wife of too many

just a 20 year old fangirl, trying to survive life🕷️ peter parker obsession is back after bnd 😮‍💨 (and obv other marvel character and other fandoms)

[scarletmika]

Kiss Me Again : ̗̀➛ Robert "Bob" Reynolds x Reader

Pairing: Robert "Bob" Reynolds/Sentry x Goddess!Reader

Summary: A crush isn't a problem, and when that crush becomes love, it's usually a good thing. For Bob, it terrifies him, because he'd managed to fall in love with a literal Goddess. Why would a Goddess choose a broken man like him?

Warnings: SO much fluff, shy Bob (I would be too), pining, age gap (inevitable when one of them is a literal Goddess), probably some very incorrect Norse Mythology but it's fanfiction people, SPOILERS kinda for Thunderbolts*, female reader description

Word Count: 4,727 words

Requests are open! : ̗̀➛ Find my masterlist here A/N: this was an anon request and the second I read it I said "I must write this right now" and then I ran with it

PART TWO Kiss Me Forever : ̗̀➛ Robert "Bob" Reynolds x Reader

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧

“So, Winter Soldier…when you say ‘otherworldly visitor’ do you actually mean ‘otherworldly’ or is she just very…you know…beautiful in that entrancing sort of-”

“Oh my god, Alexei, when he says ‘otherworldly,’ he does mean ‘otherworldly,’ why is that so hard to understand?”

Bob was nothing short of confused throughout the entire conversation playing out before them. Bucky had called a meeting of the entire group, stating an ‘emergency,’ and gathered them all in the meeting room that Valentina had designed for staging before missions. It wasn’t a room that Bob was in often, still yet to have gone on a mission with the team as he worked to find a way to use his powers without losing control of himself, but even being in there for less than 5 minutes, he could tell why his friends hated it so much.

The A/C in the conference room was terrible, and as someone who ran hot naturally because of the ‘medical trial,’ it wasn’t doing Bob any favors in the summer heat of New York City. The table was entirely too large for the small team, judging by the way that Bucky had to practically shout down the table to where Alexei sat at the head of it, claiming it was the best seat and the most important. All in all, Bob hated it, though there was a lot about the newly renovated tower that everyone hated, given it had all been Valentina’s design work.

“Look, can we forget about the ‘otherwordly’ comment for two seconds? If either of you says it again, I may just carve out my own eardrums,” Yelena made a show of holding her freshly sharpened knife to her ear, giving Ava and her father a blank look, before turning her attention back to Bucky. “Wherever she may or may not be from…why exactly have you invited some woman to the tower?”

“To train him,”

Bob’s head shot up when it got quiet in the room, realizing that Bucky’s finger was jabbed in his direction, and all eyes were on him. His own eyes went wide, and he himself thought they might fall out of his head, as he pointed at himself.

“T-train…me?”

“You said you were ready to begin learning to fight, that you had a pretty good grasp on the…other sides of you,” Bucky explained as Bob shifted uncomfortably at even the mention of the other parts of him he wished to keep locked away. “There are three super soldiers in this room, and we all got our asses handed to us by you months ago in this very tower. Trust me, if anyone can train you and keep up, it’s her.”

The team gave one another skeptical glances, turning to Bob who looked just as confused. Yelena hung her head, rubbing at the sockets of her eyes with the palms of her hands as she turned back to Bucky.

“And who in the hell could possibly be strong enough for that?”

“...the Goddess of Strategy-”

“EXCUSE ME?”

The room erupted into absolute chaos as Bucky uttered those three simple words, hanging his head with a groan that resounded through the room as the team yelled over one another, their words impossible to decipher.

Bob, on the other hand, was frozen. He’d kept himself entertained in the attic of his childhood home with many, many books on Norse Mythology stolen from the local library. He’d grown up reading the myths of Thor, Loki, and the likes, only to learn years later that those gods were, in fact, real.

Yeah, Bob knew exactly who you were. He couldn’t decide if the flush quickly crawling across his skin was due to the yelling in the room or because he’d harbored a crush on you, his favorite Avenger, since he was a literal child.

“If you think Valentina will allow this-”

“When have I ever cared what Val thinks-”

“Are we glossing over the Goddess aspect of this-?”

“Please, she could probably break little Bobby in half with a look-”

“FRIENDS, MY WONDERFUL TEAM, LOWER YOUR VOICES!” it was a very contradictory statement for Alexei to be shouting, standing on top of the rolling chair at the conference table, which the entire team was shocked wasn’t buckling under the pressure. It did the trick, though, the ceaseless arguing and shouting coming to an end as everyone looked to the older man expectantly. “I trust the Winter Soldier’s judgement, but this old Russian only has one question…who is this Goddess?”

These days, Yelena seemed to always be groaning around her father and anything he said, and this was no different. She muttered something in Russian under her breath, which most of the team by now had come to learn meant something along the lines of “shut him up before I do.” Bucky attempted to do just that.

“She’s-”

“Thor and Loki’s sister, daughter of Frigga and Odin. Goddess of Strategy, has a sword formed at Nidavellir that she’s- she’s kind of deadly with, but it’s really cool because it can summon the Bifrost. She was uh, trained in sorcery by Frigga, was an Avenger…” Bob hadn’t even realized that he’d gone on a tangent, interrupting Bucky and info-dumping everything he could about the myth that was you before his brain could stop him. He could see Yelena’s smile quirk up into a smirk as that red flush he’d already had deepened as he realized what he’d just done. “I just uh, I-I think I must’ve- I read that somewhere…once…a long time ago. A really-really long time ago.”

There was quiet in the room for a moment before Walker laughed, slamming his hand down on the table as he gestured between Bucky and Bob.

