fluff, Peter Parker really likes a girl, First time writing Ned, first time writing MJ.

Note: This is old af, but I fixed it up enough to post. I hope you all enjoy!

The Cafeteria was packed, a middle school from Queens touring on some Friday in November. Groups of thirteen year olds wandered around the large room, carrying brown paper sacks or lunchboxes as they filled up the empty spots at the already crowded tables.

Peter sat in his usual spot, leaning on his palm with that stupid little smile only you could currently pull from him. His eyes half lidded as he watches you carrying your lunchbag, following behind MJ as she got her meal at the counter. Ned sat across from him, gnawing on his pizza slice before Peter says your name, getting his friends' attention.

"Do you think she got a haircut? It looks different." Ned's head turns, watching MJ smirk at something you say as she grabs an apple from the pile near the register. You fix your hair, like you're preening yourself as you chat.

"Looks the same to me." He comments through crumbles, a few younger girls giving him side eyes from the other end of the table before they go back to their own conversation.

"Mmm... Maybe I'm just not use to seeing it down." Ned turns back, staring at him as Peter looks lost, blinking slowly. That soft dazed look in his eyes his best friends had definitely seen before.

"I'm getting the worst sense of Deja vu right now, dude."

"Huh?" His eyes drift over to the pudgy boy across from him, blinking as Ned stares at him in an extremely telling way.

"It's like Liz all over again. Except, even more like you want her?" Peter shoots him a look, glancing at the filled half of the lunch table. A bunch of middle schoolers chatting way too loudly for kids visiting a school.

"They're so distracted with the place, they don't hear me, Peter."

"Right. What do you mean though?"

"You're kidding right? You're acting exactly like you did with Liz! All starryeyed whenever she's not paying attention."

"I am not, I'm just... Inquiring about a friend."

"Dude, you were talking about how she smelled like cinnamon and clove in Gym class yesterday." The brunette scoffs, not picking up on Ned adding - You made me want apple pie - under his breath.

MJ's voice draws closer as you both approach.

"And he put the fire out?" She asks, setting her tray next to Ned's, sitting as you move to your seat across from her and next to Peter. Your legs touch, sending his hair standing up on end as you settle down next to him.

"Well, Dum-E did and kind of foamed the lab. I heard him threatening to turn it into scrap metal before I saw him. My dad looked like he was lost in a snow storm when he walked out." You set your bag down, unzipping it as MJ starts putting her salad together.

"What're you two talking about?" MJ asks, glancing between the boys.

"Peter being weird." Ned admits, MJ shakes her salad with the lid closed as she nods.

"Oh, the usual then." You laugh with your spoon in your mouth, fixing the toppings over the yogurt you brought with your lunch.

"I'm not being weird." Peter groans, grabbing the remains of his chocolate milk from his tray, chugging it as you reach over. Grabbing the pickles he'd pulled off his burger he always gave you. Your hand moves, sliding over a purple and orange plastic wrapper. It's cold to the touch as he picks it up with an odd look.

"Dad got more of those Häagen-Dazs ice cream bars you liked with the groceries again. I thought you'd want one. It's chocolate with peanut butter and pretzels." He smiles a little too wide, opening the wrapper with a quick thank you. Pulling the stick it comes out from the ice cream bar itself, the plastic wrapper peeling from the chocolate coating that's smashed and flattened into the ice cream.

"Oh... I had a few people bump into me on the way to lunch. Sorry Peter..."

"It's fine, it's fine! Still good." He insists before biting into the crumbling coating, Ned and MJ both watching him struggle to catch the mess in his open under. Smirking as they go back to their lunches.

Lunch goes on as usual, chatting among the four of you, resuming to the usual conversations as a few teachers come to collect the younger kids to continue their tour. Right as Peter gets up to take his tray back, the boy to your right bumps into your side as he stands up to catch up with the rest of his class. You go left, bashing into the tray. Peter catches it with the front of himself.

Pulling it away with a mess of chocolate and ketchup smeared across his chest. A small gasp leaves your lips as you quickly stand, walking with him towards the tray station, grabbing napkins to help him try and clean himself up.

You dampen the napkins at the water fountain next to the bathroom and start wiping away at his front, dabbing gently to try and draw out the red and brown color.

"I'm so sorry..." You glance at him, his face is red. Probably embarrassed from the way he must look. But in reality he's just trying to deal with you touching him without making it into a whole thing.

"It was an accident... Unless you, like, paid that kid to bump into you?" Your eyes move up, making you chuckle with how casual he's being about the stain.

"I can buy you a new sweater... I think you'd look cute in cashmere." He feels a leap in his chest, heart stuttering at the, incidental, compliment. You continue to dab at the messy mixture before his hand comes up, gently covering yours as he pulls it back from his body. Only for his fingers to wrap around to your palm.

"It'll come out... May does wonders with stains." You smile at him, head tilting as you playfully poke at him.

"Your aunt still does your laundry?" He huffs nervously, looking away with a shake in his voice.

"S-sometimes. Yeah, is that weird to you, or?" You slowly start to grin.

"No, I just didn't take you for the kind of man who had someone else washing his suit for him."

Man... You think he's a man.

He lets out a small nervous chuckle, neck growing hot as he feels your fingers wrap around his. He looks down, watching and feeling you squeeze his hand.

He has no real time to be visibly nervous before you're both interrupted by Flash bumping into Peter from behind as he passes by. Making his hip bash into the water fountain. You both turn to stare at him as he carries his tray with his friends a few paces ahead of him.

"Watch where you're standing, Penis Parker. Maybe next time I won't have to push you out of the way." He laughs to himself as he keeps walking, you sigh, soaking the dirty napkins and matching after him before Peter can stop you. You grab the hood of Flash's pristine white pullover, hearing him make some attempt at a frightened noise before the wet disintegrating paper napkins smears over his back in a brown and red blotch.

His hand jerks back, grabbing the wad from your palm before you can react. He tosses it halfway across the cafeteria. A table full of girls scream at the thump and droplets splash them. Flash opens his mouth only for a half eaten burger bounces off his side. A lone blonde girl standing up from the offended table with a harsh glare.

Everything goes silent, no one moves or breathes heavily for a good ten seconds until one of the visitor kids screams at the top of his lungs.

"Food fight!!!"

You hit the linoleum floor of the cafeteria. Various foods flying over tables. Some hit walls, some hit people. Shrieks fill the room as teachers try getting it under control. You swore you saw Mr. Harrington get nailed with an open fruit cup as you crawl towards Peter.

He's watching the chaos, Spidey senses going crazy before you yank him down. A tray of lasagna just missed him as it hit the wall above the water fountain.

"C'mon, this way." You both quickly crawl out into the hallway. The door slipping closed behind you two as you sit against the lockers.

"Jesus, you throw one thing in a room and Armageddon happens... It reminds me of that scene from that one movie with the sad little girl and bad parents."

"Matilda?" Peter mumbles, watching you bring your knees up with a nod.

"Yeah, that one." You chuckle, glancing at him with a half smile. "You got overwhelmed in there."

"Yeah, and if it wasn't for you I'd be wearing yesterday's leftovers." He sighs, hand sliding down to the floor along his side. "Thanks for that."

"Don't mention it. But I wouldn't risk it for just anyone." His head tilts, eyes shifting to you as he notices you watching him from the side of your eyes.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." You hand slides from your lap, covering his over the cold ground.

"Why's that exactly?"

"Because I like you. Which, in case you haven't noticed with the whole... "Being a Stark" thing, is pretty rare."

[oyavoyage]

WOULD ANYONE CRY, IF I NEVER CAME HOME?

🕸⋆.˚ — peter parker x reader

SUMMARY. after a long time of being forgotten, peter parker shockingly meets someone who remembers him: a girl he used to see in high school. but their relationship doesn't start off with sunshine and rainbows; they will have to learn to choose each other, even when it's the harder thing to do.

WORD COUNT. 17.4k CONTENT. post no way home. female reader. dual pov. hurt / comfort (emotional & physical). angst with hopeful ending (blame the trailer for having angsty vibes). both peter and reader are sad. peter needs a hug. peter carries reader while swinging. loneliness and finding the one person who understands. a lot of crying. canon-typical violence. reader gets a gunshot wound. blood. explosion. death (of no one named). crime organization. reader has to fight at some point (i tried). not beta read. home-related title yay.

NOTES. i really hope you like this. let me know your thoughts in the comments / reblogs / my inbox! also let me know if i'm missing any tags. english isn't my first language, and i've never been to new york. if there are any inaccuracies, consider it the mcu version of the city. the gif is by @manny-jacinto

it was a rainy morning, dark clouds had covered the sky, and the atmosphere was melancholic. you had just stepped out of the book cafe you usually went to study or read in, it was a hidden gem in the ever-crowded streets of new york city, usually quiet and peaceful. this time, you’d just paid a visit to buy a drink with some pastries.

today’s gloomy weather felt right to you, somehow, it spoke to your soul and fit your mood. you’d stuffed the pastries you’d bought into your bag, and you were going to walk around a little bit, holding your drink in one hand, your umbrella in the other. you thought you might sit somewhere, maybe go to a park after walking for twenty or so minutes, you enjoyed the smell of rain mixing with earth to bring life to the world.

and that’s when you saw him.

he was standing at the other side of the road, wearing a simple hoodie, getting wet from the rain. an expression on his face as gloomy as the weather. he’d grown, his face had taken a sharper shape, his hair had curled on the tips from meeting with water.

peter parker, the boy from your ap chemistry class, from days long forgotten, and much less destructive.

you froze, your gaze set on his face, which had been painted in subtle and few scars, and bent downward from either the rain getting into his eyes, or life. the regular noise of the city was reduced to background buzzing in your ears, all the pedestrians walking past you, and the people waiting to cross roads around peter had turned blurry and faceless, the cars passing by had become trails of colors. the boy, or perhaps now man, you had just noticed, was someone you’d never thought you’d see again.

peter parker had been the smartest student in the class you took together, you used to keep notes and read ahead before every lesson, and he’d come sleep-deprived, busy himself with unrelated trinkets, and answer every unexpected question coming his way correctly. later, when you learned that he was spiderman, you realised he must’ve been so tired and out-of-it every day for saving lives and fighting crime.

you had learned of his superhero activities, like everyone else in the world. you didn’t use to see him outside of your shared lecture hours, not because you were actively avoiding him, fate just hadn’t coincided a conversation between you two. after you’d passed the course and stopped seeing peter entirely, you hadn’t busied your mind with thoughts of him, until that incident with mysterio. learning that he’d been trying to help people every step of the way, back when you used to see him, had changed your view of him.

and then, suddenly, no one remembered anymore. you saw it all happen. you saw the sky shatter and shadows watch the earth through its cracks. you saw what you could only describe as hundreds of aliens preying on your planet. you knew spiderman fought to save the world from their clutches. yet when it was all over, no one remembered the hell-torn skies. or peter parker.

no one remembered he was spiderman. no one remembered he was peter parker. no one remembered peter parker was. no one from your old high school, not even his best friend, not even his girlfriend. they all looked at you as if you spoke of a ghost, he was a painted over memory, he’d escaped from the weak grasps of the growing brains of the youth and the ever-tired minds of the grown.

he’d even escaped from records and photos, like how short-lived cherry blossoms disappeared in a week, as if trees had never been pink. like how spring never lasted. you’d questioned whether you’d made him up, if something was wrong with you. but how could you make up a whole person, that you simply never had a relationship with? he wasn’t an imaginary friend, he had never been a friend.

trying to catch a glimpse of his existence had been like trying to catch smoke with bare hands. and yet, now, he was standing right in front of you, waiting to cross roads. waiting to come towards you.

the lights turned green for pedestrians, and peter snapped out of his stillness, he gained motion, he slowly came closer. people around you made noises indicating they were annoyed at your inaction, but you could barely hear any of them. you were focused completely on one person only.

he crossed the road, and started walking the opposite way from where you had been nailed to the ground, unable to take your eyes off him.

no, don’t go. i must know. i must talk.

you ran after him, forcefully making yourself a way amongst bodies covered in layers of clothing. you closed your umbrella, so it wouldn’t get tangled in others’. you caught up to peter, and grabbed his arm.

he turned instantly, gripping your arm in return, a shocked expression on his face, ready to take you down, had you posed a threat. he looked into your eyes; questioning, confused, hesitant… sorrowful? how had he grown so solemn? how had he lived forgotten?

“peter?” you asked, “peter parker? is that you?”

his eyes widened, grip loosened, lips parted. he looked completely dumbfounded, drops of water dripping down strands of his hair, and the tip of his nose. he searched for something in your eyes, just silently thinking. trying to process, you assumed.

he opened his mouth to talk, and his breath hitched.

“you…” he started, seemingly talking feeling like labor to him, “you know who i am?”

you couldn’t help giving him a sincere smile, he really was peter parker. the boy from your class who was remembered by no one. he was real.

“i was in the same ap chemistry class as you in high school,” you explained, he might not have remembered you, as you’d never interacted outside of topics regarding course materials, “if you don’t remember.”

“no, no,” said peter, his voice still laced with shock, and a tune that dropped a tiny piece of despair into your chest, “i remember. you were the smartest student in class.”

“that’s… debatable,” you said, your surprise clearly read from your face.

“it wasn’t,” he said, defensive, “everyone borrowed your notes, and you always had the correct answers.”

“so did you,” you said softly, the bitter taste of nostalgia repainted with a blue hue catching up to you, tightening your chest, placing a lump in your throat. “what happened, peter?” you asked, “why have you disappeared?”

peter closed his mouth, and his grip slightly hardened, he hadn’t let your arm go. you hadn’t let his go, either.

he lowered his head, and fixed his gaze on the grey stone ground. you couldn’t quite name the emotions you saw in his eyes, but they made you tear up. what must it have been like to suddenly cease existing? what must he have been through? what must he have thought, watching his chosen family from afar, like a vampire looking at a mirror, erased from his own reflection?

the cloudy weather truly felt fit for the day, maybe peter had been feeling it too, today. raindrops fell on earth like shattered glass pieces, you thought you might’ve been bleeding with your umbrella down, but peter wasn’t, was his skin thicker?

“would you like to sit down somewhere, peter?” the tale must have been long, how else could a person, and a rift in the atmosphere, be erased from the minds of billions? “like a bench at the park, or maybe my place?”

he looked deep into your eyes, thinking.

“okay,” he said at last, determination adorning his words now, “we can. we can,” he said while nodding.

“okay,” you repeated after him, and finally let his arm go.

────── 𓆩˚.⋆🕸⋆.˚𓆪 ──────

peter had been on his way to his small apartment, by himself, as always, after another long, sleepless night, that rainy morning. clouds had covered the sky, obscuring the sun, as if to match the weather inside his ribcage. the sun hadn’t shone on him since it had seen space ripped apart because of him, for his mistakes.

it was a day the same as any other; he was walking in the crowd, unseen without a mask, faceless. then, someone he hadn't sensed had touched him, must have been because no harm was intended, yet he'd felt alarmed.

a girl, he'd realized, a familiar face. that wasn't strange, he was used to seeing people he used to know, what was strange was... the look you had in your eyes, almost like you recognized him. a kind of tiny beam of light in your irises, aimed at him.

and then you called out his name.

the world tilted. he felt as if hit by a shockwave, rolling backwards, losing the tightness of his grip on reality, on you. he’d been completely dumbfounded, he could barely process what was happening. someone remembered him. you remembered him. you knew.

he looked you over again, he remembered, too. he remembered how you sat at the front seat, carefully trailing the teacher with your eyes, focus unbreakable. you didn’t use to look his way unless he was asking or answering a question related to the course, he wouldn’t think you would recognize him under normal circumstances, without happenings made foggy through magic, let alone when the whole world has left him behind. the whole multiverse.

he couldn’t get out of the shock he’d been thrown into, not even enough to wonder the why, the how, or think of the implications of the possibility that someone(s) might not have forgotten. he had been erased even from stone and paper, ink had evaporated, computers had lost their binary numbers. human memories couldn’t even be held, they must’ve been so easily broken apart and mended without wholeness again, didn’t people always forget things, anyway?

that had been hard to accept, of course. the fact that the feelings people reserved for him were fragile and unresistant, that they could be so fully erased, that they could be erased at all. but you remembered, was your mind stronger, or was it the impression he’d left on you? was it you, or him?

he hadn’t even been able to ponder if this was a good thing at all, if he should be worried, if he should accept this, how he should react. the past year had been so soul-crushing, so lonely, that after slightly getting over the initial shock that had hit him, holding back his tears had been all he could manage to do. you were wet from the rain, a drink forgotten and an umbrella folded in one of your hands, the other one holding him, looking at him expectantly, worried. you had come after him. you were holding onto him. he tightened his grip again.

you’d even wanted to talk more, to learn of his story, to listen. so he’d agreed, he suspected he would chase you on that road if you’d walked away. his chest had been closing in on his veins and heart, increasing the pressure and twisting his organs, breathing had become harder every day for the past year, he was suffocating. you’d held his arm like a tree branch offered to a drowning kid, an olive branch offered to a warring people, a willow… willows were hunched and weary, weren’t they? he was like a willow, layers of leaves covering his face, unseen.

he didn’t have anywhere to go, or anyone waiting for him. he hadn’t wanted to let you go, now that someone had finally, truly seen the shape of his face. so he had just followed you, let you draw a destination for two.

you had brought him to a small apartment, similar to his own, in an austere street lined with buildings that were short compared to the signature buildings of new york city. you’d told him you were staying there for the time being. your place, as you’d put it. the inside was much nicer than his living space, expectedly, and it contrasted with the grey view of the street from your windows and the pipe-filled outer layer of your apartment building. the floor was covered in soft carpets, the living room was filled with books, its walls covered in bookshelves, academic books left open and stationary scattered about on a table, notebooks filled with your handwriting, it was lived in.

you had taken him to the kitchen, said you’d just bought pastries and had some leftovers to reheat for him, he’d insisted it wasn’t necessary, but you’d shut him down. “how could i send my guest off on an empty stomach?” you’d asked, made him sit down at the kitchen table, and gotten to work on the countertop. the living room had smelled of a flowery incense he couldn’t name, the kitchen was now smelling of baked dough and vegetable soup, making him feel his hunger. he hadn’t eaten anything for breakfast, or during the night.

“i apologize for the mess,” you said, while putting two bowls of steamy soup on the table, “i wasn’t expecting a guest.”

“oh, no, no,” he quickly scrambled to apologize himself, “i don’t mind at all, i’m sorry for… for…” he gestured around himself, trying to find the right words. being a burden? interrupting?

“for accepting my invite? i’d say that was the polite response,” you said, finally sitting opposite to him, having brought the pastries you’d sliced and placed on plates nicely, and the fruit salad you’d quickly put together. “thank you for that, by the way.”

he didn’t know what to say, he looked down flustered, “i- of course- i mean, thank you for inviting me,” he said, gesturing towards you with his hand, a slight smile on his face. how long had it been since he last smiled? it sure didn’t feel like an every day occurrence.

you gave him back a smile that made him… feel warm. he was still on the verge of tears, he was barely holding it together, focusing on the moment, trying not to let all the overwhelming feelings leave his body.

“please, enjoy,” you said, as you slid the plates closer to him, and he nodded in gratitude. he was hungry, and looking at the warm vegetable bisque… he hadn’t eaten a homemade meal in a very, very long time, especially one that was delicious, one that was warm.

and it was delicious. it tasted like a hug, a hearthfire, a blanket. it tasted like something you would eat at your home, like something your mother would cook for you. “this is,” he started, in between spoonfuls, “this is great. you’re a good cook.”

“thank you,” you said, and then started explaining. “i roasted tomatoes, carrots, zucchini, potatoes, bell peppers, and an onion, and blended them with vegetable broth and cream, so probably the easiest way to make something like…” you trailed off as you realised peter was… crying. he was looking down on the bowl of soup in front of him, and tears were silently rolling down his cheeks, as he kept taking spoonfuls.

peter was mortified at his reaction, he quickly scrambled to wipe his face with the tissues you’d placed on the table, and apologize. you told him it was fine, and he could take however much time he needed or wanted. you let him eat and think in silence for as long as he needed, you gave him time and space as he filled his stomach with warm food and sweet fruits. he didn’t know why tears had won against his willpower this time around, considering how good he’d gotten at holding them in. he didn’t know why just eating in your kitchen, with you, had made him feel emotions overwhelming enough to rush out of him. he was embarassed, despite your reassurances. it was the first time he was meeting with you in years, the only person who still remembered him, and he had started crying over a soup. he wasn’t a teenage high schooler anymore, why was this happening?

after a silence long enough to make someone less patient uncomfortable, he finally felt he could talk, and decided to tell you everything that had happened. all of it. you were the only person who knew him now, was it wrong to want to be known fully? to be understood?

so he told you everything, from the start… from a time too early, one might’ve thought; from before he even became an avenger. there had been people in his life who knew of his journey, how he became a hero, how he became an avenger, who he fought against, who he fought with, what really happened with mysterio, and then… then aunt may’s death… then everyone else’s little deaths.

peter used to be talkative, he used to converse with even the people he was actively battling, yet telling you all he wanted made him realise it had been a long time since he’d spoken so much. so transparently, willingly. had life crushed him under a fallen bridge without him noticing? he had been feeling it, but couldn’t guess how dire his cuts and walls had been drawn.

you listened all of it, without looking away once, without looking at the time. and then, once he concluded his speech and drifted off to silence, you let it fester. it seemed as if you had a hard time proccessing everything peter had dumped on you, or maybe couldn’t find the right words to continue with. this time, peter left you in your own silence, his hands slightly shaking in nervousness. what was your reaction going to be? what were you thinking?

“i’m truly sorry,” you said at last, a rueful expression adorning your face, making you look older than you had when telling him of the soup recipe. you had grown older, peter had noticed, more beautiful. “i’m sorry about your aunt, too. i had no idea. i thought… i guess i assumed at least your family would remember you.”

“yeah,” said peter in defeat, “there is no one.”

you looked deep into his eyes, pain visible on your face, “i remember,” you said. “and now i know.”

peter sighed and put his face in between his hands, closing his eyes in despair. “there is nowhere i belong, now. i fight for this city, and… and no one cares.”

this was horrible. truly horrible. a weight had been lifted off his shoulders when you’d recognized him, listened to him, welcomed him into your home. but he also felt bothered by it, too. had being known always been so scary? he hadn’t meant to say the last bit, he hadn’t even thought that to himself before. he’d been on the verge of it, but hadn’t actually thought it. why did he say it out loud now? why did he tell you?

you took a deep breath, “a lot of people care, especially the ones you save. you’ve been making a huge difference, peter. yours can be a thankless job sometimes, but many are grateful.” you paused for a moment, “i’ve always been grateful. when i learned how you’d been fighting for people this whole time, my respect for you skyrocketed. i thought i would help you in any way i could if it ever came to that.”

peter pressed his hands harder on his eyes, he didn’t want to start crying again. he didn’t know if you realised how your words had fallen into the deepest part of his soul. it was strange, how only a few words could help people keep going, how humans could be built merely by caring, and how humans could be so worn-out that they could stop tasting without even realising.

his phone vibrated silently in his pocket, taking him out of spiraling. he sighed again, what was it now?

strong fire in a building, spreading speedily, authorities unable to protect the citizens despite doing their best. he stood up abruptly, “i should go,” he said.

“what is it? what happened?”

“fire in a tall building, i need to save those people,” he said while walking towards the door, you trailing behind him.

“okay- be careful, peter. and come back here after you’re done there, okay? even if it’s late, because i’ll wait for you, and if you don’t come back, i’ll wait until morning,” you said quickly as he was wearing his shoes, the door to your house open.

“okay,” he said, stuttering slightly, “thank you.” truly. you’ve made breathing possible for me again. thank you.

and he left you behind like that, because he never had a break. he didn’t know if he deserved a break. none of that mattered though, there were people suffering, and he couldn’t leave them behind, no matter what.

────── 𓆩˚.⋆🕸⋆.˚𓆪 ──────

you were leaning on the metal handrails of your small balcony, looking at the few people and cars that passed by the road in front of your apartment. it was desolate, compared to most of new york, but it was steadily never-ending, there never was a time when people stopped in this city. your view was made up of other grey apartments like yours, sharp corners and square shapes, nothing tasteful added to their designs. could this be good for the soul?

you looked up at the sky, to watch the stars, but as always, not many were visible. you counted four stars that could be clearly seen from your balcony. the same as yesterday. you sometimes wondered: if you could reach greater heights, would more of them shine on you? the city had offended the stars in an effort to be independent from them, brighten night time, they didn't show their faces anymore. even if they wanted to, they couldn't be seen.

peter had been shining since he was a kid; clever, kind, righteous, fair-faced in a way the cleanness of his heart had reflected on his features. how big of a loss was it for the world to be forsaken from his face? it was lucky that peter was good-hearted, for he kept showing up under a mask anyway, offering those who looked a glimpse into his light.

it was past midnight already, and peter was still nowhere to be seen. he'd left you a little past noon, the fire had been extinguished by now, and spiderman had left the premises after saving dozens of lives (that the firefighters would've been too late for, despite their best efforts), and yet, peter was nowhere to be seen. it worried you, you wished you had asked for his phone number; you'd considered asking, but decided against it, thinking he might be bothered by the request.

after you'd talked to michelle, his girlfriend, some time back, and she hadn't remembered the boy she’d been in love with, you'd been thinking of peter regularly. even if you had made him up in your mind, it had just flooded your chest with such profound sadness, that you had decided at least you would remember him, whether it would matter to him or not.

and, he was real, he was spiderman. and he’d been so lonely. graveyards had become his only sanctuary, teenage diaries and late night messages had been buried next to the corpses of anyone who'd ever taken care of him, and he did not know their hiding spots. he just wandered around graves, knowing they were somewhere under his feet, to stay there forever. if he tried to dig them out, he would be swallowed up by lava, dooming the rest of the world to a volcanic apocalypse.

it seemed like volcanos had already been erupting behind his eyes, in his lungs. the peter you remembered used to be a jolly kid.

your head perked up as you heard your doorbell ring, and quickly rushed to open the door. a smiling peter greeted you, clothing changed. he looked more put-together than he had in the morning; a clean shirt under a black jacket and denim pants, not the baggy sweats he had on before.

you welcomed him inside, and brought him to sit on your couch, in the living room.

“are you all right?” you asked, “does anywhere hurt? do you need anything?”

he hesitated for a moment, a little surprised. “no, no- it’s fine. i didn’t fight anyone, so didn’t really get injured… much. it’s fine. i took care of it.”

you looked at him in silence for a few seconds, thinking. “liar,” you said.

“what?” he said in low voice, sounding worried. did he think he’d messed up somehow?

“you gave me your word that you would come straight to me, instead you took your sweet time tending to your injuries and changing your outift? you showered too, didn’t you?”

“i… i-” he quickly started talking, and then stopped to think. that was fine, he didn’t need to rush a response, never with you. he would learn that you’d always wait for him patiently. with time, he’d become more comfortable. you assumed this must be… somewhat of an uncomfortable experience for him, after being alone for so long. “i thought-”

he didn’t know what to say, you supposed.

“did i sound mad? i’m sorry. i was just worried. i.. uh, i’d wanted to help you with your injuries and stuff, too,” you weren’t exactly used to these kinds of conversations either. “since you’re not alone anymore… and all.”

“oh…” was all he could say.

“i mean, i’m glad you’re okay, and you look great, and i don’t mind that you had some alone time before coming and all, but you could, uh, if you want to, just come straight to me as well. after a fight or whatever. and you can take care of… your stuff here,” you forced the words out, you had to take these kinds of initiatives, if you wanted to have a closer relationship with him. because he wouldn’t impose anything on you. “if you want to, of course,” you added.

“i… thank you, i would, uh, yeah,” he said. you supposed that was a positive answer.

“so, what happened?”

he recounted the fire and the struggles in detail, how he saved the people trapped, how he had to deal with the authorities after him, how he got injured (only a little, he emphasized), and then how he went home to wear something better to come back to you. he’d wanted to rid the smell of ash and soot off his skin.

“i got tired just listening to you,” you said.

he chuckled slightly, “ah, yeah, things like this happen sometimes.”

“would you like anything to eat or drink?”

“no, no. not necessary, thank you,” he said quickly, raising his hands.

“okay, just tell me if you need anything.”

“all right, thanks… again,” he had a beautiful smile, but it looked like guilt had mixed into his skin, stopping him from smiling fully, with his eyes, or eyebrows. you wanted to tell him that none of this was his fault, he wasn’t responsible for the cruelty of others, he wasn’t at fault for being a victim. his aunt hadn’t died because he’d shown mercy, he was just being humane, the fault lied solely with the… whichever supernatural freak had done that, it was getting harder to keep track of them now. and the spell hadn’t gone wrong because of him, couldn’t doctor strange tell that he obviously wouldn’t want his own family to forget him? why wouldn’t he automatically add that to the spell? and the second time? surely he could’ve just kept two people out of his spell. none of it was his fault.

but you couldn’t bring yourself to, you didn’t want to push too hard, or overstep your bounds. peter didn’t know you, not really. you assumed he must be happy that someone remembered him, but you wouldn’t be too surprised if he had forgotten you.

why had you remembered? you weren't magical, as far as you knew, so what had gone wrong? wasn't this... somewhat bad news? if you remembered, could it be possible that someone evil might, too? you didn't know, you supposed maybe you should try to ask doctor strange, somehow.

after a while of silence, you decided telling him how you feel, being straightforward, should be better than leaving thoughts to go back and forth in your head, bothering you. “peter,” you started, “i know what kind of a person you are for the most part. i know that you have a good heart, and you’re loyal, and honest. i… don’t doubt that you’ll be a good friend, that’s why i can be… this comfortable with you. i know, because i’ve been able observe you quite well until now.”

he was listening to you, eyes getting wider and smile dropping slowly, as you went on.

“i also know that you don’t really know me as well, so i’ll have to prove my character to you, in the way that you’ve already proven yours,” you quickly added, which was the point you’d wanted to make. “so, uh, i just wanted to say that… is the reason why i would like to be… good friends with you, even though we didn’t interact much back then. telling you just in case… you were wondering.”

he gave you a shy smile. "thank you," he said, occasionally glancing away.

then a small chuckle escaped his lip. “all i’ve been doing the whole day has been thanking you."

you giggled in return, "i thank you as well."

"for what? i haven't done anything."

"for saving this city and the world over and over again."

his expression turned serious, thoughtful. "i just do what i should. it’s my responsibility."

you leaned back on the couch, observing him. was it? did he really have to do what he did? he didn't have to, no one had to do anything. but it was right that he did. you supposed, being able to help people did mean you should, would it be wrong if he didn't interfere?

"what are you thinking?" he asked.

you hummed. "i think you are right, but then it's our responsibility to be grateful, and to help you in any way we can, even if that's just emotional support." you looked into his eyes carefully, "you've been doing your duty, but most others in the city haven't."

"that's all right," he said. "i don't expect anything. i don't do this to get anything in return."

"well," you started, "you can expect things from me, and feel free to let me know."

the shy smile returned to his face, "thank you again," he said. "you as well," he hastily added, raising his eyebrows while gesturing at you.

you were glad he seemed to be in a better mood now, compared to this morning. he was more put together, and somewhat more confident. you assumed having more time to process your situation must've helped.

the two of you talked for around another hour, peter got more talkative as you went on, and by the end, he was the only one talking. he'd started to tell you all about the various villains he'd been fighting, and you were very interested; you enjoyed listening to him.

but the time was getting closer to two in the morning, and you were having to fight your own eyelids to keep yourself from dropping to the floor right at that moment.

peter stopped abruptly mid-sentence, looking at you concerned. "oh," he started "i'm sorry, it's really late, i talked too much."

"no, no," you said, shaking your hand, "i really want to know about all of these things. let's continue tomorrow?"

"okay, sure," he said, smiling. "i'll get going now, and uh, see you tomorrow."

"get going? i could arrange my living room for you, if you'd like to stay the night? should you be alone when you're injured?"

"i don't want to bother you," he said as he stood up. “it’s fine, this isn't really all that bad, I've had much worse."

"okay, but call me if anything happens. i'll be more upset if you don't," you said as you followed him to the door.

"i will. you call me too," he said, having gotten out, wearing his shoes.

"deal."

“good night."

"good night."

and he was gone.

and you were so sleepy that you could fall asleep standing there. as you made your way to your bed, you decided to go over today's events tomorrow, when your braincells wouldn’t be forming a union to counter your abuse.

────── 𓆩˚.⋆🕸⋆.˚𓆪 ──────

peter opened his curtains to look outside, as soon as he managed to get out of his bed.

the sun was shining down on him, bathing his room and face in its light. he opened the window, and took a deep breath in. the air had the beautiful smell of rain, still lingering, left from yesterday.

he leaned on his window, and for the first time in forever, a smile graced his lips for the sun, for the day ahead of him.

he wanted to put on his spiderman suit and swing around in the city, not out of obligation or because he didn’t have anything else to do; he had an unfamiliar motivation in him to do something with his day.

so he did. he quickly got ready for the day, and all the steps felt less intimidating today. even brushing his teeth had become a tiring chore. he'd supposed it must've been because he was so tired all the time, but today, it had been easier, all of it. even breathing.

and it wasn't like he'd gotten more sleep than usual, either. sleeping was something out of routine for peter. sometimes he could only get a few hours at night, having to be spiderman. sometimes he would stare at the ceiling, unable to drift off to sleep. sometimes he would end up sleeping for more than ten hours, not wanting to get out of his bed, forcefully scraping his body off of it with a mental spatula, skin tearing apart from muscle, using every bit of his willpower. but, no matter which scenario happened to play out, peter would never feel rested.

he got mad at himself sometimes. for sleeping. or not sleeping. surely none of this was supposed to be this hard, everyone always did them just fine. so why was he like this? what was wrong with him?

he shook his head, getting out of his window as spiderman, and started wandering new york from the tops of buildings. not today, though. today he felt rested. and like something good could happen, strangely. and his chest could host the air he breathed in, unlike any day he could remember in months. he hadn't realised how air had been refusing to get into his lungs, until it finally did today.

he watched people walking towards their destinations without looking anywhere else. the streets of new york were always overfilled with motion and a million faces, and no one stopped to look at one another.

how had you seen him, yesterday? were you looking? were you always looking at people? were you searching for someone, something?

clouds had poured more rain on the city at night, and towards the morning. it was almost as if they had only stopped momentarily for the fire in the building to spread.

peter had gone to his apartment as soon as he was done rescuing civillians from the fire. he'd wanted to wear something nice, look cleaner for you. he was sort of embarrassed that your first meeting had been when he looked... less than ideal, let's say.

while showering, he'd spaced out, and ended up thinking for almost an hour. mostly about you.

he'd tried to remember everything about you, any kind of clue about your exceptional situation, but there was nothing. you used to mostly keep to yourself, peter hadn't even interacted with you all that much.

despite that, you'd been so accepting of him so quickly yesterday. he had wondered why, before you explained that you… knew him.

not only remembered, you knew him. not completely, but enough to trust. his heart fluttered in his chest, making a gentle movement for the first time since the last time he'd been called peter by anyone at all. thinking about your words excited him, energized him, made him move faster,

you wanted to get closer. you offered to patch up his wounds. you weren't afraid or displeased. you wanted to be close. his friend.

he would call you around noon, he'd decided. he'd kept you up quite late and didn't know when you would wake up. then maybe you could meet up this evening. outside, perhaps? he could take you to... he would come up with some ideas, by then.

he stopped and perched on top of a building, examining the back alleys. he knew the way to your house from where he was, he was really looking forward to seeing you again. was that why waking up had been easier today?

he shook his head and took a deep breath, preparing himself for the day, and the task in front of him. he needed to focus, do his job. he would get to see you when the time came for it. you would respect him more for his service, anyway... or at least he hoped so.

────── 𓆩˚.⋆🕸⋆.˚𓆪 ──────

the the sun had just started setting, the orange hue of dusk hadn't settled in the sky yet. you were sitting on the stairs at the entrance of your apartment building. the ground was still wet, but the upper part of the stairs had been protected from yesterday's rain thanks to the architecture of the building. you would just need to dust off its filth once you stood up.

peter was supposed to come any minute now, he'd called you around noon and asked if you'd like to meet up this evening, and he could take you to see some places. you had started preparing some hours ago. you hadn't known what to wear, or what he had in mind, and had been too nervous to feel completely good about an outfit. you didn’t want to mess this up. at last, you'd just decided to get out of your house and wait. sitting on cold stairs. you were beginning to regret your choices slowly.

“hi,” appeared a head suddenly in front of your nose, making you yelp in surprise and slide backwards on the stairs. you put your hand on your mouth, wide-eyed, and finally processed what the dangling head in red was: peter. he was hanging from your building, held by his web, upside down, in his spiderman suit. he wouldn’t be as instantly recognizable from afar, as he was wearing a jacket, pants, and sneakers on his suit. it looked good.

“sorry,” he said, landing next to you, but not moving towards you. “sorry,” he repeated quickly. “i didn’t mean to scare you.”

“my goodness, peter,” you said, exhaling a deep breath. “no, sorry, spiderman.”

he chuckled lightly. “did i make you wait too much? sorry about that, too.”

“no, no, you are…” you looked at your watch, “right on time, actually.”

“uh,” he started, then hesitated for a moment before taking out a piece of cloth… no, a mask from the pocket of his jacket. “this should be really comfortable, i brought it in case you wanted to, you know, keep your identity hidden.”

“oh, you will stay in your spiderman costume?” you asked, taking the mask, and putting your hand in it so see what it looked like.

“yeah,” he said, “i can’t do what i want to do with you without my suit.”

you looked at him questioningly, “what is it that you want to do with me, peter?” you asked with mock seriousness.

he made a low-volume laughing sound. “i was planning on carrying you in the sky with me. if that’s okay.” he raised his hands in hurry, “it’s okay if you don’t want to, of course. just… i just thought you might like it, is all.”

you looked at the mask, and swiftly wore it. fixing it on your face, you looked at peter. “how do i look?” you asked.

“wait, let me help,” he said as he came closer to you, and fixed the back of the mask.

“thank you.”

so peter took you to the skies.

you held onto him like your life depended on it (it did), arms wrapped around his shoulders. his movements in the air were fast and sharp, the wind felt like a slap to the face at points. yet, you didn’t feel an ounce of fear, if anything, excitement and joy would be descriptive of your feelings. peter had a strong grip on you, somehow, you trusted that without doubt, he would never drop you.

──────

he had taken and placed you on top of a skyscraper, with a view of busy streets and the decorated balconies of shorter buildings. having ascended on the city as rain yesterday, clouds in the sky had thinned, and the atmosphere was clear. the sun was half gone by now, and all your gaze rested upon was dusk-touched; bathed in the burning scarlett of the sun’s farewell.

you smiled, looking over at the city. the wind was caressing your face gently, and breathing had become easier since seeing peter. being where you stood now, it felt freeing.

“this is amazing.” you glanced at peter briefly, and saw he’d been looking at you.

“i’m glad you like it,” he said, then joined you in gazing towards the horizon.

──────

you’d been sitting where peter had caried you to, on top of the skyscraper, for a while now. topics chased each other with ease, built onto each other, and you ended up talking about things you’d never told anyone before. but peter listened, contributed, he seemed truly interested, and then he outclassed your yapping, so words ended up spilling out of your mouth naturally.

“my favorite tree is willow, actually. i love willows, they are so pretty, they have leaves like drapes. they look magical," you said, adding onto the conversation that you’d ended up talking about because… the city layout, then parks, then trees, then if many people have favorite kinds of trees, then his being olive trees…

he looked into your eyes carefully, like you'd said something that struck a cord, something he'd considered before.

"really?" he asked, then turned his gaze towards the city again, eyebrows laying heavier, eyes looking below. "willows look hunched," he said, "they look weary."

was he hunched? had he grown tired? was he trying to tell you that was how he saw the world now? hunched, instead of magical?

"hmm, " you thought for a moment, "do you know why willows are hunched?"

he looked at you questioningly. "no?"

"i've been told a story from someone who'd been told a story; there once was a willow next to a lake. you know how willows like wetlands. and there once was a child sweet as a sugar beet, yet did not know how to swim. choose one day from the countless days the old willow had seen, the sweet child fell into the lake right next to its roots, he couldn't stay on the surface, so he asked the willow for help. the willow bowed its leaves as fast as it could, to offer a branch to hold onto, but it was too slow, and the leaves touched the water too late. after that day, the willow's leaves never rose again. word spread to every willow with time, and they lowered their branches one by one, so if a child were ever drowning, they would never be too late."

he was still looking down, but his expression had changed lightly. his brows were slightly tented, his eyes seemed watery. you studied him, it looked like the story had touched him; he was quietly in thought.

was he a willow? had he failed to save a drowning child? had he been hunched?

had he realized being hunched didn't have to be ugly?

"stories are great," you said, not to fill the silence, but because you now felt comfortable enough to share your thoughts with him. "they can verbalize things you keep in your head, and make you realize; oh, someone else thought the same thing back when who knows how many years ago, and i’m not the only one."

he nodded after another moment of silence. "that was a beautiful story," he said, looking at you, "do you know many like it?"

"short tales like these? not many. i generally read novels."

"maybe i should start too."

you perked up. "you could!" you said, voice coming out too excited for your liking, "i'll lend you some."

"okay," he said, smiling in his usual, reserved way, "thank you."

poor, innocent peter. he had no idea what he'd just signed up for, basically accepting to be subjected to a reader's propaganda of their favorite books.

"i should be thanking you," you responded, "for bringing me here."

the sun had fully gone down, no traces of orange left in the sky, although it hadn't gotten fully dark yet. the moon could be seen, finally getting out of the sun's shadow. or more so, light. too bright for anything else to stay visible near it, yet nothing on earth would be visible without its light, including the moon.

you looked down at the ant-sized citizens of new york, ever-moving, flowing like a river. the wind was caressing your face, chilly, up here was colder than down below, yet it didn't feel as hostile.