“Nice one, Barnes! Seems the student has a big ‘ole crush on the teacher you found for him!”

If the blush on his cheeks could get worse, it did. Bob avoided making eye contact with anyone at the table, gaze entirely focused on his hands as he wrung them together in his lap.

“Alright, lay off. Fact of the matter is, Bob needs a teacher that’s not easily breakable, and she’s the best of the best,” Bucky side-eyed Bob for a second, catching his eyes for just a brief moment. “I sent a message to New Asgard, they got it to her, and she said she’d do it. So bury your crushes, get your teasing out now, because she’s arriving tomorrow and I’d like if we could act like the Avengers and not the Avengerz for once. This woman did save the world…multiple times.”

Bob tried to do just that, he really did. There was endless teasing from John the rest of the day, and while Ava and Yelena didn’t directly contribute, they didn’t try to stop John’s comments either. Bob did his best to ignore them and brush them off, too busy giving himself a pep talk all day that he could do this. It was a harmless crush on a literal Goddess he’d had for years; it was nothing. He was an Avenger now, he could do this.

His pep talk had been great the night before. But it couldn’t prepare him for the moment you actually arrived at the tower in a stream of color.

The Bifrost was a sight in itself, but seeing it before your own eyes, as Ava muttered under her breath, was like its own separate wonder of the world.

The stream of colors dissipated before their eyes, leaving that same etched pattern it always did into the helicopter landing pad of the Tower they now called home. A conversation that it was decided Bucky would get to have with Valentina. When the colors were gone, you were left standing in the Bifrost’s place.

Bob hadn’t prepared himself for what it would be like to see you in person. Somehow, you were prettier than he even thought was possible.

The Asgardian armor you’d donned for years was still shiny, the light of the sun reflecting off of it. It was almost an exact copy of Thor’s own armor, though entirely blue and gold, billowing blue cape hanging from your shoulders, flowing in the wind of the city. Bob could see Styrkr, your sword, sheathed across your back, glinting in the sun as you stalked toward the group, a smirk that Bob thought could rival the sun itself on your lips.

You were beautiful. Gorgeous. Ethereal. There was no shortage of words that Bob could use to describe you in that moment as you stopped in front of Bucky.

“Well, Barnes…you look better than you did years ago, that’s for sure,”

Even your voice had the flutter in Bob’s stomach threatening to eat him alive from the inside out.

Bucky laughed, quickly pulling you into a hug that you eagerly reciprocated.

“I’d make a comment about how you haven’t aged a day, but I don’t think I need to point out the obvious,”

“Isn’t the longevity of Asgardians so fun?” you both shared another laugh, Bucky’s arm thrown over your shoulders as he seemed to give you an affectionate squeeze, a history of fighting and the semblance of a friendship clear between the pair of you. Your gaze drifted over the team beside him. “So…this is the New Avengers, huh? Still weird that you’re living in the tower I once called home.”

Bucky was quick to introduce the team to you. Yelena and Ava were nothing but respectful, while John still seemed to carry that ‘entitled arrogance’ as Ava typically called it in his greeting to you. Alexei had the entire team wishing that he just…knew how to be normal, for once. Loud, boisterous, but it brought a smile to your face nonetheless.

“I’ve got to say, you remind me a bit of Volstagg and Fandral if we mixed them into one person. I think you would’ve gotten along well with them,” the comment seemed to make Alexei surge with pride, even as he leaned over to his daughter and asked loudly ‘who the hell were those people.’ It was when your gaze finally made it to Bob that he felt his heart was going to stop. “So…that means you must be my indestructible, ‘power of a thousand exploding suns’ student.”

All eyes were on Bob in that moment, and he was struggling…hard. He tried to speak, to remind himself of his pep talk from last night and to portray confidence, but he was a stumbling mess of words.

“I uh, I’m-I’m Bob. That’s uh, that’s me…exploding suns and s-stuff. I’m the n-new student…yay. And I-I know who you are…b-big Norse Mythology fan…”

Bob could hear the snickers of his teammates, not entirely subtle about them, and could see the grimace on Bucky’s face. But not you.

Your smirk had softened into the sweetest smile. Your head had cocked to the side, eyes almost the tiniest bit brighter as they trailed his form up and down, and Bob could feel the sweat forming as he tugged at the collar of his sweatshirt, knowing you seemed to be assessing him.

“Bucky…you failed to warn me how cute my student was,” Bob’s breath had caught in his throat as you sent him a wink. “You know what they say…it’s always the quiet ones.”

You were going to be the death of him, Bob had decided in that moment.

You requested to spend that first day alone with Bob in the training room of the tower, gauging his comfort level in any form of fighting in the slightest. The team respected that, but that didn’t mean they hadn’t all found reasons to take turns walking past the training facilities in hopes of eavesdropping on conversations and catching glimpses of this training that they all thought was going to end terribly.

Bob’s eyes were locked on you as you removed the heavy armor plating you wore, laying it out on one of the benches until you were left in the form-fitting undershirt and pants that sat below your armor. Yeah, this was going to be absolute torture for him.

“Do you want to see it?”

Shaking himself out of the stupor that Bob seemed to put himself in, his eyes went wide as they focused back on your face. He was confused until he glanced at your hands, seeing that you were holding your sword, Strykr, out toward him.

“O-Oh! Oh uh, I don’t know-”

“She doesn’t bite,” you joked with a slight laugh, taking a step toward him and holding it out. “You said you liked Norse Mythology, so I figured you’d want to take a look at it before we get started.”

You were right, but Bob didn’t need to say that. With a shaky hand, he reached out and took the sword in his own hands, and he could almost feel the power flow through him just from holding it. 