"i used to really like it," he said while nodding, a half-smile left on his face from your previous conversation, and perhaps memories of years gone.

"sitting atop buildings?"

"yeah. sitting or swinging or... just height."

"it is kind of freeing."

"and just... you know, a different kind of perspective."

"yeah, i get it," you said, looking at your ant subjects, "why don't you like it anymore?"

he seemed to search for words for a moment, looking around. and then shrugged. "i guess i just... don't really like things anymore."

you sighed, nodding. "well, it's a miracle that you liked my below-average vegetable soup, then."

"it was very much above average!"

"as i said, a miracle."

"why am i having to defend my tastes in the middle of a date right now?"

he stopped abruptly, his smile fading, eyes widening. "i mean!" he quickly scrambled to fix his mistake, "not like- not a date like a date date, you know, i was just saying... just-"

was this a time for you to interrupt? he didn't seem like he wanted to finish that sentence.

"i know," you said, chuckling, "don't worry. i'm also really glad we're doing this. take me soaring the skies more often."

"i wouldn't necessarily call it soaring."

"well, whatever it was."

and then, once again, hours chased one another, carrying your long-winded conversation back and forth, and the deep black of night had fallen on the two of you like a blanket.

peter was sweet, it was like honey dripped from his lips; you hadn't found a conversation so enjoyable in years. you were glad he'd opened up more, back in high school, you had no idea he was so talkative.

you had brought a homemade meal with yourself, considering how much he'd appreciated that yesterday. and you’d shared it over the hours you’d spent together.

peter seemed to relax more and more around you, smile actually coming naturally to his face now, dangling his feet with comfortable, quiet joy.

“ah,” he said at some point, “this is… somewhat hard.”

“what is?”

he thought on it for a moment. “no, nothing. forget i said anything.”

“nooo,” you grabbed his arm and slightly shook him, “i’m curious now!”

he chuckled, “no, it’s embarrassing.”

“peter, listen to me,” you started with mock seriousness, “whatever it is, it cannot be as embarrassing as my cringeworthy memories, so i won’t even register it as embarrassing.”

“okay,” he said after a short silence, “i guess… i guess i got used to being alone too much, now i find it kind of hard to… be known, i guess. it leaves me with a kind of anxiety.”

“it wasn’t like that before?”

“no,” he turned his gaze to the city, “i don’t remember it being like this.”

you hummed, nodding your head. you were going to tell him that you understood, that you felt similarly occasionally, that it was normal, but he kept going before you could.

“at least, the bad parts.”

“what bad parts?”

“you know, my mistakes and flaws and other such things,” he took a deep breath before continuing. “i told you everything but… i wish you didn’t know some of it, now.”

you studied his face; he definitely looked more youthful, like the weight of the world wasn’t crushing him anymore. like he could put his burden down for a moment, take a break. peter didn’t seem like a person who would have a hard time being vulnarable, or being known, but pain did change people. was it just being alone, or being alone with what he thought were his mistakes, scenes repeating over and over in his head as he stared at empty walls, with no one to talk to?

“i like you as you are,” you said, “with your mistakes and flaws; that’s being human, and you’re not lesser for any of it. not objectively, and not in my eyes.”

he was looking into your eyes now, he’d become more comfortable resting his gaze upon yours; you found it comforting, you tried to make him feel the same.

“isn’t that the part of being known that matters?” you asked. “knowing the imperfect parts, the harder to accept parts, and accepting anyway, and loving anyway. doesn’t it make you feel better that i know you fully and like you even more for it?”

peter seemed truly lost for words, for the second time since you’d met. you’d wanted to make him feel welcome into your life, so you’d done your best to tell him things you’d wish to hear yourself, and they were the truth, but you really hoped it would come across right. he wasn’t the only one to overthink conversations.

he opened his mouth to give an answer, and then, suddenly, chaos erupted.

the thunder of a bomb going off shook the ground and the buildings around you. screams mixed into a deafening whistle of the wind that carried them as people ran away from the sound collectively, pushing each other.

peter stood up instinctively, looking towards the explosion. it had happened close enough that you’d felt the shockwave.

“what was that?” you yelled, trying to be heard over the sound, clumsily standing up next to peter, as you were quite high up. he held your arm to steady you.

“i’m not sure, but i think i know who’s responsible for it,” he said with a serious expression on his face, brows furrowed, thoughtful, voice lower than yours, but you could still hear him.

“are you going to go?”

“i have to, this is… these people are dangerous, you should go home.”

he grabbed you by your waist and brought you down to the ground in a hurry, gently placing you. “i’m sorry,” he said, “i’ll come back, uh, to your house, if that’s okay?”

“of course,” you responded, “i’ll be waiting. and don’t be sorry.”

and he dissapeared into the sky, swinging.

────── 𓆩˚.⋆🕸⋆.˚𓆪 ──────

peter hated villains, truly. criminals who committed heinous acts of terrorism, knew nothing but cruelty, unashamedly hurt people, kidnapped, wounded… there were so many of them, too. he kept defeating those hurting new york, and new ones kept popping up.

well, he thought he hated them, but he didn’t know how exactly he felt. he remembered a time when feelings so negative and irritating hadn’t ever been inside him, it was like they added onto each other. one would think it would get easier with time, that he would get used to repeated things. like losing… but not only had losing aunt may been harder than losing uncle ben, he was now more bitter, and more mournful over the past deaths he’d thought he’d gotten over, as well. or, how instead of growing numb to seeing horrible crimes unfold, every act of abuse and cruelty made him angrier, every time he hated… he hated more, although he wasn’t sure exactly what he was hating.

when he tried to track the target his hatred was pointing at, he saw blurry pictures. villains were a part of it, surely, but he didn’t feel a burning rage while fighting them, it was more so weariness, or disgust, mostly, he just wanted all of it to be over. he didn’t want to… ponder more on it, after that point. he had tried once, and then felt an untangible pain. he couldn’t admit it to himself, but he was afraid of what else he could find in that blur. himself? tony? aunt may? mj? new york? the world?

so the picture stayed anonymous, and he couldn’t fully direct his fury at anything, and he disliked all the villains, but could hardly muster up the energy to truly hate them. and perhaps it wasn’t in his nature, either. anger and hatred, he’d never been very good at those. was that why his heart was withering? because he couldn’t feel well? because those were all there was to feel in his life now, and he failed at it?

he felt so done with everything, currently. was he not going to be able to spend time with you uninterrupted? the conversation was going well, too. or at least he thought it was. he hoped you would agree.

back in high school, he knew you were smart, and funny, and would be a good friend if anyone could approach you, but you’d prefered to stay away from him, and he hadn’t had the courage to initiate a relationship with you, he’d found you intimidating. now getting to know you better, he wished he’d just done it, back then. but maybe not. maybe then he would lose you too.

would he lose you now, as well? he’d lost everyone, hadn’t he?

or he’d break your heart, maybe. he’d left liz, he’d left mj, he’d left ned. thrice taken, something was wrong with him.

he arrived at the site of the explosion, looking from above. the thick, suffocating hotness, the pain-filled wails of the survivors, the rubbles of the building crumbled down, his eyes searched for certain signs in between the horrors. he would first save those who couldn’t save themselves, then he would stop whoever was responsible.

as he started carrying survivors out of flames and rubble, he also started scanning everything around him carefully. a sign, a clue, a mistake on the culprit’s part… he knew who it was, he was almost sure the organization he’d been tailing down for the past few months was responsible for this. they were onto him, too, they knew.

he’d found out the position of their base was last week, a site with several factories and buildings in it, towards the border of the city, in a mostly desolate area, as it used to just be an industrialized site, but had now turned into an unpreferred place for bussiness. he’d wondered if they had something to do with that as well, but he supposed that didn’t matter much, in the grand scheme of things.

he would go there, and… and confront them. fight them. end them. something. somehow. the police were rendered useless for the most part, when it came to these underground syndicates, some were bought puppets, some were too powerless, peter knew better than to give away his knowledge now. he’d been burned enough. he would have to do it himself, and do it quick, before any other disasters struck his city.

────── 𓆩˚.⋆🕸⋆.˚𓆪 ──────

you hadn’t gone back home, you were waiting next to a shop near the place peter had left you, looking at the exploded building from afar. you were growing more worried by the second; peter had seemed serious, and talked about a criminal organization who would bomb a whole building like it was a normal thing. was he engaged in a fight, currently? how often did things of this magnitude happen to him?

your phone buzzed, you immediately looked at the screen, it could be important in these circumstances. peter. peter was calling. he’d gone to fight, said he’d come back to you, and now was calling-

“peter?” you answered before you made any assumptions.

quick gasps cut short responded to you, and peter’s voice had taken the shape of slow, low wailing, or wheezing, or… regardless, it was obvious he was in pain.

“i…” he started, clearly having a hard time speaking, “i’m stuck. it was a trap.” he was breathless, his voice kept cracking.

“you- where?” you asked, choosing your words carefully. he was stuck. trapped. time. time was important. ask only for the information that matters right now.

“the building- that- there were people, i wanted to save them,” he was crying, it was obvious. “but i couldn’t, they are stuck too, and unconscious, some are dead. i couldn’t-” he cut his sentence short, taking quick breaths, most likely trying to keep himself awake, or too pained to continue. you understood it anyway.

“where are you, peter?”

“the building crumbled down, and it’s all rubble- but, it’s a huge- a huge, i don’t know. i’m under a heavy part, big, i can’t move it. not safely. i can’t try anything too dangerous, or the- the others might get crushed,” he managed to say in between his gasps and pained groans.

your heart sank, an awful dread dropped into the pit of your stomach. what to do now?

“i’m sorry,” he said, “i just- i didn’t know what to do, and i’d told you i’d come back, i don’t know. there is no one else i could call, i’m not- i’m sorry.”

no one else.

“don’t apologize,” you said, voice firmer, having gotten slightly angry. you weren’t angry at peter, you were angry at… at the reason why peter was hurt. it had only been two days since you’d truly gotten to know him, and you wanted to scream into a void at the top of your lungs already.

you started walking towards the road, looking for a taxi, or you would call one. the initial chaos had subsided, but now people wanting to immediately go back home around you had taken its place, taxis were working, you just didn’t know how fast you could go to wherever peter was.

“send me your location or describe where you are,” you said.

you could only hear his gasps for a moment. “no,” he said, “no, no, i don’t want you to come, that’s not why i-” his breath hitched, he started coughing.

your eyes had gotten teary, you blinked harshly a few times to get rid of the blurriness. would a bicycle be faster? a… motorcycle, perhaps? you started looking around to see any unclaimed ones, you could maybe pay someone-

“i’ll come either way, i’ll help you,” you said, as you started walking towards the site of the explosion, you thought finding an abandoned vehicle might be easier there… maybe even one that no longer had an owner. maybe even a gun. “send your location or i will go into the flames and try to find a clue.”

another pause.

“okay,” he said, exhaling in pain, “but be careful, run away the moment you see anyone dangerous. okay?”

“all right.”

────── 𓆩˚.⋆🕸⋆.˚𓆪 ──────

it had been a long while since peter had been in such peril, had he underestimated his opponents? had he been too rash, reckless? it was highly unlikely that his street-level work would be as dangerous as the avengers-level threats, and he’d survived those, hadn’t he? so why was he crying now?

when he’d arrived at the site, and looked around a little, he’d found people, kidnapping victims, being sent to somewhere. he’d thought he’d needed to act fast to save them, but he’d fallen into a trap. not a trap specifically set for him; it more so looked like a last resort to cover up their traces while killing anyone at their tail, just destroying the building with evidence and their enemies in it. peter was just one person though, was that enough for them, or had they not bothered to check?

he didn’t know where exactly he was wounded under the rubble, everything was hurting. somewhere on his abdomen, he assumed, and legs, they were stinging like a thousand needles were sinking into his flesh at the same time.

he sighed, putting his forehead on the fallen stone in front of him.

he hated himself. that was it, yeah. that was the true target of his hatred. more than anything else. he realised so when he admitted it to himself; hating had suddenly gotten much easier, much deeper.

he’d just killed the last person on earth who knew him. why had he called you, anyway? he should’ve just… done as he always did before meeting you, deal with it himself. or die. the world wouldn’t lose much if he did, there was no one to mourn him. well, maybe you could get a little sad, but it wasn’t like you were particularly close to him, you’d never really been friends before. and you had a life, other people around you, you had no reason to hold onto him like he did you. so why were you even coming? why would you do this to him?

he killed everyone around himself. he would kill you. he would kill you. he would lose you.

no, no, stop. you could survive this, right? sinking into despair had never been helpful. he would need to stay sharp for you. he would… you could survive this much, right? and then he would never see you again. he would block your number, and… good thing he hadn’t brought you to his apartment.

he’d been so selfish, thinking only of himself, the happiness he felt at being remembered. what was he thinking? he should’ve never talked to you. he should’ve told you to raise your umbrella and go home without getting wet. he’d been erased from existence for a reason, hadn’t he? had he forgotten why he hadn’t gone back to mj and ned? how could he do this? how could he keep doing this? why did he never learn from his mistakes?

────── 𓆩˚.⋆🕸⋆.˚𓆪 ──────

you were breathless, having ridden a bicycle (that you really had managed to find abandoned next to the explosion) until a point where traffic wasn’t jammed, then taken a taxi to the point where the driver would be willing to drive to, then ran until you could see the eerie factory site peter had told you about. you’d stopped to catch your breath briefly, your throat was hurting, sweat was coming down on your face like rain had been on the morning you’d grabbed peter’s arm. you put your hand on the right of your abdomen, you had a bad case of side stitch pain. you were holding a metal pipe in your other hand, you hadn’t been lucky enough to stumble upon a gun lying around, unfortunately. you had wanted to find a shield of some sort, but the blown off car bits were mostly too heavy, and couldn’t be carried on a bicycle.

there it was, the area of a dangerous mafia organization. how many cameras were there? you wore the mask peter had given to you, even though you really didn’t want to when you needed so much air.

you could see the remnants of a big dust storm behind a few buildings, you would need to get closer to truly figure it out, but you assumed you could go towards that direction to find peter. your heart was drumming against your chest, your fingertips had suddenly gone cold. a tiny portion of it was because of your previous marathon, mostly your nervousness and… fear were the cause.

but you had to do this. there was simply no other choice. someone needed to save peter, and the authorities wouldn’t do it, and the heroes wouldn’t do it, and you were there already. so you got a move on.

you mostly walked behind walls and next to corners, nervous about being seen and shot dead on the spot before you could even get into the mafia’s base. you reached… a chain-link fence, surrounding the complex.

“NO TRESSPASSING” the sign on the fence read, “PRIVATE PROPERTY”.

well, you’d already stolen a bicycle.

you took a shaky breath, and put your foot into one of the chains. you’d never climbed over a chain-link fence before, but everything had a first time, right? so you gripped the chains for dear life, and although you probably looked ridiculous and unnatural doing it, managed to climb to the other side. you did scratch a few places on your legs and hands, but it was mostly a success.

now you needed to sneak deeper into the complex, somehow.

you walked half-crouched down, mostly next to walls, looking around yourself nervously, yet as fast as you could. as you got closer to the collapsed building, you started hearing screams, and gunshots. there was a commotion going on somewhere close to you, was it the kidnapped people? the ones peter had been able to save, the ones who’d gotten out? you stopped where you were and pressed your back to the building next to you, where did you go from here? where were the gun noises coming from? what did you need to do to avoid that, yet still reach peter?

your hands had started shaking, would it be possible to find an abandoned gun as you walked closer? it would be so easy for them to kill you.

you'd only managed to make a few turns from that point before you were caught. by a man with a gun in his hand.

"look at that," he said, as he pointed the gun at you. “it seems a little mouse sneaked in, in this chaos."

you stopped, completely frozen. your heart was beating in your throat, your hands were trembling, you'd forgotten how to breathe. you'd never been so fear-stricken in your life.

what could you do? one shot and you would be dead, what could you do with the metal pipe in your hand? you couldn't look away from the man to see what else you could use.

he started walking towards you slowly, saying things that would only distract you and make you more nervous if you focused on them, so you blocked them out.

he was clearly enjoying cornering you like a prey animal, that must have been why he was walking closer to you; to scare you. you fought against your urge to back away, to protect a distance between you two; you had a metal pipe. a gun was a long-range weapon, being closer might make it harder to run away, but would make it easier to fight back, and running away in this situation would do you no good. if he missed the first time, he would get you in the second. so you forcefully nailed your feet to the ground, ignored the alarms setting off in your mind, and tried to prepare yourself for a confrontation. your legs were trembling; you hoped the man would just think you'd frozen in fear.

he came close enough to put the gun to your head, just an arm's length of a distance between you. “you can't run even when the gun is in your face?” he asked mockingly.

would begging work? would it keep you alive long enough to catch an opening?

you would die. you would die.

you hadn't opened your mouth to form a single sentence since this man had found you, and you didn't think you could now. one wrong word and it would be over. you needed to act.

was there anyone else around? why was he alone? had you lucked out, somehow? they weren't going to take you into custody, you were a transgresser, they were going to kill you. you assumed this man had stumbled into you coincidentally in the ruckus, and hadn't felt the need to call for reinforcements. even if there were others in places you couldn't see, you had no choice but to act now.

the gun's tip was touching your forehead. seconds. i must act in seconds. by bending your knees, you ducked your head faster than he could process what happened and pull the trigger, and while ducking, swung the pipe in your hand as fast as you could, with as much force behind it as you could muster, and hit him in the groin.

you immediately made a move to get behind him while he buckled over; there was no running away from someone with a gun.

should you hold his hand with the gun, or hit it with your pipe? he was turning his face towards you, and would shoot you the moment he got a good view.

no, you’d taken too much time to think, and he’d already directed the gun at you, pulling the trigger. you immediately hit his hand with your pipe. the shot wasn't completely wasted, however, and grazed your leg.

you screamed in pain.

he reached for you with his other hand, grabbing your hair.

no time.

you gripped your pipe with all your strength, and hit his hand again while he was yanking your hair. and then kept hitting his hand, lest he direct the gun at you again. one, two, three, four, five— he kicked your leg. you buckled over in pain as he put your head to the ground, your hair still entangled in his hand. he was saying something, eyes bulging, looking very mad, but you weren’t proccessing any of it. your ears were still ringing because of the gunshot, and the pain in your leg was so powerful that you couldn't focus on anything. it was as if endless knives were constantly stabbing you. it was unbearable.

his hands were occupied with your head and the gun, you were nowhere near strong enough to set free from his grip, but he'd forgotten you were still holding onto the pipe. or maybe he'd just thought you'd be in too much pain to use it now. or maybe he just hadn't had the time to do something about that yet, everything was happering in seconds.

you swung it again in one last, reckless effort to fight back, and hit his head. the momentum tossed him to the side while taking you with him as he hadn't let go of your hair. before he could turn to face you back, you hit his head again, with all your might. he let go of your hair while balancing himself with his other hand, and hit you across the face before you could land your third hit, but you planted yourself to the ground, and landed another hit anyway. his head was bleeding, and he was clearly distraught.

what now? a few seconds. this had given you a few seconds of decision time. what now? should you keep hitting him? take the gun, somehow? how could you get rid of him?

you tried to move reflexively, to get away. but your leg was done for, you couldn’t get up. no. no. you couldn't move.

your heart was going to burst out of your chest, your nerves were completely wrecked; you couldn’t get up.

what, then? did you have to… kill? you were going to throw up. your hands started trembling even more violently. you couldn't. you just couldn't.

you wished you could yell for help. but you were supposed to be the help. it was as it had always been before, pick yourself up and dust yourself off.

no time to think.

you hit his head again, and when he flailed, this time you put his head to the ground, climbing on top of him, twisting his gun-holding arm under his body. now… now you could... how could you stop him? if you managed to take the gun, and told him to stay put until you could run away... you couldn't move, though. you couldn't even properly restrain him because you were having to drag one leg. the concussion he had was doing most of the heavy lifting.

an idea did come up in your mind. you supposed you had no other choice.

──────

you were lying on the floor, your back towards the sky. you’d left your unconscious attacker where he was lying, and managed to drag yourself for a few centimeters before you’d stopped, and leaned your forehead against the ground. you needed to get away, you knew. at least near a wall, somewhere you wouldn’t be seen so clearly, but your leg was hurting too much to use.

you couldn’t raise your head, and just started sobbing openly. you’d already been crying, but trying to hold back, keep quiet. you needed to sit up, and look at how bad the wound was, and how much blood you’d lost. the pain was all you could think about, your head was hurting from stress and forcing yourself to think through the pain, your eyes and throat were hurting from crying (and maybe also sleep-deprivation, as time was diving deeper into the night), your face was hurting from the hit you’d taken, and yet, nothing could be compared to the pain you felt in your leg. you wanted to take off your mask, it was suffocating enough even without it, but any cameras catching your face would be more of a disaster long term.

you took a deep breath, and put your hands on the ground. you pushed yourself up while shaking, and turned around. you looked at your leg, and immediately regretted it. it was bleeding a lot, and your flesh had been ripped apart. you didn’t know what to do, there was no one you could call.

you took out your phone from your pocket, and found peter’s number. you really didn’t want to, but you had no other choice.

peter answered by calling out your name questioningly, his voice came across better than last time; it still did sound like he was in pain, but he was calmer.

“peter,” you said, failing to sound like you weren’t crying. “a guy shot me. my leg is hurt.”

“a- what? where are you?”

“i’m near the collapsed building you should be in.”

“i- i-”

you took a second to breathe. “no, no, i… i just don’t know what to do,” you said, sniffling and gasping, “i can’t get up. i, uh, should i wrap something around my leg?”

“yeah,” he said, “a piece of cloth until you can get out, how close are you to the exit? you should call an ambulance or a taxi or—” he also had to stop to take a breath in pain, “i don’t know— i’m sorry. i’m really sorry.”

“what are you sorry for? it’s the fault of this piece of— well, garbage. at least i have a gun now.”

“who was it? is he still there?”

“i don’t know, some random guy. he’s unconscious.”

“… how?”

“well, i… kind of strangled him? he was,” you huffed, “he fainted because he couldn’t breathe, he’s alive though. i did hit his head a few times, i don’t know how that bodes for him.”

“probably not well,” he said, now with a hint of surprise and amusement in his voice, “you, uh, you did well. very well.”

“huh, thank you.”

good, this was good, hearing peter’s voice had been good for you. you pushed yourself up somehow, and sat up straight.

“what happened?” he asked, “why is the pain worsening?” probably because of your increasing groans.

“i was trying to sit up. i need to find a piece of cloth.”

you looked around, and decided to take anything you could from the man who attacked you. you went through his pockets, and sure enough, found a knife. you cut a piece off of his shirt, and used it as bandage.

“how tight should it be?”

“you should be able to slide a finger under it.”

next, you needed to drag yourself away from the middle of the road, to somewhere you could hide—

no.

no, that wasn’t why you were here.

“how are you doing, peter?” you asked, but couldn’t add that you would be there soon.

“i’m…” he started, but drifted off. and then you heard silent sobbing. “i’m sorry,” he said.

“you have nothing to apologize for.”

“no, it’s all my fault. i never should’ve dragged you into this mess.”

“you didn’t drag me into anything, i stole a bike and ran a marathon to get to you,” you’d sounded firmer now, although still couldn’t stop your crying; the pain just wasn’t getting any better.

“i let you down along with everyone else,” he wasn’t listening to you, “and i don’t know what to do, i can’t come to you, i don’t know how to get you out,” his voice had gotten frantic again.

you sighed, trying to get your sobbing under control, and think of a reply. was it his fault? no, you were certain it wasn’t. had he let you down? no, the thought hadn’t even crossed your mind. should he stay away from you? were you afraid of pain or death? would you rather live a more stress-free life than stay with peter?

you closed your eyes to let the tears roll down your cheeks as the realisation that you couldn’t immediately say “no” set in, you felt betrayed by yourself. you’d thought about this, yesterday… or two days ago, you supposed, as it was past midnight. he’d told you everything, so you knew the risks, and you’d thought about it. you’d decided it would be fine; worrying for his safety or being at risk yourself. and if you got injured, then you could handle some pain. and if you died, well… there was no getting ahead of death. if you died, that would mean your time had come.

so where had your conviction gone to? had the pain been too much, after all? it was the pain, the stabbing sensation was making your brain foggy, demanding all the attention be on it. you hated it, you hated everything. you were mad at yourself; why couldn’t you just be better?

“peter,” you cut him off, “i know i can’t understand you fully, but i get it,” you’d decided to just ramble. you couldn’t come up with the perfect answer to make his worries disappear, so you would just… tell him whatever was going through your mind.

“i lay awake some nights, randomly afraid of the dark. then i curl up under my blanket, and try to comfort myself. because there is no one to lie next to me. i look out from my window and see grey walls. i look up at night and see no stars. i walk outside and hundreds of people just walk past me without even looking at my face, and i don’t remember any of theirs the next hour. all i hear all day are the honks of cars, and depressing news. abuse. crime. kid died. alone person went missing. don’t go out at night. don’t talk to anyone. there is no one anyway, who would i talk to?” you paused to sniffle again, and catch your breath.

“i come home and say ‘hello’ to emptiness and darkness, i turn on the lights myself, then think about what i’ll eat. and i don’t properly eat most days, because i just don’t want to prepare something only for myself. yesterday, i was so happy you liked the food i made, i wanted to cook something for the first time in months while waiting for you,” words were just coming out of your mouth without restraint now, was it the sleep deprivation?

“in high school, i used to watch you and your friends, and wish i could find someone who would be in sync with me too. i used to wish i had a reason or an excuse to join in when i saw you three laugh or talk. i go to university now, and i attend lectures, and i make small talk with a few people, and then i drown in my own thoughts the whole day. i tell myself that i’m fine by myself, but i feel like my soul is getting thinner by the day, looking at walls. is it just me, or is everyone just disconnected now, i don’t know.”

you finally stopped, and let silence stretch after your words. your crying had gotten worse as the suffocation of your life had built up enough to rush out of you; you didn’t cry much, not really. sure, you sometimes shed silent tears, sitting by yourself on your couch, but normally, you just kept going without thinking much about it. you had your exams, and job, and volunteer work, and projects to worry about, so pitying yourself was at the bottom of your to-do list. but now? you were crying waterfalls. was it because you’d finally found someone to tell what you were really thinking? no, it was probably because of the pain you were already in.

peter didn’t answer, for a long while, it was just silence.

“you were right,” you said, “being known with your negative sides sucks.”

“no,” he said, “you were right. i’m glad to know you as you are.”

he didn’t sound good. he didn’t sound good at all. you sighed in resignation, closing your eyes tightly shut to clear your view of tears. “i’m closing now, peter, wait for me,” you said, and closed the call before he could reply.

you looked at the ground, and furrowed your brows in concentration. you would get up. you had to. you had no choice. peter had called you for help. he had no one. no one else to call. no one else to save him from making a choice between death and killing innocent victims under rubble. no one else to save him from death.

you gritted your teeth, your leg hurt as the deep cut touched the bad guy’s shirt, and in some parts, the cold air of the night. the wound kept bleeding, and hurting more by the second. but you gritted your teeth anyway, through your tears and gasps for air that you had an abundance of, but your lungs refused to take in. you put your hands on the ground, and pushed yourself up, using all the strength you had.

you whimpered and groaned in many attempts to stifle your screams before they could come out, and alert whoever was close enough to hear, and managed to set your back straight. it was unbearable, the pain was holding you from the collar, trying to drag you down, making your vision red, exploding in your brain.

it’s just pain, you kept repeating to yourself, it was just a feeling, you could move through it. so you would walk now. towards peter. as quickly as possible. you needed to reach him, that was why you’d come this far, how could you let pain make you forget? it was simply unacceptable, the thought of peter dying under that rubble.

so you put one foot in front of the other, and made your way to peter through every force working against you.

──────

"peter?" you asked, trying to walk through the rubble, and then heard your name back.

"i'm here!"

you tried to reach him at least enough to see his face, as fast as you could, but it was still taking too long with your injured leg. too long for your impatience currently, anyway.

"i'll remove the victims so you can get out of there," you said as you stretched your head enough to see his face, not being able to get closer. he was... he'd taken off his mask, and he looked horrible; his eyes had become red from tears and most likely his injuries, his face was covered in dust and some drops of blood. looking at him stung your chest. "tell me where they are."

──────

peter was strong. he truly was. not only mentally; you were currently watching him lift what was essentially an entire ceiling with other pieces of rubble on it off himself, with most likely many crushing injuries. insane. he was insane. no wonder he couldn’t move with all with those unconscious people around.

you had somehow managed to move them out of his way, seven people in total, much more than you’d anticipated. how could you get them out of here now? you were injured, peter was probably in worse condition… although he did seem to be able to carry significant weight. maybe you could carry them until the exit and call an ambulance, for yourselves, too.

──────

peter walked towards you until he was a breath away, his face was covered in sweat on top of everything else, and he was gasping for air, as were you. he looked at your leg.

“i’ll carry you,” was all he said. he seemed so tired.

“we need to carry these people first.”

“no, i’ll carry you first. until you’re out of this complex.”

──────

you were sitting on the sidewalk, waiting for the ambulance you had called. well, ambulances, as they’d be carrying nine people. you had, also, finally taken off the mask you’d come to despise at this point, associating it with very negative feelings.

you saw peter swing down with the last one of the survivors. he landed, placed the unconscious man on the sidewalk, and sat right next to you.

you sat together in silence for a while, until you took a deep breath, and chuckled lightly. it was over. you’d done it. everyone was alive.

peter looked at you questioningly, although it was hard to read his face; he’d turned mostly expressionless. because of how much effort it must have been taking to even stay awake for him, you assumed.

“it’s over,” you said, “we did it.”

he looked away again, to the desolate road in front of you. “you did it,” he said, “i messed up.”

“how so?”

“i acted rashly. i should’ve been more careful. now they’ll find a new base, and i have to start from nothing to track them down again. and they know i’m after them. and i couldn’t change anything in the end, i just made things worse. all of this was for nothing, it could have been completely avoided. it started with the collapse of one building and then it ended with the collapse of another for no reason.”

you were watching him carefully. lines of exhaustion had formed on his face, the sorrow and… and whatever it was that dropped a boulder of burning despair into the pit of your stomach from when you first met had come back; you’d thought the youth had somehow returned to his face this evening.

“so,” you started, taking another deep breath, “you came here after they exploded a building to stop them, like, end them in general, or at least weaken them, do something. that makes sense to me. then you acted rashly here? why?”

“i saw… the kidnapped victims, and they were suffering, so i wanted to save them.”

“then you didn’t mess up, right? you saved them.”

“not all of them, and i wouldn’t have without you.”

“well, a big majority of them, you did save. all of them would die without you. and what else could you have done but to directly interfere? you did the only thing you could.”

he just stayed silent, was he not convinced?

“i don’t think this was a failure, peter. i think you did well and saved many people, and i think it was worth it.”

his eyes were teary, but he didn’t look at you again, he turned his gaze to the ground, and just stayed silent.

──────

you had decided on what to tell the authorities before the paramedics had arrived, and then you’d been separated, put into different ambulances.

then… well, the rest was as you imagined it would go. still a lot of pain, and a lot of hasty doctors as they asked questions and barked orders. it was horrible, really, with the way your head had been aching, but at least they were numbing your leg. and you would most likely be allowed to drift off to sleep at some point, right?

──────

you lied on the hospital bed, staring at the ceiling. it was almost noon, and you’d waken up not so long ago. you just kept playing what happened again and again in your head, trying to make sense of every detail.

it was a miracle you were alive. you’d faced off a gun. an actual gun.

it was good that all you could do by yourself in this hospital bed was think; you’d been asking yourself the same questions for a while now. did you still want to be involved with peter? you’d known him only for two days, and you’d ended up in a hospital already.

you’d considered every outcome and every reason, every choice you could make. in the end, it boiled down to a few core options. would you rather live a less risky life by yourself, or risk getting hurt like this to be with someone? someone who can meet you as deeply as you crave?

not just that, human bonds were too important to be disregarded because of what external threats might arise. the reality now was that you loved peter, he was a good person, he didn’t deserve to be abandoned because of what evil people did. your choice didn’t come out of loneliness; even if you had a dozen bonds like this, you would still choose to stay with peter, because you’d formed a relationship with him now. and that was that.

out of every outcome you considered, the worst one was definitely living your life without peter, and then getting news that spiderman just died somewhere, by himself. even the thought of it was nausiating. then again, the thought of just him getting hurt like this, and having no one to go to was just as horrible. so you needed to choose the opposite of what would cause that outcome to happen.

it hadn’t been that hard a decision to make; staying involved with peter. you’d already been tangled, it wasn’t much of a possibility to untangle yourself now, a part of you would be left behind.

besides, you somehow remembered him, didn’t you? that had to mean something. there had to be a reason for it.

──────

after finally being discharged, the first thing you did was look for peter, but he’d somehow gotten out before you. not because his wounds were less severe, quite the opposite, the nurses had said he’d been restless to get out, and they couldn’t keep someone against their will.

the orange of dusk had faded away, although it wasn’t fully dark yet. you were on your way to your apartment while you kept ringing peter’s phone, he was stubbornly refusing to answer.

you huffed as another attempt turned out to be in vain. you looked at the taxi driver, who did not acknowledge your existence, and then turned back to your phone.

“peter, are you okay? is everything all right?”

you messaged him. then waited for him to see. aaand waited. still waiting.

you huffed again, three minutes of staring at your screen impatiently and he wasn’t responding.

although you’d asked him if he were okay, you knew the truth. it wasn’t that he couldn’t answer, it was that he’d decided to go through with his stupid “i’ll never see you again because i’m ruining your life” nonsense. in your heart of hearts, you knew. so you sent another message.

“if you’re thinking about cutting ties with me, then do it properly. come and talk to me about it.”

and then looked out the taxi’s window for the rest of your journey.

────── 𓆩˚.⋆🕸⋆.˚𓆪 ──────

you were right, peter knew. after everything that happened, opening up to you and accepting you into his life, if he wanted to step away now, he needed to respect you, and tell you about it properly. so he was standing in front of your door now, trying to gather up the courage to ring your bell, and tell you he’d never see you again. this door had seemed so inviting one night ago, and it had tricked peter. he was not supposed to be invited into any house, didn’t your house know that?

he took a deep breath, and rang the bell. when you opened the door, you looked tired. not your expression, but the lines on your face and the look in your eyes gave it away. that was his fault, wasn’t it?

you stepped aside to welcome him, and he followed you into the living room, the couch he’d sat on the night he’d told you everything.

bidding you farewell was going to be hard, he didn’t know if he could be brave enough, or selfless enough. he’d been so when he had been wiped from the memories of every living being, and that was much harder a task, wasn’t it? so couldn’t he do it a second time?

but he hated waking up every day, and hated… well, he couldn’t even properly hate. getting up, putting one foot in front of the other was becoming harder every day, he didn’t want to do anything, anymore. so circumstances had changed since then, but he still kept fighting every day, and he still kept doing what he thought was right. so he could do this too.

or you would die. he’d lost enough people. to love was to lose. to love was the possibility of loss eventually.

he shouldn’t even have sat on this couch, actually, why had he done so? he should’ve just told you he was leaving, and then leave. he made a move to get up again, you grabbed his arm to stop him.

“you should stay seated,” you said, “i’ll bring something to eat for dinner.”

“please don’t, i’ll be on my way shortly anyway.”

“no,” you said as a statement, firmly, and left him alone in the living room.

peter never should’ve come. you deserved to have one last conversation, but how could peter move on from you? he supposed it would’ve been impossible even if he hadn’t come to your place today, even if he’d told you to turn back without getting wet the day you first recognized him. he would just have to live missing you forever, and that wasn’t unrealistic. it’s what he was doing now, missing everybody he’d ever known. and he was living, wasn’t he? well, he was alive.

you brought pasta with chicken, obviously freshly made, and put down two plates on the couch.

“we could eat in the kitchen,” he said.

“couch is comfier.”

he sighed, looking at his plate. he really didn’t want to eat anything made by you again, he didn’t need more things to miss. you’d said you didn’t feel like preparing a meal just for yourself, that he made you want to cook something… he remembered everything you said, of course. that you’d apparently wanted to get closer to him in high school too, why had he been so nervous? afraid?

it was for the best, though. otherwise, you might’ve died years ago. no matter what you felt, he couldn’t be selfish enough to assume he could be there for you, or good for you.

“so,” you started, “you decided to go forward with your plan of ignoring my existence for the rest of your life?”

“it’s not ignoring,” he had a defensive tone, “i was wrong to even confirm i’m peter at the start, i’ll fix my mistake.”

“it wasn’t a mistake, how can you say that? would you prefer i believed i’d lost my mind?”

you had a hard time walking now, limping although you tried to hide it, and several wounds were visible on your face. you’d beat up a man with a metal pipe, what kind of damage did that leave on your psyche? peter didn’t know, he’d been warring since he was fifteen.

“you wouldn’t be in pain, at least.”

“you’re unbelievable,” you sounded exasparated, and seemed offended, but peter didn’t know what else to say. it was the truth. “i’d rather know the bitter truth, or suffer from its consequences than believe a lie any time. besides, you couldn’t have known this would happen, it’s not on you.”

“you can’t tell me you would still get a gunshot wound yesterday if we hadn’t met two days ago.”

“maybe not, but i don’t blame you for it and i don’t care.”

“you don’t care?!” peter was getting angry, was it because you were getting angry? he was angry at himself, was it dripping out of his chest into his tongue as poison?

“no,” you backtracked, “i mean, i’m fine with it. i can live with it. and i don’t hold it against you, i don’t have any resentment for you. i don’t know how else to explain this.”

he took a deep breath to hold back his tears. he couldn’t let your words get to him, make him feel better about what had occurred. he needed to protect you, he kept reminding himself.

“i can’t put you in harm’s way,” he said.

you paused for a moment.

“do you take care of your wounds by yourself? you did so after the fire the other day, and you basically ran away from the hospital this time around.”

peter was taken aback. “uh, yeah?” he answered.

you grabbed a bag that was positioned right next to the couch on the floor, and took a… first aid kit out of it. and then a salve, and bandages, and… what was going on?

“i bought these today after being discharged, figured you might need some.”

“i’m… fine?”

your expression was very unimpressed when you looked at him.

“so you think i don’t see your arm, or the way you have a hard time eating or breathing, or even just your hands?”

ah, right. his hands were bruised, not enough to warrant bandaging though, this happened regularly. and his arm did hurt, but the pain would go away in a few days or so. his abdomen… that was taken care of, too, the dressing they did at the hospital would be enough.

“it’s all taken care of,” he said.

“we need to put salve on your hands, and then wrap-”

“we don’t, this happens all the time.”

you looked at him in surprise for a moment. “this happens all the time and we don’t need to treat it?” you repeated with your eyes wide, tone something between offended and shocked.

he didn’t know what to say, so you just started doing whatever you’d set your mind to even before he came to your house. you gently held his hand, and started applying the salve. he sighed, and closed his eyes, leaning his head to rest on the couch. he shouldn’t have, but you didn’t give him much choice.

“i’ll learn how to suture,” you said, “and anything else that’s necessary.”

peter spoke your name, “i’m sorry,” he said, “i am so, so sorry. i don’t want to leave you either, but you saw what happened. mj and ned have forgotten me, and they are happier for it. this is what i need to do.”

“peter,” you said, as you started wrapping the bandage around his hand, “i haven’t forgotten you, and if you leave now, i still won’t forget. i don’t know how mj and ned are doing, having forgotten, but you can’t compare me to them. and even if i had forgotten, i still would want to know. how else can i put this?” you searched for the words, “i care about you more than i care about happiness. i’d choose you over happiness, i’d rather be in pain with you than be painless by myself.”

peter had straightened his back, his gaze fixated on your eyes, as you spoke. a lump in his throat, tears threatening to roll down his cheeks in his eyes, his hand in your hands… a warmth in his chest, how he hadn’t felt in so long. your words did soften his edges, but he couldn’t accept it. he still held back his tears, and still wanted to escape. run away. was that why he wanted to leave you? was his true reason to protect you, or his fear? he wanted to run, he wanted to run as fast as he could and hide, from anyone who could see him.

it was too much, but he couldn’t exactly tell what was too much. he was afraid of hurting you, but that wasn’t all he was afraid of, yet he couldn’t recognize what else scared him so.

“but,” you continued, “being with you will make me happy anyway, do you understand? i’ll be happier with you than alone, even if my life is at risk, and even if guns chase my back.”

you had teared up too, peter realised, but were wiping your tears away, to keep your vision clear while working on his now other hand, he assumed.

and that was it, the last drop of water to make his glass overflow. silent tears started finding their way to his chin, his gaze lowered in embarrassment. he’d already cried a dozen times in front of you, and he wished he hadn’t, he wished he could be stronger, firmer, he wished he could aspire confidence instead of silently crying. he hadn’t been able to cry for a while, before meeting you. even when it hurt deep inside his bones, his tears had dried up. were they all spilling out now?

he wanted you to stay, too, he was tired of being alone. he was tired of imagining “what if”s. he was tired of walking directionless with his hoodie covering his face, face a blur in crowds, never known by anyone. if you could bandage his hands every time after a fight, or have your textbooks scattered around in his room, then-

he didn’t want to imagine it. he just couldn’t accept it.

you were done with his hands, even though peter didn’t want you to let go. “how about this,” you started, “why don’t we give it some more time? i mean, how many times did mj or ned get wounded while knowing you?”

“… never, really.”