It was heavy, but not too heavy, a strange lightweightedness to it while still feeling like it took godly strength to swing. He realized, holding it up close, that the sun glinting off of it wasn’t what he’d seen earlier on the helicopter pad. The sword itself had a faint glow to it, almost pulsing, a power he could only assume came from the fact that it was forged in the heart of a dying star.

“It’s beautiful…” Bob managed to say without stuttering through it, probably because he hadn’t taken his eyes off the sword as he adjusted his grip on the hilt. “It ’s-it’s almost like-”

He hadn’t realized how fast he’d swung it, unused to the lightweight feel of the sword that was, most definitely, heavier than it looked. Your hand caught the blade easily, not even flinching, as it swung toward you, simply eyeing him with a curious look and a genuine smile.

“Well…never seen that before,”

“I-I’m sorry!” Bob dropped the hilt immediately, sure his cheeks were going to be permanently flushed red after spending time with you. You’d only let out a light laugh, catching the hilt easily, swinging it quickly in your hand before placing it down next to your armor. “I didn’t mean to! It’s just so…it’s so l-light.”

“It’s actually not. For most normal people, even for super soldiers like Bucky, it’s quite heavy,” you replied with a smirk as you rose back up to your feet. “Guess that’s a better explanation for your strength level than the bullshit ‘power of a thousand exploding suns’ shit Valentina came up with.”

Bob laughed lightly, wringing his hands together as his eyes followed you. Taking your place across the sparring mat from him, ten feet between you both, you stood ready for a sparring session. Bob…he stood as if he was in fight or flight mode.

“So…uh, how d-do we do this?”

“Depends. Bucky says when it comes to training you…don’t have much,” Bob nodded at your comment, watching as you tilted your head curiously. “You want to take it slow, or you want me to throw you in the deep end?”

“Uh…w-what’s the deep end entail?”

Bob had barely finished his sentence when your hands flicked, tendrils of navy blue magic wrapping around his waist and tugging him across the mat in your direction. A gasp left Bob involuntarily at the motion as the magic dissipated, leaving him barely on his feet in front of you. A single swipe of your leg had him plummeting to the ground on his back, landing with an ‘oof’ as your foot came to rest on his chest, barely pressing him into the mat.

“Y-you…” Bob was speechless, staring wide-eyed up at you as you simply smirked down at him. “T-that’s cheating!”

“No, that’s called the deep end,” you laughed wholeheartedly, reaching down to take his hand and tug him back to his feet, and he knew you didn’t miss that now signature red flush on his cheeks. “And that is why we’re going to start slow.”

“...why’d y-you even offer the deep end, then?”

“Girl’s gotta have some fun from time to time. Come on, let’s start with basic stances,”

Those training sessions started as once a week, before quickly evolving into twice a week, and before the team knew it, you essentially lived in that tower once again, there all day, every day. None of them minded, loving the stories you’d tell them over dinners of your adventures with your brothers when you were young, of the pranks that Loki enjoyed playing on Thor but never played on you, and even stories of everything that had once happened in the very tower the team now called their home. The more you were around, though, the more the rest of the team managed to find a way to tease him relentlessly when you weren’t in the room over his ‘obvious’ little crush.

Those moments of domesticity around you were what Bob loved the most, especially when it somehow managed to just be the two of you.

For weeks, even when you began to visit more and more often, the pair of you sparred together for hours, and that was the end of it. Bob, though, remembered the day it changed like it was yesterday. He wasn’t sure he’d ever forget it. The rest of the team had been sent out on a mission by Valentina, but you’d still promised you’d have your usual training session that day, even without them lurking around.

You’d thrown a punch that Bob managed to quickly dodge, even if he stumbled slightly on his feet afterward. Thinking of everything you’d been teaching him, Bob managed to steady himself, lock his feet into position, and throw a punch back at your ribcage. It connected, even though you hadn’t even flinched. You’d spun away from him, circling him with a smile on your face.

“Good! Next time, though, actually hit me,” Bob’s eyes widened, realizing what you were saying. You’d been trying to get him comfortable with his own super strength for weeks now, and that was the one thing he was still struggling with. “You have it, so use it. Don’t let it use you. Focus on it, channel it, and use it. You can do this, Bob. Don’t think, just do.”

Bob closed his eyes for a moment, thinking back on everything you’d been teaching him. Being the Sentry meant potentially letting that dark side of him overtake him, so he’d blocked off the Sentry. He’d blocked out his own powers, but he couldn’t. He had to accept that the Sentry and the Void were parts of him, and he didn’t need to be them in order to channel their strengths. He just had to be Bob, and when you were the one teaching him that, he seemed to understand it.

You charged forward, and he could see the magic encasing your fist as you threw a punch. Bob managed to duck, switching places with you. Your smirk quirked up as your leg came flying up at super speed. With a deep breath, Bob’s hand managed to catch it, not missing the way your eyebrows shot up. He threw your leg back to the ground, taking in a sharp breath as he thought about everything you’d taught him, and threw a punch toward your ribs, this time channeling the power surging through his veins that he tried so hard to block out in fear of losing control.

A gasp left your lips the second his fist connected, your body dropping to the ground as you fell on your knees, hand immediately holding onto your side. Any confidence surging through Bob in that moment dissipated in a second, and panic overtook him.

“O-Oh my god! I’m s-so sorry. I shouldn’t have- I shouldn’t have done that, I-I didn’t mean to hurt you-”

You laughed, and that laugh was enough to stop Bob’s incessant rambling of apologies. His gaze met yours as you looked up at him, and there wasn’t a trace of malice in it. There was pride, and something else buried beneath it that had the constant fluttering of his heart beating erratically once again.