“yeah, so, either i’m also cursed, or this was a rare occurrence. either way, me staying with you won’t change anything. so, instead of making a rash decision like this, why don’t we try to be friends first? and if it doesn’t work out, then you can put some distance?”

that was… peter thought on it. and then his silent tears turned into straight-up sobbing. because that could work. he could accept that, it made sense to him.

he leaned down and buried his face in his hands. you started caressing his hair, which made it impossible for his tears to stop.

when everyone had forgotten, you'd remembered him. when faced with a gun, you'd survived. when injured, you'd walked. maybe he really was cursed, considering what had happened to you after you just met, but you seemed determined to break it.

and it might not be perfect, but it would be.

it must’ve been hard for you to make such a decision, you must’ve thought about it; staying with peter. you’d chosen him anyway. he could do the same, too. despite his fears, his horrible instinct to shrink and escape, he could stand his ground, and choose to stay, as you had. and maybe with time, it could get easier.

he stopped his sobbing, calmed down enough to face you, and raised his head.

“i don’t know what tomorrow will bring,” he said with a hint of nervousness in his voice.

“right,” you smiled, “exciting, isn’t it?”

ghost towns (youtube music) by radical face... as we part ways for now.

[godmadeaterribleerror]

what if he's mine

✦Bucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Read on aO3!✦

✦summary: you fell for bucky a long, long while ago. and you think about him, every day and every night. if only you knew that he thought about you too.✦

✦warnings/tags: bucky barnes x female!reader, friends to lovers, light emotional angst, everyone's bad at feelings, fluff, smut, plot and porn mix (dirty talk, use of sex toys , fingering, pussy eating like crazy, fantasization, praise kink, manhandling, perfectly "appropriate" use of bucky's metal arm, nipple play, dumbification, semi-public sex, dry humping, sensitive reader, finger sucking, masturbation, bucky gets nasty, body worship, overstimulation, mean!bucky, oral m!recieving, praise kink, monster dick bucky, he fucks like a machine), no use of y/n, no descrption of reader✦

✦wc: 7.5k✦

✦Author's Note: request! who wouldn't fantasize about bucky barnes?✦

You think you might be a freak.

Compared to everyone else in the building, you’re perfectly normal. On the outside. Where everyone can see. You don’t have any powers, and you’ve never been shot up with serums or infinity stones. You’re a human, with a sharp tongue and shaper brain, pretty features and a charming smile, and absolutely no desire to be anything else.

Tony even asked you once. If you’d consider it. The whole hero thing. You’d laughed and shaken your head. You told him that you’re not that kind of brave. That you prefer to stay behind the scenes, helping with the tech and med services. Tony had laughed with you, and remarked causally that you’d be good at it.

You’d smiled and waved him off. But he was wrong. Because you can’t be normal about anything.

You’re not casual. You’re obsessive, and quietly insane. You don’t become the top of your field like this while being anything else. It’s easy to contain yourself in this kind of work, in it’s order and chaos all at once. There are rules that you to follow, then break, and everyone praises you and you glow like a diamond catching sunlight.

Not absorbing it. Because it passes right through, and it’s never enough, and you get addicted to it. The praise, from these living gods. They all love you, and you bask in it, and then you look at him.

Bucky.

The only one who doesn’t praise you. Who doesn’t treat you like a good dog, bringing them treats and newspapers. When you met him, he barely treated you like anything at all. Tony had introduced you, he’d looked you up and down, shaken your hand, and walked away.

But you.

You’d been a fucking goner.

Bucky’s handsome in the way you used to only see in movies. Your exact type, from the hair to the eyes to the way he carries himself. Silent and in control, kind but not overly nice, polite without expectation. You’d made it two years without developing a crush on anyone. Somehow, surrounded by some of the world’s most handsome men, you’d maintained that tiny sliver of your sanity.

Then there was Bucky. And you lost yourself.

You’re not weird around him. You’re not a stalker, and you’re not that kind of insane. You’re perverted in the privacy of your head, drooling over his massive hands and muscles, but swallowing it before it leaks out of your lips. You don’t react when Tony says his name, save for a traitorous pulse in your cunt.

“You ready to look at his arm?” Tony asks, and you hum.

“Think so. Just maintenance?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Tony sighs. “I’d work on Terminator myself, but Cap says I spend the whole time looking like I want to throat chop him. So,” he shrugs. “Don’t look like you wanna throat chop him.”

You laugh softly, and grab the tools off the bench. It’s not a big deal. You’re the only person besides Tony, in the whole building, who’s qualified to work on Bucky’s arm.

But that means you get to be close to him. Just the thought of it makes your skin hot, your heart buzzing more than thumping, your fingers fidgeting with the straps of your toolkit as you restlessly wait.

Bucky says your name, and your head shoots up. He’s there. He’s right there, and watching you with those careful, beautiful eyes.

“Hi,” you say, and it sounds so pathetically breathless.

Bucky tilts his head. His hair looks soft. You want to run your fingers through it, to pull on it, to feel it tickling over your face as he ruts into your drooling pussy-

He’s staring at you. He must’ve said something that you didn’t hear. Fuck.

“What?”

His lips twitch. Just the smallest movement up, almost impossible to catch. Your heart skips, and you almost miss his words again.

“You the one workin’ on me today?” His voice is low. It rolls through the air like thunder.

You wonder, if there’s any part of him that isn’t addictive.

You’re here for a job. You’re here to give him medical treatment. You plaster a sweet smile on your face, and gesture to the chair. You can be normal about this.

“Tony has bad bedside manner,” you say smoothly, and Bucky chuckles.

God, that’s worse than the smile. It echoes through your chest, and you almost choke on it. How fucking bad you want him.

“He does call me Schwarzeneggerevery time I’m here,” he mutters, crossing the room. “Don’t even know what that means.”

You hum, pretending to look at your tools. He’s sitting down next to you. Your knees are bumping. You’re normal. “Arnold Schwartzinagor. Actor who played the Terminator.”

“Ah.” Bucky pauses. “Sam calls me that, too. It a good movie?”

“It’s fine.” You shrug. “If you like stuff from the 80s.”

“I don’t know things from the 80s.”

You laugh softly, and look up with an apology on your tongue. You find Bucky staring at you, and your breath catches in your throat.

His eyes are so intense, you think they can see right through you. To the lust, pounding in your bloodstream. You have to open your mouth to breathe. Bucky’s eyes flick down. Just tracking a movement. Nothing about you.

You kick yourself internally, and push the casual smile back into place.

“I think you’d like some of it.” You reach for his arm, and Bucky turns it palm up, still staring at you. “I mean, any decade will have it’s ups and downs.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You run your fingers over the plates of metal, and for a second, forget all about the Bucky attached to them. It’s a beautiful artwork of technology. Overlapping, gold-inlaid, smooth under your fingers. You turn the wrist slowly, and there’s only a faint whir. No clicks. Shuri must be using a muffler, or some kind of fluid that moves the wires instead of gears-

“You want me to go?”

Your head shoots up, a panicked flush spreading over your cheeks. “No- No- I- I’m just-“

Bucky raises his brows, light amusement dancing in his eyes. Your words falter. He’s fucking with you.

“Shut up,” you roll your eyes, and Bucky chuckles again.

God, that sound. It’s going to be the death of you.

“It’s just- It’s amazing technology.” You mumble defensively, and Bucky shrugs.

“I can tell, from the way you’re eye fuckin’ it.”

“Eye fucking.” You shake your head, biting back your smile. “How do you even know what that means?”

“Too much time with Sam.”

“Hm,” you grab your screwdriver, running your hands up the mock muscle—he should be thanking Shuri even more, she didn’t have to give him biceps—looking for a panel. “Tony told me you weren’t going to talk.”

“Tony’s got that bad bedside manner,” Bucky shrugs with his good arm. “You gonna be nicer to me, doll?”

You just hum, ducking your head to hide your flush. Doll. He called you doll.

And Bucky huffs an amused laugh, at your non-answer. But he keeps talking to you. He tells you what Sam’s already gotten him to watch, and what Steve’s trying to get him to watch next, and what Steve’s saving so they can look at it together.

“Is Star Wars any good?” He asks, and you snort.

“Do you like cowboys?”

“I’m neutral.”

“Do you like space?”

“Yeah,” he pauses, then mutters, “I wanted to go to the moon. When I was a kid.”

You look up, and find a faraway look, etched over his handsome features. Your smile softens, and you lower your voice to a whisper, because this feels like a secret. “Yeah?”

Bucky nods, his eyes finding yours again. “I heard we got up there eventually.”

“We did. A few times.” It’s hard to hold his gaze. An unbearable ache is staring to pool between your thighs. “But now there are aliens on earth, so the final frontier is less… Coveted.”

Bucky’s lips twitch. It seems to be the closest he really gets to smiling. You want to see it over, and over, and over again.

“I think you’d like Star Wars.” You’re still whispering. You don’t know why.

“Alright,” Bucky says. And that’s it. He just… Trusts your words.

He asks for you again, next week. Tony claps you on the shoulder and thanks you, because Christ, he stares at me and I feel like I’m under surveillance. You roll your eyes and don’t respond. It doesn’t feel like that when Bucky stares at you, but he also does stare at everyone. So you’re not special. You’re just another person in his line of sight.

“I tried those donuts you were talkin’ about,” he tells you one afternoon, and you hum.

It’s the new routine. Bucky comes for you to work on his arm. You’re normal about it. You talk like people, and his lips twitch, and you feel something press on top of your chest, trying to gnaw your heart right open.

“Liked them,” he adds, staring at you. As always.

You hum, looking at him under your lashes. “Did you have the cookies and cream?”

He nods. “Just like you told me to.”

You smile despite yourself. It’s those small confirmations that he thinks about you, which get you the most. It means you mean something to him. It drives you insane.

“Sam says there are all kinds of ice cream flavors now, too.”

“Sam’s right.”

Bucky sighs. “Hate it when that happens.”

You laugh, a bubbly, pathetic sound that only Bucky pulls out of you. His fingers twitch under your hand, and you glance up.

It would be wise, if you stopped doing that. Every time you find him staring at you, you feel fucking insane.

“You should try cotton candy ice cream,” you murmur. “It’s fucking crazy.”

“That is my favorite kind of thing.”

“I know.”

Bucky’s lips twitch, and your heart almost bursts. “You got a good place? For ice cream?”

You shrug. “The grocery store?”

Bucky grunts, and his fingers twitch again. You focus back on his hand, because you don’t understand why they keep doing that. The rest of the session passes, and Bucky smiles at you before he goes, and you hold onto it like he just handed you a pearl-strung noose. Clutched between your teeth and priceless, but making your breathing short.

The rest of the day always passes in a daze, after you see Bucky. The seconds rush past you in an avalanche, and then you’re in your room, and  you let it take over.

How much you want him. How much you need him.

You lay, flat on your back in bed, and let your thoughts run wild. Bucky’s massive hands, one cool and one burning hand, would wander up your thighs. He’d shove your knees open, and kiss over the sensitive, hidden patches of skin. The stubble he’s been growing would scrape and tickle, as he kissed over your weeping pussy.

“All for me?” He’d murmur, and you’d nod helplessly. “You just walk around, pussy leakin’ because of how bad you need it?”

And you’d whimper. You do. There’s nothing you can do to help it, but save that desire for locked doors and hot, tangled sheets. Your fingers—smaller than Bucky’s, but all you have—rub over the swollen lips of your pussy, spreading your arousal as you picture that it’s Bucky instead. You push one finger in slowly, then a second one because you need them to stretch you like Bucky’s would.

“Messy girl,” he’d coo in your ear, and your back arches. You start to fuck yourself, slow and tentative as your thoughts run wild.

This is what just one of his fingers would feel like. Pumping in and out of you, his palm grinding down on you clit until you’re trembling beneath him. You’d try to push up into his hand, but he’d shove you right back down and kiss over your throat. Licking and nipping and driving you out of your fucking mind.

“Buckyyyy...” You moan at the air, and when you squeeze your eyes shut you can almost feel him.

“There you go, babydoll,” he’d kiss under your ear, his body pressing over yours. Warm and massive, pinning you to the bed, forcing you to just take it. “That’s it. You like that, don’t you. Like fallin’ apart on my fingers.”

You whimper and grab at the sheets. Your wrist aches, and you can’t hit that gooey, wet spot inside you, but god you just need to cum.

“I know,” Bucky would hit deeper. Wet, lewd sounds would fill the room, as he pounded his fingers into you at an unforgiving pace. “I know, sweet girl. C’mon, show me how pretty you are when you cum.”

Your back arches off the bed. Your hand shoots over your mouth as you moan and cry out his name, your thighs shaking and pussy squeezing down on your fingers. You lay there for a while after you’re done, holding the sheets in a vague form of Bucky.

Tomorrow, you’re going to see him again. Maybe just over breakfast, or passing in the hall. But you’ll see him. And you’ll have to look him in the eyes, and pray that he can’t see it just under your features. That all he’d ever need to do it touch your head, and you’d fall to your knees.

You’re devoted to him. He thinks of you as a friend, and he’s not your boss, but he’s boss adject, and there’s nothing about him that’s accessible. There’s no world where this ever goes beyond fantasy.

But god, you’re going to fantasize. You can’t hurt anyone, by just fantasizing.

That’s what you’ll tell yourself over and over, to avoid the guilt.

It’s all just a fantasy.

You‘re perfectly professional about it. It’s not Bucky’s fault that he’s so handsome it feels like you shouldn’t be allowed to look at him. You can keep your desire bottled up, keep in the warmest, wettest pits of your stomach. It can seep out between your thighs when it becomes too much to bare. It can breed into itself and spread up into your heart, festering in the dark. But Bucky will never see it. You’ll be good, and you’ll act sane, and that will be it.

He’s been through too much already, to add your insatiable, ardors devotion to his list of problems.

You’ve developed an easy friendship. That’s all you’ll allow yourself to have, all you let yourself think about in his presence. When you’re working on his arm, you don’t think about those big, cold fingers being buried in your pussy until you’re alone in your room. All your daydreams are trapped in your sheets, and your moans absorbed and locked in your pillowcase.

You think about Bucky pinning you down with a warm, splayed hand on your abdomen. About his smirk, as he bullies three metal fingers into your pussy, forcing a perfect stretch before fucking you like a toy. His cold thumb swiping over your clit, sending shivers through your body. His eyes gleaming and attention burning, as he drags out orgasm after orgasm.

That hand would be like having a personal fuck machine, and he’d act like it until the very end. All taunting and teasing until you were spent and limp below him. Then he’d kiss the corner of your mouth, your cheek, the space between your eyes. He’d coo about what a good girl you were for him, and you’d whimper, your voice lost from screaming his name.

“What’re you thinking about?” Bucky says, sitting next to you at the kitchen counter.

You swallow, and shrug meekly. You never feel small around anyone but him, but you’ve never been this lost in anyone but him. It’s a miracle no one’s noticed, how Bucky shows up and suddenly you’re all flushed cheeks and girly giggles. You might as well be twirling your hair and kicking your feet. It’s pathetic. You can’t stop.

“Nothing?” Bucky pushes a little, and you give him a close-lipped, full smile.

“Nope.”

“You looked like you were thinkin’ about something.”

“I wasn’t.” You look back to the sandwich you’d been working on. Bucky keeps staring at you. He always does. “Nothing going on up here, Barnes.”

Bucky’s lips twitch.

The whole world seems brighter, like he’s just like some holy kind of candle.

“I don’t believe that,” he murmurs, and you shrug.

“You don’t have to.”

“Well, I don’t.”

“Good for you.”

“It is, isn’t it,” he chuckles. “I’m gonna love being right.”

You blink, shooting his a sideways look. “Being… Right?”

“I know you’re thinkin’ about something.” He shrugs. “I’ll figure out what.”

Oh. Under no circumstances can he find out what you’re thinking about. “It’s not anything interesting,” you try lamely, and Bucky smirks.

“Ah. So it’s something.”

“I- That’s-“ You sputter. “Why do you even care-“

“I like knowin’ what you’re thinking,” he shrug. “It’s always interesting.”

You blink at him. For some reason, that makes your throat close up, your eyes burning with embarrassing tears. Your knees are wobbling, and you’re sitting down. You grunt and look back to your sandwich, and Bucky chuckles.

“C’mon. Tell me.” He leans closer. There’s a gravity, from his heat, and it makes you want to just collapse over his chest.

You look at him from the corner of your eye, and you won’t tell him. That’s against the rules. It defeats the purpose.

But god, he’s looking at you. Really looking at you. You can count each shade of blue in his eyes. If you move just an inch, your noses might bump.

“I’m hungry,” you whisper, and Bucky’s brow knits.

He looks down to your sandwich. Then back to you. Adorable confusion flashes over his face. “You should… Uh- Eat.”

You nod, and he clears his throat, leaning back. You wish you could grab the collar of his shirt, and drag him back.

“You ever seen this thing called the Princess Bride?” He asks, not touching any food himself.

Just sitting there. With you. You try not to think about it too much.

You nod, chewing on your sandwich with puffed out cheeks. “’S a really good movie-“

“Chew then swallow, doll.” Bucky’s lips twitch, and you flush and obey.

“It’s a good movie,” you mumble, giving him a sheepish smile. “Sorry.”

Bucky shrugs, his gaze dropping to your mouth. Your breath hitches. You go perfectly still, afraid that if you shift, he’ll look away.

His tongue darts over his lips. He tips his head, his forearm flexes as he curls his fingers, and your breathing gets shallow. Something electric has shifted in the air, and it’s making you dizzy. Bucky reaches up slowly, and if you weren’t rooting in place, you think you’d fall out of your chair.

His thumb wipes the spot right above your lips, and a shock rushes through your body. His nostrils flare, his eyes lock onto yours, and his touch lingers.

When he pulls back, the movement is slow. Controlled. Your tongue flicks out, to lick where his thumb had been. Bucky’s nostrils flare.

There’s something on his thumb. Tiny little breadcrumbs that must’ve been stuck to your cheek from the sauce. Bucky brings the finger up to his mouth, holding your gaze, and sucks the crumbs away. Heat pools in your tummy, and your thighs press together.

Bucky stares at you. You grab the edge of your seat with white  knuckles, trying to keep yourself from falling off.

“Crumbs,” he mutters, and you nod.

“Yeah.”

“I- Uh-“ He coughs, and looks away. Disappointment sinks like a boulder into your stomach.

You don’t know what you expected. Hell, you’ve told yourself what to expect. You’re not allowed to be disappointed by him. You’re not allowed to want anything from him, except for what your head can offer.

“Sam’s been tryin’ to make me watch it,” he mutters, and you blink.

“What?”

“Princess Bride.”

“Oh.” You’re still a little drunk on his proximity. He smells like something rich and spicy, and it’s fogging up your brain. “Cool.”

Bucky nods. “We’re gonna watch it next Friday. In that common room, where Stark makes us do game nights.” He gives you a sideways look. “I never see you at those.”

You shrug. “I’m not an Avenger.”

“Stark says you get invited.”

You do. But that would be a night of drinking and laughing and being closer to Bucky than you can handle, so you usually lock yourself in your room and pretend he’s fucking you stupid.

“You’re invited to movie night, too.” He adds casually, and you swallow.

Movie night. Where Bucky would be near you. In the dark. You can’t go there. You’ll lose your mind.

But he’s looking at you with such dim, cautious light in his eyes. There’s no expectations. Just hope. And it pulls the words out of you before you can stop them.

“Oh- Okay.”

Bucky beams, and that makes it worth it. The risk, that he might brush your hand in the dark and you’ll moan loud enough for everyone to hear.

He reaches up, and wipes a few more breadcrumbs from your cheeks. Time seems to stop, when he touches you. It’s dangerous, and you barely manage not to fall all over him before he pulls away.

“You get messy,” he mutters, and oh, God.

You shouldn’t have said yes. Why the fuck did you say yes. Now you’re going to have to sit next to him, after that.

You get messy. He has no idea.

That night, you end up back in your bed with a vibrator pressed over your panties. It makes the feeling stronger, with the friction of the fabric, and you toss your head back. It’s easier and easier to get lost in the fantasy, lately. The better you know him, the clearer it gets.

You can almost feel his hands, mapping over the curves and soft dips of your body. You can almost smell him.

He mouths at your breast, pinching and rolls your nipple between metal fingers. You make a broken, pathetic sound, and he smirks.

“I know, doll. Too much, isn’t it?”

You whimper, pressing the vibrator down. Bucky hums, his hand wrapping around yours, and your hips jerk when he angles it to shove right against your clit.

“Too much,” he coos, making out with the softness of your breast. “I’m barely even touchin’, and you’re already about to fuckin’ fall apart for me.”

Your eyes roll back, as Bucky starts to guide the vibrator up and down. Your mouth falls open in a long moan, as he grabs your hips and pushes them higher, further exposing your pussy. He bites at your nipple, then turns his attention to the neglected one. You writhe in the sheets, gasping his name, and he smiles.

“Dirty girl.” He pushes your hand back, just enough for him to rip away your panties, exposing your cunt to the cold air. “Look at that, pretty little pussy fuckin’ shining for me.”

You grind down, trying to find friction on the sheets. Bucky pushes the vibrator against your bare pussy, and your eyes roll back in your head. He starts kissing all over your chest, pawing at your breasts and swirling his tongue around you nipples, sending electric shock through your body. He licks the sensitive buds the same way he licked his thumb. Your hips start to roll mindlessly, as the coil in your stomach threatens to snap.

When you cum, it’s with a cry of his name. The coil snaps, and heat floods out of your pussy, all over the vibrator and your hand. Your body convulses with the sheer force of it, and Bucky kisses down. Over your abdomen, your hips, your inner thighs.

“What a mess, baby.” He mocks, before pressing the sweetest kiss to your clit.

You sob, trembling in the sheets, and grab at his hair.

But your hand finds nothing.

Because it’s just another fantasy, kept in the confines of your mind.

Movie night was a bigger mistake than you could’ve ever imagined.

You show up, and it’s just Bucky and Sam. Sitting on opposite ends of the couch, because men are strange creatures.

“Stevie’s on a mission,” Bucky says, staring at you like he’s seeing an angel. Like he didn’t invite you.

There’s an odd rasp to his voice, too. Maybe he’s just tired.

Sam says your name, that signature, I know something that everyone else doesn’t smirk on his face. You don’t think much if it. He always has it, even when he doesn’t know shit.

“Buck told me you’d be comin’. I didn’t believe him.”

“Sam.” Bucky grunts, and Sam shrugs.

“What? I didn’t.” He grins at you. “You never leave your lab-“

“She leaves her lab.” Bucky gives you an apologetic look, but you just laugh.

“No, he’s right. I really don’t.”

Bucky sighs, rolls his eyes, and pats the seat next to him. You smile to yourself, taking a long breath before you move. You’re going to be normal about this. Very, incredibly normal. So normal, they’ll think something’s wrong, because no one’s ever been this normal in history.

You last ten minutes.

The movie starts. You’ve seen it before, but you try to pay attention to every, tiny detail. The only other option is paying attention to Bucky. To the weight of him at your side, the way his knee brushes against yours and his arm is slung over the back of the couch. You’ve never seen him so relaxed and tense, all at once. He’s sunken into the cushions, but whenever you look over, his jaw is tight.

You could swear you catch his gaze, once or twice. If you do, he looks away immediately. And you feel it, that buzzing heat over your skin. But you’re supposed to be watching the movie. He’s supposed to be watching the movie. So you really, really try not to look over.

Bucky’s knee pushes against yours, and you swallow. His fingers trail near your shoulder, and you wrap your arms around your stomach to suppress the shiver. He’s warm. So fucking warm you can feel it, blooming in your core. You shift in your seat, and you’re already wet.

The movie isn’t even a third of the way done.

Bucky’s fingers rest on your shoulder. It’s so light, so casual, you’re not even sure he knows he’s doing it. You take the risk, and turn to fully look at him. He’s gotten even more relaxed, the knit of his brows loosened, pretty pink lips parted as he watches the TV. You want to reach up, and trace the stubble of his jaw. Maybe kiss up the column of his throat, dig your nails into his pecs and make out with that full, perfect mouth.

You let out a tiny sigh. Bucky doesn’t react to it. Too lost in the movie. Not paying you any mind.

And you should look away. You’re not here to Bucky watch.

You turn your head for three whole seconds, before your eyes start to ache. As if they can’t stand not to look at him. You try to resist it, but it plays over and over, on a loop in your brain. The image of him in the dark. The heat from him, almost penetrating under your skin and making you rise up like a balloon. Your head is in the clouds. You have to look at him.

You close your eyes, trying to fight it. Bucky’s hand drops from your shoulder, down to your upper arm, and your breath hitches.

Your eyes shoot open, and Bucky’s right there. Staring at you, with the same intense, focused need that’s clawing at your ribs and up your throat.

He grabs your chin, between strong but gentle fingers. You swallow, letting your gaze trail down his body. His massive chest, torso that looks perfect to hook your legs around, his thick thighs and his crotch.

The bulge, pushing through his sweats. It looks thick. Long and thick, demanding some attention. You look back to Bucky with your best, doe-eyed pout. He smirks, and leans down to kiss you. It’s slow and deep, his tongue swiping over your lower lip before pushing into your mouth. You moan, and Bucky weaves his hair through your hair, tugging slightly. Your second moan is downright pathetic. You grab his thigh, letting your nails brush against the outline of his cock.

Bucky hisses against your lips, and pulls back. You bat your lashes at him, and his lips twitch.

“Messy girl,” he mutters, before pressing a sweeter, mocking kiss to your lips.

He pulls away too quickly, but before you can give chase, you’re lost in a daze. Bucky’s pulling down his pants, taking his boxers with him. His cock springs free, thick and veiny, massive even in his own hand. He strokes himself slowly, giving you a prompting, amused look. You swallow, licking your lips.

“C’mon, doll,” he beckons. “Show me what you can do.”

Almost in a trance, you nod. Bucky’s eyes darken, as you crawl over his lap. You move his hand away, and fist his cock in one hand. He grabs the back of your neck, not to push, but for balance. A low, guttural sound rolls through his chest as you start to pump him, and you smile to yourself.

He really is perfect. A heavy, certain weight in your hand, jumping slightly whenever you squeeze him near the base. You shift back on your knees, using your other hand to massage his balls. He hisses, his grip tightening on your neck, and you smile. 

When you look at him, there’s nothing but pure devotion in his gaze. You squeeze again, then pick up your pace, and he groans out your name.

You kiss him, pushing his head back against the couch cushions. He grunts, but lets you guide him. As if he knows that it’s all just a show, before you let him fuck your face like an animal.

“Relax, baby,” you breathe against his lips.

Bucky lets out a deep, rough laugh. “Little hard to do that right now.”

You giggle, swiping your thumb over the slit of his cock. “Is it? Hard?”

Bucky groans, and deepens the kiss. You slide off of him, before he can just grab your hips, pick you up, and sit you on his dick.

You move back, lowering down to your stomach so you’re eye level with his dick. He’s pulsing in your hands, trying to hold himself back. You don’t want him to. You want him to cum everywhere. Down your throat and over your face and tits, claiming you in one of the most primal ways possible.

“Doll…” Bucky rasps, and you look up at him under hooded eyes. He’s a wrecked. Bulging muscles and sweat, slicking on his brow. “Don’t tease- Jesus-“

You wrap your mouth around him, and take him as deep as you can go. He bumps against the back of your throat, but you suppress your gag reflex, relaxing to try and get even more. Your nose brushes against the hair at base of him. Your tongue presses flat against Bucky’s shaft, your fingers still working his balls, and he fists his hand in your hair.

“So- So fuckin’ warm-“ He chokes out. “Holy- You’re somethin’, sweetheart- God-“

You hum, and Bucky’s hips jerk up. He stutters out an apology, but you just moan again. He tries to pull you off, muttering more apologies, and you dig your nails into his thigh. You want it. You want him to use you.

He gets it, after a moment. His grip on your hair tightens. He starts slow, jerking his hips up as he pushes you a little further down, before yanking you back. You moan around his cock, drool falling from your swallow lips. Your eyes roll back. He’s using you, god, he’s using you, and it’s the best fucking thing in the world.

Bucky fucks your face like a fleshlight, and you grind your ass up against nothing. He hits the back of your throat, over and over, salty and heavy on your tongue. The sounds he makes are beautiful and sinful, and-

“Something on my face, doll?”

You blink, and Bucky’s cock isn’t in your mouth anymore. You smack your lips, trying to find it. Bucky frowns at you, the light of the movie making him even more, impossibly handsome. Sam ignores you both, popcorn stuffed in his mouth.

Bucky looks worried. He said something.

“Hm?”

“You were, you were- Uh-“ He clears his throat, then shakes his head. “Never mind.”

He looks back to the TV, and your face burns. His thigh is pressed right against yours. You can swear, when you lick your lips, you can still taste his dick.

You’re so, so fucked.

It only gets worse.

Eating breakfast becomes a trial, because Bucky is always there, and you’re always thinking about his fingers while he eats. How they’d feel stuffed down your throat, gripping your hips, scissoring deep inside of you. He wipes cream cheese off your cheek, and you almost moan.

“You feelin’ alright?” Bucky says, always so caring and worried, and you nod weakly.

“Yeah. Just- Just tired.”

He looks at you like he doesn’t believe you, but lets it go. If you were smarter, you’d be avoiding him. But you’re not. And you still have to work with him, anyway. It makes avoiding him rather impossible.

For a while you cling onto the idea that work would be sacred. That while Bucky’s in your office and you’re examining his arm, it’s purely professional. Not a single dirty thought.

You last about a week, with that one.  Bucky startles you walking in. You trip, and he catches you around your waist.

“Careful,” he smiles down at you, all handsome and stupid.

“Uh huh,” you breathe out, and you could’ve sworn a flood gushed out between your legs.

Bucky’s nostrils had flared, and he’d helped you up to your seat. You’d already had the new fantasy, blooming in your mind like the little fucking pervert that you were. You’d tried to shove it down, swaying in the middle of the room, but then you’d looked at him. Sitting with his legs spread in your chair. And you’d been lost.

You imagined climbing into his lap. His arm wrapping around you as you sat down on his cock, grinding slowly, lashes flutters as he kneaded and pulled at your hips and breasts. He’d stand up, taking you with him like you weighed nothing, and pin you to the wall. One arm would stay around you, holding you in place as his mouth started to explore your dripping cunt.

His tongue would work you open, pushing in and out of your pussy. He would’ve already cum inside of you, and every stroke of his tongue would send a wave of your mixed arousals over his beard. You’d watch him, moaning his name, and his thumb would bully and flick and tease your clit, until your were dazed and gasping for air and-

Bucky says your name, and you could slap yourself. This is getting out of hand.

“Sorry,” you mumble, sitting next to him. He smiles at you, so kind.

Always so kind.

“You’ve been kinda out of it, lately.” His words are casual. You still daydream about shooting yourself and running away.

“Just getting lost in thought,” you murmur, and he hums.

“Anything I can help with?”

You shake your head, because if you speak you’ll start begging. Please, please, please, he’s the only one who can help you, you’re going insane with how much you need him, and he could save you, he could really save you-

“Movin’ usually helps me.” He offers softly. You almost don’t hear him. “Y’know. Using my body. Remembering that it’s mine.”

“Yeah?” You say softly, cleaning the panel near his shoulder. He looks at you, and you risk looking back.

You can’t read that expression. You’re not sure you want to.

“Yeah,” he mutters. His gaze might flick down to your lips, but you don’t trust your own mind anymore. “You wanna try it with me? I head to that gym in the basement every night. It ain’t bad.”

And you should say no, but you can’t help it. You nod, and Bucky’s lips twitch, and God, what you won’t do just so he smiles.

You will torture yourself, apparently. Bucky’s too hot to be allowed in a gym. Wearing a tank top that shows off his massive arms, smiling at you all lazy, in the way that’s more of a guard than the slip that you always crave, but a smile all the same.

First, you try walking on the treadmill and just watching him the mirror. He’s lifting weights, and his arms, they should be classified as weapons. You want those biceps keeping you in a head lock, against his chest or at his side. Keeping you still, while his cock pounds relentlessly into your pussy.

Bucky meets your gaze in the mirror. His lips twitch, and you look away, face burning.

You feel him, more than you see him coming over. The gravity of his presence, you think you’d be able to feel him blindfolded and dropped in a crowd of a million people.

“Come on,” he offers you a hand. “Lemme show you something.”

And you can’t say no to him. You really should learn how.

Because the something is training. Wrestling. Throwing fucking punches and trying to get the other down.

“Bucky, I can’t-“

“Yeah, you can.” He raises his fists, nodding to your own. “Up, doll.”

You sigh, raising them slowly. “You’re going to kick my ass-“

“I am. And then you’re going to get better.”

You scoff—he’s ridiculous—but listen. Bucky smirks, and lunges. You yelp and try to scramble away, but he’s too fast. You’re pinned under him in seconds, whacking at his arms and wiggling.

“Bucky- Get off-“

He laughs, standing up with a proud grin. You’ve never seen him so relaxed, so confident. It makes you hornier than you ever could’ve imagined.

He’d been over you. Everywhere over you. Pinning you down and manhandling you, and- Oh God-‘

“Up,” he beckons, and you swallow.

“I- I don’t know-“

“Yeah, you do.” He gives you a playful smile. “Get up.”

You sigh, and scramble to your feet. Bucky raises his fists again. You narrow your eyes, and match.

He chuckles. “Getting competitive?”

You shrug. “You wanted me to.”

Something flashes in his eyes. You’re not sure how to read into it.

“Damn right I do,” his voice is lower. You’re not imagining that.

You don’t get time to think about it, before he’s moving again. You hold your own exactly a second longer than before, but it ends the exact same way. You, pinned under Bucky’s broad, strong body. His face is pressed near your breasts, his fingers digging into your hips, his legs shoving yours apart to stop you from flailing around.

It goes on longer than it shoulder. This strange game that you like playing more than you should. Bucky starts trying to properly get you to throw a punch, but he gives up fast. Soon you’re more play wrestling than doing anything else. You’re giggly and dazed, charging at him like a bull, and he acts as bored and collected as always, but you can see the amusement dancing in his eyes, every time you try to climb him like a tree.

Then something shifts.

He gets you beneath him, and you try to shove at his chest. He catches your wrists and pins them up over your head. Your breath hitches, and he blinks. His hips drop against yours, and you can feel it. The bulge of his cock, pressing into your core.

He’s hard.

Not fully, but enough. Enough that you can imagine every ridged and curve of him, sliding between the puffy lips of your pussy. Your thighs clench, and Bucky grunts, rutting forward.

You both freeze, and your eyes lock. It’s one of those seconds, where you just stare hopelessly at each other. You almost apologize, but your tongue is limp. Bucky’s face is redder than you’ve ever seen it. His cock twitches in his pants.

And this isn’t a dream or fantasy. Bucky mutters your name, and it’s so real you think your heart might pound of your chest.

Bucky moves first. He clears his throat and moves to his feet.

“Better.” He offers you a hand. “That was…”

He trails off. You stare at each other, lost for words.

Bucky turns, and leaves without another word. You sway in the center of the room, breathing shallow, head spinning.

What the fuck just happened.

Bucky kisses up your spine, his mouth hot and possessive. His tongue flicks against your neck, and his fingers dig into your hips. He drags your ass up in the air and you mewl, pressing your face into the sheets.

“Ah,” he scolds, slapping your soaked, swollen pussy. “Lemme hear you, doll.”

You turn your head, moaning loud and shamelessly. Bucky chuckles, kissing a soft spot on your neck.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, notching his cock against your entrance. “Good girl.”

You coo like a baby bird, flushed and dazed. He’s big, so big that it almost hurts. He doubles over you with a groan, pressing his face into your shoulder as he slowly pushes every inch inside of you. The stretch burns in the best way, and you clench down around him.

Bucky hisses, hips jerking forward. “Careful,” he grunts. “Gonna strangle me.”

“S- Sorry-“

“No,” Bucky leans down, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Nothin’ to apologize for. Just gotta relax, babydoll. Lemme do the rest.”

You hum, and take a deep breath. You’re grounded, in the feeling of Bucky everywhere. His warmer arm wraps around your neck, forcing you up enough for his lips to trail open kisses over your face.  

“That’s my girl,” he mutters against your ear, bottoming fully out. “That’s it. Just take it for me, just like that.”

You mewl, pushing your ass back up, then crying out with delight as Bucky pulls out, and slams back in. He’s met with no resistance, from how your pussy is gushing out with every thrust, every touch, every hot kiss.

But there’s nothing else to be expected. Not with how Bucky’s using you, how worshipful his every touch and kiss is, all while he fucks into you so hard you think the bed is going to break. His breath is hot on your back, the head of his cock drill against that one, gooey spot deep inside you. His cold arm locks around your middle, and his fingers tease and graze over your clit. Rubbing in tight little circles, making your eyes roll back in your head.

Bucky grunts, hauling you up so you’re pressed against his chest. You’re pinned down on his cock now, wet and warm and tight. So fucking tight that it pulls a low, rumbling moan from his chest. His hips slam up in a barely controlled rhythm, chasing more of your heat. You’re limp in his arms. Dazed and smiling like you’re drunk. Bucky uses his arm around your neck to push your head further back, and you have the nerve to fucking giggle.

You’re so beautiful like this that he almost cums right there. Fluttering lashes and the sweetest sounds, you pussy milking him like a machine. He kisses you because he can’t help it, and you hum happily, grinding your ass down into him.

He needs you to cum first. He gropes at your clit, letting his fingers fumble for a second to work you up into a teased, messy frenzy, before he pushes down and rubs in a steady, unyielding rhythm. You cry out his name, squeezing down so hard on his cock, and Bucky buries his face in your neck.

He cums, so hard that his vision goes white. Thick ropes of cum spurt over his hand, squeezing hard at the base of his cock.

It’s not as warm as you’d be, he thinks.

And he thinks. All the time, Bucky just thinks about you. About how you’d feel, molding around him. About how you’d sound right in his ear, how you’d get smiley and drool, and he’s feed you his fingers just so you have something to do with that pretty mouth. You’d moan around them, and he’d thrust up into you so hard he’d knock the damn worries out of your head.

It’s his favorite time of the day, this. Your rooms are closer than you seem to think, or you just forget how good his hearing is.

And every night, right before bed, he gets to settle into the mattress and beat his cock into his hand, listening to you moan and call his name. He’d never tell you. You deserve better, than a broken robot like him. He counts himself lucky he even gets to be your friend, because he’s a man well practiced at restraint. At not getting what he wants.

But this space, where no one can see, he allows himself things. He allows himself you.

But only ever in his head.

✦End note: this might be one of my fave bucky fics i just got to be soooo horny with it✦

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[beafond]

𝗠𝗗𝗡𝗜 𓏲ּ𝄢 𝓢leepy pronebone with 𝓢am 𝓦inchester

The room is bathed in the dim, golden glow of the salt lamp Dean insists on keeping in every motel room “for vibes, Sammy”, but right now, the only vibe is the slow, heavy drag of Sam’s cock inside you, his body a warm, solid weight pressed against your back. He’s half-asleep, his movements sluggish, like he’s fucking you in a dream. One he never wants to wake up from.

A pillow’s wedged under your hips, tilting you just enough that every time he sinks in, he stays there, buried to the hilt, his pubic bone grinding against your ass with a lazy, circular roll. You can feel everything—the stretch, the heat, the way his cock twitches inside you when you clench around him, like he’s surprised by how good it feels, even now.

His arm is a band around your waist, his fingers splayed over your stomach, pulling you back onto him with every slow, deep thrust. His other hand is clamped over your mouth, but there’s no real force behind it. Just the quiet understanding that Dean’s in the next room, and if he hears anything—even the wet, obscene sounds of Sam fucking you—he’ll never let either of you live it down.

“Mmm, fuck,” Sam mumbles into the crook of your neck, his voice thick with sleep, his breath hot against your skin. “You’re so tight like this.” His hips rock forward, his cock dragging against that spot inside you that makes your toes curl, and you whimper against his palm, the sound muffled but desperate. He smiles, you can feel it against your shoulder—because he knows what he’s doing to you.

His hand on your stomach slides further down beneath you, his fingers finding your clit with the kind of lazy precision that comes from knowing your body. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t need to. His thumb circles you in slow, maddening little swirls, his touch feather-light at first, then firmer when you buck back against him, begging without words.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, his voice a sleepy purr. “Take me. All of me.” And you do. You do, because how could you not? When he’s like this—warm, heavy, his cock throbbing inside you with every shallow breath—there’s nothing else in the world but the two of you, the slick slide of skin, the way his chest rises and falls against your back.

His thrusts are lazy, almost drowsy, but no less deep. Every time he bottoms out, he stays there, his hips pressed flush against your ass, his cock pulsing like he’s savoring the way you clench around him. “Fuck, you feel so good,” he whispers, his voice breaking just a little, and the sound of it has you squeezing around him harder, earning a broken groan from his chest.

His thumb presses down on your clit, and your body shudders, your orgasm building slow and deep, like a tide pulling you under. You can feel him everywhere—his chest against your back, his cock buried inside you, his fingers working you over, his breath hot against your neck. “Sam—” His name is a plea, a whine, and he swallows it, his hand pressing harder over your mouth as his own rhythm stutters, his hips losing their careful pace.

“I can’t—fuck—I can’t last,” he admits, and the admission is raw, so Sam it hurts. His thrusts turn erratic, his fingers digging into your hip, his cock twitching inside you as he chases his own release.

And then his thumb presses down, hard, and the world tilts. Your orgasm rips through you, slow and deep, your body clamping down around him so tightly he groans, his own release following with a shuddering, broken cry against your shoulder. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his teeth grazing your skin as he spills inside you, his cock pulsing, his whole body trembling.

For a long moment, there’s nothing but the sound of your ragged breathing, the thud of his heartbeat against your back, the way his grip on you loosens just enough to let you drag in a lungful of air. His hand slides from your mouth, his fingers lingering against your lips like he’s memorizing the shape of them.

Then, because he’s Sam, because he can’t not say it—“You okay?” His voice is rough, worried, even now. Even after.

And you laugh, breathless, because of course he’d ask that. Of course he’d still be checking on you when he’s the one who just got fucked senseless.

You turn your head just enough to catch his mouth in a slow, sleepy kiss, tasting the salt on his skin, the faint hint of coffee from the diner down the road. “I will be,” you murmur against his lips, “when you do that again.”

His chuckle is quiet, low, and full of promises. “Oh, we’re definitely doing that again.”

© 𝐁𝐄𝐀𝐅𝐎𝐍𝐃. 2026 all rights reserved. Do not copy, repost, plagiarize, translate or feed any of my work into ai.

[uhhhj13iguess]

god bless this shitty drywall

peter parker x reader

summary: peter parker, who craves human connection so much that he hears his neighbor jerking off through his shitty, paper-thin apartment bedroom wall and gets FAR too carried away with it

wc: 1.1k

cw: gn reader (no pronouns or body descriptors used), NSFW (mdni), male (peter)!masturbation, kinda dubcon bc reader doesn't know he's listening to them masturbating, pervy and deperate!peter core, being caught, FUCK AI

peter came crashing through his open window with anything other than grace after a shitty night of patrolling, groaning as he read through his cracked phone screen that it was nearing one in the morning. it had been a long evening defined by creepy men in alleyways, and frank giving him shit over something he was definitely not in the mood to deal with tonight.

he began to strip his suit, frustration buzzing off his skin as he tried to peel the hot spandex from his sweaty body, damp curls sticking to his forehead and dripping into his eyes. every one of his senses was overwhelmed; they had been for hours. the streetlights growing brighter as the night wore him out, the smell of sewer still trapped in his nose from his earlier fight, his ears ringing and latching on to every single sound around him -- even still. his clock ticking. the traffic outside. the hum of his shitty fucking radiator, and peter tried his best to steady his breath, to not have a fucking breakdown as his ears tuned in to every single fucking sound in the goddamn apartment complex, and-

oh

oh.

so that's what a siren song sounds like.

peter heard your soft moans through his paper-thin walls -- walls he hated for their shitty quality until this moment.

god bless this shitty ass drywall.

and suddenly, you were the only thing he could hear. hours of constant noise instantly drown out by the most beautiful noise he'd ever heard: you. he stopped to think about it for a moment; peter knew better. he shouldn't be listening to this. he'd only met you a handful of times, and this was an insane invasion of your privacy, and-

peter bit back a groan as he palmed himself through his briefs, suit pooled and forgotten at his ankles. he wished he were more embarrassed by how quickly he got hard. he wished he hadn't slowly climbed onto his bed to get more comfortable, to hear you more clearly.

at the end of the day, peter parker was still human.

he shuffled his way out of his briefs, choking on a moan as his heavy cock sprang out and slapped his stomach. he spit as quietly as he could into his palm, gripping himself loosely. it wasn't like peter wasn't used to touching himself. but he was so sensitive in your proximity, his body so desperately craving someone else. even if they were a wall away. even if they didn't know. maybe especially then.

peter listened to your muffled moans and the soft sound of you touching yourself through the wall, his imagination running wild with the possibilities. he imagined your hands all over your body, envisioned all the ways you could be making yourself feel so good right now.

he tried to be quiet, but he began to lose himself a bit as he fantasized about you with desperate, cut-off whines leaving his lips. in his head, your moans only grew louder for him. he closed his eyes and he could hear it: the way you sped up, and the soft whimpers from your throat that turned to unraveled moans deep from your chest.

he understood how the sailors lost their minds to such songs.

he didn't mean to, but peter had picked up on your heartbeat, noting the rapid rate and flutters indicating you were close. peter wasn't far behind you already, the whispers of your pleasure through the drywall enough to get him to the edge, his tip weeping as he stroked faster. he wanted to come with you, so fucking badly. even if he couldn't see it, even if he was such a fucking freak and you had no idea. he really, really didn't care right now. he needed it.

he heard a sharp cry from the room next to him as his stomach tightened and his balls drew up, all of his senses suddenly flooded with the overwhelming scent of you.

"fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck-" peter groaned, spilling harshly from his twitching, angry cock, his cum painting his bare and sweaty chest. he heaved louder than he meant to as he fought to catch his breath from the near-blinding orgasm, slapping a hand over his mouth the second he remembered himself. he prayed to thor the walls on your side were somehow more muffled than his.

he figured it was loki, instead, who answered the prayer when peter heard a soft knock on his front door, and all semblance of dignity he had left drained from his body.

he practically fell from his bed, shouting a cracked "just a minute!" as peter crudely wiped himself with a towel from the floor as quickly as possible. he scrambled to find something to cover up with, settling on a pair of yelena's juicy couture sweats and a black tank he hoped landed low enough on his stomach to cover the leftover sin that was drying on his abs.

there was another round of knocking, slightly louder this time, and peter swore loudly as he tripped over his backpack on his way to the door. he peaked out the peephole and plead with the god of mischief as he saw you standing outside his door, random pajamas tossed on in a similar state to his.

peter opened the door slowly, hoping his face wasn't as red as he knew it was. he cleared his throat, "h-hey! hi, what's up? h-how's the night going? so far, i mean. not that anything has happened. like, at this hour of the night, i mean."

you stared at him for a moment, allowing him to take in your appearance, realizing he must look about the same. his guilt is quickly buried and resurrected in kind as he found his cock twitching at the way your hair was tussled, cheeks flushed, and sleep shorts low on your waist. he suppressed a smile as the shame crept back in at the way you met his eyes with knowledge he hoped you didn't have. knew you did have.

you left him conflicted, however, as your lips cocked into a slight smirk and you crossed your arms before whispering a soft, "you could've just knocked, you know."

peter's eyes widened, mouth agape as he searched for a response. you didn't give him a chance as you smirked and walked back to your apartment, flashing a wink at him before disappearing. peter jumped as you banged against the kitchen wall to his right, your voice distant but clear as you spoke to him: "next time, maybe?"

god bless this shitty ass drywall, indeed.

[yasministration]

I would love a first time meeting their parents (but with like aunt may🫠) with fratboy peter if you could. Congratulations of the 7k followers btw

gone for the summer - peter parker

fratboy!peter au - mina's 7k celebration summary: knowing that you might not get the chance to see your boyfriend over the summer, you rush over to tell him goodbye the morning he's leaving. but you're greeted by an unexpected visitor. wc: 1.2k+

Peter was busy hauling the last of his bags into Aunt May’s car when he heard a familiar lilting call of his name. He tossed his backpack into the back seat of the car, shutting it gently as he looked for whoever had yelled for him, hope building in his chest. When Peter spotted you running across the empty street with a smile on your face, he grinned widely. He hadn’t had the chance to see you yesterday, and he thought that he’d just have to message you to sort plans out over the summer. 

But there you were, somehow finding a way to see him before parting ways, despite all the plans Peter knew you had today. Peter rounded the car, opening his arms widely. You launched yourself into the hug, letting Pete tightly wrap his arms around you and dig his head into t he crook of his neck. “Thought I wouldn’t get to see you.”

“Didn’t want you to leave without saying goodbye.” You told him, breaking the hug to look into your boyfriend’s eyes. Peter sighed deeply, a hand softly caressing your cheek as he stared at you lovingly. “Well, two more minutes and you would have missed me.” 

You pressed yourself onto your tippy toes, kissing Peter’s cheek. “Well, drive safely. Don’t get too bored on the road.” 

Peter straightened up, jerking a thumb back in direction of the frat house. “Oh, Aunt May actually surprised me and came to help me. She sort of road-tripped it with a friend yesterday, so I’ll have her company.” 

You felt your face drain of colour, nervously clearing your throat as your eyes shot back and forth between Peter and the open door of the house behind him. “Your Aunt May’s here?” As though Peter sensed your sudden change in attitude, his expression turned into a caring look of concern, his eyebrows softening as he put both hands on your arms. “Yeah, but you don’t have to meet her or anything if you’re not ready to, baby.”

But it didn't really seem as thought you have a choice, because before you even got to think about an answer, Peter’s favourite person on the planet walked out of the house, shutting the door behind her. She smiled widely, holding something behind her back. Peter instinctively followed your gaze, a hand snaking around your waist and settling on your hip as his Aunt May made her way towards you.

“Guess what you forgot?” She asked, either in an attempt to make things more comfortable for you, or genuinely not noticing your presence. 

“Glasses?” You guessed, grinning widely when she reveals the hand she had behind her back, carrying a familiar pair of square frames. “Glasses.” She echoed, and Peter turned his face towards you, eyes widening in surprise. “How’d you guess!?”

“Pete, you forget your glasses somewhere at least once every twenty minutes.” His eyebrows furrowed as he ran a quick scan through his memory, shaking his head stubbornly. “I do not.” 

You and Aunt May shot each other a look of amusement, and the older lady hummed, absolutely unconvinced by her nephew’s words. You cleared your throat as Peter glanced between the two of you, and extended a hand towards Aunt May, introducing yourself to her. She looked at your hand as though it had personally offended her, stepping forward and wrapping her arms around your shoulders. You stiffened up for a moment, but quickly recovered, returning her tight hug before you both let go.

“You know, I have never heard Peter talk about a single person for as long as he speaks about you.” 

“May.”

“No, come on, the girl at least deserves to know that you called me the day after you asked her to be your girlfriend, close to tears.”

“May!”

You laughed wholeheartedly, wrapping two hands around Peter’s muscular bicep and looking closely at his reddening face. “Did you really?” 

“No! I mean yes, but I wasn’t close to tears.”

You pushed yourself onto your tippy toes, pressing your lips to his cheek. Peter felt his cheeks go impossibly hotter under your touch — and more importantly, under Aunt May’s stare. He tried frowning, but failed as he returned his hand to its rightful place on your waist. 

“Hey, you know Aunt May has a friend who lives near you? So if she ever goes over to hers, I’ll be sure to join in on the ride and come over, if that’s okay?” You nodded, toying with the fabric of Peter’s t-shirt. “Yeah, and whenever my dad has meetings in the office in the city, I’ll tag along too. But I’ll probably have to be back in his office by the time he finishes the day so we can head straight back.”

Peter stared at you longingly, hearts practically shining in his eyes as you spoke. Sure, you both lived almost an hour from the university in opposite directions, but you would make do with what you could. And you never know, Peter might just use his special powers to travel across cities to see you. Aunt May cleared her throat, and both you and Peter’s faces snapped back towards her grinning one. You felt heat creep up your neck, but smiled at the teasing woman nonetheless.

“Okay, it was nice to meet you honey. Try coming around to ours if you can! Keys, hon?” Peter nodded, fishing for his car keys in his pocket before handing them over to his Aunt, grateful for the moment of privacy she chose to give you. You waited until she disappeared behind the side of Peter’s car, listening to her open the passenger side before throwing yourself into your boyfriend’s arms. 

Peter hummed, arms tightening around your torso so he could hold you close. He pressed a kiss to the side of your head and you pulled your face back from him, leaning up to catch his bottom lip in a kiss. Peter chuckled, lowering his face down so he could properly kiss you, and you eagerly licked his bottom lip, sighing in satisfaction when Peter parted his lips to welcome your tongue into his mouth. He desperately licked into your mouth, muffling the sound that flew from your lips as he kissed you passionately. He looked somewhat dazed when you pulled away, his eyes looking into yours, but presence far away, still focused on the kiss.

It must have been your laugh that broke Peter away from his daze, because he suddenly smiled, leaning down to chastely kiss you. “When will your parents be here to come get you?”

“My dad’s around thirty minutes away.”

“Alright baby. Text me when you leave and when you get home.”

You ran a hand up Peter’s chest, absentmindedly nodding. “Okay, you too.” 

“I will.” 

Peter paused, still holding you, as though he didn’t want to leave just yet. But then Aunt May leaned over the console in his car and beeped the horn, causing you both to jump. She watched your reactions from the rear view mirror, melting into the seat as you both kissed each other one last time and said your last goodbyes to each other. 

If only she had Peter’s Spidey senses, she would have heard you both exchange sweet ‘I love you’s.

taglist: @dream-alittlebiggerdarling, @dearlizzies, @bxuzi, @rory-cakes, @dlljdhsh, @aouoo, @fandomhoe101, @sharkers00, @paankhaleyaaar, @tea-biscuits-books

[yasministration]

Hiii, congrats on the 7k followers!!! I was wandering if you could write smt with "first kiss" and frat boy!peter parker. I loved the last fic you uploaded about him.

freeze your brain - frat boy!peter parker

summary: peter's had an awful day, but after making it all better with a simple conversation, he realises he doesn't just want a friendship with you wc: 1.3k

When Peter finds you outside your lecture hall at the end of your class, all it takes is for you to ask about his day for him to begin rambling. Peter had told himself he would be positive for you. After all, he didn’t want to bring your mood down. But how could he help it when you were the one person who actually cared about his day?

All his friends had done back at the frat house was glance up at him, catching his foul mood, and ask “You alright bro?” But they hadn’t pressed further when Peter dismissed them with a wave of his hand and a solemn shake of his head. But you? When Peter had sighed, shrugging his shoulders with a roll of his eyes, you put a hand on his shoulder, asking “Oh, what happened? And so, of course, Peter had to tell you.

He hadn’t stopped talking since you asked, and you were already halfway across campus to where his car was parked. Your heart swelled with empathy for Peter, but you couldn’t help but feel inexplicably happy that he felt comfortable enough to open his heart to you. “It’s just a waste of everyone’s time! I changed my working hours in the lab for tonight instead of this morning because they all said it was the only time they could meet! And now they’re asking to do it tomorrow!? I’ve already done all the reading and work for my part of the presentation, and Manny said he did too, so why are we the ones who have to change our schedules for people who are too lazy to do the work?”

Peter paused outside his car, insistent on finishing his little ramble about his project partners before entering the car. “I think it’s completely fair for you and Manny to tell them that you can’t make it. Just let them know you’ve done your part, and they can work on their bits if they’re not done. It’s really unfair for you, and they need to be aware of the sacrifices you made for the meeting they decided to cancel last minute.”

Peter nodded, opening the door to the passenger seat of the car. You entered the car, and watched as Peter shut the door before climbing into the car, his backpack in his lap. He turned on the engine, but just sat there for a moment, deliberating with his hands closed around the wheel. He let go of the steering wheel, fishing in his bag for his phone. “Wait so what do I tell them?” Peter’s voice came out much smaller, glancing towards you for help with desperate eyes. You smiled at him encouragingly.

“Uh you can say something like: Hi guys, I won’t be able to make it to tomorrow’s meeting as I’ve already switched my work shift today to attend the meeting, which you decided to cancel last minute, and I cannot afford to change my schedule tomorrow as well. I've already done all the work necessary for my part of the project, so there shouldn't be any issues.” Peter nodded, changing the words you dictated slightly so they became less passive aggressive. You watched fondly, eyes glued to the side of his face, his eyebrows furrowed cutely.

“Is this good?” Peter asked, turning the phone in your direction. You lowered your gaze from his face to his phone, leaning closer to him to read through his message. You nodded finally, humming in agreement. “Yeah that’s good. You should send it.” Peter obeyed, immediately tossing his phone into his bag, and the bag into the back seat. It landed on the floor with a thud, and Peter sighed, finally putting the car’s gear into reverse.

“Do you want me to drive?” You asked, and Peter paused, looking at you and smiling. His heart sped up at the concerned look on your face, head tilted to the side worriedly. “Should I?” You asked again, and Peter shook his head.

“No it’s okay, I’m not that angry.” You laughed softly as Peter reversed from the parking spot, an amused smile on his face. “I’m not saying for me, Pete. I’m saying for you. You know, you can be my passenger princess.” Peter barked out a laugh, but it was mostly to cover up the way he could hear the pounding of his pulse in his ears at the way you so selflessly offered to do things for him.

“7/11?” Peter asked, and you nodded, unable to help yourself but stare at the side of his face. “What’s the plan after?” You asked, watching as Peter pulled into the 7/11 parking, only across the road from campus. “Can we go to yours? It’s closer to the lab and I don’t really feel like driving all the way back to mine.”

“Yeah, of course Pete.” Peter turned the steering wheel, pulling into a parking spot and immediately hopping out of the vehicle. You followed quickly, calling his name when he opened the door to the backseat to get his bag.

“What’s wrong?”

“Leave your bag, it’s on me.” You rounded the vehicle, tugging on his arm. Peter shook his head, reaching to grab his bag but you interrupted again, “Please. Let me help make your day a little better. Slushies on me.”

Peter’s lips tugged upwards into a smile, and he shut the door, abandoning his bag as he said “You’ve already made my day better.” You and Peter both stared at each other for a long moment before he threw this head back with a loud groan and complaining “I can’t believe I have to do a night shift at the lab.” You giggled, and Peter huffed, glancing down at you with a defeated look on his face. You cleared your throat and stepped closer to Peter, whose hands immediately came up to rest on your hips. “You’re that mad that you can’t watch the basketball game with your roommates?”

Peter scoffed, shaking his head. Well, he was partly annoyed about that, but he had bigger problems on his hands. If only you knew. “No, I just, I usually have other duties at night.” You raised your eyebrows at Peter, echoing “Duties? You living some kind of double life I don’t know about?”

Peter smiled softly at you, squeezing your hips gently. He noticed the way you immediately broke eye contact with him, face evidently flustered. Peter called your name once, causing you to glance up at his obediently. “Thank you for caring.” He said quietly, and you smiled, reaching up to rest a hand on his cheek. You pulled away, beginning to walk away from him.

“Come on, Pete. Let’s go get those slushies.” But as you took another step away, you were tugged back into Peter’s chest by a strong hand around your wrist. You gasped, turning around just in time for Peter lower his face down, pressing a kiss to your lips. He immediately pulled away, not giving you a chance to respond, so you fully turned to stand facing to him, resting a hand on his shoulder to balance yourself as you lifted yourself onto you tippy toes to kiss him again.

Peter reacted immediately, hands on your waist to steady you as he kissed you back. You cupped his cheeks, gasping softly as Peter ran his tongue over your lips. You parted your lips, letting him tangle his tongue with yours. Peter brought a hand up to the back of your head, keeping you close to him until you pushed at his chest, breaking the kiss with a loud pant.

Peter grinned, suddenly forgetting about his night shift at the lab as he straightened up, announcing “Alright, slushy time.”

taglist:  @dream-alittlebiggerdarling, @dearlizzies, @bxuzi, @rory-cakes, @dlljdhsh, @aouoo, @fandomhoe101, @sharkers00, @paankhaleyaaar, @tea-biscuits-books

[yasministration]

want you to stay - peter parker

summary: peter is absolutely appalled when he sees you beginning to leave the party when his frat brother yells "if you're not a brother or fucking a brother, get out!" wc: 2.1k+ a/n: new au :))

It was getting late.

Not in the sense that you were tired, but you’d had your fun with your friends, all of whom were ready to leave, and the one person you were here to see kept on disappearing from your sight. You didn’t want to follow Peter around like a clingy situationship, so you focused on making the most of the party with the friends you had come with. But the boy dipped in and out of the house, switching between wrecking havoc with his friends and finding you inside.

Peter had stolen you away from your friends for a dance, pressing you up against him and moving his hips with yours. You had felt his smile against the skin of your neck, pressing the occasional kiss as you sang along to lyrics of the deafening music playing. You had spun in Peter’s hold, slinging your arms over his shoulders. Peter had leaned his head down, his nose brushing against yours, lips hovering over yours. Your breath had hitched then, and Peter had smiled widely, chuckling at your reaction, as though you’d never kissed before.

“Give me a kiss.” He had whispered, and you didn’t know how you heard him over all the noise in the house. Perhaps you had just read his lips and hoped he had said what you wanted to hear. But you pushed yourself up on your toes anyway and kissed him anyway. Peter’s hands came up to cup your cheeks, and just as you pulled tilted your head to deepen the passionate kiss, he had jumped away from you.

Blinking quickly, you took in the sight of one of Peter’s frat brothers, tightly clutching Peter’s shoulders. You hadn’t heard what he had said, but Peter had ducked his face down shyly, a hand trailing down to your waist as his friend continued speaking loudly to him. Peter tugged you closer to him, telling you “I’ll be back!” But he never returned.

Now, you were huddled with your friends in a corner, discussing the plans to return to one of your dorms and debrief the night. Luckily though, you didn’t have to discuss the situation any further, because suddenly, the music cut out and someone clambered on to a coffee table.

“Everybody listen up! If you’re not a brother, or fucking a brother, GET OUT!”

Your friends scoffed, and you could nearly hear the roll of their eyes. “Let’s go.” You told them, nodding towards the door. You took the hand offered to you, following the crowd out of the house. But as you approached the door, a hand curled around the wrist of your free arm, softly pulling to attract your attention.

Peter stood in the midst of the crowd, a confused look on his face. You felt your friends’s eyes on the two of you, exchanging glances behind your back. “Hey, where are you going?” Peter’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, the confusion clear on his face. Clearing your throat, you felt your face heat up at his question. Shrugging, you said “I don’t, we were just-“

“Didn’t you hear what he said?”

“I did, yeah. I just, I didn’t…”

Peter shifted his weight from one foot to the other, removing his hand from around your wrist. He swallowed thickly, throat bobbing. “You don’t want to stay?” Your eyes widened as you realised what this looked like; you escaping his party with your friends and averting all his questions.

“No, I-I mean, do you want me to stay?” You hated yourself for how small you sounded — how you were clearly seeking his approval. Peter smiled, nodding assuredly. “Yeah, I do. I want you to stay.” It was impossible for you not to smile at his words, or to feel insecure anymore. Chewing on your bottle lip, you turned over to face your friends, all of whom were expectantly looking at you.

“Okay, have fun.” One of them said, leading the others outside and ditching you with your… Peter. “Come here.” He mumbled, extending an arm towards you. You pushed past the bodies around you until you were close enough for Peter to wrap a muscular arm around your shoulders. He led you towards the emptying living room, keeping his gaze on you. Peter paused in the hallway, looking past you and towards his frat brothers lounged on the couches.

“Do you want to come up to my room? Or stay down here a little?” Wrapping an arm around Peter’s waist, you followed his gaze, eyes widening as the men in the living room broke into another fit of loud laughter. “Can we go to your room?”

“Yeah, of course baby.” You felt your face heat up at the pet name, letting Peter guide you up the set of familiar stairs. His hands lingered on your waist until the door to his room was shut.

“Thank you for letting me stay.” You said, voice quiet as you sat down in Peter’s bed. Peter followed you, standing in front of you. He cupped your cheek, leaning down to press a soft kiss to the top of your head. “I wouldn’t want you anywhere else.” You attempted to bow your head down to avoid his gaze, but Peter’s hand was slipping to your chin and pushing your head up. When your eyes met his, he smiled, and you couldn’t help the way your lips tugged upwards in response.

“Do you want to take off your makeup? Matt’s girlfriend basically lives here, so he should have some wipes or something.”

“I don’t want to be a bother.” Peter’s hand dropped from your face and he scoffed disapprovingly, instantly turning around and walking out of the room. He left the door wide open behind him, so you saw as he trotted down the stairs, his shoes padding loudly on the wooden floor. You tapped your fingers on the fabric of your skirt, knee beginning to bounce nervously. When Peter returned up the stairs, he was accompanied by someone – tall with a head of thick black hair. He wore a navy blue polo shirt, and guided Peter into the room directly facing the one you were sat in. Matt lingered in the doorway of his bedroom when Peter returned to his own room, carrying a bottle of micellar water and cotton pads.

Matt caught your eye, putting a hand up and waving animatedly. “Hi y/n.” He said, drawing your name out in a sing song voice. “Hi Matt.” Unlike the other frat brothers, you were a little familiar with Matt, who had met you the very first time you’d entered this house. It was against your free will that you had met, but retrospectively, you were thankful for the familiar face. Peter twisted his torso, frowning at his housemate, who travelled across the hallway in a few steps, leaning against the doorway of Peter’s room. “So…” He started, waggling his eyebrows as he nodded towards Peter.

“Matt, go away, she doesn’t feel like talking to anyone.”

“No, that makes me sound so rude, Peter!”

“No, it’s alright, we get it. We’ll all be here tomorrow morning anyway, if you want to meet the others. Or not the others, just Meg. She really wants to meet you.”

“Yeah, okay. I’ll be sure to say hi to Megan if I see her.”

“Oh, she’ll make sure you see her tomorrow.”

“Okay, Matt. That’s enough.” Matt rolled his eyes, slapping a hand on the top of the doorway before walking down the stairs. Peter closed the door gently, moving to sit next to you on the bed. “Is this okay?” He asked, presenting you the items in his hands. “It’s more than okay, Pete. Thank you.”

Peter watched silently as you rubbed the cotton pad across your face, makeup smearing on your face. He leaned forward, dragging the trash can from under his bedside table towards you. You dropped the used cotton pads in the bin, running a hand across your face when it was finally clean. It felt odd for some reason – being so domestic with Peter when you were usually in and out of his room after a hook up, or a date that had never been labeled as one. Standing up slowly, you wobbled on your feet, forgetting about the heels you wore. Peter’s hand shot out, steadying your waist. “I’m going to wash my face, if that’s okay.”

Peter nodded, standing up. He kept his eye on you as you walked into the hallway, entering the bathroom. He walked over to his closet to find you a hoodie and sweatpants. When you returned, face still mildly damp and eyes tired, Peter was quick to wrap you in his arms again. He smiled as you melted against him, cheek pressed against his chest. The touch was nice and warm, and had you leaning into his body. “You tired?”

“M’yeah.” Peter chuckled, chest bubbling against your face. He pulled away slightly, but your arms kept him close to you. “Come on, just to get changed then we can cuddle.”

Cuddle. You barely ever cuddled, unless you were watching a movie, which led to inevitable sex. Peter steered you out of your small top and bra, guiding your face into the hole of his hoodie, followed by your arms into the sleeves. You wiggled out of your skirt, shaking your head when Peter offered you his sweatpants. He chuckled, folding them again. “Do you want some water?”

“Yes please. God, I can already feel the headache coming.”

“You sobered up?”

“Yeah. I didn’t get drunk, I think it’s just the noise. How do you feel?”

“Yeah, good. I didn’t drink much either, so I feel sharp.”

You grinned, accepting the metal bottle of water Peter offered you. It had a capital 'P' on the front, and wasn’t completely full, but you took two big gulps from it anyway, then offered it to Peter. “Sharp? Senses acute, Mr. Parker?”

“Yeah, exactly like that.” His smile disappeared behind the rim of the water bottle, and he took a long sip, sighing loudly in satisfaction when he swallowed. You climbed into Peter’s bed, settling under the covers. Peter undressed from his jeans and t-shirt, leaving them in a pile on the floor before reaching for the sweatpants he had just folded. He followed you into the bed, hands finding the curve of your waist and pulling you flush against his bare chest.

“Thank you for staying.” He whispered. You smiled softly, pushing yourself up on the bed so you could press your lips against his. Peter’s eyes fluttered shut as he relaxed into the kiss, pressing himself harder against you. He stroked his fingers against your cheek as his legs tangled with your bare ones under the sheets.

“I’m happy I did.” You finally said, settling back down on the pillow. Peter sighed, breaking eye contact for a brief moment and opening his mouth, as though to say something, then closing it again. “What’s wrong?”

Peter’s gaze snapped back up, and his mouth dipped open again, though no words came out. He looked around, gathering his thoughts before finally saying “I’ve really been enjoying our time together.” You froze, eyes hardening as you pushed yourself to sit up, the cautious tone Peter was using sending you into a panic. Peter followed your movements, twiddling with his thumbs as he continued, “But I don’t- I think we could, I could enjoy it more if I really understood the nature of our relationship.”

You furrowed your eyebrows, scanning Peter’s posture. His shoulders were slightly hunched, nerves clouding his eyes as he gathered his thoughts. “Pete? I don’t… I don’t understand.”

“Would you like to be my girlfriend? Officially?”

“Oh!” Peter’s chest deflated at your quiet gasp, and he nodded, as though you’d already rejected him. You reached out to place a hand on his thigh, attracting his gaze back up to your face. “Peter, I’d love to.”

“You would?” Peter grinned widely, a relieved sigh leaving him as you nodded, shuffling closer to him on the bed. Peter licked his lips, cupping your cheeks and leaning forward to kiss you quickly. You giggled, launching yourself onto Peter to hug him, arms settling around his waist. Peter laughed, kissing the top of your head and he laid back down on the bed. The room was silent for a long moment, the two of you holding each other lovingly.

“Do you want me to turn off the lights?” He asked quietly, but you shook your head softly. “I’m not really tired anymore.”

“Oh... Do you want to kiss for a little bit?

“Yeah.”

taglist: @dream-alittlebiggerdarling, @dearlizzies, @bxuzi, @rory-cakes, @dlljdhsh, @aouoo, @fandomhoe101

[yasministration]

natasha's mentee

pairing: trainee!peter parker x trainee!reader summary: peter's spidey tingles fail to work during training, purely because you're in the room, but what's even worse is that you have questions to ask about it. wc: 1.1k+

The loud crunch of a nose breaking in the training room has you swinging around to find the victim, in turn giving Natasha the perfect target on your face to throw a petty punch at the fact that you've let your guard down. You stumble back with a pained noise, glaring at your mentor before looking back towards the sound of cartilage breaking. On the opposite side of the mat, Peter stands clutching his nose, blood already dripping behind his hand and onto his shirt. In front of him, Tony stands with his hands on his hips, face unimpressed.

“You’re next if you keep staring.” Natasha warns, and you huff, lifting your hands in front of your face again. “I just thought he got like… spidey tingles.” Natasha smirks behind her fists, throwing another punch at you. You block your face from her throw, adding “Like how can he save the city from supervillains but not stop a punch from Mr. Stark?”

Natasha rolls her eyes at your words, increasing the pace of her punches. You know it’s her way of trying to tell you to focus, but you have more questions to ask her. You send a kick her way, gaining the time in which she stumbles back to ask “And how does he get- Ouch!” Natasha laughs loudly as you double over, clutching your stomach. “Not cool, I have questions!”

“I thought your superpowers came with a spidey tingle too?” She mumbles, and you immediately retort with “That’s never been a part of my powers!”

“Okay calm down and go fix Parker’s nose. Don’t want to waste the medical team’s time with another broken nose.” You blink quickly as Natasha immediately walks away, searching around the training room to find where Peter is sitting on a bench, wiping blood on his shorts, and then where Natasha is joining Mr. Stark to inevitably make fun of their recruits. 'Their recruits' obviously being you and Peter.

You walk up to Peter despite only having spoken to him a handful of times about how Natasha might kill you before making you a hero. Peter looks up when your feet enter his ray of vision, and you smile pitifully at the way his nose lays crooked on his face. “It’s pretty bad, right?” He asks, the dried blood on his face cracking on his skin when he smiles at you. You nod, sitting next to Peter on the bench. “Natasha wants me to fix up your nose.”

Peter’s eyes go wide and his mouth gapes open as he points to his broken nose. “Um, my -” You nod, finishing his sentence for him. “Nose. Changing room?” Peter sighs, standing up and shrugging his shoulders. He could definitely pop his nose back in on his own, but he follows you to the changing room anyway, trying not to let his eyes linger on your legs for too long. He touches the area around his nose, wincing slightly. It’ll heal fast after you pop it back in, so he’s not really worried about that. What he’s more concerned about is the way you carefully dab a damp towel across his skin to clean the blood off, and more importantly, how hard his heart is beating after.

The pain is nothing compared to the care you display, and he’s surprised that you’re Natasha’s super tough recruit with the strong reputation. His lips quirk up into a smile when you stuff the towel under the running water again, squeezing the blood out before bringing it back up to his face. “Stop smiling.” You order, but your own lips tighten as you smile. He laughs, his entire upper body moving with the sound, and you take the towel away from his face while he goes still for you.

You wipe away the last of the dried blood on his face before tossing the towel into the sink. You gently take Peter’s wrists in your hands, looking at the blood that has settles into the lines on his palms, and you guide them towards the sink, turning the tap on again. He holds his hands out for you to pump hand soap into them, even though he’s not exactly sure why he does. You stand next to him as he washes his hands, catching his eye through the mirror. He’s trying to think of a conversation starter, but struggles to. After all, as the only two recruits for the team, you must have so much in common, so why isn’t he able to speak to you?

“My spidey tingle usually helps.” Peter says, and your head snaps towards him, eyes widening in surprise. “But not too much when I’m distracted.” You giggle at his words, tilting your head to the side as Peter turns away from you to dry his hands. “Aren’t you supposed to be most focused during sparring?” You question, and Peter ducks his head down, trying to hide his smile from you as he breathes out a short laugh.

“Yeah, I guess. But I find your presence… enticing.” Your eyebrows lift up at the unexpected words, and you search in Peter’s eyes for anything to reveal his emotions. “Come on, don’t just leave me hanging like that. You have to finish your thought.”

Peter rolls his shoulders back, tossing his head back as he groans. “I don’t know, you intrigue me.” He says, and you grin widely, asking “You find me enticing and intriguing, it sounds like I have you in the palm of my hand.” Peter’s face flushes darkly and he shyly turns his eyes away from you, unable to meet the confidence you display. “It’s okay, I find you intriguing too. I keep finding myself trying to discover more about you.” Peter swallows thickly, slowly bringing his eyes up to observe your posture. You lean your hip against the counter, one ankle crossed over the other, your arms laying by your sides. You’re not hiding anything from him through your body language, one hand carefully laid on the wet counter as you look up at him, a playful smile on your lips.

“Okay, please don’t start making out against the wall.” Both your heads snap towards Tony, who has just walked into the room. Peter rolls his eyes at his mentor, though his face flushes all the same, but you just cross your arms and turn towards Mr. Stark, watching as he walks towards a locker. You keep his eyes on him the entire time he’s in the changing room, and he glances back towards you a couple of times with a smirk. He raises his hands up in surrender and rushes out of the room with his things in hand, and it’s only when the door swings shut that you turn back towards Peter. “Maybe we can start with getting to know each other a little better.”

Peter nods, adding quietly “Yeah, it’d be nice to get close to the only other person the same age.”

“Then we can work our way up to making out against the wall.”

taglist: @dream-alittlebiggerdarling, @dearlizzies, @bxuzi, @rory-cakes, @dlljdhsh, , @fandomhoe101, @sharkers00, @paankhaleyaaar, @tea-biscuits-books, @bearymuchso, @princesstiti14, @challengers4ev, @doiki3, @daisylove3, @laufeysvalentine, @veveaq, @nothinlikeuuu, @kneelforloki

[violetrainbow412-blog]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐀𝐫𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐑𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Peter Parker x telepath!reader

wc: 5k

summary: the mind is more fragile than anyone could imagine. And yet, love proves to be the most powerful force of all.

masterlist

Part one Part two

During sleep, the mind lowers its guard in a way it would never allow while awake. Thoughts cease to obey a precise order, memory reorganizes fragments of the past, and emotions travel paths that consciousness keeps closed while we are awake. Perhaps that is why there are memories that can only be found with closed eyes.

That night, exhaustion finally overcame you with unusual ease. As soon as your breathing found a constant rhythm, you felt how the silence of your own mind began to expand. It was a deceptive calm, because beneath it there was something else, a presence you already knew all too well. It was the familiar sensation of another consciousness brushing against yours from somewhere impossible to point out.

Little by little, that presence stopped feeling distant. The connection with Peter strengthened as if sleep had eliminated the last barrier that still separated them. You stopped perceiving where your own thoughts ended and where his began. There was no resistance, nor time to prepare yourself. It simply happened. An invisible force finished pulling you toward his memory, and before you could cling to your own consciousness, everything disappeared.

The images began to rush over you in no apparent order, as if an old film reel had been cut into hundreds of fragments and someone was projecting them at random. There was no transition between one scene and the next; only flashes of a life that did not belong to you and that, even so, you felt with an unbearable intensity.

You saw him vanish, turning to dust in the arms of Tony Stark, unable to comprehend what was happening while the universe unraveled around him. An instant later, he returned five years later to fight the greatest battle of his life and watch, helpless, the sacrifice of someone who had been much more than a mentor to him. Next appeared the smiling face of a brown-haired woman, his Aunt May, and, almost without giving you time to recognize her, you saw her collapse in his arms while he tried to convince her that everything would be okay. You felt the weight of her body, the desperate trembling of his hands, and the unbearable emptiness left behind when he realized he would never hear her voice again.

The scenes changed again and again. You saw him swinging between the skyscrapers of New York with a freedom that only existed when he wore the mask. You saw him stopping robberies, rescuing strangers, and returning home completely exhausted, hiding wounds under his clothes so that no one would ask about them. You also saw entire nights without sleep, sitting in front of an improvised sewing machine while mending a suit that seemed to tear as fast as he managed to repair it.

Then other faces appeared. A girl with a warm gaze smiling from a coffee shop. A curly-haired boy who wouldn't stop talking. Dozens of classmates crowding the school hallways. It took only a second to understand how much they meant to him and another to feel the devastating blow when his identity was revealed to the entire world. You heard accusations, insults, and threats. You saw cameras chasing him through the streets, journalists invading his privacy, and everyone he loved paying the consequences of a truth they had never asked to know. Guilt consumed him with a violence you could barely endure.

Without warning, the New York sky began to tear open. Luminous cracks crossed the firmament while impossible creatures emerged from everywhere and the very fabric of reality seemed to crumble. You saw him fight to the limit of his strength, lose time and again, and, finally, decide that no boy his age should ever have been forced to make.

«Make everyone forget me»

The plea echoed with terrifying clarity.

You felt the spell spread like a silent wave wrapping around the entire world. Millions of memories disappeared at the same time. You saw how the faces of those who had shared his life emptied of recognition, how the bonds built over years unraveled in an instant, and how Peter stood motionless, watching the price of his own decision.

Then you understood something that made the air leave your lungs.

You had never forgotten him.

You had believed that the void inhabiting your memory was the consequence of your own actions, of the sacrifice you made years ago by erasing the memories Peter had of you. But that was different. The entire world had lost Peter Parker. Everyone had awakened convinced that that boy had never been a part of their lives.

Except you.

And, even so, he had moved forward completely alone.

Loneliness was the invisible thread connecting all those memories. It didn't matter if he was surrounded by people or swinging between the buildings of Manhattan. In every image there was an absence that weighed more than any enemy he had faced. It was the story of a young man who had saved the world again and again and who, in the end, had had to accept that no one would ever remember who he truly was.

You heard him call your name in your sleep. But it was no longer the young boy from early high school, but the present one. The sad, abandoned man he had become.

You opened your eyes startled, disoriented, unable for an instant to distinguish where memories ended and where reality began. Breath caught in your throat as you tried to focus your vision. In front of you was Peter. His hands held your shoulders firmly and he pronounced your name again and again, though the buzzing that still echoed in your head had swallowed his voice almost completely.

You blinked several times, trying to catch your breath.

It was then that you heard it.

A sharp thud shook the apartment, followed by another and another. Books, glasses, cushions, and even the small lamp in the living room fell to the floor almost at the same time, as if an invisible force had suddenly stopped holding them. The echo of the impacts bounced off the walls, and the silence that followed proved even more unsettling.

You turned your head slowly. Your heart stopped for an instant.

During your sleep, you had levitated a good portion of the room. Objects were still swaying slightly above the floor, silent witnesses to a power that had overflowed while you remained unconscious.

You looked back at Peter.

His expression wasn't exactly one of fear. Worry was still present in his eyes, but it had been displaced by something much harder to interpret: bewilderment. He observed you as if trying to reconcile the woman who had shared dinner with him just a few minutes ago with the impossible scene he had just witnessed.

His hands remained on your shoulders, motionless.

“What... what was all that?” he asked in a low voice.

Peter seemed unable to find any explanation for what he was witnessing. And you didn't know if you were capable of giving him one.

You whispered his name, trying to reassure him, as one of your hands slowly rose to the level of his injured arm. However, as soon as your fingers brushed his skin, the buzzing inside your mind returned with an intensity far greater than before.

Both of you pulled away immediately, as if the contact had been an electric shock. Peter lost his balance and nearly fell to the floor.

You couldn't see how his expression changed second by second; the pain shooting through your head was too intense to allow you to focus on anything else. But, if you had been able to, you would have understood that the connection between you had just triggered that which you had tried to avoid from the moment you arrived.

The memories didn't ask permission to be awakened. They burst into his mind with a familiar brutality, striking him with the same violence with which they had shattered you.

Your pain subsided a second later, and when you managed to look at him again, Peter was watching you from his spot in the same way you had observed him at the coffee shop.

You knew it immediately.

“Who are you?” he sobbed.

His voice barely managed to come out, broken by tears.

“What did you just do to me?”

“Peter…”

“Is it real?” he continued, shaking his head while trying to find an explanation that didn't exist. “All of this… is it true?”

You tried to sit up from the bed to get closer to him, to take him by the arm, to make him understand that you hadn't wanted to hurt him. But Peter pulled away before you could touch him.

The desperation invading him leaked into you without you being able to help it. Suddenly you were feeling everything he couldn't say out loud: the fear, the confusion, the disbelief, and, above all, the rage of having discovered a truth that had been stolen from him for years.

He was hurt. He was upset with you.

“Peter, if you would just let me explain…”

But he wasn't listening. Not because he didn't want to, but because his mind was still trying to process what had just happened. In front of him was not merely a person with powers who had broken into his memories; you were someone who had held a part of his life, a part of himself, and had decided to keep it to yourself.

And now you were giving it back to him all at once, forcing him to face everything he had never been prepared for. Or at least that was how it seemed.

“You abandoned me,” he finally stated.

Tears were already streaming down his cheeks, and without realizing it, you began to cry with him. The connection between the two of you made it impossible not to feel his pain.

“You… simply left,” he continued, his voice cracking. “You left me even when I told you not to!”