“That, Bob, was perfect. Now…you want to get dinner together?”

From that day on, many of those days in the tower didn’t even consist of training. 

You’d introduced Bob to the shawarma restaurant in downtown Tony had dragged you all to all those years ago, watching as Bob fell in love with the food. That became a typical Thursday outing for you both for lunch. In that time, simple walks around Central Park became more common than not. Bob enjoyed the peacefulness of the park, the contrast it had to the bustling city around it, and he found tranquility in walking through it. He didn’t leave the tower much, terrified of losing control, but when you were with him, he felt like he could do anything.

Moments in the tower with you were still his favorite. He could listen to you for hours on end, and he had, as you walked with him through the tower and told him stories upon stories from your years spent here with the people you’d called family for so long. There was a story for almost every room. And eventually, when those days turned into you crashing in one of the spare bedrooms Valentina had set up in the tower for the night, you’d both found yourself watching movies in the common room until the early hours of the morning before Bob’s insomnia would let him sleep, even if the others weren’t joining you.

The team had noticed. It was hard not to. The Bob they’d known, the one who often shied away from long conversations with them but could still throw out a snarky remark, had grown more comfortable. He’d left his shell, but only around you.

“Did you anticipate this?” Yelena questioned Bucky one day, who was comfortably sitting at the island counter of the tower’s kitchen. He’d followed her gaze to the common room, seeing you laughing on the couch at something Bob had said while yet another movie droned on in the background.

“To this extent? No,” Bucky shook his head, before glancing back at Yelena with a smug smirk. “But I hoped it might go this route. I’m taking credit for it.”

Yelena found herself watching you both again, and Bucky followed her gaze.

“Do you think she likes him…like that?”

The super soldier pondered it for a moment, but there was no mistaking it. Not with the way you smiled at Bob, no matter what he was saying, that glint in your eyes. He knew you well enough to know it was written clearly across your face.

“Yeah…she’s not very subtle. Then again, if you’ve met her brother, neither is he. She looks at him like Steve looked at Peggy, and that’s all I have to know,”

Bob was in deep, and he knew it. That crush he’d harbored was long gone.

He was in love, and god was it terrifying. To fall in love in general was a scary thing. Bob had lost enough in life; falling in love just meant there was another thing in his life he could lose. It complicates everything more when he’d gone and managed to fall in love with a literal Goddess.

It had been months of training, but something in the air this time was different. Bob couldn’t focus, couldn’t pull his eyes from you, and you seemed to know it. Every time you turned away, his eyes locked on you, but you always managed to glance back and catch him with a small smile.

His head felt fuzzy, that flutter still in his heart when he looked at you, and paired with that weightless feeling in his stomach, he knew being around you would never be easy again from this day forth. He was so mesmerized by the simple idea and sight of you he almost didn’t see your smirk as you entered fighting position, ready to spar again.

You were on him in seconds, this time with a knife in your hands. Both of you knew it couldn’t hurt him, but he also knew even if it could, you never would hurt him with it.

Bob sidestepped, but his mind was blank, the simple scent of your perfume sending him over the edge as he lost his entire train of thought. You’d taken advantage of the opportunity, knocking him down to his back on the ground.

What he hadn’t expected was for you to staddle him, knife pointed directly at his neck as you smirked down at him and the wonder written across his face.

“I win…”

Bob’s breath was caught in his throat, he didn’t know what to do. But you seemed to have him exactly where you wanted him. Your smirk shifted, a soft smile replacing it, as your hand rested gently on his chest, over the undershirt he wore to these sparring sessions. He knew you could finally feel the erratic beating of his heart reserved just for you.

“I’ve been teaching you for months now to fight. To be confident,” your voice came out in a whisper, and there was nothing for adoration laced through it. “I’ve spent enough time with you, Bob, I know you. So be confident…and tell me the truth about your racing heart.”

Maybe it was the way you always had a way of calming him, or maybe it was the training you’d been giving him for months, but something clicked in Bob. He sat up, leaning back on his hands until he was completely sitting straight up on the sparring mat, you still perched in his lap. A tentative hand came up to your waist, lying on it, and squeezing it gently. Your hands followed suit, running up his arms until they rested around his neck.

“You…” Bob tried to find the words, but his nerves were clear in his voice. “Y-you make me nervous.”

You hummed, hands finding the hair that curled at the nape of his neck.

“In a good way, or a bad way?”

“G-Good way,” he’d managed to get out, leaning is head back into your touch. “Good but…but scary.”

“Why?”

“B-because loving you means…I c-could lose you,” once the words started flowing out of him, they couldn’t stop. He’d held it inside for weeks now, and the weight on his shoulders was finally lifting off him with everything he said. “And I’ve lost enough. I…I don’t want to think a-about losing you, about you…not feeling the same way.”

You cocked your head at that, one hand trailing to his jaw as you caressed it beneath your fingers.

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“B-because why would a Goddess…want a broken man like me?”

He could see it clearly, the sadness that seemed to flood your gaze at his words. You opened your mouth as if to speak again, before shutting it in a moment of contemplation.

Then, you’d surged forward and kissed him.

Bob’s heart could barely be contained in his ribcage the second your lips met his, and he pressed back with a surge of confidence that only you could give him. But it was a kiss that held so much more in it than what someone on the outside might see.

Your magic was woven into the kiss, into the feeling of your lips against his, and he could feel it. He could feel your emotions, your memories, flashing before him in every move of your lips against his. From the moment you’d stepped out of the Bifrost and looked at him, he could feel the twin flutter he’d had that had moved through you. The affection, the adoration, the love that poured off of you in every moment, from Central Park to movies on the common room couch.