You found no response. Because any explanation sounded small in front of the wound that had just opened up.

He took a step backward. He looked at you as if he were still trying to recognize the person in front of him, as if the image he had of you and the one he had just discovered could not exist at the same time.

“I need to leave.”

“Peter…”

“No. I can't do this right now.”

He grabbed his jacket with clumsy movements, still trembling from the shock, and walked toward the door. For an instant you thought about stopping him, about explaining everything to him, about telling him that you never wanted to hurt him. But you knew that any word coming out of your mouth at that moment would only be another thing he would have to endure.

And it was he who left. Without looking back.

You didn't wait even a day to return to the mansion.

You were devastated.

In the morning you tried to talk to Peter, but all you received from inside his apartment was silence. He didn't show up for work either; he had called in sick. You needed no more signs to understand the message he was trying to give you.

For the sake of the people at the pizzeria, you made them forget your existence. After all, there were only a few days left before the cashier returned from his absence, and you didn't want to leave traces of your stay in that place or cause unnecessary questions. You packed your few belongings, abandoned the apartment without even notifying the landlord, and left.

All you wanted was to disappear.

Charles asked no questions when you returned. It wasn't necessary. It was enough to see your swollen eyes, the way you could barely hold yourself up, and the deep desolation that seemed to surround you to understand how things had ended.

Nor did he try to console you. Not because he didn't care, but because he knew there was a part of that which you had to face by yourself. He had warned you about the consequences of your decisions, and now you had to live with them.

Sadness, however, soon transformed into something easier to bear: rage.

You were furious with yourself for having believed that going to Queens could end any other way. Furious with Peter for having made you forget him. And furious because you hadn't chosen to hand over his memories; everything had been the product of an event beyond your control.

The human mind was something far too complex. Unique, fragile, and extraordinarily powerful. You knew it better than anyone. You knew that entering it always involved risks, that even the most noble intention could cause irreparable damage. And even so, you had decided to try.

But in the end, none of that had mattered.

The tension was evident every time you appeared around the mansion. Even your friends began to weigh their words, to avoid conversations with you when the opportunity arose. It was as if you wore the anger you felt toward the entire world written on your face, as if everyone could see it, even if they never mentioned it.

And then you felt like before again: rejected, set aside, reduced to the only thing that for years you had tried not to be.

A mutant.

For days you tried to convince yourself that time would eventually extinguish that rage. It didn't. If anything, it became quieter and harder to ignore. It remained with you upon waking, during meals, and in every hallway of the mansion, feeding on everything you couldn't change. There were too many unanswered questions and an unbearable sense of helplessness that wouldn't stop growing.

In the end you understood that staying still only made things worse. You couldn't force Peter to forgive you, nor undo what had happened, nor regain control over memories that had returned in the worst possible way. But there was something that was still in your hands: understanding what had happened to you. If that connection had been capable of breaking all the rules you thought you knew about telepathy, you needed to discover why. And to do so, there was only one place you could go.

The mansion housed spaces that had not been built to receive visitors, but to contain abilities that, on occasion, proved too dangerous even for those who had learned to master them.

One of those rooms was located in one of the most secluded areas of the building: a completely isolated training room, with reinforced walls and a huge panel of police-grade glass that allowed observation from the outside without interfering in the process. It was the place where telepaths practiced when they needed to explore their abilities without the risk of accidentally invading someone else's mind.

It was also one of the few places where you could allow yourself instability.

You had been inside for several minutes, focusing on keeping various objects suspended around you. At first it had been a simple exercise: controlling the movement, the speed, the precision. But your mind wasn't really there. It was still trapped in the city, in Peter's gaze, in his words, in the way he had walked out of your apartment as if you were someone completely unknown to him.

Frustration began to seep into every movement.

The objects stopped moving calmly. They began to tremble in the air. Your breathing became heavier, and the anger you had tried to contain for days grew inside you again until it occupied every corner of your mind.

You didn't want to feel this way. You didn't want to be angry. But you didn't know how to stop feeling hurt either.

And then something inside you gave way.

The first thud made the glass panes vibrate. Then came another. And another.

The objects floating around you shot off in all directions before shattering against the walls, reduced to fragments while a wave of energy swept through the room.

You stood motionless in the middle of the chaos, breathing with difficulty, observing the remains of everything that just seconds before you had been controlling.

Your name echoed in the room with Charles's characteristic calm, from the speakers around. You closed your eyes, exhausted. Of course, he had seen what happened. He had probably been observing your progress as he so often did during your training sessions.

“I know, I know,” you answered in desperation, running a hand over your face. “I lost control.”

You expected a correction, a warning, or for him to agree with you. But Charles said none of that.

“Someone wants to see you.”

You frowned.

“Who?”

You received no answer.

You stepped out of the room still confused, wiping your hands as you walked down the hallway. For a few seconds, your mind tried to find any possible explanation. A student, a visitor, some mansion business.

Until you looked up and felt your heart stop.

Peter was standing in front of you.

For an instant you forgot how to breathe.

You didn't understand what he was doing there. You didn't understand how he had arrived. After all, he barely knew anything about you; he didn't know the mansion, he didn't know where to find you, he had no reason to have made it there.

His gaze was fixed on you, heavy with too many things that neither of you seemed to know how to say.

Next to him was the professor.

“This young man says he knows you. And he wants to speak with you.”

Before you could ask him anything else, Charles simply offered them an understanding look and walked away down the hallway, leaving the two of you alone.

You knew that a mutant of his level could probably have crossed that barrier that had been impossible for you. Therefore, he was aware of the situation and knew exactly what Peter had come to tell you.

He took a step forward, and you stepped back out of inertia.

“What are you doing here?”

“You left,” he whispered, ignoring your question. “At the pizzeria, they don't have a single memory of you.”

“I'm very good at doing that,” you replied defensively.

Why were you answering him like that? When a week ago the only thing you wished for was for him to be able to remember you. And now that he did, you were scared.

That was it. Not fury, but fear taking control.

You looked him up and down, and something in his face told you he hadn't slept very well. To be honest, neither had you.

Peter took another step toward you, but this time you didn't step back. Not because you were calm, but because your body seemed not to know whether it wanted to get closer to him or protect itself from whatever he might say.

You had imagined this moment too many times. You had thought about what it would be like when he finally knew the truth, when you could stop carrying the weight of what happened alone, when you no longer had to pretend you didn't know him.

But you never imagined that, when it finally happened, you would feel so much fear.

“Why?” he asked.

His voice was much lower than last time. There was no longer rage in it, only tiredness. As if he had spent the whole night trying to find an answer that refused to fit.

You looked down.

“I need to understand it,” he continued. His jaw tightened slightly. “I need to know what happened.”

You took a breath before answering. Not because you didn't know what to say, but because you knew that no explanation would change what he had felt.

“I didn't know anything.”

Peter frowned.

“What?”

“I didn't know it was you.”

Your voice came out lower than you expected. You were terrified.

“I didn't know the boy from the coffee shop was you. I didn't know you still lived in New York, nor did I know that you had lost your memories. I didn't know anything about what had happened after I left.”

Peter remained silent, processing every word.

“I couldn't enter your mind. You seem to be immune to me. And I don't know if I'm wrong, but that day I even felt like you knew what I was trying to do. I wanted to go talk to you or probe a little to find out why you were blocking me, but then we bumped into each other. And when you touched me… when you took my hand, everything came back to me.”

You paused, trying to find the right words.

“It wasn't that I was looking for you. I didn't know where you were, I didn't know what had happened to you after all this time. You simply appeared in front of me and then the memories surfaced.”

Peter stood motionless, listening to you attentively.

“I heard you, Peter, in my mind. In my dreams. It wasn't even my intention, you just… it was as if you were screaming. Every time.”

Your lower lip had begun to tremble, as if you were about to cry.

“Before seeing each other again that day, I could feel your pain. I… I listened to your worries and suffered the double life you lead, but I didn't know it was about you.”

You looked down.

“I couldn't understand it.”

Your voice grew lower.

“And when I found you, I only had more questions than answers. That's why I went back to Queens. I wanted to understand what had happened with you and also know who you were after everything you had lived through. I just… wanted to get to know you as you were now.”

Peter swallowed hard, but didn't look away.

“It was never my intention for you to remember. It just happened.”

He seemed to be trying to order each piece of the story, fitting the memories he now had with the person standing in front of him. Then he looked up and finally uttered words:

“So it's true…”

His voice came out more fragile than he would have liked.

“Everything we were?” he continued. “Everything we had?”

He paused.

“Is it true that we loved each other?”

You couldn't answer immediately. That was the question you had feared hearing the most, for you knew it would always be asked in the past tense.

You nodded slowly.

His eyes filled with an emotion you couldn't identify. Pain, relief, sadness. Perhaps all at the same time.

“It was real.”

For an instant he seemed trapped in those words. As if a part of him had needed to hear them from you to finally believe it hadn't been an illusion.

But then the expression on his face changed.

“Why did you do it?” he asked.

His voice was no longer fragile, but sounded wounded.

“Why did you take something from me that you had no right to take?”

You said nothing.

“You took a part of my life from me,” he took another step toward you. “You took my memories. You took away my ability to decide what I wanted to do with them.”

His eyes met yours.

“Why did you make me forget you?”

You felt the guilt return, but this time you didn't let it crush you. Because you had spent days punishing yourself for the very same thing. You knew you had been wrong, but now you also knew you weren't the only one who had made decisions.

“And did you have the right to do it?” you asked.

Peter frowned.

“What?”

“Did you have the right to make everyone forget who you were?”

Silence fell between you both.

“No,” your voice remained firm. “You didn't either.”

Peter looked away, and his expression hardened.

“It's not the same.”

“Why?”

“Because I was trying to prevent a collapse of universes.”

You nodded slowly, accepting the difference.

“Yes. You held the fate of millions of people in your hands.”

You took a step toward him.

“But, Peter… I didn't hold the challenge of protecting the world in my hands.”

You looked at him directly.

“I only wanted to protect my world.”

His features shifted slightly. The confession hung suspended between the two of you.

“I know I hurt you. But at that moment… all I could see was someone I loved suffering, and I thought that if I could take that pain away from you, even at my own expense, I had to do it.”

You took another step toward him, as if there were a magnetism pulling you. He himself was what was pulling you in his direction.

But it wasn't the telepathic connection. It was him. It had always been him.

“Can you blame me?” you whispered, barely a thread of a voice.

“Can you really?” you continued, searching his eyes. “Didn't you do the same for Michelle?”

The mention of her name seemed to pause him for an instant.

“When you decided to have everyone forget who you were, you didn't do it because you didn't love them. You did it because you loved them too much. Because you believed that carrying the loss was better than watching them suffer.”

You looked down for a second.

“I did the same thing.”

Peter remained silent, trapped between the need to contradict you and the inability to deny that he understood that kind of sacrifice.

“The difference,” you said softly, “is that you were trying to save everyone.”

You looked at him again.

“I was just trying to save you.”

“I missed you.”

The confession came out of him suddenly, interrupting you before you could continue.

For an instant he seemed surprised by his own words, as if he had spent too much time trying to deny something he could no longer hide. He looked down and took a deep breath, searching for the right way to explain something that even he hadn't known how to comprehend during all that time.

“Even if I didn't know who you were…” he whispered. “Even if I couldn't remember you, I tried to find you everywhere.”

His fingers closed slightly at his sides, as if he could still feel that absence that had accompanied him for so long.

“I looked for you in people, in places, in experiences. There were moments when something made me feel like I had already lived through something similar, that there was someone who was supposed to be there with me, but I could never understand what it was.”

His eyes met yours again.

“There was always a part of me that felt like I was missing something.”

Guilt shot through you again, but this time mixed with something harder to bear: realizing that, even without his memories, a part of him had kept searching for you.

“Did you never think about that?” he asked softly, though his voice still carried the wound of everything that had happened. “Did you never think that it was impossible to make someone forget you completely?”

He took a small step toward you. The distance between you disappeared until the tip of his nose brushed yours softly. You were so close that you could see every emotion reflected in his eyes, the tears pooling slowly on his eyelashes before slipping down his cheekbones.

“That maybe memories aren't the only thing left of a person? But that love stays carved in a way that no one can erase?”

You didn't know what to answer. You limited yourself to observing him from below, completely trapped between everything you wanted to say and the inability to find the right words. Your eyes traveled over his face with an almost desperate attention, as if you needed to memorize every detail of him again: the way his features had changed over the years, the tiredness accumulated in his gaze, the vulnerability he tried to hide and that was now completely exposed before you.

It was him. After all that time, after trying to convince yourself that you had to let him go, Peter was still there, in front of you, real and tangible, as if a part of you had always known you would end up finding each other again.

He didn't seem capable of pulling away either. His hands remained still, fearing that touching you would mean losing you again.

The rage was still there. The guilt was still there. The wounds hadn't vanished completely. But suddenly they seemed much smaller in front of the reality of having him close once more.

Because through all those years, you had missed his presence above any memory. You had missed his voice, his way of looking at you, the safety you felt when you were by his side. And now that he was in front of you, that you could feel his proximity and confirm he was real, it was impossible to keep pretending that the only thing existing between you was pain.

His hand moved slowly up to your face. His fingers slid softly across your cheek, holding it with a delicacy uncharacteristic of the moment. The contact was small, almost imperceptible, but enough to break the last barrier between you.

Peter tilted his face slightly toward you, and you did the same. Neither of the two had to think about it, driven by a need that had survived even when memories had vanished.

The kiss began with caution, but that fragility lasted barely a few seconds. Soon his hands found your waist, and he pulled you closer with an urgency that needed no explanation. You held him with the same strength, clinging to the fabric of his clothes while he seemed unable to keep any space between you. It was a desperate, deep kiss, as if both of you were trying to recover in that instant all the time you had lost.

Peter made you step back until your back met the wall, without letting go of you. His body remained close to yours, protecting you in an almost instinctive way, while his hands traced your face gently.

There was something almost reverent in the way he touched you, as if after spending so much time without you, now there was only one thing he wanted to do: take care of you. His fingers paused on your cheek, wiping away a stray tear without either of you knowing at what exact moment you had begun to cry.

“I'm so sorry,” you whispered against his lips. You could barely pronounce it before he kissed you again, as if he didn't want to hear any more apologies.

“Forgive me, Peter.”

He closed his eyes for an instant and rested his forehead against yours. His breath trembled slightly before the words left him.

“I was so lonely…” he admitted softly. “All this time I felt like I was missing something and I didn't understand what it was. I tried to move on, but there was a part of me that kept looking for you, even when I didn't even know who I was looking for.”

His fingers remained on your face, tracing your cheek with care, as if he needed to convince himself that you weren't another memory that was going to vanish.

“And now you're here.”

The way he looked at you finished breaking you. You had expected to find pain turned into anger, unanswered questions, the same wound you had carried with you all that time. But there was none of that in his eyes.

There was only Peter. The same one you had lost. The same one who, despite everything, had never stopped looking for you.

His thumb wiped the last tear remaining on your skin, and for an instant, everything seemed to stand in silence. There were no reproaches between you, only the sadness of the years taken from you and the relief of having finally arrived at the same place.

He looked at you as if he still couldn't believe it.

“I found you.”

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[violetrainbow412-blog]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐌𝐞𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐜𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐑𝐞𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 ⋆.˚ ☾⭒.˚

Peter Parker x telepath!reader

wc: 7k

summary: by chance, she crosses paths with Peter again, and memories she thought were lost begin to reemerge. Determined to uncover the truth, she moves to Queens to find answers, unaware that recovering them will come at too high a price.

Thank you so much for the INCREDIBLE response to the first part. I decided to write a second and a third. I hope you enjoy it; I can't wait until Wednesday to see Peter back on the big screen.

masterlist

Part one Part three

As the days went by, memories began to resurface. The encounter with Peter had unearthed everything that your mind still held, without you really knowing it.

You and Peter had been friends for as long as you could remember. You were there when his parents died, both of you still too young to understand what it implied. You went through different stages of school and the first months of high school together.

Before the day you forgot him –the reason for which was still an enigma– you thought about him daily. You understood, then, that there was more of him in your life than you would have expected. Especially, considering it was someone you had pushed away so long ago.

The dedication in your favorite book made sense. You realized that all those songs you seemed to "just know" hid shared moments, and that sunset was your favorite time of day because you had watched it by his side thousands of times.

In the same way, the grief regained its strength. You assumed you had gotten over it, that you only thought of him with longing and wished he was doing well. But now that you had seen him again, you couldn't help but feel the pain of loss.

It was as if you had recovered him, in a certain sense. Maybe not him, but a series of memories tattooed on your heart. The most painful part was the harsh reality that, for almost a year, you had forgotten that Peter Parker was everything to you.

You hesitated over whether you should tell anyone. The professor might have known, if he wanted to, but you had learned long ago that he didn't meddle in other people's business; or at least he tried not to. If you told him, maybe he could help you.

But, what were you going to do?

Did you want to be part of his life again? Should you deal with the distance as you had done for so many years? What were you going to say to him to win him back?

You couldn't simply walk up to him and try to explain all the visions you had upon holding his hand, it would have sounded ridiculous. Above all, because of your inability to read his mind.

If you couldn't even hear his thoughts, how were you going to make your way into his mind to try to recover something that, in all probability, had been lost so many years ago?

For days, you attended your classes as usual. Until keeping the secret finally became unbearable.

One night, when dinner time came, you slipped out of the dining room without saying another word. In moments like those, the mansion sank into a different kind of calm. The hallways remained almost deserted, and only the TV room retained some life, filled with those who, at the end of the day, sought a moment to relax and forget the incessant daily hustle and bustle.

When you finally finished the walk, you stood in front of the door and knocked three times. The professor's voice echoed from within with an invitation to come in.

You pushed the door open cautiously. Charles looked up from the book resting on the desk and offered a gentle smile upon seeing you.

“Good evening”

“Good evening, professor”

You stepped in and closed the door behind you. The office preserved the same quiet atmosphere as always: bookshelves packed with books, a warm lamp, and the faint aroma of tea resting on a side table.

Charles pointed to the armchair in front of him.

“Sit down”

You did, though it took you a few seconds to settle in. Your hands were clasped in your lap and your eyes fixed on them.

“How are you?”

The question was simple, but it caught you off guard.

You exhaled through your nose.

“Fine,” you said automatically.

“Well, what brings you here?”

You remained silent, as if by doing so you could bring order to your thoughts. Charles waited patiently.

“Professor, can I tell you something?”

He nodded calmly.

“Anything”

First you told him about the voice in your head. About that presence that had begun to appear during the nights, when everything was quiet, and there was nothing left to distract you. You told him about that mind reaching out to you from the dark, about the strange feeling of recognizing something in it without understanding what it was. About how, even without knowing his name, a part of you seemed to have been waiting to find him.

Then you confessed to him how fate had guided you through the city streets until finding the person responsible. How a series of coincidences led you to him without you even understanding why you felt you had to follow that path.

Then you spoke to him about the reunion. About the moment you saw him again after so long, about how his eyes passed over you without recognizing your face and, even so, something inside you knew exactly who he was. You explained how you took his hand and how, at that instant, all the memories came rushing back at once: the conversations, the promises, the love, and the loss. Everything you had believed forgotten returned to you in a single moment, while he remained in front of you without remembering the history you had shared.

Then you told him what had confused you the most: that you yourself had forgotten who Peter Parker was. A part of your life had vanished without a trace and, without realizing it, you had carried on believing it had never existed.

When you finished speaking, the office fell silent once more. Charles did not answer right away. He remained thoughtful for a few seconds, gaze lost, as if attempting to order not just your words, but everything they implied.

“I understand”

He didn't add anything else immediately. He was never in a rush to fill the silences.

“What is it that truly worries you?”

You looked at him.

“I can't stop thinking about him”

“Well, that is only natural”

“I was able to live for many years without looking for him. I thought I could leave things as they were, but... not anymore. I feel like I have to find him. He has the right to know what happened between us. To get his memories back”

“And why do you think that is the right thing to do?”

“Because they were never mine to keep. They are his”

Charles clasped his hands over his lap and remained silent for a few seconds.

“Perhaps they are. But before asking yourself what belongs to Peter, you should ask yourself what exactly you are trying to give back to him”

You frowned.

“I don't understand”

“Memories are not objects that one misplaces and simply recovers. They are part of a person's identity. When you alter a memory, you also alter the way someone understands who they are”

His words carried no harshness whatsoever, but they were not meant to soothe you either.

“Years ago you made a decision that changed the course of his life. No matter what your reasons were; that decision is already part of both of your histories”

You lowered your gaze.

“I know”

“Now you want to make another one”

You nodded in silence.

“And you must ask yourself if it stems from love... or from regret”

You felt a knot in your throat.

“Could it be both?”

Charles barely smiled.

“It could. But one of them always weighs more than the other”

The room fell silent once again.

“Professor... what would you do?”

He shook his head gently.

“I wouldn't answer that question, even if I could”

You observed him with confusion.

“Because it wouldn't be my decision to live with the consequences”

He let a few seconds pass before continuing.

“There is something I learned a long time ago about telepathy. Having the ability to enter someone's mind does not mean we always should. The greatest act of respect toward another person, at times, consists precisely of resisting the temptation to intervene”

You swallowed hard.

“But if I can give him back a part of his life...”

“Can you give it back to him?”

You blinked. Charles proceeded calmly.

“Or can you only give him back the memories?”

The difference hit you immediately.

“They are not the same thing”

He shook his head.

“No. Memories can return. Time cannot”

You remained motionless.

“If Peter were to recover everything you lived together, he would still be the man he is today. He would still carry the experiences he had after losing you. You wouldn't be meeting the young man you fell in love with again; you would be meeting someone different who, in addition, would remember having been that young man”

You hadn't thought about it that way.

Charles held your gaze.

“If one day you decide to give those memories back to him, do so solely because you believe he has the right to know the truth. Not because you expect to recover what existed between you”

Your lips parted slightly, but no words came out.

“Because, once he knows that truth, that decision will no longer belong to you. It will belong to him”

You felt a sting behind your eyes. You tried to hold it back, but it was useless.

“Besides, I miss him”

The words were barely a whisper, and Charles did not reply immediately. That's why you spoke again.

“I think I already missed him. Every day”

You lowered your eyes to your hands.

“I thought erasing his memories would be enough to move on. I repeated to myself so many times that it was best for him that I ended up convincing myself it would be best for me too”

You cracked a bitter smile.

“But it wasn't”

The office remained silent, giving you space to continue.

“And now that I saw him... it was as if time had never passed. Everything came back at once.” One of your fingers traveled to your temple. “Everything is here”

You took a deep breath.

“But I realized there are too many things about Peter that I no longer know”

Your fingers intertwined tightly.

“I don't know what his life has been like all these years. I don't know what he lived through after I vanished from his life. I don't know why he decided to forget me completely... or why he allowed that to happen. I don't even know if he ever tried to remember me”

Your voice cracked slightly.

“I know nothing about him”

You looked up, embarrassed, though you knew beforehand that he wasn't going to judge you.

“I can't even read his mind. I've tried to listen to his thoughts, as I do with any other person... and there's nothing. It's silence. As if there were a barrier between us that I can't break through.

You frowned. Charles mimicked you.

“It had never happened to me. With... a normal person, I mean”

You paused.

“And yet, every night I hear him. Somehow, I can feel his pain. And I don't even know why he suffers”

Charles tilted his head slightly. Silence settled in again, and you breathed with difficulty.

“I would like to go to the city” You waited a second. Your eyes remained fixed on him.

“I just want to understand what happened,” you confessed. Then you lowered your gaze. “And... I also want to see him again”

Charles remained thoughtful for a few moments before speaking. His voice preserved its usual serenity.

“Understanding someone is never a bad reason to get close to them. But make sure that desire to understand doesn't turn into the need to find immediate answers. Some people reveal their wounds through words. Others need time to do so.

You nodded in silence.

“If there is a barrier preventing you from entering his mind, don't force it. As a telepath, I know that can be frustrating. But I also know that not all knowledge should be obtained through that path”

He cracked a faint smile.

“Get to know him as you would get to know any other person. Listen to him when he wants to speak. Observe who he is now, not just who he was. If the answers exist, they will come when Peter decides to share them with you”

Then he paused briefly.

“And if there is something that must be discovered by other means, then you will have to allow time to do its part”

You took a deep breath.

“So you think I should go? Do you... do you allow me?”

Charles held your gaze.

“Do you think you are ready?”

You had lived for years in the mansion. You had pushed yourself, trained, studied. You hadn't had a single accident for a long time now. You were an adult.

And Charles trusted you. But he needed you to trust yourself too.

“I must try”

Charles had provided you with enough money to sustain yourself for a few weeks. It was not a lavish sum, but generous enough to live modestly and without major worries. Securing an apartment in the same building as Peter turned out to be surprisingly simple.

It was a hideous place.

You would have to watch your step, although you knew that, with your powers, it would be difficult for anyone to catch you off guard. You could knock a mugger unconscious or dodge a bullet without too much trouble. Catching their intentions a few seconds before they acted was enough to get ahead of any attack.

And, besides, Spider-Man was always roaming the neighborhood. You had nothing to worry about.

The problem was approaching Peter. You couldn't just pop up out of nowhere to tell him you wanted to get to know him, right?

An idea occurred to you then. You knew it was wrong: a crime, even. But you snuck into his apartment. It was just long enough to take a look around without altering a single thing.

You weren't aiming to invade a privacy you already felt you had violated too many years ago; you just needed a way to start a conversation that wouldn't sound rehearsed.

The small apartment said more about Peter than he probably realized. There was a professional camera resting on the desk, several printed photographs held with pegs, and an employee badge forgotten next to a cluster of keys. You had no background in journalism, so you discarded that option.

Digging a bit further, you found a work schedule and a pizzeria uniform. That was enough.

The next morning you went down to the lobby a few minutes before the time he usually left. You pretended to check your phone when you heard the unmistakable click of a lock turning.

You looked up.

Peter emerged from his apartment with a backpack slung over one shoulder and a cup of coffee in his hand. He closed the door distractedly and walked toward the elevator without noticing you until you were just a few steps apart.

Then he stopped.

His expression changed slightly, as if an image had just clicked into his memory.

“Wait...”

You watched him with a suppressed smile.

“Yes?”

He pointed at you with his coffee cup.

“I saw you a few days ago, didn't I?”

You nodded.

“At the coffee shop”

Peter let out a soft exhale, as if he had finally remembered.

“Yeah... yeah, of course”

He scratched the back of his neck in an awkward gesture.

“I... bumped into you. I'm sorry”

That movement pulled at your chest. He still did that when he felt embarrassed.

“You don't have to apologize,” you replied gently. “Actually, I think I'm the one who should”

The elevator doors opened with a soft chime, and you stepped in together. For a few seconds, only the hum of the mechanism descending between floors could be heard.

“I must have seemed pretty strange,” you continued, letting out a nervous laugh. “I kept staring at you several times and then ended up crying right in front of you. Not exactly a good first impression”

Peter gave a lopsided smile, and you pressed on before he could speak.

“I had just moved in that very day. I didn't know anyone at all and... I guess everything just overwhelmed me a bit”

He nodded understandingly.

“Moving here is never easy. Let alone to a building like this”

You kept quiet for a moment before adding:

“Anyway, I stared at you so much because... I mistook you for someone else”

Peter turned his head slightly toward you.

“Oh, yeah?”

Your words came out with a naturalness that surprised you.

“Yeah. I thought someone couldn't look so much like another person. I think that's why I couldn't stop looking at you,” you explained to him.

Feeling you ought to say something else, you added.

“You must have thought I was crazy”

He let out a low laugh.

“I wouldn't say crazy”

Then he paused briefly.

“You just looked a bit confused”

The elevator doors opened on the ground floor, and you walked together toward the building exit. Before he said goodbye, you took a deep breath. You had to do it right now, or you might not get another chance.

“Hey, I wanted to ask you something”

Peter turned his head back.

“Yeah?”

“I'm still settling in the city, and I'm looking for a part-time job. Yesterday I saw you leaving with a uniform, like food service or something. And I was wondering if where you work they might be hiring”

Peter remained thoughtful for a few seconds.

“I could ask”

He shrugged slightly.

“It's not up to me, but I know the manager. If they need someone, I can tell him to take your application”

A genuine smile appeared on your face.

“Would you really do that?”

He responded with the simplicity that had always characterized him.

“Sure. We all need someone to give us a hand when we arrive at a new place”

His smile, though tired, was genuine. You felt you could fall in love all over again.

Peter kept his promise and spoke with the pizzeria manager. The opportunity appeared sooner than anyone could have expected. The cashier had to step away for a few weeks to handle a family matter that, according to the owner, could not be delayed. Nobody asked too many questions; they simply needed someone to fill his spot until he returned.

You would never know if that decision had been born entirely from him. A carefully planted suggestion at the right moment was enough. After all, you didn't plan to leave him jobless; you just needed a few weeks. Enough time to get close to Peter without relying on chance.

You had never worked in a pizzeria, let alone behind a cash register. As the manager explained how the system worked and handed you a red apron with the shop's logo, you couldn't help but wonder how hard taking orders, collecting money for slices, and memorizing a menu could really be.

You hoped not too hard.

Peter arrived a few minutes before the shift started. He had his backpack slung over one shoulder and, upon seeing you behind the counter in the pizzeria uniform, a look of surprise crossed his face.

“They hired you”

You smiled at him.

“Yeah, the cashier had... something come up with his family. So I'll be covering for him for a few days”

He put his backpack in the small locker behind the counter and walked back to you.

“Bob's a cool guy; that's a shame,” he lamented. “But it's great they hired you. At least for a few days”

“Yeah, well. I also wanted to thank you”

Peter looked up.

“For what?”

“For recommending me. You didn't have to do that, you barely know me”

He shrugged slightly, as if the answer were obvious.

“It was no big deal. I just told him you seemed responsible and were looking for work”

He looked down for a second before adding:

“I know how tough it is to start from scratch”

Those words made you smile with a certain melancholy.

“Yeah... it's turning out to be harder than I imagined”

Peter rested a hand on the counter.

“But you end up finding your place. It just takes a little time”

You observed him for a few seconds.

He had always been like that. Even when things were going wrong for him, he found a way to convey peace to others.

The shift was busier than you expected, but still manageable. You saw little of Peter, as he spent his time delivering on the motorcycle –something you hadn't considered when applying for the job– but at the end of each shift there was half an hour where no more delivery orders were accepted, and he had to help out around the shop.

Those moments would have to be the right ones.

“And, huh... have you lived in Queens for long?”

“A few years, yeah,” he confessed. “And where did you live?”

“Westchester,” you whispered. It was a half-truth.

Peter seemed to think for a moment, as if he didn't recall the place. Though in reality his mind was wandering in another direction.

“I don't think I've ever been. Well, I just have no reason to go there”

You smiled, trying not to look affected by the fact that, indeed, he had never visited you at the mansion. If you won him back and asked him to, would he say yes to you now?

“It's pretty. Quiet. Nothing like here”

The boy smiled, not knowing what else to say. It wasn't that he was rude, he simply looked shy or worried. He was always worried, and you didn't know why.

Some customers who had just finished their meal left, thanking you, and both he and you responded, wishing them a good night.

“They left 2 dollars, can you get them?” you asked him kindly.

The problem was that the table was in a very inconvenient spot for sight and, besides, the tip was under the napkin holder. Peter was surprised to verify it.

“How did you do that?”

“Do what?”

“You guessed,” he exclaimed, incredulous. He put the bill in the glass jar and watched you with genuine interest.

“Oh, it's just that… common tips are of that amount. I could have been wrong”

He didn't give the matter any further thought, because he never imagined the reason behind it. He just assumed you had been lucky.

When the shift ended, Peter turned off the entrance lights and locked the door of the pizzeria while you finished putting away the last things behind the counter.

The motorcycle wasn't his; it belonged to the business and was part of his job as a delivery guy. He left it parked at the back of the place before starting the walk back to the building.

And as a logical conclusion to the night, you walked together to your building.

At first the conversation was simple. They talked about unimportant things: the weather, the absurd number of customers that had arrived that night, how hard it was to get used to the rhythm of New York. Peter was quieter than you remembered, but not because he didn't want to talk. He simply seemed like someone who had learned to measure his words.

“And why did you come to Queens?” he asked as they crossed the street.

You had anticipated him asking you a question of that nature, so you had thought of the answer.

“My life got a bit complicated where I was. I felt like I needed to get away from everything”

Peter nodded slowly, as if he understood more than what you were saying. He didn't press or try to uncover what you had decided to keep to yourself. He simply accepted the answer.

You looked at him out of the corner of your eye for a few seconds.

It was strange. You had spent years imagining what it would be like to talk to him again, but you had never thought it would have to be like this: starting from scratch, with small conversations and half-truths.

When you reached the building, you said goodbye at the entrance with a smile and a simple "see you tomorrow".

And the next day, indeed, you saw each other.

After that, it began to become a routine. You bumped into each other in the hallways before shifts. You walked together after closing the pizzeria. Some nights you stayed a few more minutes in front of the building talking about anything before going up to your respective apartments.

Peter also discovered that it was nice to have someone to talk to at the end of the day. Since the world had forgotten him, the people with whom he could share something of himself could be counted on the fingers of one hand. Most of the time, his conversations ended up being with himself, with the memories he kept in silence or with visits to the graves of May and Tony, the only places where he could feel like he was still talking to people who had been part of his life.

That's why, at first, he didn't know what to do with your presence. But little by little, he started thinking that you could become a friend.

“It's cold,” he told you one night, after leaving work.

There was barely a week left before the deadline you had given yourself to stay in New York expired, although you weren't so sure anymore about wanting to leave. What had initially been a mission had turned into a routine that was starting to feel all too familiar.

Peter rubbed his hands together as they walked toward the building.

“Do you want my jacket?”

You looked at him with a small smile.

“And then you would be cold”

He shrugged.

“I'm used to it”

You shook your head softly.

The reach of your powers was much greater than most people imagined. You could alter your own body temperature with ease, keeping yourself warm even on the coldest nights. Although you hadn't yet figured out how to do it with someone else.

“I'm fine,” you assured him. “But thank you”

Peter seemed unconvinced.

“Are you sure?”

You nodded.

“I'm always warm”

He frowned slightly, curious.

“Always?”

You smiled.

“Yes. Feel my hand”

Without thinking too much about it, you held your hand out to him. Peter hesitated for a second before taking it, and as soon as his fingers touched yours, his expression changed.

“Wow”

The surprise in his voice made you laugh.

“See?”

He held your hand in his just a few seconds longer than necessary, as if trying to understand how it was possible.

“That's strange”

“Strange bad?”

Peter shook his head.

“No. Just... strange”

His expression made you smile, and he seemed to like that sound. It was a small, almost imperceptible gesture, but you noticed it: the way his face relaxed for an instant, as if hearing your laughter made the night a little less heavy.

A question began to itch on your tongue.

“Peter... do you have a girlfriend?”

The reaction was immediate. He tensed slightly and looked at you with a surprised expression, almost as if the question had caught him completely off guard. You wanted to take it back, but instead, you added:

“I'm sorry, it was just a question”

You didn't want him to think there was an ulterior motive behind it.

“It's just that... well, you are very attentive. You're kind to everyone, you work hard, and you're always willing to help. I thought someone like you would have one”

Peter looked down, uncomfortable.

“I had one”

The response surprised you. Well, actually it surprised you that he hadn't avoided the question as he did with other personal topics.

“Years ago,” he added in a low voice “But it didn't end very well”

You didn't ask what had happened. There was something in the way he said it that made you understand it wasn't a story he wanted to tell yet. You assumed it was about the girl from the coffee shop: Michelle.

The silence lasted a few seconds before Peter seemed to remember something else.

“Oh. Although... at the start of high school there was another girl”

Your heart beat fast, holding onto a certain hope to hear the answer.

“Yeah?”

Peter nodded slowly.

“Yeah. Her name was Liz. We went to the school dance together, but that didn't go very well either”

You tried to maintain a calm expression, though you couldn't help but feel a certain disappointment. You hoped that, deep down, he would remember you at least a little.

That there would be a trace of you, even if he didn't remember your face or your name. Something that proved that, even if he had forgotten you, a part of what you had been was still there.

“And you?”

“Me what?”

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

You didn't expect him to ask you the same question, but now that he had, he seemed interested. You pondered your answer for a moment:

“There was a boy many years ago. I knew him my whole life and… well, eventually we fell in love.”

You looked down at the path as you kept walking.

“He was everything to me”

Peter said nothing, but his expression changed slightly. He seemed to listen with a different kind of attention.

“And what happened?” he asked gently.

“Things got complicated”

You paused.

“We lost contact. And after that... it was like what we had had disappeared”

Peter frowned a bit.

“Disappeared?”

You nodded slowly.

“Yes. It's hard to explain”

You couldn't tell him that it was you who had erased his memories, that you had made the most painful decision of your life believing it was the right thing to do.

Discovering that the person you loved now looked at you like a stranger.

“But the strange thing,” you admitted in a low voice “is that, even after so many years, I still feel like a part of me stayed there”

Peter remained quiet. You wished you knew how your words had affected him, but even with all the time together you hadn't been able to decipher the mystery of his mind.

“Do you think I'm crazy?”

“No. I understand you more than you think”

His words sounded sincere, and you wanted to understand the secrets the boy was keeping. You were about to say something else when, suddenly, a buzzing shot through your brain. It was a wave of alert, of fear, and of something akin to an anticipated pain that didn't come from you. The intensity was so sudden that you brought both hands to your ears, even though you knew it would do no good.

Hearing your groan of pain, Peter hurried to hold you to make sure you were okay. But as soon as his hands touched yours, he froze too. What had appeared was the constant warning of his body before danger arrived.

A man was walking directly toward you with his hands buried in his jacket pockets. To the naked eye, there was nothing special about him, but the spider-sense kept insisting. Every step he took made that invisible alarm grow more intense.

Peter barely had time to say:

“Get behind me”

You obeyed almost by instinct, your head still throbbing. The man quickened his pace when he was a few meters away and pulled a knife out of his pocket.

Everything happened in a matter of seconds.

Peter stepped forward and deflected the arm with which the man held the knife. The movement was so fast that you barely managed to follow it with your eyes. However, before he managed to completely immobilize him, the blade managed to graze the side of his forearm. Peter barely winced in pain.

With a movement of his shoulder, he finished off balancing the attacker and shoved him against the pavement. The knife flew several meters away, clattering on the concrete.

The man uttered a curse as he tried to get up. Seeing that Peter was still standing, practically unharmed and ready to face him again, he decided to abandon the weapon and run off without looking back.

The buzzing was beginning to fade, but you still felt your chest tight and your head groggy from that unbearable sense of alarm that had invaded your mind.

Peter turned to you immediately.

“Are you okay?”

You nodded out of reflex, though you could barely stay standing. He picked up his backpack from the ground and put an arm around your back to help you walk.

“It's okay. It's over”

You didn't argue.

As they hurried toward the building, Peter looked over his shoulder a couple of times to make sure the mugger wasn't coming back. You, on the other hand, were only trying to comprehend what you had just experienced.

You had felt it as if it had pierced the barrier protecting Peter's mind, not in the form of thoughts, but as a shock of pure anguish. An alarm so intense that for a moment it had become yours too.

It wasn't until you reached the building that you noticed the thin trickle of blood running down his forearm. Panic, this time entirely yours, took hold of you.

“Peter, you're bleeding”

“What? Uh, yeah… that”

“Let me check,” you begged him.

You felt guilty. If you hadn't been paralyzed by that strange feeling, maybe you could have done something. Instead, Peter had ended up hurt trying to protect you.

“Really, it's nothing serious”

“Please”

He observed you for a few seconds before giving in. Then you led him to your apartment.

It was a modest place. You had barely brought the bare necessities: a small table next to the kitchen and a surprisingly comfortable gray sofa that took up almost the entire living room. After all, you didn't plan on staying there. Everything had been a loan from Charles, though Maximoff was the one who ended up carrying it to the fourth floor amidst complaints.

Peter took a seat while you looked for something that could serve. In the mirror drawer, in the bathroom, you found a simple bottle of hydrogen peroxide and a half-used bandage, along with some Band-Aids that wouldn't really be of any use.

You cleaned the wound carefully. It wasn't deep, but long enough to need a bandage. Peter barely winced when the antiseptic touched the cut.

You worked in silence, and when you finished placing the bandage. The pressure in your chest was still there. Peter flexed his arm carefully, as if wanting to prove to you that he was fine.

“Hey... you really don't have to worry so much”

You didn't answer.

You kept dwelling on what had happened. On that unbearable pain that had appeared out of nowhere and the way everything disappeared when the danger did too.

Peter noticed that you were completely spaced out.

“Are you sure you're okay?”

It took you a moment to answer.

“Sorry. I think the scare affected me more than I thought”

Peter nodded in understanding.

“It's normal”

Silence settled between the two of you again. He had been through many similar situations throughout his history as the neighborhood vigilante and knew in advance that by morning the cut would barely be noticeable. However, that night he feared for what could have happened to you.

He kept watching you. You were pretty; anyone could notice, and for a second he wondered why you had appeared that way in his life. It had been a long time since he had felt the closeness of a… friend? He didn't even know if he could call you that.

He wanted to believe that you could be a sincere bond, built after everything that had happened. He had his coworkers, sure, but it wasn't the same. In you he might have at least an occasional companion. Someone to chat with who would respond to his words.

You, however, didn't understand what was happening to you when you were near Peter. Every day seemed to reveal something new, and none of those discoveries made sense. Besides, in your whole stay at the building you hadn't even heard him in dreams as you usually did. It was as if the closer you were, the less you could understand.

You took a breath before speaking.

“Would... would you mind staying for a while?”

The words escaped your lips with such timidness that, as soon as you heard them out loud, you wished you could take them back before they reached him. That request had been born out of impulse and, now that it existed between you, it seemed disproportionate to you.