Feelings that he believed could never be reciprocated, not for a man like him. Your magic-infused kiss told him the entire story of how you fell for him, just like he fell for you. There was no denying it.

Your lips parted from his, but they didn’t stray far. The space that hung between them was non-existent, and your lips brushed over his faintly with every word you spoke to him in a hush.

“Do you believe me now?”

“I…I don’t know. Y-you…you might need to kiss me again.”

[myladybelle]

my heart went oops!

pairing: bucky barnes x fem!reader summary: you think you’re friends who occasionally kiss, but bucky thinks the two of you have been exclusively dating for a while now. it only takes one post-mission debrief for the whole team to realise someone’s missed a memo. tags: one of you thinks you’re just friends the other thinks you’re dating trope, avenger!reader, friends to lovers, alpine thinks you’re her other parent, everyone is alive and happy because i say so warning(s): reader wears jeans and a t-shirt, reader wears workout leggings, suggestive content word count: 5.1k note: i’m working on a personal challenge to write some shorter/medium length fics for the people who don’t always want to read 9k slow burns, so please let me know if you enjoyed this!!

masterlist

You’d lost count of how many times you and Bucky had ended up like this. Not that you were keeping score. If you were, it would be a very respectable number. Top-ten life decisions, easily.

The couch in his room creaked softly as you shifted higher onto his lap, knees bracketing his hips, the hem of your T-shirt tugging a little higher with every slow drag of movement. His hands, one warm and one pleasantly cool, rested at the small of your back, thumbs rubbing lazy circles through the cotton.

You kissed him again, deep enough that it made your stomach jolt like that weightlessness you feel at the top of a rollercoaster. You felt the familiar brush of his stubble against your jaw.

This was exactly what it looked like. Exactly as uncomplicated as it sounded. 

Friends who kissed. Friends who sometimes stayed a little too long in the doorway after a movie night, who sometimes let a conversation dissolve into mouths pressed together until the occasional little sound escaped when Bucky did something particularly good with his tongue.

And why not? Kissing was fun, and fun was the whole point.

Bucky hummed low in his chest. You smiled against his mouth, tilting your head to steal another kiss, slow and deliberate. He tasted faintly of the coffee you’d shared earlier. When his hands slipped under your shirt, flesh and metal fingertips trailing across bare skin, you couldn’t help the moan that escaped you.

You liked kissing Bucky, Bucky liked kissing you, and the world hadn’t ended yet.

Friends, you reminded yourself as he nipped lightly at your lower lip, sending a spark down your spine. Good friends, even. Friends with extraordinary kissing chemistry. It was the kind of arrangement that let you enjoy all the perks without any of the drama; basically, hitting the jackpot.

Bucky’s metal hand shifted to the back of your thigh, cool through the denim of your jeans. The delicious contrast made you shiver and laugh simultaneously. He pulled back just enough to watch you catch your breath, blue eyes bright and a little smug.

“Cold?” he asked, voice rough with amusement. “Or is that just the effect I have on you?”

You grinned, brushing your nose against his. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

Bucky’s smile was small but certain, like he already knew exactly how to make you sigh again, before he leaned in for another kiss.

It all started months ago, back when Bucky officially joined the Avengers.

Not the awkward probationary period when everyone still half-expected him to vanish into the night with a duffel bag and a handgun. This was after he’d settled in, started cracking jokes with Sam, and started trusting people enough to stay for movie nights instead of just lurking in the hallway like a cryptid with perfect hair.

Somewhere in all of that, you and Bucky had landed in the “pretty good friends” category. The kind of friends who could spend an afternoon sparring in the gym and still grab take-out after, sweaty and laughing. The kind who could sit on the roof and trade sarcastic commentary about Tony’s latest gadget, or drop down into a serious conversation about nightmares and past mistakes without it getting weird.

And, apparently, the kind of friends who made out. A lot.

It wasn’t complicated. Sometimes, missions were rough, and adrenaline was high, and you both needed a way to blow off steam. Sometimes a late-night movie ended with you leaning a little too close. Sometimes—like tonight—you just happened to find yourselves kissing because it felt good and you both wanted to, and that was reason enough.

No strategy, no hidden agenda. Just two adults enjoying themselves in a world that rarely handed out simple pleasures.

You were good friends who kissed when the mood struck them. That was it. No strings, no labels, no looming “what are we” talk. A perfectly modern arrangement for a perfectly modern pair of friends.

You liked the way things were. Bucky was warm, solid, and dependable. He had this way of making you feel like the only person in the room, which was a dangerous kind of magic when paired with a mouth that good. But things never got complicated, and in your stressful line of work, you appreciated that.

It was easy, light, and made you feel like the universe could occasionally be kind.

Bucky shifted beneath you, the couch groaning as he settled a hand more firmly at your waist. His metal thumb traced a slow, deliberate circle against your shirt, the cool contrast sending a fresh shiver up your spine.

“Comfortable?” he asked, voice low, rough-edged from kissing.

“Mmhmm.” You didn’t bother opening your eyes, just leaned in for another slow, unhurried kiss.

Bucky smiled against your mouth, a satisfied curve like he’d just confirmed something important. He always kissed slowly and unhurried, like he had all the time in the world and knew you’d give it to him. 

You melted a little—fine, a lot—into the steady press of his mouth. “You’re really making me work for it after leg day,” you mumbled against his lips.

Bucky hummed, a warm vibration you felt in your spine. “Maybe I just like having you in my lap, doll.”

You rolled your eyes, managing a smirk. “The feeling’s mutual, Barnes. But I could use a break.”