Peter had already done enough for you that night. He had stopped an armed man, he had been injured protecting you, and still, he remained sitting on your apartment's sofa trying to convince you that the cut on his arm was no big deal. Asking him to also stay with you was too much.

He kept quiet. He limited himself to observing you for a few seconds, with his bandaged arm resting on his thigh and his face slightly tilted to one side, as if trying to understand that which you yourself weren't capable of explaining.

“Because you're scared?”

The question was simple. So simple that a lie would have been enough to answer it.

You could nod, pretend that the attempted robbery had left you too shaken up to stay alone that night and let him believe exactly that. It would have been the most logical explanation. After all, anyone would have needed a little company after experiencing something like that.

However, the truth was much harder to name. It hadn't been the man, nor the weapon that had affected you. What had truly terrified you was that which had occurred inside your own mind.

You breathed slowly before barely lifting your head.

“Yes... I suppose so”

Peter let out his breath slowly, as if that answer confirmed a suspicion he already had.

“Alright”

You blinked.

“What?”

He smiled with that naturalness that characterized him.

“I'll stay for a bit”

You felt the tension leave your shoulders almost immediately and murmured a soft thank you.

You had lived training among mutants capable of bringing down buildings. You had learned to defend yourself long before reaching adulthood and, objectively, few people represented a real threat to you.

But you longed for his company. You wished to have him close.

You two remained silent for a few moments, listening only to the distant rumor of traffic seeping through the window. The apartment felt small again, though not uncomfortable.

You then remembered that Peter had barely eaten a bite since leaving the pizzeria. The adrenaline of the assault had ended up erasing any other concern, but now that everything seemed to have regained a certain calm, you were starting to notice the tiredness drawn on his face.

“Are you hungry?” you asked cautiously.

Peter looked up at you and let out a tired laugh.

“To be honest... a little”

You smiled discreetly.

“I can make you something”

He made a gesture with his hand, brushing it off.

“You don't have to bother”

“It's no bother”

You walked to the small kitchen while opening the refrigerator. You had only bought the bare essentials since arriving in the city: a couple of vegetables, eggs, cheese, some butter, and a loaf of bread that was starting to go stale. It wasn't exactly a plentiful pantry, but it would be enough to improvise a simple dinner.

You stood for a few seconds looking inside the refrigerator, wondering what you could make with so little, when an image shot through your mind with absolute clarity.

A melted cheese sandwich.

You barely frowned, and the vision vanished almost immediately.

It wasn't a thought proper. Nor a voice. Barely a warm, domestic feeling, the craving of someone who just wanted to eat something simple before going to sleep.

You turned your gaze back to Peter.

He was still sitting on the sofa, distracted, examining the bandage on his arm with a blank expression. He hadn't said a single word.

You swallowed hard.

You couldn't enter his mind. You had tried since the day you reunited without getting anything more than absolute silence. However, for some reason that defied all logic, certain fragments managed to make their way to you.

It was as if you didn't hear his thoughts, but rather that which remained closer to the body than to consciousness.

You looked away before he noticed you were watching him.

“How does a grilled cheese sandwich sound?” you asked as you pulled out a small skillet.

Peter raised his head and smiled widely.

“Yeah, sounds… great, actually. I was just thinking about that”

“I read your mind, huh?” you joked.

If only he knew you meant it.

He offered to help you, but really, you just asked him to stay sitting in the dining area so you could chat a bit more. You weren't really skilled in the kitchen, you rarely practiced it at the mansion, but you managed at that moment.

Peter's expression upon taking the first bite made you wonder if he loved it or was hating it.

“Did you like it?”

“It's delicious,” he confessed. “It's been a long time since I ate something like this”

He looked down at the plate for a few seconds. A faint, barely perceptible smile formed on his lips.

“When I lived with my aunt, we had this for dinner very often. It's one of those simple but tasty meals, don't you think?”

You couldn't help but smile.

You remembered May perfectly. It was impossible not to. She always found an excuse to serve you something to eat when you went to look for Peter and, even though you barely knew her for a few years, a few memories were enough to associate her with a warmth that seemed to fill any room she was in.

“Yes,” you replied with a smile. “And how is she? Do you visit her often?”

Peter remained motionless.

The smile faded bit by bit from his face, and his eyes returned to the plate in front of him. For a moment he seemed to search for the right words, as if that answer was still hard for him even after so much time.

“Yes...” he whispered at last, almost to himself, “I go to see her... at her grave now and then”

You felt your heart stop, and the smile vanished from your face immediately.

“Her... grave?”

He raised his eyes just for a moment and nodded with a serenity that failed to hide the weight of that loss.

“She died a while ago”

You didn't know what to say.

An unbearable pressure settled in your throat as you tried to comprehend what you had just heard. It had never occurred to you to ask about May. You had simply assumed that Peter had moved out on his own as he grew older, like anyone else. You never imagined that the woman who had raised him was no longer around.

The image of May welcoming you with a smile, insisting that you both take something to eat before heading out and calling you by your name with that familiarity so uniquely hers flashed through your memory with painful clarity.

You looked down, unable to hold his gaze any longer.

“I'm so sorry”

He mustered a tired smile, the kind that tried to reassure the other person even when one was the one needing comfort most.

“It's okay. It was a while ago”

You felt the pain seeping through his voice. You didn't need to hear his thoughts to understand the weight he was still carrying. The way he looked down and the brief silence that followed his words were enough.

You averted your eyes to the plate, trying to regain control before he noticed the glint starting to pool in your eyes. Even so, a tear ended up slipping silently down your cheek.

Peter pretended not to see it.

The rest of dinner passed in a peaceful silence. Once you two cleared the table, he took his backpack from the back of the chair and slung it over his shoulder.

“Well...” he said with a tired smile, “I'd better head back to my apartment”

“Yeah”

“Thanks for dinner”

“Don't worry,” you expressed.

But you weren't saying goodbye, and he felt that you didn't want to. He saw a silent plea in your eyes, which convinced him immediately to make a decision.

“Are you still feeling nervous?” he whispered kindly.

Desperate for a few more moments, you nodded. “Would you feel more at ease if I stayed the night here? Not like… in your bed or anything. On the couch.”

You observed him for a few seconds, unable to hide your surprise.

“Would you do that for me?”

Peter let out a soft laugh.

“Sure,” he smiled warmly. “I sleep better when I'm in the company of someone else anyway”

The confession escaped his lips so naturally that he seemed to realize what he had said barely a second later. He looked down, somewhat embarrassed, while a discreet smile drew across his face.

You didn’t comment. Simply nodded.

“Thank you, Peter”

He responded with a light nod of his head before dropping the backpack on the floor again.

You handed him a pillow and a thick blanket you had brought from the mansion. You remembered perfectly that Hank had insisted that the sofa was excessively comfortable for such a small apartment, and for the first time you were grateful for having ignored his jokes. At least, for that night, Peter would be able to rest without too much discomfort.

The apartment was so small that there was no real separation between the living room and the bedroom. From the bed, you could clearly make out Peter's silhouette as he adjusted the pillow and lay down on the sofa. He, for his part, could see you on the other side of the room, lit only by the silver glow that the moon cast through the window.

For a few moments neither of you spoke.

The distant murmur of traffic and the occasional hum of the pipes were the only sounds breaking the silence.

Peter was the first to smile.

“Good night”

You returned the smile with a warmth you hadn't felt in a long time.

“Rest, Peter”

He closed his eyes almost immediately.

You, on the other hand, remained awake for a few more minutes, watching the quiet cadence of his breathing. Knowing that he was still there, a few meters away, produced in your chest a calm as unexpected as it was hard to explain.

Without realizing when it happened, fatigue finally won you over, and your eyelids began to grow heavier and heavier, until sleep completely enveloped you.

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[violetrainbow412-blog]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐅𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐅𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 ⋆⭒˚.⋆

Peter Parker x telepath!reader

wc: 6k

summary: after erasing herself from his memories to save him, she spends years silently yearning for his love, unaware that fate would also ensure Peter was forgotten by the rest of the world. But no spell can break a bond that always finds its way back.

masterlist

Part two Part three

Most of the time, Professor Xavier underestimated the true power of a pair of headphones. Maximoff had given them to you a few months ago, right after seeing you on the verge of a breakdown and hearing your confession: how unbearable it was to get used to the incessant tide of other people's minds, the torture of listening to everyone, all the time.

“They help me when I don't want to think about anything,” he told you at the time, shrugging with that effortless lightness so typical of him.

Peter was older, a mutant who had been adapting to the institute's rhythm for much longer, so you decided to take his word for it. From then on, the headphones became indispensable; a tool you couldn't go anywhere without.

Charles's teachings helped, of course. They taught you to adjust your mind as if turning the knob of an old radio, isolating frequencies and tuning into white noise. But there were days when fatigue soaked into your bones and you didn't have the strength to be your own filter. You just wanted the murmur of humanity to turn off.

The Professor never stopped you from crossing the mansion's gates. After all, Westchester wasn't a prison and you weren't a captive; you were free to leave whenever you desired. That was why, upon communicating your wish to travel to the city, you only received an understanding look and a serene nod.

The truth was that not even you knew what you were looking for in Manhattan. Perhaps you harbored the childish hope that the rattling of the train would gift you a few minutes of sleep. You had been dragging heavy insomnia for weeks. At first, when your powers awakened, the nights were a nightmare of invisible screams drilling into your ears in the dark. But this time was different.

This time, the interference had an implicit name. A voice.

You couldn't stop listening to his thoughts: they were a tangle of crushing responsibilities, recent losses, and a pain so deep it bordered on devotion. Among the millions of minds fluctuating through the metropolis, his possessed a unique frequency that found its way to you, piercing through your defenses without asking for permission. It wasn't the loudest mind nor the most imposing. It simply... claimed you.

As the days went by, you stopped perceiving it as background noise. There was a painful familiarity in its echo. You felt like you had known him all your life, even if you had never seen his face. It was an inexplicable telepathic connection, an invisible thread completely escaping Charles's manuals and theories about the human mind.

Sometimes, with your forehead pressed against the pillow, you wondered if he felt that same pull on the other side of nothingness. If he sensed that, on his darkest nights, there was an unknown mind keeping him company in the silence. That doubt floated in the air until exhaustion overcame you, leaving you with the eternal question about who that stranger was inhabiting your sleepless nights.

You liked the city. It didn't have the peace of Westchester, but it possessed a brutal honesty. You thought about dropping by to see your parents, but dismissed the idea immediately. You didn't want to face their forced smiles nor the contained panic in their eyes every time you made a sudden movement. Your presence was an uncomfortable reminder of imperfection. It was better to leave them in peace; after all, they had your sister. She wasn't a mutant. She was the future they could boast about without whispering.

At the mansion, life was relatively peaceful. You got along well with most, though the relationship with the other telepaths was distant. They knew the history of your past breakdown and treated you like glass about to shatter, fearing a flaw in your mind would trigger a domino effect. Curiously, you found more comfort in the older ones: Maximoff's hyperactivity, Logan's protective cynicism, or the quiet conversations with Beast.

And then there was the Professor. Charles frequently sought you out after classes ended to evaluate your progress. There was no fear in his gaze... in fact, there was nothing. His mind was the only place in the universe where absolute silence reigned. Trying to peek into Xavier's thoughts was like trying to crack a safe using a cooked noodle: an absurd thing.

Inside your backpack traveled an object of personal cult: a worn copy of The Secret Garden. Even though it was a children's read, the story of that hidden, healing corner brought you an almost physical comfort. You understood all too well the imperious need to find a refuge where no one could reach you.

The book's origin was a haze. Maybe you had bought it for a couple of dollars at a street market, or perhaps it belonged to your family before everything broke. The pages wore that yellowish tone that nostalgics sigh for, and the corners of the cover were so worn that any bibliophile would have suffered seeing it. For you, however, it was irreplaceable.

On the first page, written in slightly faded ink but elegant calligraphy, you read a dedication:

For whenever you need a quiet place

— P.P

None of your relatives or acquaintances matched those initials. You always assumed the book had belonged to a stranger who forgot to claim his love note before selling it. After all, the world was full of lost memories.

You adjusted your back against the train seat and buried your nose in the pages, letting the smell of old paper dry your thoughts while your eyes scanned lines you knew by heart. Outside, the landscape transformed. The greenness of tall trees and gravel paths gradually gave way to the brutal architecture of civilization: small brick neighborhoods, clotheslines crisscrossing between windows, rusted rails, and graffiti shouting names on concrete walls.

Bit by bit, Manhattan's skyscrapers emerged on the horizon like glass giants claiming the sky. The train crossed the last metallic bridges and ventured into the guts of a city that never slept.

Stepping off, you began walking without a clear destination. The city was the antithesis of the isolation you usually sought: a hotbed of fragmented thoughts, financial anxieties, and absurd hurries clashing with one another. However, there was something liberating in that chaos. Among millions of voices screaming at the same time, your own cracks went unnoticed. Nobody looked at you. Nobody feared you.

To cross the streets you didn't need to look at the traffic lights; a light mental pulse was enough to switch the lights at your convenience, opening a path for yourself in a manufactured bubble of calm. Playing in your ears was the playlist Maximoff had built for you on Spotify. Although the concept of streaming seemed like an unnecessary modernity to him, he had taken the trouble to compile hours of classic and alternative rock.

You walked for hours until your steps came to a dead halt before the facade of a building.

Your old high school.

There was no logical reason to have ended up there, but the red brick walls triggered a pang in your stomach. You stood on the sidewalk, watching students pour out in flocks amid laughter, shoves, and innocence; that kind of carefreeness that only exists before reality crushes you.

You wondered what it would feel like to be one of them. What your life would have been like if your mutation had never awakened. If your only battles had been physics grades, prom, or deciding which college to apply to, instead of learning to contain an ability that threatened to destroy you from within.

You would have been an normal girl. Ordinary.

The word felt bitter in your mouth. Distant. Like a suit that belonged to someone else.

You searched your memory for a face, a name, anything to justify the nostalgia tightening your chest, but only found blanks. You vaguely remembered belonging to the debate club and the science club, but the faces of your classmates were unrecognizable. Time had taken care of that.

You thought about crossing the entrance, but immediately lost heart. It made no sense. A stranger lurking in the hallways would only draw suspicious looks.

You turned around and let your feet carry you aimlessly. It was then that intuition returned, this time with a magnetic clarity. It wasn't an external thought or a telepathic intrusion; it was a pull in the center of your chest, as if an invisible thread tied to your ribs were being tugged from somewhere in the city.

You boarded a city bus without looking at the route sign. The need to move forward flattened any doubt. You watched through the window as blocks of buildings succeeded one another, trying to convince yourself that it was just a neurotic impulse, a side effect of fatigue. But the pull didn't yield.

You got off a few stops later and started walking by inertia, turning corners almost instinctively, as if navigating a map engraved in your genes.

Until the thread slacked.

In front of you stood a small, humble café, almost invisible among the grandiosity of the main avenues. You remained on the sidewalk contemplating the reflection in the glass, overcome by the mathematical certainty that this was exactly where you needed to arrive.

In your headphones, the final chords of MGMT were playing. Oracular Spectacular was an album that seemed to evoke memories of a life you weren't sure you had lived, a mixture of psychedelia and melancholy that fit the moment perfectly.

Pushing the door open, the chime of a bell announced your entrance. The place was practically empty, an oasis of silence you were deeply grateful for. You took a deep breath, gathering the courage needed to slide the headphones down to your neck and prepare for the inevitable impact of mental noise.

“Hi, what can I get for you?”

Behind the counter, a girl with dark skin offered you a warm smile. Her nametag read Michelle, though your mind had already caught her name a second prior. However, when trying to go deeper, you bumped into a subtle wall; her mind was complex, dense, hard to decipher at first glance. Some people were just that unreadable.

You ordered a latte out of obligation. You hated coffee—caffeine usually triggered unbearable migraines—but needing to buy something was the price to pay to stay there.

That was when you noticed the boy on the other side of the counter: Ned Leeds, Michelle's friend. Ned's mind, unlike hers, was an open book. Both shared a vibe of contained nervousness, a low tension floating between them. It felt like something... work-related? No, academic.

“I'll bring it to your table in a moment.”

You nodded mechanically and settled at a small table next to the window. On the opposite wall, a turned-on television silently broadcast amateur video footage: Spider-Man swinging between skyscrapers. You remembered the events of last year, the cracks in the sky, and the multiversal threat everyone talked about. You also remembered Charles's blunt response when you asked why you all hadn't intervened: “It's not our fight.”

You looked at the screen with bitterness. And even if you had wanted to help... what on earth could you have done against the collapse of the universe?

You wondered if at any point the world would be ready for mutants. It was an open secret: the beloved figure Charles had lost years ago, a mutant so unstable he had been the worst calling card to society. Many of the mansion's residents had seen him on television as children; a few others knew him personally. You could only rely on rumors.

You stared at the street through the café's glass for a long while, wondering where all those people were heading, even though you knew the answer beforehand. You saw a girl walking hurriedly down the sidewalk, struggling to adjust the strap of a heavy bag slung over her shoulder. You wanted to believe in a gentle story: you imagined inside were a bunch of purchases she could finally, after a long time, afford. A birthday gift for someone special, some expensive creams, or maybe those shoes she had liked so much in some display window.

You entered her mind a second later.

Reality was much grayer. There were no gifts or new shoes. In the bag she only carried a change of clothes and the medical studies of her grandmother, whom she was going to nurse at the hospital during the night shift after working all day. In her head there was no excitement, but an accumulated fatigue of weeks, the worry of not knowing how to pay for the month's medications, and the faint hope that the old woman would recognize her for at least a couple of minutes before falling asleep.

You gently looked away, with a pang of bitterness in your chest.

Why was reality so sad? Was any of those passersby actually having a good day?

You moved your eyes across the sidewalk, almost desperately searching for a flash of light amid the tide of tired faces. And then you saw it. A little boy, no older than five, hopping along next to his mother. He held a green plastic dinosaur in his hands, and brushing his mind for an instant, you found no sorrow. Only a gigantic happiness because his mother had bought him the toy he had been waiting weeks for. In his universe, in that precise second, nothing bad existed.

You smiled to yourself and exhaled a breath you didn't even know you were holding. Somehow, that tiny thought comforted you; it was like a crack of sunlight amid a cloudy sky. Reality could be heavy, yes, but at least it wasn't entirely lost.

You heard the chime at the entrance, and your body responded before your mind did, turning you around to observe the newly arrived customer. A slender boy, with brown hair somewhat messy from the street wind and a sweet, incredibly expressive gaze, but with a distinct shadow of fatigue under his eyes. He wore a worn jacket that was a bit too big for him and had his hands buried in his pockets. He had that kind of noble, empathetic face that instantly conveys trust.

However, what left you dumbfounded was the fact that you heard absolutely nothing.

Not a single thought. Not the slightest murmur. His mind was in complete, inexplicable silence. It wasn't Professor Xavier's impenetrable and calculated barrier; it was something different, an absolute void, yet strangely warm. After spending the day submerged in the city's chaotic bustle, encountering such calm in a stranger left you breathless.

He didn't notice your presence; instead, his eyes were fixed on the waitress carrying your coffee.

“Enjoy,” she exclaimed kindly.

He didn't take his eyes off her, and you didn't take your eyes off him.

You stammered a thanks to the girl, and she returned to her position behind the counter. He, seeing her return, lowered his gaze and hurried to take a seat at one of the tables.

From your spot, you couldn't help but observe him. There was something subtle yet clear in his posture: the way his eyes sought the girl at the counter, the contained hesitation in his gestures... It was obvious he had gone to that café just to see her.

Upon reaching the counter, Michelle and Ned began chatting in a casual tone. After a few moments of fluid conversation, she leaned against the bar, looked at the boy waiting at the table, and asked what he was ordering.

He looked up and answered.

It was barely a short phrase, a simple response, but the timbre of his voice pierced the café's space with an overwhelming clarity.

Your heart took a violent leap. You froze in your seat, paralyzed mid-movement, while an icy shiver ran down your spine. That cadence, the exact intonation, the soft and worn nuance... You didn't need to read his thoughts to know. His spoken voice was enough.

It was the same voice that had been sneaking into your hardest nights for weeks. The lonely mind that found yours in the dark was just a few steps away from you.

That was why you had gone there. To find him.

Once again, you tried to venture into his mind. You launched your telepathy searching for that crack through which you used to hear him, but it was like running into an impenetrable wall; his mind remained in absolute silence. However, at the exact instant you brushed against his barrier, the boy flinched in his chair and went stiff all of a sudden, as if an electric shock had run up the back of his neck.

He turned his head instinctively until his eyes met yours head-on. He held your gaze for an eternal second, charged with a strange, alert tension. He hadn't just blocked you effortlessly; impossibly, that boy seemed to have felt that you were trying to enter his head.

He blinked several times as if trying to discard the idea, sure it had only been an illusion. He focused on a menu hanging above the counter despite having already placed his order, projecting a contained tension that made him look out of place. Worried, perhaps.

You looked toward the window, though now the stories of the passersby lacked meaning. You closed your eyes for an instant, searching in the silence for an answer to the enigma a few feet away, but found nothing.

Determined to end the uncertainty once and for all, you snapped them open and stood up, ready to cross the small space separating you from him. The unexpected part was that the stranger had the exact same idea. Before you could react, the two of you collided head-on. The impact made you lose your balance, and you fell backward onto the floor, letting out a stifled murmur of surprise.

He apologized immediately, visibly embarrassed. Then he crouched to your height and quickly extended his hand to help you up. Confused, you accepted his help, and at the exact instant his fingers closed around your hand, an electric shock coursed through your veins.

A memory flashed into your mind.

The afternoon sun hit your face fully when you heard his voice calling you. You had decided to go to the park to rest, silently celebrating that you had finally survived finals week. You lay on the fresh grass, letting the early summer heat envelope you.

“Do you think I'll do badly in English?” he asked, breaking the silence while looking at the treetops.

“A little, yeah. But not enough to get an F,” you replied honestly, turning toward him.

“Thank goodness. May would kill me.”

“You've never failed a subject, not since we were in kindergarten.”

“No,” he admitted, glancing at you. “That's why I know she'd kill me.”

You let out a genuine laugh, contemplating the comical face he made whenever a truth disguised as a joke escaped him. There was a lightness to those days that now felt like a distant dream.

“If I get bad grades, my parents will probably blame you,” you teased.

“And why's that?” he asked, feigning outrage.

“They'll say you're a distraction.”

At that moment, a white butterfly fluttered between the two of you and lightly brushed your cheek before flying away. He smiled tenderly and reached out, brushing with his fingertips the exact spot where the insect's wings had tickled you.

“That's not true,” he murmured, leaving his hand suspended near your face.

“It kind of is,” you confessed, shrugging as you felt warmth rise to your cheeks. “You spend all day in my thoughts. But they don't have to find out about that.”

Blush instantly stained his cheeks. He tried to hide it by looking down and breaking into a clumsy smile, but it was in vain. You were fascinated watching him get nervous. It was as if he couldn't fully process that you loved him with that blind, boundless intensity that only exists in first love.

“I could help you study for retakes,” he offered, clearing his throat.

“Yeah, sure. Because you're a nerd and all that.”

“No,” he corrected softly, searching your eyes. “Because you're my girlfriend. And I want you to get good grades so we can go to college together.”

“Please! Are you already thinking about college?” you laughed, covering your face with your hands. “We're barely starting high school.”

“Yeah, but it doesn't hurt to plan, right?”

“You worry too much about the future.”

“And you don't?”

“I don't care what the future holds,” you said simply, intertwining your fingers with his as the afternoon wind tousled his hair. “I only care about enjoying the present. About being here. With you.”

The warmth of the hand you were holding grew hazy with the memory of that day. Suddenly, a new scene rushed in headlong.

The whole school knew. It was the only topic of conversation in the hallways: they knew that because of you, that boy was in the hospital. During your constant trips to the principal's office, you had managed to overhear that his parents wanted to sue you, though at your age you weren't sure if that was legally possible.

You just wanted to scream at them that you couldn't help it. That you never wanted to hurt him in the first place.

Now everything hurt, but not in your body; the pain was entrenched in your head. You were sitting outside the principal's office for the hundredth time that week. You had missed almost every class, and when you tried to show up at the debate club meeting, they simply slammed the door in your face.

You wondered how much longer you could endure in this limbo. By that point, your expulsion was practically a done deal.

And then there was the torment of the minds around you. You didn't know how to silence them; they entered your head unfiltered, all the time, drilling into your ears until becoming unbearable noise.

Why on earth was this happening to you?

“Hey,” you suddenly heard.

You didn't know if the murmur came from inside your head or from the hallway, until looking up brought you back to reality: he was standing in front of you.

“There you are,” he said softly.

“Hi,” you whispered, looking at him with guilt. “What are you doing here? There's a club meeting today.”

“Yeah, but I didn't really feel like going,” he replied, shrugging.

Lie. He was fascinated by the debate club. But the worry of finding you had been stronger.

He took a seat beside you. You immediately avoided his gaze, unable to meet his eyes.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Yeah,” you lied, tightening your hands on your lap. “They just summoned me again. You know... because of everything that's happened lately.”

“Yeah...” he sighed, resting his elbows on his knees.

Even though he kept quiet, you didn't need him to speak to know exactly what was crossing his mind. His mental pulse was a tide of fatigue, deep sadness, and a touch of pity. He felt afraid, yes, but not toward you or what you could do—rather, for what the world was going to do to you.

An interminable few seconds passed in which the noise of the school threatened to crush you again, until he seemed to gather enough courage to organize his thoughts.

“It wasn't your fault,” he blurted out, searching your eyes. “You know that, right?”

“The guy is in the hospital,” you replied with a broken voice, feeling tears fill your eyes. “I don't even know what I did or how I did it. It just... happened. People are right to be afraid of me.”

“They don't understand anything,” he insisted, turning his body toward you. “I know you. I know who you are. This is an accident, not something you wanted. I... I don't understand how you did it. But you're not crazy, and you're not bad either.”

“I feel like I'm going crazy,” you confessed in a thread of a voice, bringing your hands to your temples as the din of other minds began drilling into you from within again. “There are too many voices. I can't turn them off. It's killing me.”

He didn't hesitate for another second. He moved closer and wrapped his arms around you, enveloping you in a firm, warm hug that seemed to freeze time.

You pressed your face against his shoulder, clinging to his jacket as if it were the only anchor amid the storm. Suddenly, the chaos in your head seemed to dim. The contact of his arms didn't silence the voices of the world, but the certainty of his affection turned everything else into a distant noise, an insignificant echo.

“I'm not leaving you alone in this,” he whispered in your ear, squeezing you a little tighter against him. “We're going to figure it out. I promise you.”

You had closed your eyes for an instant, and when you opened them, the setting had changed completely.

He was watching you from the edge of your bed, with a mix of resignation and worry in his gaze.

“A boarding school?” he asked in a low voice.

“Yeah... It's like a school for gifted youngsters or something like that,” you murmured without looking up, focused on folding clothes and packing them into suitcases.

Every now and then, he stretched out to hand you an item of clothing left on the bed, trying to keep himself useful so as not to break down.

“And for how long will it be?”

“I don't know. A few months, I guess... Until things cool down around here.”

In the end, the hospital boy's parents hadn't filed the lawsuit, but they had taken it upon themselves to spread the rumor to every corner of the high school. The stares, the harassment, and the social pressure ultimately proved you right: expulsion had been inevitable. Your parents, overwhelmed by the situation and not knowing how to handle what was happening to you, had found that special place as a last resort to rid themselves of a problem beyond their control.

“Yeah, well... makes sense,” he commented, though the lack of conviction in his voice was glaring.

His mind was sending clear signals: he was holding something back. And you knew perfectly well what it was.

“Hey, I'll come back to visit you every now and then, okay?” you said, trying to inject some enthusiasm into the room. “And if I talk to the principal... maybe he'll even let me invite you over for a weekend.”

You dropped what you were doing and sat beside him.

“If you want to go, of course.”

“Of course I want to,” he answered immediately. He was completely sincere. “It's just that... Westchester is pretty far.”

“It's not that big of a deal,” you tried to encourage him, though you knew his real concern wasn't the distance, but the fare money.

You sought his hand on the mattress, intertwining your fingers while looking at him with a silent plea reflected in your eyes.

“We can video call every night. Text each other all the time... You'll see I won't feel that far.”

He smiled that sweet way he did when he really wanted to believe things would turn out fine, and nodded silently.

“Yeah, you're right. It'll work.”

You leaned toward him and stole a soft kiss from his lips. It was a brief gesture, but loaded with all the fear, love, and uncertainty you both shared.

“It'll only be a few months to see how they teach over there. And then I'll come back. I promise.”

A final series of memories surfaced. Though when your mind shifted to them, you immediately felt a tightness in your chest.

It hadn't been just a few months. The semester was consuming its final days, and you were still trapped in Westchester.

You weren't going to lie to yourself: you were starting to get used to the place. To the bucolic peace of the mansion, the warmth of your new peers, and the institute's teaching. It was an idyllic refuge. Professor Xavier had personally taken care of manipulating the threads of collective memory at your old school; he didn't erase the incident, but he wiped your face from everyone's memories. To the school board, it had just been an unfortunate physical altercation between two students whose names were better off forgotten. Your name was clean, but your soul remained chained to Queens.

To him.

You had sworn to write to him daily, to keep the flame alive against all odds. But at first, messages flowed like an overflowing river; later, reality turned into a dam. Classes demanded an almost superhuman level of concentration if you wanted to control the chaotic mass of your powers. Guilt devoured your chest with every hour that passed without replying to him.

When you finally managed to scrape a free weekend to return to the city, reuniting with him was a dagger to the heart.

Even without wanting to, you heard the bitter tide of his thoughts. Weeks ago, he had begged you to go to the high school dance with him, excited like a child, but Charles forbade you from going so as not to expose yourself.

“It's okay, I understand,” he had told you at the time, swallowing his disappointment.

But telepathy didn't allow you to deceive yourself. It wasn't just the missed party. It was the cruel taunts in the school hallways when he said he had a girlfriend, an invisible girl whom no one ever saw. It was the contempt of his classmates, the pity condensed in the teachers' gazes, the silenced disappointment of a boy who had to defend the existence of a love that seemed like a ghost.

You couldn't hold his hand in the street, or invite him out for ice cream, or be a living presence in his everyday life.

Those invisible wounds accumulated until they became an unsustainable mountain. And though he never uttered a single reproach—though he swallowed his tears so as not to make you feel guilty—you felt how he was bleeding out from within. He felt deeply lonely, desperately clinging to the sporadic visits of the ghost of the girl who was once his world.

One night, while the moon bathed the roof in silver, the question pierced you like broken glass:

Did he deserve a half-life? Did he deserve to love a shadow?

No. Good heavens, no. He deserved the full light.

“You seem strange,” he said.

The two of you were sitting on the fire escape outside his window, with the cold night air sneaking through your clothes.

“Are you okay?”

“I am,” you murmured, clinging to the iron bars with white knuckles so your voice wouldn't shatter. “Hey... can I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

“Do you really think us... is meant to work?”

“Of course it is,” he answered immediately, searching your eyes with a blind faith that broke your soul. “We've made it this far, haven't we?”

But the words didn't matter. Your mind drowned in the tide of his true answer: a desperate inner plea not to lose you, crushed by the overwhelming fear that you were already leaving.

“Why do you ask that?” he added, his voice trembling slightly.

“Because I'm not the girl you deserve.”

“Are you breaking up with me?” He turned abruptly.

His hands had already moved to your shoulders, holding you with the same gentleness he had for so many years.

“I... I love you. I don't give a damn about the distance! I don't care what happened with your powers or any of this. I mean it. I love you.”

“And I love you,” you sobbed, feeling tears held back for months threatening to choke you. “I love you in a way you can't imagine. But...”

“No. There is no 'but'. Don't do this to me. Please.”

His hand gripped yours, the desperation palpable in the touch. The silence was dense, heavy, drowned out by the distant noise of city traffic. But the sentence was already passed in the deepest part of your being. Because you loved him too much to destroy him.

Even though you both changed the subject, the tension remained. Shortly after, you went back into the room. He lay on the bottom bunk, defeated, his chest heaving with silent panic. You leaned over him, stopping mere inches from his face, wrapped in the dim light.

“You know I would never hurt you, right?” you whispered, caressing his cheek with infinite tenderness.

“I know,” he replied in a thread of a voice.

“And you know I'm going to love you no matter what happens, right?”

“I know.”

He surged forward and kissed you. It was a desperate, almost voracious kiss, a trench against destiny. He held you by the waist and the nape of your neck with a strength bordering on agony, pressing you against his chest as if sensing you were turning into water slipping through his fingers.

Tears spilled uncontrollably from your eyes, wetting both your cheeks. He started upon feeling you cry and lowered his hands, alarmed, but you didn't give him time to speak. You kissed him again. You kissed him until breath escaped your lungs, mixing the bitter taste of your tears with the warm breath escaping his lips. It was the kiss of a lifetime condensed into a few seconds.

Trembling, you brought your fingers to your temple. A stifled, heart-wrenching sob escaped your chest.

Would you be capable? Was your love so boundless, so destructive, as to commit this cruel mercy?

Yes. Because loving him meant saving him from yourself.

With a silent scream that tore your mind apart from the inside, you deployed your telepathy and ventured into his memory.

You began erasing yourself.

You gradually dissolved the stolen kisses, the laughs in the debate club, and the college promises, but also the childhood afternoons in his living room, the scraped knees, and an entire life growing up together. You erased every conversation, every glance, and every shared heartbeat, transforming a colossal love into a hazy fog, into a mere nameless void.

You exterminated over a decade of memories piece by piece, watching the light in his eyes grow dull as the connections severed in his brain.

Your own mind wailed at the sacrilege of erasing the only pure thing you had left in the world.

Feeling the weight of his body relax under the telepathic sedation, you laid his head on the pillow with infinite sweetness. His eyes, now serene and empty of you, closed slowly.

You leaned down one last time, brushing your lips against his cool forehead.

“Goodbye, Peter.”

Peter. That was his name.

“A-Are you really okay? Did you get hurt?”

You were already on your feet. You hadn't realized tears were streaming down uncontrollably until you ran your fingers across your cheeks. Your hands were trembling.

An excruciating doubt seized you inevitably: what had made you forget him? How could such a piece of your soul disappear from your life?

“Do you need me to call someone?”

You hadn't articulated a single word since he helped you up. Your absolute silence only fueled the confusion and concern growing in his eyes with every passing second.

He was so different. He looked older, mature, undeniably handsome... but there was no doubt: it was him. It was your Peter.

From his perspective, you must have looked completely terrified. Your fixed stare and ragged breathing made you look as though you were seeing a dead man brought back to life.

“No,” you managed to reply.

Stumbling, you backed away from him. You grabbed your belongings immediately and walked to the counter, leaving a bill that doubled the value of what you had ordered.

Then you walked out. Without looking back.

Let me know if you want to be tagged in part two! ♡

[sylvia-plaths-fig-pie]

Correcting Conjugation ★ Sam Winchester x Reader

summary: two mysterious men are talking very loud in your usual diner, you were just going to ignore them until you happen to over hear some Latin miss pronounced and can't help but correct them, which totally has nothing to do with how attractive one of the two are...

warnings: like none? use of bad Latin that comes exclusively from the secret history and European holiday tour guide (and a few ecosia searchs obs) , mention of curses, stereotypical supernatural stuff?

★・・・・・・★

The diner booth Sam and Dean had commandeered for the last two hours was buried under enough photocopied lore that the waitress had stopped even pretending to ask if they wanted refills. She just topped off the coffee on her way past now, like she'd accepted this was simply a permanent installation in her section.

"Okay, so get this," Sam said, sliding a printout across the table, one finger tapping a paragraph he'd underlined twice. "The tone shifting thing, where the vic's whole personality flips, calm one minute, violent the next, it's not possession. Possession's usually consistent once it takes hold. This is cyclical. Which means we're probably looking at a curse, something tied to a lunar or ritual cycle instead of a straight demonic hold."

"Great. Love that for us." Dean didn't look up from his own burger. "Curses are always so much fun to fix."

"There's a binding phrase here, from the source ritual." Sam squinted at the smudged photocopy, sounding it out slow and careful, the particular halting rhythm of a guy who'd taught himself church Latin out of paperbacks rather than a classroom. "Ligata sit anima, donec..."

"Doe nek," you said, without meaning to, walking past the booth toward the counter with your own coffee in hand, the correction out of your mouth before you'd fully registered you were about to say it out loud to two total strangers. "It's doe nek, not don eck. Long O, soft C."

Both of them looked up at you like you'd materialized out of the tabletop.

And you had, admittedly, chosen an inconvenient moment to notice how the guy holding the photocopy looked up at you. Tall even sitting down, hazel eyes, a kind of rumpled, exhausted handsomeness that you had absolutely no business cataloguing this thoroughly in the two seconds it took him to blink at you in confusion. You filed the observation away under things to be embarrassed about later and pressed on anyway, because apparently grammar outranked self preservation in your priority list.

"Sorry?" Sam said.

"Donec." You gestured vaguely at the paper, immediately regretting having said anything at all, feeling your face heat. "It means until. You said it kind of flat. Sorry, you guys are just sort of loud, and I have unfortunately spent enough time around bad classroom Latin to have opinions about it whether anyone asks for them or not."

Dean, delighted, immediately turned on his brother like a shark that had just scented blood in the water. "Oh, this is incredible. She's not even a witness and she's already correcting your Latin. Sammy, your dead languages game is getting roasted by a total stranger in a diner."

"It's not that bad."

"It is a little bad," you said, apologetic but honest, because something about the earnestness on his face made you feel obligated to be truthful rather than polite. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to be blunt, it's just, that phrase specifically trips people up a lot, because it looks almost identical to donant, which means something completely different, and if you get the vowel wrong it can genuinely flip the meaning of the whole binding clause. I've seen actual published translations get it wrong. It's not just you."

Sam's whole face had shifted from mild embarrassment into something far more interested. "Wait. Flip it how?"

"Donec is until, temporary, conditional. Donant is more like they give or they grant, present tense, ongoing. So depending which one's actually in your source text, you're either looking at a binding that's meant to break under specific conditions, or one that's meant to just keep giving indefinitely, which is a pretty significant difference if you're trying to figure out how something like this ends." You paused, aware you'd just launched fully into a lecture uninvited. "Sorry. I get carried away. Grammar's kind of my whole thing."

"No, no, that's..." Sam had already turned the photocopy toward you, genuinely eager now, tapping the line in question. "Can you look at this? Actually look at it. Because if I've had the tense wrong this whole time that changes basically everything."

You should have made an excuse. You had a stack of your own paperwork waiting back at the shop, a genuine reason to keep walking toward the door, but the sheer, unguarded enthusiasm on his face, the fact that a grown man in a plaid shirt was looking at you like you'd just handed him the answer to something that actually mattered to him, was more charming than you were prepared for at eleven in the morning on a Tuesday. You also noticed, somewhat unhelpfully, the size of his hands where they rested on the table, and decided that particular observation was not one you needed to be having right now either.

"I'm Sam, by the way," he added, seeming to catch himself. "And this is my brother."

"Dean," the other introduced himself, giving a small two finger wave with the hand not holding his burger. "Enjoy watching my brother get schooled on his dead language pronunciation. It's a rare treat."

"I'm sure it happens more than he lets on." You gave your own name in return, and Sam repeated it back like he was making sure he had it filed correctly, which did nothing at all to help the small, warm flutter you were currently pretending not to notice in your own chest.

You slid into the booth across from him, uninvited, and looked.

"Okay, yeah, that's donec, not donant, you can tell from the ending. So it is conditional. There should be a clause somewhere nearby specifying what breaks it." You scanned further down the page, murmuring half to yourself, and Sam leaned in close enough to follow your finger across the text, clearly having entirely forgotten Dean existed, close enough now that you could smell coffee and something faintly like cedar, which was, again, an observation you filed away with mild horror at your own inability to focus on the actual Latin in front of you.

"Nobody's ever caught that before," Sam said, sounding almost giddy about it, which was, objectively, you thought, a deeply strange thing for a grown man to sound giddy about, and also somehow extremely endearing. "I've been reading ritual Latin out of secondhand paperbacks for years and nobody has ever once called me out on the pronunciation."

"I promise you people have noticed. They were probably just too polite to say anything."

"Well, I appreciate that you're not too polite."

"I've been told it's a character flaw."

"I think it's the opposite of a flaw," Sam said, entirely sincere, and something about the plain, easy honesty of it made your stomach do a small, unhelpful flip. You looked at him a beat too long, taking in the sincerity in his expression, the slight furrow of concentration still lingering between his brows, and thought, with a clarity that startled you, that you would very much like an excuse to keep sitting in this booth for a good while longer.

Dean, watching this entire exchange over the top of his burger with the expression of a man watching a nature documentary, finally set it down. "Okay, this is officially the nerdiest thing I've ever witnessed, and I watched Sam read the extended footnotes on a demonology text for fun last week. You two want a room, or should I just take my food to the counter."

Your face went instantly, thoroughly warm. "I, no, we're just, it's just Latin, it's not, we don't need a room, I was simply, ah." You stopped talking before you could dig the hole any deeper, mortified at how quickly your usual fluency had abandoned you the second Dean said the word room out loud.

Sam, at least, looked equally flustered, ducking his head and clearing his throat. "Dean."

"I'm just saying. It's very sweet. Very National Geographic. Two dead language nerds finding each other in their natural habitat."

You laughed despite yourself, still a little pink in the face, and Sam ducked his head lower, not quite hiding a smile, and Dean looked entirely too pleased with himself for having caused the both of you this much trouble in under five minutes of acquaintance.