He chuckled, a low sound that made you want to drag him even closer. The couch groaned as he shifted, metal hand sliding beneath you in a smooth, practised motion. One minute you were sitting on his lap, the next you were stretched out along the cushions, Bucky braced above you.

The world tilted pleasantly, the weight of him sinking into your bones.

“Better?” he asked, breath brushing your cheek.

“Comfier,” you admitted, trying very hard not to sound like someone who had just been given the universe’s best weighted blanket. “You’re heavy. In a solid, heroic kind of way.”

Bucky’s grin flashed, quick and boyish. “Heroic heavy. I’ll take it.”

He dipped his head again before you could muster a comeback, mouth sliding against yours in a kiss that was both careful and possessive. His flesh hand cupped your jaw, tilting you just so, and the combination of soft pressure and cool metal tracing lazy paths along your waist sent heat pooling low in your stomach.

His nose brushed yours as he broke for air. “You taste like that sugar and espresso,” he murmured, voice rough. “My coffee, the one I made for myself.”

“It was a communal coffee,” you protested, fingers finding the hem of his T-shirt and giving it a cheeky tug. “Sharing is caring. Also, I’m a growing woman.”

Bucky smirked, clearly unbothered, and dipped back in. It was the kind of kiss that made you forget the world outside the four walls of his room and forget your own name if you weren’t careful.

His metal hand slid to your waist, tracing a line just under the edge of your shirt and approaching the buttons of your jeans. The cool touch jolted through you, sharp enough to register as a warning and a dare all at once.

“Tell me to stop,” Bucky said quietly, forehead resting against yours. His thumb pressed a slow circle against your bare skin, a gentle reminder that going further would tip past kissing for the first time.

The softness of it made something tighten behind your ribs, but you managed a grin. “You first.”

His mouth found yours again, slower still, and you decided that this was the best friendship upgrade you’d ever signed up for.

You tasted like sweat and a hint of something sweet, somehow.

Bucky let his back hit the wall of the training room with a low thud, the sound swallowed by the rush of your breath against his mouth. You were still in your usual sparring gear, hair sticking to your forehead, T-shirt damp at the collar. He hooked his flesh hand around your waist and pulled you flush against him.

You made a sound—half-laugh, half-sigh—that went straight to his chest. God, that laugh. Low and warm and a little breathless. He’d chased it for months.

His metal palm slid over the small of your back, cool against overheated skin. You shivered and pressed closer, hips tilting just enough to make his breath catch. The thin barrier of fabric did nothing to hide the heat of you.

“Good match,” you managed between kisses, voice bright with the last of the adrenaline.

“Mm.” Bucky’s answer came out rough. Talking felt pointless when he could taste you instead.

You tugged at the collar of his T-shirt, nails grazing the back of his neck. Bucky groaned, deep and quiet, and let his hand drift lower until his fingers brushed the waistband of your leggings. Not pushing. Just there. Asking.

You didn’t pull away. You only shifted closer, thigh sliding between his.

Christ. Bucky angled his head, deepening the kiss. This was new. Closer. The kind of slow grind that carried a promise. 

He’d been patient about romancing you—old-fashioned, even. The Bucky treatment, Steve would call it with a grin, which entailed absolutely no funny business until you were exclusive. Dinner after missions, walks back from the market, letting the thing between you build at its own pace. 

At first, Bucky worried that it was too slow for you. 

After all, you were a modern woman, and dating had escalated into something he barely recognised these days. He’d spent nights lying awake, half convinced you’d get bored and wander off before he figured out the new rules. People swiped left and right now; they didn’t wait weeks to hold someone’s hand. 

But you never once pushed. You were happy to linger after movie nights, to kiss until the streetlights clicked off, to let the quiet stretch between you without demanding anything more. Every time you smiled at Bucky across a dinner table or leaned against his arm during a walk, he felt a clean rush of relief—proof that slow wasn’t scaring you away.

Eventually, he’d worked up to what he thought was the big step: exclusivity. He’d asked in what he still considered a perfectly obvious, twenty-first-century way. Over take-out noodles one night, he’d nudged your foot under the table and said, “Guess we’re making this official, huh?” You’d grinned, clinked your chopsticks against his, and said, “Pleasure doing business with you,” before launching into a story about a disastrous mission briefing.

For Bucky, that was it. You were official, exclusive. He’d walked you back to your room that night, floating three inches off the floor, certain the air between you had shifted into something solid. He’d even texted his group chat with Steve and Sam the next morning—asked her to be exclusive. she said yes.

And now, weeks later, the ease of it still steadied him. Because you’d let him take his time, because you’d agreed to be his without hesitation, he could finally let himself imagine the next step. 

Not a leap, just a careful slide forward. A hand under your shirt, the warm weight of you against him. Little things that meant trust, not just desire. You knew he was serious; you knew this wasn’t a fling. And because of that, Bucky could touch you like this and know he wasn’t crossing a line.

It was worth every second of taking it slow.

He’d wanted tonight to be a reward. You’d wiped the floor with him in the last sparring round, and he’d loved every second of it. A kiss in the corner of the gym before you both hit the showers. A private victory lap. But the way you moved now—hips rolling, fingers sliding under the edge of his shirt—made the idea of stopping feel cruel.

You broke the kiss just long enough to breathe. “You’re dangerous, Barnes,” you murmured, eyes bright.

Bucky huffed a quiet laugh. “You started it.”

Your grin flashed. “Pretty sure you tackled me first.”

“I’m not the one wearing the sexy workout outfit.” He kissed the corner of your mouth, a small claim that felt bigger than it should. “You did that on purpose, didn’t you?”

You answered by catching his bottom lip between your teeth.

Every sane thought disappeared from his head.