"So," you said, mostly to redirect the conversation away from your own suddenly warm face, "what exactly are you two doing with cursed Latin bindings in a diner at eleven a.m.? You aren't, like, actual scholars, are you? Because you don't really give off scholar."

There was a beat of silence just a fraction too long. Sam and Dean exchanged the kind of look that two people share when they've had a lot of practice quickly inventing a cover story.

"Historians," Dean said. "Freelance."

"Freelance historians."

"It's a real field."

"Sure it is." You raised an eyebrow, unconvinced but not particularly invested in pushing it, and went back to scanning the photocopy. "Well, whatever you're actually doing, if this is about the thing over on Miller Street, the guy who supposedly attacked his neighbor and then apparently didn't remember any of it..."

Both brothers went very still.

"How do you know about that," Sam said, carefully.

"Small town. Everybody knows about that." You shrugged, still not entirely clocking the shift in the air. "I mean, hypothetically, if this stuff were real, if curses and bindings and all that were actually a thing that happened to actual people and not just something I translate out of dusty books for a living, I'd say the person who did this would probably be somebody kind of odd. Somebody who keeps to themselves. There's this guy, Walt Kessler, runs the antique shop two doors down from mine, and he's always been off. Buys weird stuff. Asked me once if I had anything on binding rituals for my personal collection, which, red flag, obviously, but I figured he was just a Renaissance Faire enthusiast with poor social skills." You paused. "Not that I actually believe any of that's real. Obviously. That would be insane. Right?"

"Right," Sam said, a little too quickly.

"Totally insane," Dean agreed, in the exact tone of a man who did not think it was insane at all.

"What can you tell us about Kessler," Sam said, leaning forward, all business now, though his eyes kept flicking back to you like he hadn't quite managed to fully switch gears. "Specifically. Anything you remember."

You gave them what you knew, which was, it turned out, more than you'd realized once you actually sat and thought about it. The odd hours, the specialty orders, the one time he'd asked you to translate a phrase you'd quietly declined because something about the context had made you uneasy even without believing in any of it. Sam took notes. Dean asked sharp, practical questions you hadn't expected from a self proclaimed freelance historian. And slowly, watching the two of them work, the quick easy shorthand between them, the way Sam cross referenced everything you said against the photocopies in front of him, the shape of what you were actually looking at started to properly land.

"Wait." You set your coffee down. "Wait, wait, wait. Historians don't take notes like that. Historians don't look at each other like that. What was that look."

"What look," Sam said, entirely too quickly.

"That one. That one right there, the one you're doing right now." You narrowed your eyes at both of them. "Okay, hang on. Is this actually about the Miller Street thing? Like, actually about it? Because if you're about to tell me this is some kind of, I don't know, cult investigation or a documentary or something, I need you to just say so, because you're both being extremely weird."

"We're not being weird," Dean said, in the exact tone of a man being extremely weird.

"You are being so weird. You're being weirder by the second." You looked between them, suspicion climbing. "Is this real? Is the curse thing actually, factually real, or are you messing with me right now, because I will be genuinely upset if this is some kind of elaborate prank."

"It's not a prank," Sam said, carefully, glancing at Dean like he was trying to gauge exactly how much to say.

"That's not an answer, Sam."

"Define real," Dean said.

"Dean, oh my god, that is not helping."

"Look," Sam said, after a pause just a beat too long to be reassuring, "it's complicated."

"It is not complicated, it is a yes or no question."

Dean and Sam exchanged another one of those looks, longer this time, some silent argument passing between them about how much of this a total stranger in a diner booth needed to know.

"Yeah," Sam said finally, quiet, like the word cost him something. "It's real."

You sat back hard against the booth, several long held assumptions about the fundamental nature of reality rearranging themselves in real time. "I have translated dozens of these phrases for my own academic curiosity thinking it was just dead language stuff. Historical curiosity. I did a whole undergrad thesis on ritual Latin as a linguistic exercise."

"Turns out it's also a load bearing skill," Dean said. "Congratulations. Welcome to the actual worst thing that could've happened to your Tuesday."

Sam, at least, had the decency to look apologetic about the size of the revelation he'd just dropped on you, though underneath the apology, you noticed, he was still watching you with that same helpless, delighted interest from the moment you'd corrected his vowel sound, like the fact that the world had just gotten considerably weirder hadn't dimmed his enthusiasm for the person who'd walked him through it.

"For what it's worth," he said, gentler now, "you're being remarkably calm about this."

"I am absolutely not calm. I am screaming internally at a truly impressive volume."

"You're hiding it well."

"Years of grad school. You learn to internally scream through almost anything." You dragged a hand down your face, looking at the photocopies scattered across the table with entirely new eyes. "Okay. Okay, so, if this is real, and Kessler's actually doing this, that binding clause we were just correcting, that actually matters. Like, genuinely, practically matters, doesn't it."

"Genuinely and practically," Sam confirmed.

"Well then you're lucky I walked by," you said, some of your composure returning now that there was an actual problem to focus on instead of a full ontological crisis, "because you had the tense wrong, and if you'd gone in there trying to break a binding based on the wrong verb, you might've made it a lot worse instead of better."

"Yeah," Sam said, and the smile that spread slowly across his face had nothing to do with curses or bindings or Latin verb tenses at all. "Lucky."

You held his gaze a moment longer than the conversation strictly required, warmth climbing back into your face for reasons that had very little to do with grammar this time, and Sam didn't look away either, something easy and a little dazed settling over both of you despite the frankly enormous reality check you'd just been handed.

Dean, watching the two of you look at each other a beat too long over a table full of cursed photocopies, let out a long, put upon sigh and reached for his coffee.

"Oh, for the love of," he muttered. "Can we solve the murder curse before you two start making eyes at each other, or is that not gonna happen."

Your face went hot all over again, and beside you Sam made a small, strangled sound that was probably meant to be a protest and came out sounding a lot more like agreement.

"Shut up, Dean," you and Sam said, at almost exactly the same time, and for one unguarded second, over a stack of ritual Latin and a genuinely alarming reappraisal of the nature of reality, you both looked entirely too pleased about that.

"So," you said, clearing your throat, attempting and largely failing to sound composed, "should I write down my number in case you need any more Latin consulting, or is that also something historians don't typically do."

"Freelance historians do it all the time," Sam said, already sliding a pen across the table toward you, entirely too fast for a man supposedly unbothered by the question. "Professional courtesy."

"Right. Professional."

"Extremely professional," Sam agreed, and neither one of you managed to say it with a straight face, while across the table Dean groaned into his coffee like a man who already knew exactly how much of his life was about to be spent third wheeling this particular case.

You wrote your number down on the corner of one of the photocopies, since it was the nearest available scrap of paper, and after a beat of consideration, added a line underneath it in careful, deliberate Latin, printed just as neatly as the correction you'd given him earlier.

Sam read it upside down as you slid it back across the table, his eyebrows going up slightly before a slow grin spread across his face. "Cubitum eamus."

Let's go to bed, was the literal translation, direct as anything, no metaphor required. Colloquially it landed somewhere a good deal closer to will you sleep with me, and you were fully, mortifyingly aware of exactly how forward that was the second the pen left the paper. You stood there for one internal, panicked half second, arguing with yourself about it, this is insane, you don't even know this man's last name, you correct people's Latin for a living and this is how you choose to use that skill, before deciding, with a kind of reckless clarity you didn't often get to indulge, that you had never in your life felt this bold, and that you weren't about to waste the opportunity now. It wasn't every day a six foot four, objectively gorgeous man walked into your regular diner and started reading ritual Latin out loud, badly, over pancakes. He probably didn't even know what the phrase meant. That, if anything, only made it better.

"Correct pronunciation and everything," you said, standing, gathering your coffee, feeling considerably braver now that you were already halfway out of the booth and had an easy exit available if this landed badly. "Figured a girl's got to keep the theme consistent."

"I know what that means," Sam said, a little strangled.

Oh god, he actually knew. You'd built your entire graceful exit around the assumption that a six foot four stranger who mangled a simple conditional clause probably didn't have the vocabulary for anything past basic exorcism Latin, and instead he was sitting there looking at you like you'd just set something on fire in the middle of the diner. Your stomach dropped somewhere around your shoes. Abort, some panicked internal voice suggested, abort immediately, pretend it said something about the weather, you can absolutely convince him cubitum is a weather term if you commit hard enough.

"You do?" was what actually came out of your mouth, which was, in retrospect, not the save you'd been hoping for.

"I've had a lot of late nights with a Latin dictionary," Sam said, and had the audacity to look almost as flustered as you felt, which helped exactly nothing. "It's not exactly obscure vocabulary."

"Right. No. Of course not. Basic stuff." You could feel your face doing something you had very little control over at this point. "I would hope so, honestly. You did read ritual Latin for a living, allegedly."

"Historians," Dean muttered into his mug, not even trying to hide his grin anymore. "Sure. Historians."

"Text me," you said, aiming it at Sam, already backing toward the door with far more confidence than you actually felt, "and I'll help you not get eaten by whatever Kessler's actually cooking up. Or, you know. Whatever else you two are into. Freelance historian stuff." You paused at the door, hand on the frame, and decided, since you'd already fully committed to this level of recklessness, that there was no sense stopping halfway. "Or, vin mecum concumbere. Whichever comes up first."

Do you want to sleep with me, more or less, lifted more or less directly from a piece of actual Roman graffiti you'd once translated for a class and never quite forgotten, mostly because it was, in your professional opinion, an excellent line, and it seemed only right to finally get some personal use out of two thousand years of recorded human thirst.

Sam's jaw actually dropped, all pretense of composure gone entirely. "Yeah," he said, a little strangled, a little too fast. "I definitely will."

"What?" Dean looked between the two of you, thoroughly lost. "What does that mean? Sam. What did she just say."

"Nothing," Sam said, not taking his eyes off you.

"It was not nothing, your whole face just did something."

"Count on it," Sam said, still staring at the photocopy like it had personally rearranged his entire week, and you left the diner with your heart going considerably faster than a simple grammar correction should have justified, already fairly certain this was not going to be the last strange, Latin filled conversation the two of you had.

You told yourself, walking to your car, that you hoped he'd call about the case. That was the sensible thing to hope for, the professional thing, the thing you could say out loud without your face doing anything embarrassing.

You hoped, considerably more, that he'd call about the other... conjugation.

★・・・・・・★

a/n: what if i ate Sam Winchester? what would you do then? hmmmm? sorry, I'm going insane, i'm on so many pain meds I'm basically legally high aha

part 2?

[sabrinasopposite]

neighbor - peter parker.

▶︎ y/n y/l/n has an annoyingly good looking neighbor that also goes to the same university as her, yet as many times as she tried to talk to him, he blocks her away. but she doesn't give up to make him smile.

Living in New York City while actually attending university was nothing like the glossy film strips shown in movie theaters, the kind where everything looks soft, golden, and effortlessly romantic. There was no affordable, sunlit apartment with reliable hot water, no lazy weekends spent at some vintage café eating overpriced brunch while laughing about last night’s hookups. That version of New York barely existed. Maybe it did, but not here.

The reality was harsher, sharper around the edges. It was survival dressed up as ambition. You either smiled tightly and said, “I love it here,” even after nearly getting mugged on your way home, or you admitted quietly, reluctantly that the city was chewing you up. There was no in-between. That was New York. 

Y/N had been living here for five years now. Five years of crowded subways, dinners, and conversations with self-proclaimed “real New Yorkers” who never failed to remind her: “You’re not a New Yorker. Five years? That’s nothing. You have no idea—”

She had heard it all.

Still, she liked it here. Not in the romanticized way people imagined, but in a stubborn, grounded way. It was better than the small town she came from: different, louder, more unforgiving, but alive in a way that place had never been.

She moved to the city to study psychology, picking up a few photography courses on the side because it was the only creative outlet she could realistically afford. At university, she found her way into conversations easily, slipping into discussions about music or movies, just enough to secure a spot during trivia nights or group hangouts. She was a people person, the kind who wasn’t afraid to walk into a room and make herself known. Not by shouting, necessarily but she could. If she had to.

More often, it was her energy. The easy smile, the willingness to debate something trivial like whether autumn was actually the best season or completely overrated for a vibe that lasted, at best, four weeks. 

But there was one person who didn’t seem impressed by any of that.

Peter Parker.

Her neighbor. One floor below.

Y/N had first met him when she went to pick up a package he had signed for three days earlier. At the time, she thought he was ridiculously cute. Curly brown hair, freckles scattered across his nose like constellations, the kind of face that made you do a double take. Cute. Or hot. Honestly, it depended on the angle.

“You have my package!” Y/N said brightly, standing in the hallway in an oversized Ferris Bueller’s Day Off T-shirt.

Peter barely opened the door, peering at her with an exhausted expression. “I do?”

“Well, I got the email saying you picked it up… three days ago,” she replied, still smiling.

He stared at her for a second, then turned without another word, disappearing back into his apartment. Y/N leaned ever so slightly, curiosity getting the better of her as she tried to glance inside but before she could make out anything, Peter reappeared, holding the box out to her.

“Here.”

She flinched a little, startled, before laughing it off. “Ah—great! Thanks. I’m Y/N, by the way. Your neighbor. Upstairs.”

Peter nodded once. “Cool.”

“Cool,” she echoed awkwardly, adjusting her grip on the package. Her eyes dropped to his hoodie, catching the familiar university logo. Her face lit up. “Empire State? I go there too!”

Peter pressed his lips together, like he was debating whether to respond at all. 

He hadn’t always been like this. 

There was a time when Peter Parker was easy to talk to, when he carried a kind of warmth that naturally drew people in. He used to laugh more, speak faster, ramble about things he loved—Star Wars, half-baked theories about shows he watched with Ned, little details that made him feel… alive.

That version of him felt like a different person now.

Ever since his life had been rewritten, since the spell that made the world forget who he was—being Peter Parker felt… distant. Like trying to wear a name that no longer fit. He moved through life quietly, carefully, as if any misstep might remind the universe he wasn’t supposed to exist like this.

Spider-Man, though… that was different.

Spider-Man had purpose.

In the years after everything changed, he built himself into something the city could rely on. When chaos broke out, he was there. When danger surfaced, he faced it head-on. He had been there during the uprising against Fisk, there when the streets turned volatile, there every time New York needed someone to step in.

The city knew Spider-Man.

But Peter Parker?

Peter Parker could barely hold a conversation that lasted two minutes. Standing in that hallway, looking at Y/N—bright, open, so effortlessly present, he felt that familiar disconnect settle in his chest. 

“Yeah,” he said finally, voice flat. “I know’’

Y/N’s eyes widened in surprise. She let out a small laugh, a little too quick, a little too hopeful, brushing a hand through her hair. “Really?—I mean, how come you never talk t—”

Peter pointed down at her feet. “You wear their socks.”

Y/N blinked. Then she looked down. Bright yellow socks. Empire State University logo. Slightly mismatched, one stretched more than the other. She nodded slowly, like she was processing devastating news. “Right.” A beat passed. “Well,” she said, lifting her head again, forcing a smile back onto her face, “in my defense, they were free.”

Peter leaned against the doorframe, completely unmoved. “Yeah. That tracks.”

She squinted at him. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” he said flatly, “you look like someone who’d get excited over free socks.”

Y/N placed a hand over her chest, mock-offended. “Wow. Okay. First of all, I do get excited over free things. That’s just financially responsible.”

“Sure.”

“And second of all,” she continued, gesturing between them, “this is the longest conversation we’ve ever had, and you’re using it to bully me.”

“I’m not bullying you,” Peter said. “I’m observing.”

“Observing?” she echoed.

“Yeah.”

“Like a scientist?”

He shrugged. “More like… someone stuck in a hallway.”

Y/N stared at him, then let out a short laugh, shaking her head. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I’ve been told worse.”

“I’m sure you have,” she shot back, shifting the package in her arms. “Do you always talk like this, or am I just lucky?”

“You’re lucky.”

“Wow,” she deadpanned. “I feel honored.” Another pause settled between them but this one felt different. Less awkward. Almost… intentional. Y/N rocked slightly on her heels, glancing past him into his apartment again before catching herself. “So… you knew I go to Empire State because of my socks.”

“Yes.”

“And you’ve just… never said anything.”

“No.”

“Not even like a ‘hey, same university’ kind of thing?”

Peter shook his head once. “Didn’t seem necessary.”

She let out an incredulous laugh. “You are so weird.”

“Yeah.”

“And you’re okay with that?”

“Yeah.”

Y/N studied him for a second, really looked at him this time. The tired eyes, the way he held himself like he was halfway out the door even when he was standing still. Then she smiled again. Softer now, but just as stubborn. “Well,” she said, adjusting her grip on the box, “I talk enough for two people, so I think this could work.”

Peter raised an eyebrow. “This?”

“Yeah. This whole… neighbor situation.”

“We already are neighbors.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I don’t.”

She sighed dramatically. “Of course you don’t.”

Peter pushed himself off the doorframe slightly, already inching back toward the safety of his apartment. “Anything else?”

Y/N glanced down at her package, then back at him. “…No.”

“Cool.”

“But,” she added quickly, stepping back before he could close the door, “I’ll probably see you around. Since, you know—same building, same school, same free sock community.”

Peter stared at her. “…Okay.”

She grinned. “Okay—- bye!” Y/N said quickly, turning on her heel and speed-walking down the hallway like she hadn’t just completely embarrassed herself.

Peter watched her go for a second. Then quietly shut the door. “…Free socks,” he muttered to himself.

After that interaction five years ago, it never really changed. Not in the way people expected things to change. There was no slow-burn friendship, no sudden deep conversations at 2 a.m., no “we actually got close over time” kind of story. It stayed exactly what it had been in that in ESU’s hallway: slightly awkward, weirdly consistent, and entirely one-sided in terms of enthusiasm.

Y/N would spot him during the week, usually when he was clearly in a rush and immediately latch on. “Peter!”

He wouldn’t stop walking.

She would for approximately half a second. Then she’d jog after him. “So—how’s life?” she’d ask, falling into step beside him like she had every right to be there.

“Fine.”

“Cool, cool, cool. That’s great. Love that for you. Hey—do you like 70s bands?”

“No.”

“You don’t even know which ones I’m talking about.”

“I do.”

She ignored that. “Trivia night. Thursday. You should come.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t want to.”

“Okay, but like—emotionally, or—”

“Physically.”

She huffed, walking backwards in front of him now. “You’re no fun.”

“Yeah I heard that.”

“Yeah, I can imagine,” she muttered, then brightened again instantly. “Anyway, I’ll save you a seat.”

“Don’t.”

She pointed at him. “Too late.” And just like that, she’d disappear into a classroom, leaving Peter standing there for half a second longer than necessary before continuing on like nothing happened.

Then there were the days he didn’t show up at all. No hallway sightings. No late-night footsteps. No door opening, no dry one-word responses. Y/N would notice. She told herself she didn’t.

“He’s probably just busy,” she’d say casually to whoever was around. Or, “Maybe he’s on vacation.” Which, realistically, didn’t make sense. Peter Parker didn’t seem like the vacation type. He barely seemed like the take a break type. Still, she never asked.

And then he’d reappear like nothing happened. Same hoodie. Same tired eyes. Same “cool.”

Sometimes, their interactions were… different. Like the nights Y/N came home drunk. The stairwell light would flicker, her steps uneven, one hand dragging along the wall for balance as she muttered to herself about something that made perfect sense in her head. “…and I told her, autumn is overrated—like, yeah, the leaves are pretty, but it’s basically just—just dying, you know? It’s like aesthetic decay—”

Her foot would miss a step and before gravity could fully commit—a hand would catch her arm.

Steady. Firm. She’d blink up, trying to focus. “…Neighbor?”

He stood there with a laundry basket tucked against his hip, looking down at her like this was, at best, mildly inconvenient. “You’re gonna fall,” he said.

“I’m not—” she swayed. “I’m fine. Besides— that was super superheroing”

“You’re not.” He grimaces. ,,supeheroing is not even a word’

,,It is now’ She squinted at him, then smiled suddenly, wide and unfiltered. “You’re, like… really good at catching people.”

“Yeah.”

“You do that often?”

“More than I’d like.”

“That’s kinda hot.”

Peter didn’t react at all. He just adjusted his grip on the laundry basket. “You have your keys?”

Y/N frowned like this was a deeply philosophical question. “…Probably.”

“Find them.”

She dug into her bag with the intensity of someone searching for buried treasure. “If I don’t have them, can I just—like—sleep in the hallway?”

“No.”

“Your place?”

“No.”

“Wow,” she said, pulling out her keys triumphantly. “You’re so mean to me.”

“You’re drunk.”

“And?”

“And you’ll forget this tomorrow.”

She gasped softly. “I never forget emotional moments.”

“This isn’t one.”

She stared at him for a second, then leaned in slightly, lowering her voice like she was about to reveal something important. “I think you secretly like me.”

“I don’t.”

She nodded slowly, completely unconvinced. “Yeah. That sounds fake.”

Peter guided her toward her apartment door, letting go only once she was steady enough to stand on her own.

“Get inside,” he said.

She fumbled with the lock, then paused, looking back at him over her shoulder. “You’re a good guy, you know that, neighbor?”

He didn’t answer. Just stood there, laundry basket in hand, waiting. She smiled at him one last time before pushing the door open and stumbling inside. ,,Byeeeeeee thank’s for saving me’ The door shut.

Peter stayed there for a moment longer than necessary. Then he exhaled quietly, shifted the laundry basket, and continued up the stairs like it hadn’t meant anything at all. It wasn’t that he was trying to avoid her specifically. He avoided everyone. Keeping attention away from himself had become second nature, something rooted in fear more than preference. He couldn’t risk losing more people. He couldn’t allow anyone into his life who might end up being threatened because of his other persona.

Y/N, though… she seemed like a genuinely nice person.

He often overheard her in the hallway, chatting easily with neighbors he didn’t even realize existed. Apparently, someone in the building sold homemade honey in jars, something he only learned because Y/N had spent ten minutes enthusiastically discussing it outside his door one afternoon.

To him, she was… bright. Outgoing in a way that felt effortless. Like she carried a drop of sunshine inside her, something that made the run-down, slightly miserable apartment complex feel a little less like hell.

He used to be like that.

Sometimes, he missed that version of himself and because of that, he kept his distance even more. He didn’t want what happened to him to happen to her.

On a Friday night, Y/N threw a party in her apartment.

It wasn’t anything extravagant, she just needed to blow off some steam before exam season hit everyone like a truck. She invited a mix of people from campus, including her good friend Alice, who happened to share a module with Peter.

“Wait—you know Peter?” Y/N asked, sipping from a red plastic cup as she leaned against the kitchen counter.

The apartment was crowded but comfortable, packed with around thirty people. Alternative rock hummed through the speakers, blending with laughter and overlapping conversations. The lights were dim, casting everything in a warm, hazy glow, and the air smelled faintly of cheap alcohol and someone’s overly strong perfume.

Alice smiled slightly, her blonde hair catching the low light. “Yeah… I mean, kind of. He’s rarely in Professor Banner’s lectures, but when he is, he’s…” She paused, searching for the right word. “Distant. But we sort of understand each other.”

Y/N choked on her drink. “My neighbor can talk?” she coughed, eyes widening.

Alice blinked, then nodded slowly. “Yeah… I mean—sometimes. Everyone talks.”

“Not my neighbor,” Y/N muttered, grimacing as she set her cup down.

Alice let out a small laugh. “Why do you even call him ‘neighbor’?”

Y/N shrugged, completely unapologetic. “I like giving people nicknames.”

Alice raised an eyebrow. “That’s not a nickname. That’s just… what he is.”

Y/N pointed at her. “Exactly. It’s ironic.”

“…That’s not how irony works.”

Y/N waved her off, already reaching for another drink. “Details.” 

A couple of guys stumbled into the kitchen, clearly already a few drinks in. One of them, Paul, leaned against the doorframe, grinning like he’d just had the best idea of his life.

“Hey, Y/L/N,” he called out, his words slightly slurred, “do you have any limes? We wanna do, like—tequila shots. A whole game thing.” He hiccuped mid-sentence, which immediately sent the others into laughter.

Y/N turned toward them with an easy smile. “Yeah, hold on—I’ll check.”

She made her way to the fridge, pulling it open and scanning the shelves. Bottles. Leftovers. Questionable containers she didn’t remember putting there.

No limes.

Her smile slowly dropped. “…Crap.”

Alice leaned closer, trying to peek inside. “What’s wrong?”

“No limes.”

Alice frowned. “No dimes?”

Y/N shut the fridge a little harder than necessary. “No, I said no limes—”

She stopped mid-sentence, then her expression shifted. Y/N turned her head toward Alice, a grin spreading across her face. “I’ll check if my neighbor has some.”

Alice blinked. “…Your neighbor neighbor?”

“The one and only,” Y/N said, already moving toward the door.

Alice grabbed her arm lightly. “You’re seriously leaving your own party to ask the human equivalent of a brick wall for limes?”

Y/N pulled free, unfazed. “He might have some.”

“He won’t.”

“He might.”

“He won’t.”

Y/N pointed at her as she backed out of the kitchen. “Have some faith.”

“In him?” Alice called after her.

Y/N just grinned. “In the limes.”

And with that, she slipped out into the hallway, on a mission that was, at best, unnecessary… and at worst, a terrible idea.

Y/N had always been like that. Full of impulsive ideas that balanced somewhere between stupid and weirdly clever. She lived by the quiet philosophy of Ferris Bueller’s Day Off—that life was too long to be serious all the time, and sometimes you just had to do something reckless because you could.

Unfortunately, this was one of those moments.

She tried to make her way back to her apartment door, but the hallway was packed with people spilling out from her own party, laughing, shouting, blocking every possible path.

“Okay—nope,” she muttered, already turning around.

Plan B.

The fire escape.

Within seconds, she slipped into her room, pushed the window open, and climbed out onto the metal platform. The cool night air hit her face immediately, a sharp contrast to the warm, crowded apartment behind her. Music thumped faintly through the walls as she carefully made her way down the stairs toward the level below.

Peter’s window.

She leaned forward slightly, gripping the railing as she tried to peek inside.

Completely dark.

Y/N frowned. “Of course,” she mumbled. “Because he definitely has a life on a Friday night.”

Still, she knocked against the glass.

Once.

Twice.

Then louder.

“Hey—neighbor!” she called, pressing closer to the window. “You alive in there, or did you finally turn into a ghost?”

No response.

She sighed, leaning her forehead briefly against the cool glass. “Great. No limes, no neighbor, no dignity—”

Something hit the wall next to her. Y/N jumped back with a startled scream. “AHHH—!” She whipped around and froze. Spider-Man clung to the brick wall just a few feet away, one hand still pressed against it from where he had landed. His head tilted slightly, the white lenses of his mask wide. “…Uh—”

Y/N stared at him, completely stunned. Her brain visibly tried to catch up with reality. “…Okay,” she said slowly, raising a hand like she was pausing the situation. “So either I’m way more drunk than I thought—” She pointed at him. “—or you’re Spider-Man.”

Spider-Man didn’t move. “I wish I could say you are drunk but no— I am Spider-Man,” he said finally.

Y/N nodded once, like that confirmed everything. “Cool.” She turned back toward the window, knocking on it again like nothing had just happened. “HEY—NEIGHBOR!” she shouted. “Do you have limes?!”

Spider-Man just stared at her. “…You’re kidding.”

She glanced back at him, completely serious. “No, this is time-sensitive.”

He shifted slightly on the wall. “You’re on a fire escape. At night. Yelling.”

“Yes.”

“You almost fell.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did.”

She waved him off. “That’s not the point.”

“…What is the point?”

“I need limes.”

Another pause. Spider-Man blinked behind the mask. “…For what?”

“Tequila shots.”

He stared at her. “…You climbed out of your apartment. Onto a fire escape. To ask your neighbor for limes. For tequila shots.”

“Yes,” she said, like it was obvious. Then she squinted at him slightly. “…Are you judging me?”

“I’m processing this.”

“Well, process faster,” she shot back. “People are waiting.”

Spider-Man looked at her for a long second. “…Stay there,” he said instead, already pushing himself off the wall.

Y/N blinked. “Where else would I—?”

He was gone.

She stared at the empty space where he had been, the city noise rushing back in to fill the silence. “…Okay,” she muttered to herself, gripping the railing. “Cool. Love that. Very mysterious. Very dramatic exit.” She leaned back against the metal bars, squinting out into the night. “Wow,” she added under her breath. “Even Spider-Man ghosts me.”

Three minutes. That’s how long she waited. Long enough for her buzz to settle slightly. Long enough for her to start questioning her life choices. “Alright,” she said to no one, pushing herself upright. “New plan. We accept defeat. We go back inside. We drink tequila without limes like civilized peo—”

A red blur swung back into view. She yelped again, grabbing the railing. “OH MY—can you not do that?!”

Spider-Man landed lightly in front of her, something small clutched in his hand. “…You scream a lot,” he said.

“You appear out of nowhere!” she shot back, clutching her chest. “That’s on you.”

He ignored that, holding out his hand.

Limes.

Fresh. Bright green. Slightly dewy, like they had just come out of a fridge.

Y/N blinked. “…You just carry limes around?” she asked slowly.

“No.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Then where did you get them?”

“…Deli,” he said.

“You—” she pointed at him, incredulous, “you went to a deli?”

“Yes.”

“For me?”

“…For the limes.”

Y/N stared at him for a long second. Then her face broke into a wide, delighted grin. “You are really the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man.”

“I’m efficient.”

“You left—” she gestured vaguely into the city, “—swung somewhere, bought limes, and came back, all in like… what, three minutes?”

“Four.”

“Four,” she repeated, nodding. “Right. Of course. That makes it normal.” He held the limes out again, a little more insistently this time. “Take them.”

“Oh—right!” She quickly grabbed them, almost dropping one before catching it against her chest. “These are beautiful. Honestly, ten out of ten limes.”

He stared at her. “…They’re just limes.”

“No, no,” she shook her head, completely serious. “These are hero limes. There’s a difference.”

“…I regret this,” he muttered, but he has a little smile behind his mask.

“You don’t,” she shot back immediately. “This is the highlight of your night.”

“It’s not.”

“It is.”

“It’s not.”

She grinned. “It is.”

“…Go back inside,” he said.

Y/N clutched the limes like a prize. “I will. My people need me.”

“They don’t.”

“They do. There’s a tequila situation.”

He looked at her like that explained nothing. She took a step toward the stairs, then paused, turning back to him. “…Hey.” He didn’t respond, but his head tilted slightly. “Thanks,” she said, softer now. “For the… deli mission.”

“…Don’t mention it.”

“I absolutely will,” she said immediately. “No one’s gonna believe me.”

“Good.”

She laughed, already climbing back up toward her window. “See you around, Spider-Man!”

He didn’t answer. Just watched as she disappeared back inside, music spilling out briefly before the window shut behind her. The fire escape fell quiet again. Peter stayed there for a moment longer than necessary. Then he looked down at his hands.

“…Deli,” he muttered to himself, like he couldn’t quite believe it either. But he still had a little smile behind his mask. A stupid little smile.

The next morning hit New York like it always did: too bright, too loud, and entirely unconcerned with anyone’s headache. Y/N was already halfway regretting her life choices before she even reached the stairwell. Her hair was tied up messily, sunglasses doing absolutely nothing indoors, and she was clutching a energy she didn’t remember buying. The apartment hallway smelled faintly like last night’s alcohol and spilled optimism.

She stepped out of her apartment just in time to see him.

Peter Parker.

Walking down the stairs like he hadn’t just indirectly caused a minor existential crisis in her life twelve hours ago.

“Peter!” she called immediately.

He paused mid-step, slowly turned his head. “…Yeah.” That tone again. Flat. Guarded. Like he was already preparing for something he didn’t want to deal with.

Y/N lit up instantly. “Oh my God, perfect timing. I need to talk to you.”

“I’m on my way out.”

“No, you’re on your way into a conversation.”

“I didn’t agree to that.”

She was already moving toward him. “You don’t have to. It’s happening anyway.”

Peter stared at her for a second as she reached him on the stairs, clearly debating whether continuing downward at full speed was an option. It wasn’t. She had already positioned herself like a blockade.

“Is this about the party?” he asked.

She gasped. “It’s not just about the party.”

A beat.

“…It’s partly about the party—- wait you remembered that I had a party where you were invited.” She grins out of satisfaction.

Peter exhaled slowly, like he was trying to conserve patience for something more important in his life. “Okay.”

Y/N grabbed his wrist. “Come with me.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“I have class.”

“No one has a class on Saturday. You have coffee.”

“I don’t drink coffee.”

“That’s fake.”

He tried to step around her. She stepped in front again.

Peter stopped. Looked at her. “…You’re blocking a staircase.”

“And you’re emotionally unavailable,” she replied instantly. “We all have struggles.”

Peter blinked once. “…What happened last night?”

That was all she needed. Her entire face changed.

“Oh my GOD,” she said, releasing his wrist only to immediately start gesturing wildly. “Okay. So. First of all. My party? Insane. Like, legally it should’ve been louder than it was. There were people. So many people. I lost at least two conversations and a cup of something I’m pretty sure was not juice.”

Peter didn’t move, but his head tilted slightly.

Y/N continued, pacing one step down, then back up again for dramatic effect. “And then Paul shows up, right? And he’s like—” she dropped her voice into a terrible imitation, “‘Do you have limes? We need tequila shots like it’s a sport.’”

Peter’s mouth twitched. Just slightly. “Go on,” he said.

That alone made her pause. “Wait—are you… interested?”

“No,” he said immediately. Then, after a beat: “…Continue.”

She narrowed her eyes suspiciously at him but kept going. “So I check the fridge. No limes. Tragedy. Absolute collapse of civilization. Alice suggests I give up. I refuse. Obviously.”

Peter folded his arms. “So you went where?”

She pointed at him like she was delivering courtroom testimony. “Fire escape.”

He closed his eyes for a moment. “…Of course you did.”

“I had a system,” she insisted. “It made sense at the time. Anyway. I go to your window—”

“My window.”

“Yes, your window, don’t interrupt the narrative flow—”

“I’m not—”

“And you weren’t there.”

Peter nodded slowly. “I wasn’t.”

“Exactly,” she said, pointing triumphantly. “So I’m knocking on your window like a normal person—”

“Normal.”

“—and suddenly Spider-Man shows up.”

Peter froze. Just slightly as if it wasn’t the first time he has to pretend to be shocked. Then recovered almost immediately. “Spider-Man.”

“Yes,” she said seriously. “Him.”

“…At my window.”

“Yes.”

Peter looked at her for a long second. “…Right.”

Y/N leaned in slightly. “And listen. I don’t know what your opinion on him is, but I think he might be, like, a little unwell.”

Peter blinked. “Unwell?”

“Because why is he on walls at night and also emotionally committed to grocery errands?”

That got him. A small, genuine laugh escaped before he could stop it.

Y/N stopped mid-gesture. “…Did you just laugh at me?”

“No.”

“You did.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did,” she repeated, pointing at him again. “That was a laugh.”

Peter rubbed his hand over his mouth, trying to hide it. “Continue your story.”

She narrowed her eyes but resumed. “So anyway, he tells me to stay there. Disappears. Comes back FOUR minutes later with limes from a deli.”

Peter’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “…Four minutes?”

“Yes.”

“That’s fast.”

“That’s not the point,” she said immediately. “The point is that your city’s superhero is doing Uber Eats side quests for me.”

Peter let out another small, involuntary huff of amusement.

Y/N noticed. “Okay, you’re enjoying this.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re smiling.”

“I’m not smiling.”

“You are emotionally smiling.”

Peter exhaled, looking away briefly like he was trying not to encourage her. “…You’re ridiculous.”

“Thank you,” she said proudly. “Anyway, I need coffee after this. And you’re coming.”

“I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

“I literally just said I’m not.”

She had already started walking.

Peter didn’t move at first, then he sighed and followed.

The coffee shop was two blocks away, small and slightly too warm inside, filled with the soft hum of morning conversations and the smell of burnt espresso. Y/N pushed the door open like she owned the place.

Peter followed more cautiously, hands in his pockets. “You didn’t have to drag me here,” he said.

“I did,” she replied immediately, already walking toward the counter. “This is emotional processing.”

“That’s not what coffee is.”

“It is for me.”

Peter watched as she ordered something aggressively complicated, then turned to him expectantly. 

“What?”

“I said I don’t drink coffee.”

“That’s fine,” she said, waving it off. “You can just emotionally support me while I consume caffeine.”

“That’s not a thing.”

“It is now.”

He sighed again but didn’t leave. They sat by the window, sunlight spilling across the table. Y/N talked with her hands again, reenacting parts of the night like she was performing a one-woman play, occasionally slamming the table for emphasis. Peter watched her for a while, expression unreadable—but softer than usual.

At one point, she leaned back, grinning.

“So,” she said, “your Spider-Man is insane.”

Peter took a sip of water. “…My Spider-Man?”

She nodded. “Yeah. I feel like you’d know him. You give off ‘I know things’ energy.”

Peter almost choked. “…I don’t.”

“Mm-hm,” she said, unconvinced. Then she pointed at him with her cup. “Anyway, I’m telling everyone I know he did a deli run for me.”

Peter shook his head slowly, a small smile still lingering. “You’re going to get yourself in trouble one day.”

She grinned. “Probably.”

And for some reason, that didn’t make him laugh less.

▶︎ maybe a part two will come ! <3

[superbassbuck]

Grade-A Pain in My Ass

Chapter 7: Mr. Barnes, Apparently

masterlist

pairing: single dad!bucky x teacher!reader mentions: 18+, enemies to lovers, slow burn, sexual tension, banter, domestic fluff word count: 4.3k synopsis:

Bucky Barnes is a single dad who doesn’t do love. He’s got everything he needs: a steady job, cozy home, and his whole life wrapped up in one little girl, his daughter Rebecca. No complications, and absolutely no room for romance. After a rude and not-so-pleasant first encounter, he finds out you're the elementary school teacher of Rebecca's class. He would make it his mission to avoid you at all costs and to absolutely not fall in love with you. How could he? Especially since you're a grade-A pain in his ass.

Bucky stared down at you from the stage, frozen in place, his eyes wide and his posture rigid. He didn’t even realize he’d been holding his breath until the announcer’s voice rang out again.

“One thousand dollars!” she repeated, her voice rising with surprised delight. “That’s our highest bid of the night!” She looked around the crowd with a grin. “Anyone brave enough to top that?”

You could hear the chatter from everyone around you. You could feel the stares from your fellow peers, parents, the women who were bidding. When you shot your hand up, you didn’t care to think about the aftermath or how it might’ve looked in the eyes of others.  You just knew one thing: you didn’t want Bucky going on a date with anyone else.

“Going once…”

Bucky still hadn’t moved. The crowd buzzed with whispers.

“Going twice…”

Your pulse thudded in your ears as the announcer glanced around the crowd one last time.

“Sold!” she called out, pointing straight at you and saying your last name out loud. “Please make your way to the side tent to finalize your bid and claim your prize.”

Rebecca tugged on your arm, her voice small but slightly excited. “You bought my daddy?”

Sam snorted beside you.

You let out a weak laugh, forcing a smile. “Stay here with Uncle Sam for a sec,” you said, gently handing her off.

He raised a brow, his mouth twitching into a smirk. “Off to claim your prize?”

You shoot him a look—a scowl almost that essentially says: Don’t push it. It was his fault that Bucky was up there in the first place. Without another word, you turned on your heel and headed toward the booth where winners were cashing in their bids.

Meanwhile, Bucky was finally dismissed off the stage as the announcer called for the next auctioneer. As he made a beeline towards you, several thoughts were running through his mind. 

How the hell did it come to this? You were Rebecca’s teacher. The same woman who got under his skin from day one at the bar. The one who shot snarky little comments at him like it was a part-time job, who drove him insane with your stupid one-liners and infuriating ability to always be right.

The same woman who slowly, quietly, started taking up space in his head. The one he trusted with things he hadn’t told anyone in years. The same woman he had kissed, on the forehead, sure. But it meant something. 

The one he swore he’d never let get close. 

But now here you were. Spending a thousand damn dollars like it was nothing. And for what? A date? Charity? Him?

As he was getting closer with one goal in mind, you approached the front of the stand and pulled out a checkbook. You quickly wrote down the check, about to hand it to the man behind the cash register. But before you do, Bucky grabs you roughly by the arm, tugging you away. 

“What the hell was that for?” he snarls angrily. You tug your arm back harshly as you finally hand the cashier the check. 

You walk past him without a word, not meeting his gaze. Bucky just gets more upset. He grabs your arm again, pulling you closer to him. 

“I don’t want your fucking money,” he grits through clenched teeth. 

You snap back, brows furrowed. “Well, good thing it’s not going to you . It’s going to charity–” 

“Like hell it is,” he says. His grip on your arm tightens and it makes you wince. He softened his grasp, but he still held you in place. He was not about to let you go anywhere. 

“Will that check even clear? Do you even have the money for it?” 

Your mouth parted in disbelief. 

“Seriously?” you said, prying your arm away and folding them tightly across your chest. “You think just because I’m a teacher, I can’t afford it?” You pushed past him again, heat creeping up your neck. “It’ll clear just fine, thanks.”

But he wasn’t letting you go that easy. His hand curled around your wrist again, and you turned with a sharp inhale, your patience worn thin.

What the hell was up with him? Why is he so upset? He should be thanking you. You practically saved his ass. And so what if it cost you a thousand dollars and a dent in your bank account? 

“Mr. Barnes,” you said tightly, trying to steady your voice. “I genuinely don’t understand why you’re so upset over this.”

He scoffed bitterly. “Mr. Barnes. That’s what we’re doing now?”

You lifted your chin. “Save the formalities for work, remember?”

He stared at you, his jaw clenching. Your smirk slipped out before you could stop it, and just that alone shifted something in him. He pulled you closer with a harsh tug, your hands braced suddenly against his chest to keep from stumbling. His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper by your ear.

“Screw the formalities,” he growled.

You tilted your head slightly, meeting the glare in his eyes. “You’re making a scene,” you whispered, though your voice didn’t sound nearly as firm as you wanted it to.

Bucky leaned in closer, his breath warm against your cheek. “ I’m the one making a scene?” he muttered. “You’re the one that bid a thousand dollars. For one date. With me .”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you said in an overly sweet and sarcastic tone, pushing lightly at his chest to create space. “Next time I’ll just let Dorothy from classroom 3A take you home and feed you casserole in bed. Would you prefer that instead, Mr. Barnes?”  

As you’re about to leave for what seems like the fourth time now, his hand tightens around your wrist, keeping you still. 

“Call me Mr. Barnes again and I might just have to take you over my knee.”

You froze, eyes wide as a rush of heat flushed up your neck and into your face. You glanced around quickly, hoping no one else had heard what he just said.

“Did you seriously just threaten to spank me? At a school event?” You whisper-yelled. Half of you was angry, and the other half…was a deeper feeling that you refuse to admit.

Bucky leaned in closer, his breath brushing your cheek. And when your eyes met his, you saw that he was actually mad. But beneath the irritation, there was something dark lingering in those icy blue gaze.

“You’ve been getting on my damn nerves with everything going on,” he sneers. “And this constant attitude of yours? You need that brattiness spanked out of you.” 

You inhaled sharply, lips parting as a small gasp escaped you. The corners of his lips tug up into a small smirk at your reaction. All those women that were bidding on him earlier had no clue what they were signing up for. He wasn’t the quiet, devoted, girl-dad the announcer painted him to be. 

No. He was something else entirely. And no one else had seen this side of him but you.

“Careful,” you murmured, recovering just enough to shoot him a coy smile. “That’s no way to talk to the person who just dropped a thousand bucks for your time.”

He didn’t blink. 

“ You’re the one that owes me a fancy candle lit dinner,” you lean in and add in that sugary sweet voice that he loves oh so much. “Mr. Barnes.”

Your grin widens when you see his brow twitch in utter annoyance. Before you could even look away, his hand moved in one swift movement. His rough fingers found the back of your head, giving your hair a tug that’s harsh enough to tilt your head back and bring your face that much closer to his. 

You gasp, and your hands instinctively clench for his shirt for balance. His grip on your hair wasn’t rough, but it wasn’t gentle either. 

It was possessive. 

He leans in even closer, and his lips graze over yours as he’s about to fire up his next statement. You shudder. If anyone were to walk by right now and see the two of you— 

“Daddy?” 

Rebecca’s innocent voice cut through, causing the both of you to snap your heads to the side. She was standing a few feet away, staring up at you both with those wide and innocent blue eyes. A complete contrast to her father’s. One hand was holding tightly onto Sam’s, who looked like he was trying so hard not to burst out laughing. 

Bucky completely separates himself from you. You could see the blood in his face draining as he pats down the wrinkles you left on his shirt. You also take a step back and swallow nervously, trying to compose yourself. 

Rebecca, still holding Sam’s hand, tilted her head curiously before letting go and padding over. She stopped in front of the both of you, glancing between your faces with a little raised brow.

“Is my daddy hurting you?” she asked with all the seriousness a child could muster. Before you could even answer, she shot her dad a suspicious look, like she already knew he was guilty. 

Bucky just mumbled something grumpily under his breath. Even his own daughter thinks he was up to no good. Just the thought alone makes you snicker.

“Don’t worry, Becks,” you crouch down to meet her eyes, patting her soft brown hair. “Your daddy might be a little grumpy, but he’d never hurt me.” You say in an overly sweet voice. 

That made her giggle, the suspicion melting right off her face. You could feel the heavy weight of Bucky’s stare boring into your back. You knew he couldn’t, wouldn’t , say anything when his daughter was present. It gave you the upper hand, and you were savoring every moment. 

“So,” Sam clears his throat, catching both of your guy’s attention. His eyes dart between you and Bucky. “A date, huh? When was the last time you even went on one, Buck?” 

Bucky shoots Sam a glare and crosses his arms. “I’m not taking her out on a date.” 

You stayed crouched next to Rebecca, offering your usual soft smile as you listened to the exchange between Sam and Bucky. On the outside, you looked happy. But inside, Bucky’s words hit a little hard.

You’d grown used to the banter, the teasing, the constant push and pull between the both of you. But somewhere unexpectedly along the line, his words started to sting more. One moment he was warm, telling you that everything will be okay. He even kissed you on the head! And the next he shut you out entirely. 

It was starting to get exhausting trying to guess which version of him you’d get. 

You didn’t really expect him to jump at the idea of a date. But the way that he was so quick, and somewhat offended by the suggestion… that stung more than you cared to admit. Would he have reacted the same way if some other woman in the crowd had won the bid? Would he have just gone along with it? 

Getting up with a quiet sigh, you straighten yourself and look over to the group with a big smile. 

“Come on, there’s still lots to do,” you reach for Rebecca’s hand and give her a light squeeze. “I think the talent show is starting soon.” 

Rebecca nodded eagerly, and just like that, her attention shifted immediately. She gave your hand a good squeeze back as she started skipping towards the center of the square. You gave Sam a polite smile, then glanced briefly at Bucky. He was already looking at you, arms still crossed and expression unreadable. 

You didn’t say anything, and he didn’t say anything either. Even as you continued walking farther away with Rebecca, you could still feel Bucky’s heavy gaze on your back.

Another school week had started, and Bucky hadn’t said a word to you since the fundraiser. You weren’t surprised. He hadn’t mentioned the auction or the date he technically owed you. He hadn’t so much as looked your way when dropping Rebecca off or picking her up. It was like it never happened—completely forgotten. 

Your wallet on the other hand hadn’t forgotten. But that wasn’t the point. 

The parents and staff, however, have been gossiping about you since then. Everytime you stepped into the break room for a quick coffee, you would overhear their conversations that stopped just a tad bit too late. 

“Did you see what happened at the fundraiser?” 

“Can’t you believe that she dropped a thousand dollars over that man?”

 “On a student’s parent? Isn’t that inappropriate?” 

You tried to brush it off. Teachers always needed something to talk about, whether it be about parents or the students. For now, it seemed like the topic was on you. You chose to just be the bigger person and rise above it. But the longer it dragged on, the harder it was to drown out. 

But none of it mattered. Not really. 

As long as it didn’t affect Rebecca.

Fortunately, she didn’t seem to notice or care. During pick-up, when the parents would linger near your door, they’d whisper not-so-quietly about you and Bucky. Rebecca would glance over, listen for a second with a somewhat curious tilt of her head, then go right back to whatever she was doing. Unbothered. 

You were both sitting on the rug in your classroom, waiting for Bucky to pick her up.

She was sitting in your lap while you braided her hair. Most teachers wouldn’t be this close with their students in a maternal way, but it just came natural to the both of you. And she loved being near you.

“It’s Wednesday, Becks,” you say, looking at the clock. “Isn’t your dad off work today?” 

She paused from flipping through her comic book. “I dunno,” she mumbled, eyes still on the page. “He’s been thinking a lot.”

You paused, the strands of her soft brown hair rested between your fingers. “Thinking about what?” 

Rebecca parts her mouth to speak, but before she does, you get a knock at your classroom door. You both turn to the sound, and you see Ron and Elizabeth. He had a concerned look on his face, and in his hands was a sheet of paper. You presumed it was the assessment you had made last week. It’s no surprise that some parents come up to you to express their concern sometimes.

Then, you see Ron’s eyes dart between you, and Rebecca who's on your lap. 

“Hold on a sec, sweetheart,” you say, helping her off your lap. She wandered over to the bookshelf without a fuss to keep herself busy while you straightened your clothes and made your way to the door to meet them.

"Is everything alright, Ron?" you asked as you approached, noticing the tight grip he had on the paper in his hands.

He shifted his weight, glancing down at the form. "I had a few questions about Elizabeth’s assessment," he began, his tone cautious.

Of course you do.

“And amongst other things.” He adds. 

Your brows lifted slightly at that, but you gave a small nod. "Alright. What would you like to start with?"

“Well,” he begins, flipping through each section. “You noted that her math skills are below benchmark and need intervention. I guess I was just… surprised. At home, she does her assignments without a problem.” He finishes with a shrug. 

This wasn’t the first time you’ve heard this. Parents were often surprised to learn that their child worked and behaved differently in a classroom than at home.

You gave a practiced and thoughtful nod. You knew how to handle situations like this.

 “Elizabeth is bright, no doubt. But what I observed in class, especially during partner work, was some hesitation with the math problems,” you explain. 

You look at Ron’s face for his reaction, and based on his tightened expression, you can tell he doesn’t look pleased. 

“This is an area we can help her grow in. I’m planning some more tailored activities this week to support her—” 

“Partner work? Where she always gets paired with Rebecca?” he interrupts you with a sharp and accusatory tone that throws you off guard. 

You stand up straight and keep your shoulders upright. The mention of Rebecca immediately ignites a protective instinct. Like a mother bear, ready to fight for her cub. 

You tilted your head slightly. “Go on.” 

You will admit, the way it came out sounded more like a dare. Almost like: I dare you to talk about her. Do it and see what happens.  

Ron hesitated, his gaze briefly flicking toward Rebecca, who was quietly flipping through a picture book by the bookshelf. When he spoke again, his voice was lower, more cautious. “Some of the other parents and I… we can’t help but feel like there might be a little favoritism at play here.” 

You blinked. “Favoritism?”

He nods slowly. “I’m talking about Rebecca Barnes. A lot of parents saw what happened at the fundraiser. The auction.” 

Ah. There it was. 

You’ve heard a lot of things about your teaching, but not once have you heard about favoritism. You’d gone out of your way to treat every student equally. You’d make sure to never let it get to that point, so this was the first. 

Ron continued with a firm voice. “You bid a thousand dollars to win a date with her father. Publicly. And now… people are talking. Wondering if it’s affecting the way things are handled in the classroom.” 

You took a slow, measured breath and fought the tightening in your chest. Your fingers curled into a fist, but you kept your tone even. 

“I understand how it might’ve looked from the outside. But I assure you, Rebecca receives no special treatment in my class. The way I assess my students is always based on observation alone.” 

Ron’s eyes glanced back over at Rebecca. The only student who sits in your classroom after-hours. The only student who eats with you during your lunch hour. He doesn’t answer, but you can tell that by his demeanor alone that he thinks you’re spouting bullshit. 

You pressed on anyway. “My professionalism in this classroom remains unchanged, and I would never let personal matters interfere with my students’ development. Elizabeth included.” 

He eventually sighs and parts his mouth to speak—likely to argue back. But just as he opened his mouth, the classroom door swung open without a knock. 

Both of you turned toward the sound, and in comes Bucky.

Really late. 

With a bouquet of fresh roses in his hand. 

Your stomach dropped.

These roses likely weren’t for you, but whether they were for you or not didn’t matter. What mattered was what it looked like. And right now, in the middle of a delicate conversation with a parent who already doubted your objectivity, it couldn’t have looked worse.

Bucky’s eyes flicked between you and Ron, and his faint scowl didn’t help this situation at all. 

“What’s going on?” he asks roughly.

 “Mr. Barnes,” Ron looks at Bucky, then down at the roses in his hands. You can see the frown on his face deepen with even more concern. “You were missed at the baking competition.” 

Bucky narrows his eyes down at Ron. “I was occupied with other stuff,” he says flatly. 

“That I see,” Ron scrunches his face in dislike. He glances over at you before giving you a simple dismissal nod. “I should get going. Thank you for your time.” 

As the door clicked shut behind Ron, you immediately turned on Bucky, arms crossed tightly over your chest.

“Well, that couldn’t have been timed any better,” you said flatly. “Flowers, too? Really?”

Bucky furrowed his brows, clearly confused at your tone. “What?”

“You couldn’t have just… I don’t know, given them to Becks in the car?” you muttered, letting out an exasperated breath.

He looks over at his daughter, who seems too caught up in whatever picture book she picked off your shelf. She didn’t even notice he came in. He leans in closer to you, making sure his daughter is out of earshot. 

“These were for you,” he says as he presses the bouquet of flowers against your chest. “I’m taking you out on a date.” 

You freeze. Wait. What? Your eyebrows raise in surprise, but you don’t make any move to take the flowers. 

First, he gets upset with you for bidding on him. Then he threatens to spank you in public. He completely ignores you for the beginning of the week, and now he’s here with a bouquet of roses in his hands, asking you out on a date? Like he hadn’t left you to clean up the mess of assumptions, gossip, and now parental complaints? 

He nudges the roses closer to you, and you shake your head, giving them a slight nudge back towards him. 

“No.” 

You stepped back, but he didn’t let the space linger long. One step, and he was right in front of you again. “Yes.” 

“No!” you repeat, whisper-yelling so that Rebecca didn’t hear. “Mr. Barnes, we can’t. That bid—it didn’t mean anything–”

He takes another step closer, leaning in. 

“So instead of a date, you’d prefer to keep testing me with that little title you love throwing around?” His voice dropped lower, darker and deeper. “You really want to earn that spanking, don’t you?” 

Your eyes are practically bulging out at his audacity. You quickly whip your head to look at Rebecca, and she’s still engrossed in her picture book. Thank God.

“Oh my God,” you groan. “You can’t be serious right now. You’re still doing this?” 

With the roses still in his hand, he glances over at your desk, then back at you. “If my daughter weren’t in here right now, I’d have you bent over that desk, giving you exactly what you’ve been begging for with that mouth of yours.” 

Heat floods your face, spreading all the way to your ears. You're frozen, wide-eyed, lips parted, and blushing like a damn teenager. You stammer, trying to get any word out. Instead, you hear the patter of Rebecca’s small shoes running across the room. 

“Daddy!” Rebecca’s voice rings out as throws her arms around Bucky in her usual, enthusiastic hug. Then she catches sight of the bouquet in his hands.

“You got her flowers?” she grins, bouncing on her toes.

Her blue eyes dart between you two, and there is not even a single ounce of jealousy in her little body. She just seems so happy that the relationship between her dad and her teacher are finally getting somewhere. But you know better than that. 

“I did, baby girl,” Bucky smiled, leaning down to give her a kiss on the head. As he crouches next to her, he glances back up at you. “I want to take your pretty teacher on a date, but she’s turning me down.” 

Rebecca gasps, her little arms still looped around his neck. “You said no?”

Then, they both look up at you at the same time. With their matching baby blue eyes. Matching pouts. It’s an unfair double attack of adorableness that leaves you absolutely defenseless.

Goddammit. How can you say no? You could’ve held your ground with Bucky. Maybe. But with Rebecca looking at you like that? A practically mini girl version of her grumpy dad? 

You groan softly under your breath and finally reach out, taking the flowers from Bucky’s hands. Rebecca lets out a small and excited gasp. 

“I’ll think about it,” you mutter.

It was Friday evening, and you were fixing up your makeup in your bedroom. You glanced up at the clock above your mirror. It was six thirty in the evening. Bucky should be here any moment now. 

Earlier that day, when he picked Rebecca up from school, you finally gave in and agreed to this date. You knew that all this date was to keep his end of the bargain—his end of the bid. Still, a quiet part of you wished this date had come from a different place. Not an obligation. Not guilt. Just… him wanting to take you out.

He hadn't told you much about his plans, just to “dress nice.” Which only made your stomach twist more with curiosity.

The doorbell finally rang and you gave yourself one last look in the mirror before grabbing your purse and coat, making your way over to the front door of your simple one-story home. As your fingers hovered over the doorknob, you sucked in a sharp breath before opening it. 

There he was.

Bucky stood on the other side, in a neat suit and tie with both hands tucked casually in his front pockets. His usual guarded expression was still there, but something in his eyes felt different tonight. He looked very, very… 

“Ready for our date?” he asked, voice quieter than you expected. He held out his hand toward you, gaze steady and never leaving yours.

You swallow and slip your hand into his, stepping outside and pulling the door shut behind you.

He smirked. “What, cat got your tongue?”

“Shut up, Mr. Barnes,” you mumbled quietly, heat blooming in your cheeks as you turned your head so he wouldn’t catch you blushing like a lovesick teenager.

His hand tightened slightly around yours at the sound of his last name being used against him yet again. He leaned in close as you walked toward his car, his breath warm against your ear.

“Careful with that,” he warns in a deep voice. “You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into if you keep that up tonight.” 

He opens the passenger door, waiting for you to get in, but you just stop for a split second and look up at him in surprise. You want to say something, anything to just tip him off like you usually do. But the words are failing you. Everything tonight… the way he’s dressed, the way he’s speaking, the way he’s looking at you… 

He just smiles. “Get in, doll.”

back || next

[superbassbuck]

Grade-A Pain in My Ass

Chapter 6: Barnes, Both Mine

masterlist

pairing: single dad!bucky x teacher!reader mentions: 18+, enemies to lovers, slow burn, sexual tension, banter, domestic fluff word count: 5.0k synopsis:

Bucky Barnes is a single dad who doesn’t do love. He’s got everything he needs: a steady job, cozy home, and his whole life wrapped up in one little girl, his daughter Rebecca. No complications, and absolutely no room for romance. After a rude and not-so-pleasant first encounter, he finds out you're the elementary school teacher of Rebecca's class. He would make it his mission to avoid you at all costs and to absolutely not fall in love with you. How could he? Especially since you're a grade-A pain in his ass.

You begin your lesson for the day, assigning your students another partner activity. This time, Elizabeth and Rebecca gravitated towards each other. Well, more like Elizabeth attached herself to Rebecca.

You try to suppress a laugh from behind your computer monitor as you watch their interaction. The task is reading comprehension, but Elizabeth is already cracking jokes, while Rebecca simply blinks at her, unimpressed. Then Rebecca says something dry and straightforward, and Elizabeth bursts into a fit of laughter, causing Rebecca to look at her like she’s lost her mind.

Every time this happens, Rebecca glances over at you with a bewildered expression, and you have to duck behind your screen to keep from laughing out loud.

You imagine the conversation between their dads earlier that morning probably went almost exactly the same way.

Lunch time rolled around, and as usual, you anticipated Rebecca would spend it with you. So when she lingered by your side after the rest of the kids bolted out to recess, you instinctively reached for her hand to guide her back into the classroom.

“I know your daddy usually packs you peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on Wednesdays, but I decided to bring one for you today since I know they’re your favorite.” You say, but you stop short when you realize she’s not moving. 

You turn, and you see Rebecca staring outside the door, her eyes following the kids running wild on the playground.

“I think I want to try playing today,” she says softly, gaze fixed on the other students.

You inhale sharply, your grip on her hand tightening protectively.

“Are you sure, Becks?” you ask quietly, crouching down to meet her eye-to-eye. “I made PB&J,” you add with a small and hopeful smile.

You should be thrilled for Rebecca wanting to take this big step. You’d encourage her to engage with her classmates during recess since day one. But something in your chest pulls tight. Instead of excitement, something else was building up in your chest. Hesitation? Fear? 

Because when she’s out there, you wouldn’t be able to keep an eye on her. 

Crap , you thought to yourself, shaking your head. What the hell was wrong with you? You had never felt this protective over a student before. 

Rebecca must’ve sensed your hesitation, because she squeezes your hand and gives you a soft smile. “I want to try.” 

And just like that, she let go.

You held your breath as you watched her take cautious steps onto the playground. She looked around nervously, clutching the ends of her dress while scanning the crowd for a familiar face. When her blue eyes landed on Elizabeth, a smile bloomed on her face, and she skipped toward her without hesitation.

You watch the two girls talk for a bit. Then, Elizabeth grabs her hand and leads her deeper into the playground. You finally exhale the breath you’ve been holding in. You wanted to stay and keep an eye on her, but you couldn’t. 

So, with a heavy heart, you turned away and retreated back to your classroom. 

Sitting alone at your desk, you unpacked your lunch. Alongside your own food was the sandwich you'd made just for Rebecca. It was hand cut into lopsided star shapes. It wasn’t nearly as perfect as the ones Bucky usually packs her with, but it was still made with care.

You just set that aside for now and ate your lunch. Maybe she’d have it later.

While you were eating, your mind kept circling back to Rebecca. Your gaze drifted to her empty desk as you chewed absentmindedly. Were the kids being kind to her? Was she getting along with the other students? You hoped they weren’t being too rough with her. Especially the rowdy boys. 

When Bucky picks her up later today, you’ll make sure to tell him all about how his little girl was brave enough to finally take that leap to play today. 

Bucky… 

Your face flushes at the thought of him. The night of Rebecca’s birthday party, the way he held your face so gently. His warm lips pressing against your head and telling you everything would be okay. 

You were used to the comforting hugs and the “it’s okay” from your friends, but you’ve never been held in a way that he held you. 

This morning was the first time you’ve seen him since, and it was cut short because of Ron and the bell. He didn’t even greet you, he just came in… glaring—more than usual. 

What was he even upset over? Was he mad at you? Did that kiss make things awkward for him? 

You shook your head and decided to finish your lunch in silence. You would just try talking to him later. 

Over at work, Bucky sat hunched in the breakroom of the mechanic shop during his lunch hour. He had his phone in hand, watching a YouTube tutorial on how to bake an apple pie.

“...next, whisk in one cup of sugar. Bring that to a boil, then reduce the heat…” 

The phone looked too small in his large hands as he squinted at the screen, grumbling under his breath. “Fucking Ron.” 

“...you’ll need six to seven apples. Once the apples are peeled and cored…” 

Of course Ron baked fucking apple pies. Of course he had that whole wholesome dad thing going on that Bucky didn’t have. And of course you had to be so sweet, so warm, that now every parent in the school wanted to impress you.

Bucky had a scowl on his face while he pondered about his one-sided detestation against him.

At least none of those other parents had seen the sharp, uptight version of you. The one with the smartass comebacks and quick tongue. That side felt like it was reserved just for him.

Or so he hoped.

God, he wasn’t even sure anymore. And now he was annoyed all over again.

Anyone walking past him right now would be smart to steer away. Here he was—a grouchy man sitting alone at a table, glaring at his phone while watching how to bake an apple pie on full volume. 

“...thinly slice them. Sprinkle the top with cinnamon…” 

And he wasn’t even paying attention. He huffed, tilted the phone upright, and exited out of the video. Enough of that. With a few quick taps, he pulled up Sam’s number and hit the call button.

It rang a couple of times before Sam picked up. “Yo—”

“You take your nephews to school events? Fundraisers and that kinda crap, right?” Bucky interrupts immediately. 

There was a pause. “Well, hello to you too, Buck.”

“Hi,” Bucky muttered, deadpan.

Sam just scoffs and mutters something under his breath that the phone doesn’t pick up. “I do. Sarah’s boys love that stuff. Why? What happened now?” 

“There’s one this weekend in my neighborhood,” Bucky said gruffly into the phone. “You should come and bring the kids.” 

On the other end, Sam pulled the phone away from his ear and stared at the screen with a confused look, as if this isn’t Bucky he’s talking to. “I’m sorry,” he said with a laugh. “Did you just invite me to a school event? Since when do you go to those?”

“Rebecca really wants to go.” 

“Uh-huh” Sam says, and Bucky can already hear the teasing hint in his voice. “Is that so?”

He feels like he’s going to regret giving Sam a call. 

“Because to me, it sounds like you’re the one that really wants to go,” Sam taunts. “And let me guess—it’s because of the teacher, huh? What’d you do this time? Spill another drink on her after Steve and I left the party?” 

Jesus Christ. 

“By the way, did you even apologize for that—” 

“Sam,” Bucky grits, rubbing his temple in annoyance. “Can you go or not?” 

Sam just snickers at the other end, and Bucky definitely regrets giving him a call now.

“Yeah, we’ll be there.” Sam finally says. 

“Good. I’ll text you the details.” Bucky replies. 

“Sounds cool.” 

Still on the line, Bucky opened his messages to shoot over the event information. “Also, do you know how to bake a—” 

Then Sam hangs up. Bucky stared at his phone in irritation before pocketing it.

Originally, he had no plans to show up at the fundraiser event. He told himself he was only going for Rebecca, and definitely not because he wanted to see you again. But after this morning, after seeing Ron chatting you up, Bucky wasn’t about to sit this one out. 

He was not going to let you, or even his daughter, be impressed by this guy’s apple pie knowing damn well he could make one better. 

Whether he knew how to or not. 

The school day had come to an end, and now you and Rebecca were settling into your usual routine: waiting for Bucky to arrive. 

Ron had stopped by earlier to pick up Elizabeth, and in typical Ron fashion, struck up a conversation on his way out. He mentioned how nice it was meeting Bucky and casually dropped that he’d be seeing him at the baking competition this weekend.

That part caught you off guard.

The way Ron spoke about Bucky was surprisingly positive. Had they actually gotten along? You weren’t expecting that .

You had a chair pulled up next to Rebecca’s desk. She was eating the peanut butter and jelly sandwich that you originally packed for her, feet swinging under the table, completely content.

“I didn’t know your daddy could bake pies, Becks,” you say with a smile as you watch her bite into the slightly squished sandwich. “He must be a really good baker, huh?” 

Rebecca paused mid-chew, brow raised. “He’s never baked a pie,” she replied through a full mouth.

You raise your eyebrows. “Wait—what? But he’s entering the baking competition?”

Rebecca put the sandwich down slowly, eyes wide. She was just as surprised about this as you were. 

“Really? He is?” Her face lit up with excitement. “That’s so cool! My daddy’s totally gonna win!”

You chuckle at Rebecca’s enthusiasm. She has no idea. 

The baking competition, along with the talent show, was the main attraction for these fundraiser events. Ron, being the father to many kids—some of which you’ve taught in the past—was a frequent contender. He had been a reigning champion for years. 

You figured Bucky didn’t know this, considering he’s never been to these types of school events. 

“Your daddy is pretty competitive, isn’t he?” you ask Rebecca with a grin.

She takes another bite and lets out a small “Mhm!” She chews for a moment and swallows. “I think he also wants to impress you.” She adds casually. 

You blink. What did she just say? 

“Impress me?” you repeated, trying to laugh it off, but it came out shaky. “Why would he want to do that?”

Rebecca looked at you like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Because he kissed you. Remember?”

Your heart jumps out of your chest. Rebecca saw her dad kissing you on the forehead? You begin to stammer, trying to deflect, but the words aren't coming out. Here you were—an adult, Rebecca’s teacher, stuttering like a little kid while she stares at you like you’re crazy. 

“H-he–well, he did, but–” 

“My daddy’s never kissed anyone before. Only me!” Rebecca cut in, her face lighting up with the biggest smile you’d ever seen. “That’s what grown-ups do. My daddy calls them couples, ” she added with a confident nod.

You stiffened in your seat, blinking at her in stunned silence. Where was she going with this?

“And since he kissed you… that makes you a couple,” she said, tapping a tiny finger to her chin, her little brain clearly hard at work. “And that makes you my mommy!” she declared with glee, suddenly launching herself into your arms.

“Becks!” you gasped as she nearly knocked you and your chair over, but your arms instinctively caught her in a hug. “You can’t just say stuff like that!” 

She leaned back with a confused pout. “Why not?”

You looked down and studied her face. 

This wasn’t the first time that a student called you their “mom”. Most of the time, it slips out on accident and they usually backtrack out of embarrassment. But the longer you’re looking at Rebecca, you’re realizing now that she means every word. She was a determined little cookie. You loved her for that, but you also knew she was never going to let this one go. 

She was so sure. So sure that her daddy kissing you meant you were now hers, too.

You shudder a bit. You just hoped that she wouldn’t say stuff like this around Bucky—especially after he told you how happy he was with just him and his little girl. Even though Rebecca was just a kid and doesn’t completely understand what she’s saying, you didn’t want to risk leaving the impression that you’re interfering with their lives. 

You had to remind yourself. You were just her teacher. 

“Becks, it means so much to me that you consider me your mom,” you say carefully, brushing a gentle hand down her back in reassurance. “But you shouldn’t call me that. I’m your teacher, sweetheart. Not your mommy.” 

Her shoulders droop and her frown deepens. Your heart squeezes again. She wasn’t yours, but you loved her like she was. And that made it all the harder to hear.

“I never had a mommy before,” Rebecca said quietly, her small fingers absentmindedly fiddling with the strings of your blouse. “But if I could pick one… I’d pick you.”

You froze, stunned, lips parted as you tried to process her words. Before you could respond, the door opened. 

Bucky stepped into the classroom. Rebecca wiggles away from you and bolted towards him, greeting him with her signature hugs. 

“Daddy, you’re later than usual!” She huffed, scrunching her face in annoyance. Though, it only made her look cuter.

Bucky chuckled, leaning down to kiss the top of her head. Your heart beats faster. 

“I know, sweetheart. I’m sorry. Work’s been kicking your daddy’s butt today,” he murmured, earning a giggle from her.

He stands up straight and he looks over at you. It was just the three of you in this quiet classroom. You could ask him about the kiss if you wanted to, but as you glance at Rebecca and remember her earlier statements, you feel like it wouldn’t be a good time. She’d start calling you her “mom” again, and you don’t know if you can handle being under Bucky’s gaze while she does. 

You cleared your throat, shifting focus. 

“Becks did really well today,” you said, clasping your hands together with a bright smile. “She went out to the playground for the first time.”

Bucky’s brows lifted in surprise as he looked down at his daughter. “Really? Is that true, baby girl?”

She nodded with a shy smile. “Yup!”

“That’s my brave girl,” he beamed, lifting her into his arms and spinning her around. She squealed with laughter. “I think someone just earned herself a donut trip.”

He turns, already preparing to walk out the classroom door. 

That’s it? He hardly greeted you this morning, and he’s barely spared you a glance now. You know you shouldn’t be expecting much from him in the first place, but for some reason, you still wanted him to stay. Just a bit longer. 

“Bucky—” you called out before you could stop yourself.

He turns to you.

“About Friday… I just wanted to say thank you—” 

“For kissing her!” Rebecca cut in cheerfully, giggling. “You gave Mommy a kiss on the head, like you do with me!”

Bucky snaps his head to his daughter while she is still scooped in his arms. He looks at her with a surprised expression, his brows furrowed but his eyes flaring. 

“What are you saying…” he mutters. He was quickly surprised that she knew about the kiss. “Why are you calling her that?”

Then, he looks over at you and shoots you an unreadable look.

Suddenly, you feel like you’re in trouble. Perfect. Thanks, Becks.

“Bucky,” you began gently, trying to manage the situation. “Sometimes kids don’t really understand what those words mean—”

“It’s Mr. Barnes,” he corrected you sharply. “Save the formalities for work.” 

And just like that, he turned and walked out, his daughter still in his arms.

This entire week has been stressful for the both of you. 

With the end of the first month of school approaching, you were buried in assessments. You were creating a metric guide for each student to share with their parents. It wasn’t exactly a report card, but it served the same purpose: giving families a snapshot of how their child was doing in class, both academically and behaviorally. 

It was time-consuming, detailed work that left little room to breathe.

Over at the mechanic shop, Bucky had his hands full too. Job after job rolled in, and the workload barely let up. He still managed to drop Rebecca off early each morning, but by the time he returned to pick her up, it was always later than usual.

And when he did come in, the silence was loud. He’d barely speak to you. No casual comments, no more of his usual banter remarks. Just a tight-lipped nod or a quick glance, then he was gone.

You didn’t need to ask why. It was obvious the moment stuck with him, Rebecca calling you her “mom.” It must have made things uncomfortable and too personal. You couldn’t be upset with either of them. Not Rebecca, for saying what she felt. Not Bucky, for pulling back.

Still, it stung a little.

But maybe this was for the best. Maybe keeping things professional was the right call after all.

Saturday finally arrived, bringing with it the long-awaited fundraiser event. 

The community square, just a few blocks from the school, was already buzzing with excitement. Parents, kids, and staff wandered around the venue, where rows of booths had been set up. One long table was dedicated entirely to freshly baked pies, while the main stage stood at the center, fully decorated for the auction and upcoming talent show.

You stood off to the side, sipping on a lemonade, casually people-watching… and maybe keeping an eye out for a certain little girl and her dad.

A steady hand gently touched your shoulder, pulling you from your thoughts.  You turn and you see Sam accompanying two little boys at his sides. 

“Sam!” you greeted cheerfully, giving him a quick hug. “It’s so good to see you! I didn’t know you came to these events.”

Sam chuckled and pulled the two boys closer to him. “Yeah, well, the boys love ‘em.” 

You crouched down to meet their eye level, smiling warmly. “Hey there, you two. I hope you’re excited for all the fun today.” 

They were adorable. Bright-eyed, with wide smiles that have a hint of mischief. They definitely had Sam’s grin.

“They’re my nephews,” Sam said proudly. Then he struck a dramatic pose like The Thinker. “Got their looks from their very handsome uncle.”

You laughed and shook your head. Despite the bad first impression you made at the bar, Sam had always kept things light between you two. You appreciated that about him. He was easy to like.

“Definitely,” you grinned. Then your eyes scanned the crowd. “Any idea if Bucky’s actually going to show?”

Sam shrugs. “I hope so. He told me—”

Before he could finish, the familiar squeal of a little girl pierced through the air. “Uncle Sam!” 

Rebecca came barreling toward him, arms flung open. Sam knelt down, catching her in a warm hug. “Hey there, Captain Becks!”

She quickly wriggled free and turned to you, launching herself into another hug. Her greetings were always full-force, and you staggered a little as you caught her. 

“Hi there, sweetheart,” you laughed, holding her close.

You glanced up to see where she came from and spotted Bucky. He was standing a short distance away, looking like he’d just rolled out of bed… and without a pie in hand.

The truth was, Bucky’s mind had been a mess lately. Pulled in too many directions at once. Work had been nonstop, fatherhood was its own full-time job, and on top of it all… there was you. 

Ever since Rebecca started calling you “mom,” he’d been fighting a quiet war with himself. He’d tried to correct her gently, tried to explain that you weren’t her mother, that it wasn’t appropriate. But Rebecca, stubborn as ever, kept crossing that invisible line he was so desperate to draw.

And now, as if things couldn’t get worse, he’d forgotten the one thing he actually meant to do: show up with a damn pie.

The whole reason he agreed to this fundraiser was to prove something. To Rebecca, to the other parents… and yeah, to you. He wanted to show you that he could be the wholesome guy who bakes apple pies and shows up with a smile. But here he was: sleep-deprived, empty-handed, and already feeling defeated. And of course, you noticed. Your eyebrows were knitted together the moment you spotted him.

“Sam,” he cocks a finger, his voice low. “A word.” 

Sam looked confused but followed without question, flashing you a quick glance. You just shrugged, now standing there surrounded by three kids—Rebecca at your side, and his nephews hovering around you like little ducklings.

Bucky pulled Sam a few paces away, gripping his arm. “I didn’t bring the pie,” he hissed.

“Yeah,” Sam says, looking down at Bucky’s empty hands and then back at his face. “I clearly see that. I thought this was your master plan? To show up and show out. You had a whole week to prepare, man!” 

Bucky clenches his jaw. “I know .” 

He wasn’t even hiding it anymore. Sam knew him too well. The pie was never really about the event. It was about you. About showing you that he could be the soft, domestic, reliable kind of dad. The kind you might even take seriously. And now he had nothing to show for it.

Sam exhaled and patted his friend on the shoulder. “Alright. New plan. I’m signing you and Becks up for the talent show. Give the people that superhero act you two always do.”

“Wait—” Bucky started, but Sam was already halfway to the sign-up table.

He let out a sigh and turned to you. You stood there, staring at him with a concerned look while you held Rebecca’s tiny hand, and both of Sam’s nephews lingered around you like a trusted guardian. 

Looking every bit the mom part. 

He shook his head, realizing he’s been staring far too long. 

What the hell was wrong with him?

You’d spent most of the day weaving through the event with Bucky, Rebecca, Sam, and his two nephews. It was a wholesome family-friendly event. You even bought the kids lemonade, instantly winning the boys over.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” a voice boomed over the loudspeakers, pulling everyone’s attention to the main stage. “We’re about to begin the auction portion of today’s fundraiser! All proceeds will go to a great cause, so don’t hold back—bid high!”

The crowd thickened as people made their way to the center of the square. 

Bucky didn’t even know there was an auction happening. It was probably on the flyer somewhere that he quickly skimmed over before shoving it in his pocket.

“What do they even auction at these things?” he asked, sounding genuinely curious.

“Vintage pieces. Old decor. A lot of these parents have lots of hobbies, like crochet. So they auction off some of their work,” you shrug. “Sometimes they offer services.” 

Bucky’s brows rose. “Services? What kind of services?”

You gave him a sharp look, already catching the smirk tugging at his mouth. 

“Get your mind out of the gutter, Mr. Barnes,” you said dryly. “It’s nothing weird. Some people offer things like custom cakes, tutoring, even piano lessons. Just stuff they’re good at.”

Bucky just chuckles under his breath but says nothing more. 

A few contenders go up. It was going just as you expected. Vintage chairs, handcrafted quilts, and plenty of homemade goods. A parent you recognized offered math tutoring, and the crowd got excited, the bidding quickly climbing. You smiled, your heart warmed by how invested everyone was in the fundraiser.

Then, the woman on stage checked her clipboard. “Up next…” she paused, squinting at the paper. “Bucky Barnes!”

A round of surprised applause broke out. Heads turned, many landing squarely on your little group. People craning to see if it was that Bucky Barnes—the local mechanic most people only saw when their cars broke down. Even more surprising than his name being called… was the fact that he even showed up at all.

Bucky stiffened beside you, frozen in place with an expression that screamed what the hell .

Sam swore under his breath. “Shit,” he muttered, leaning toward Bucky. “Okay…okay, I might’ve put your name down on the wrong sheet—”

“Bucky Barnes?” the announcer repeated, scanning the crowd. “Come on up!”

Bucky slowly turned his head to Sam, shooting him a glare so sharp and cold it could slice through steel. It was the kind of look that promised vengeance in the near, very near future.

Sam threw up his hands in surrender. “Hey, honest mistake!”

With the pressure of dozens of eyes on him, and Rebecca bouncing excitedly next to you, completely unaware of the chaos, Bucky finally gave in. He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets, muttered something under his breath, and trudged through the crowd toward the stage like a man heading to the gallows.

The applause swelled, loud and enthusiastic. And not just from anyone. You noticed a lot of women clapping a little too eagerly. 

Instinctively, you tightened your grip on Rebecca’s hand.

“Mr. Barnes!” the announcer says, grabbing him by the shoulder and tugging him towards the center of the stage. Bucky looked like he just wanted the earth to swallow him up and eat him alive. 

“I see you’re empty-handed,” she teased, giving him an appraising look. “So, tell us… what are you auctioning off today?” She shoved the mic toward his face.

“I—uh,” he stammers, and his eyes meet yours in the crowd. You genuinely felt bad.

You knew the announcer. She was the well-loved music teacher at your school. She held several talent shows and choirs, and she’s good with the crowd. Bucky was in good hands. If anyone could take this awkward moment and steer it into something manageable, it was her.

“Well, Mr. Barnes,” she continued, voice playful. “We’ve seen you around the school, but not often at events like these. Isn’t that right, everyone?”

The crowd cheers. She continues. 

“And of course,” she continued with a knowing smile, “you’re the proud father of Rebecca Barnes, one of the sweetest kids in our school.”

Laughter and applause followed. A few people turned to look in your direction. You stood still, Rebecca’s small hand wrapped in yours. She shrank in closer under the weight of their curious stares. She was getting shy under the attention.

“And, well… we also know, especially the ladies in the crowd, that Mr. Barnes here is a single man.”

That one got a reaction. A wave of teasing ooohs echoed through the audience. A few women even whistled. You felt your jaw tighten.

You don’t like where this is going. 

“So what do you say, folks?” she grinned, holding the mic high. “A date with Mr. Barnes! Strong, silent, single… and a girl dad to boot. It doesn’t get more charming than that!”

Bucky’s eyes go wide. His head snapped to her in disbelief. “What are you—”

“One hundred dollars!” a voice rang out from the crowd.

Your stomach dipped.

“Two hundred!” came another voice.

Rebecca looks at you confused as she tugged your sleeve. “What’s going on?” she asks in a soft little voice that makes your heart ache. 

You bent down, offering her a gentle smile. “It’s just part of the fundraiser, sweetheart. Don’t worry.”

“Two fifty!” 

She frowned, her brows knitting together as she looked around at the women tossing out bids. “I don’t like it,” she murmured, curling closer into your side.

“Three hundred!” 

You looked up at the stage. Bucky was standing there, clearly flustered, clearly uncomfortable, and yet unable to escape. You recognized some of the women bidding, single moms from your classroom, now gazing at him like he was the last glass of water in the desert.

You shut your eyes. No. You had no right to feel this way. He was a single man, free to go on whatever date he wanted. And you were just Rebecca’s teacher.

“Four hundred!” 

Your stomach twisted. You knew some of the women bidding. You worked with them. You had sat in staff meetings with them.

“Four fifty!” 

This will be over soon. You just needed to push out the very dreadful idea of another woman going on a date with Bucky. 

Then Rebecca’s little voice echoed in your memory. “I think he also wants to impress you.”

And another woman possibly getting closer to Rebecca.

“Four eighty!” another woman in the crowd shouts out.

You squeezed Rebecca’s hand tighter. “My daddy’s never kissed anyone before. Only me!”

“Five hundred!” 

Realization dawns on you. He’s only ever kissed you. 

“Six hundred!” a woman calls out.

The announcer beams into the mic excitedly. “Six hundred dollars! Going once…” 

“I never had a mommy before, but if I could pick one… I’d pick you.”

“Going twice…” 

Rebecca wanted you. You were her teacher. You couldn’t… This was… inappropriate. But then you remembered the way he held you in his gentle hands, in his living room. The soft kiss he pressed against your head... “Everything will be okay, doll .”

Your hand shot up. “One thousand dollars.” 

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