Bucky had been planning your next date all afternoon. Real food this time, something nicer than the take-out containers you both pretended were meals. Maybe that little place Natasha kept raving about. 

Afterwards, he’d walk you back to the Tower, maybe stop by the rooftop garden where you liked to lean on the railing and tell him funny stories. He wanted to see you there again, sweater sleeves pulled over your hands, laughing at his deadpan jokes. 

A relationship, exclusive dating after months of doing it casually and slowly. That’s what this was.

Bucky had been careful, giving you space, but the signs were obvious. Movie nights that ended with you asleep against his shoulder. Early morning texts about coffee orders. The way you started wearing one of his hoodies and never gave it back. People didn’t do that if it wasn’t serious.

And now, the way you fit against him, warm and trusting, made the truth feel solid enough to lean on.

You shifted again, a slow drag of hips that sent a jolt of pleasure through him. Bucky tightened his grip, metal fingers spanning your waist, holding you steady while you moved.

“Easy,” he murmured, voice breaking low. Not a warning. More of a plea to give him a second to keep it together.

You only smiled, wicked and sweet, and stole another kiss.

Bucky’s heart hammered a steady backbeat, climbing higher every time you shifted against him. He felt young again, as if the world had tilted toward something good and he was allowed to stand in the middle of it.

He thought of Steve and how he used to talk about simple pleasures, about not waiting too long. Maybe this was what he meant.

You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. Your pupils were blown wide, a question shining there.

Bucky smoothed his thumb along your jaw. “Tell me if I’m pushing,” he said quietly.

Your smile softened. “You’re not.”

He leaned in, forehead against yours, and let the next kiss start slow. A promise disguised as a reward. He’d wait as long as you needed, but tonight felt like the start of something bigger.

His girl, his doll, his future.

Bucky’s room smelled faintly of laundry detergent and cedar, the clean scent that comes from someone who actually follows the instructions on a bottle of fabric softener. Show off.

The lamp on his nightstand was turned low, casting a warm light over the bed where Alpine, a small white cloud with whiskers, was already perched as if she paid rent. You’d been in here enough times to know the lightbulb was the soft kind that made everyone look ten times kinder, which felt on brand for a man who pretended to be grumpy while secretly rescuing cats.

“Movie night with a critic,” Bucky said, toeing off his boots. “She likes to meow at the plot holes.”

“You’re just jealous she’s smarter than you,” you teased, settling cross-legged on the edge of the mattress. The comforter dipped beneath you, soft and heavy. It smelled faintly of clean cotton and something warm—Bucky, probably.

He shot you a look of mock offence while fishing for the remote on his bedside table. “Careful, doll. I can still veto your pick.”

Bucky queued up the movie and slid down beside you, long legs stretched out and arm braced on the mattress, brushing your thigh. A barely-there touch, but enough to make your nerve endings sit up like they’d just had a double espresso. The screen lit up with the opening credits of your favourite movie. 

Alpine gave a chirp, turned a slow circle, and then—betrayal of betrayals—padded across Bucky’s lap and plopped squarely into yours.

“Oh, c’mon,” he groaned. “Every time!”

You grinned, scratching behind Alpine’s ears as she head-butted your palm with the force of a tiny, determined marshmallow. “Face it. I’m her favourite.”

Bucky leaned back against the headboard, arms crossed in dramatic suffering. “I rescued her from a busted fire escape. Nursed her back to health. Bought the fancy grain-free food. And this is the thanks I get?”

“Maybe she appreciates quality company,” you said, wiggling your fingers to make Alpine’s tail swish in delight. “I have sparkling conversation and adorable charm. What do you bring to the table?”

“Trauma and good cheekbones,” Bucky deadpanned.

You snorted, nearly startling the cat. “Wow. Irresistible package.”

“She used to sleep on my chest,” he went on, ignoring you. “Now she hears your voice and suddenly I’m chopped liver.”

“Don’t be dramatic,” you said, though you were enjoying every second of his mock sulk. “You’re still her giant food dispenser.”

“Thanks, doll. Real boost to the ego.” Bucky tilted his head toward Alpine, who was now purring loud enough to be heard over the movie. “You hear that, snowball? Dad’s feelings—obliterated.”

Alpine flicked an ear and nestled deeper into your lap like a queen receiving tribute. You gave Bucky a wide, innocent smile. “Maybe she just senses my aura.”

“Your aura?” He arched a brow.

“Yeah. Cats can tell when someone’s a good person. Or at least when someone’s not secretly plotting world domination.”

“Guess I should’ve hidden the plans better,” Bucky said, eyes glinting.

The banter slid back and forth like an old routine—effortless, balanced, as easy as breathing. You’d fallen into this rhythm months ago: Bucky’s dry humour, your quick jabs, both of you quietly delighted whenever you managed to crack the other wide open. 

He laughed now, a low, warm sound that vibrated through the mattress and settled somewhere under your ribs. You filed it away with all the other Bucky details you weren’t supposed to notice: the way his laugh always started in his chest, the tiny crinkle at the corner of his eyes, the ridiculous fact that it made you feel lighter every single time.

Halfway through the movie, Alpine stretched a paw across your stomach, claiming more territory. Bucky reached out, fingers brushing yours as he pretended to coax her back. 

“Traitor,” he whispered.

“She’s perfect,” you whispered back, though your focus snagged on the tiny graze of his metal knuckles against your skin. Cool and smooth, a contrast sharp enough to send a little electric zing racing up your arm.

Bucky caught the flick of your eyes and smirked like he’d felt it too. “You’re spoiling her.”

“Maybe I just have a magic touch.”

“You don’t say.”

On screen, the hero made a questionable decision that earned a disgusted chirp from Alpine. You and Bucky burst out laughing at the same time, the sound overlapping until you couldn’t tell whose laugh belonged to whom. He nudged your knee with his, just a small bump, but he didn’t move it away.

The rest of the movie blurred in a haze of shared snacks and whispered commentary. Bucky pointed out continuity errors. You defended the cheesy dialogue. Alpine purred as if she were personally invested in the debate.

If happiness had a sound, it might have been this: a cat’s rumble, a soldier’s laugh, and your own heartbeat trying to keep up.

By the time the end credits rolled, Bucky stretched with a satisfied groan, his shoulder brushing yours. “Not bad,” he admitted. “A couple plot holes, but the cat critic seems pleased.”

Alpine yawned and pressed her head into your palm.

“Five stars,” you said, giving the cat a final scratch. “From the only opinion that matters.”

Bucky’s eyes softened as he watched you. He didn’t say anything, just reached over to gently lift Alpine from your lap and set her on the pillow. But his fingers lingered for a beat, like he wasn’t quite ready to break the contact. 

With Alpine safely out of the way, Bucky leaned in and kissed you, slow and deep, as if he’d been waiting all night for the chance. It was the kind of kiss that felt inevitable, like the next logical step in a perfect night in.

The debrief wrapped with Steve’s trademark mix of stern professionalism and sweet encouragement. “Good work out there,” he said, setting the file down like it hadn’t just survived three explosions and a questionable landing courtesy of Peter. “Take the night off. Dinner’s on me.”

A chorus of cheers and applause rippled around the conference table. Chairs scraped back, jackets were shrugged on. The post-mission buzz was alive and well in the collective joy of finally getting to sit somewhere that wasn’t a Quinjet.

You stretched, rolling a knot out of your shoulder as Bucky fell into step beside you. His hand brushed the small of your back for half a second.

“Dinner?” Natasha asked, leaning against the table with the confidence of a woman who already knew everyone would say yes. “Pizza? Burgers? Anything that involves carbs and regret?”

“Carbs are a therapeutic necessity,” Steve said dryly.

“Carbs keep me sane,” Kate added, slinging her bow case over one shoulder. “I vote for pizza.”

“Seconded,” Peter said, already halfway to his phone, texting Joaquín. “I’ll find somewhere with those giant garlic knots.”

The group hummed with agreement, overlapping suggestions flying. Ava and John debated deep-dish pizza versus thin-crust pizza with the seriousness of a nuclear treaty. Yelena quietly pilfered the last of the conference room snacks, unwrapping a protein bar like it had wronged her.

Sam’s eyes flicked to Bucky and then to you, a grin tugging at his mouth. “Buck, you bringing your girlfriend or what?”

Yelena snorted so loudly it should have counted as a war crime. “Ha. Good one.”

You blinked. “Wait—what?”

Bucky’s frown was immediate and sharp. “Why is that funny?”

Your laugh came out higher than intended. “Oh, uh… I think she meant—”

“Meant what?” Bucky asked, still frowning. “Why would that be a joke?”

Across the table, Steve froze mid-water bottle sip. Ava’s eyebrows shot up. 

“Because it is funny,” Yelena said, pointing to you with a grin. “She is not his girlfriend.”

Sam looked suddenly, violently confused. “But… she is Bucky’s girlfriend?” He turned to you for confirmation. “Aren’t you?”

Your heart jumped. “No,” you exclaimed, while Bucky declared, “Yes.”

A silence followed so heavy you could practically hear your heart drop to your stomach.

“Interesting,” Natasha said, stealing Yelena’s protein bar with the calm of a woman watching a soap opera unfold in real time. “Please, continue.”

Bob’s eyes ping-ponged between you and Bucky like he was watching the world’s most stressful tennis match. “Um. Did we miss something?”

“We’re—” you started.

“We’re dating,” Bucky said, voice firm, like he was reciting mission intel.

You gaped at him. “We are not dating.”

Ava arched one perfect brow. “This is going to be good.”

Bucky turned to you, confusion etched deep. “What do you mean we’re not? We’ve been—” He broke off, gesturing vaguely with both hands, as though the universal sign for making out on couches would help.

Your face went hot. “That’s not dating, that’s us letting out some steam once in a while. Friends with very occasional, very PG-13 benefits!”

Sam’s mouth dropped open. “Occasional? You two are attached at the hip. You leave missions together. You do grocery runs together. Bucky refers to the both of you as a ‘we’ like he can’t bear to do anything alone. I thought that was relationship-level stuff.”

“That’s just… logistics!” you protested, which sounded weak even to you.

Kate leaned forward, delighted. “Okay, but the movie nights?”

“Friends have movie nights,” you said.

“With tongue?” Yelena asked flatly.

You flailed. “Sometimes!”

Bucky stared at you, blue eyes wide and wounded. “You thought this was friends with benefits?”

Your stomach twisted. “You thought we were in a relationship?”

Sam rubbed a hand over his face, muttering, “Unbelievable.” 

John was trying not to laugh and failing spectacularly. Natasha wore an expression that suggested she was mentally drafting a memo about emotional communication for the next team briefing.

“Wow,” Ava said, grinning. “This is like watching two different movies at the same time.”

“Alternate universes,” Peter murmured. “One where Bucky’s a committed boyfriend. One where he’s a very dedicated situationship.”

“Okay,” you said, holding up your hands before the word situationship could set the room on fire. “Let’s all just take a breath.”

Bucky’s jaw flexed. “I asked you to be exclusive.”

Your brain replayed the sentence like a faulty recording. “When?”

“That night after we got Chinese food,” he said, voice rising slightly. “I said, ‘I don’t want to share you.’”

You stared. “I thought you were talking to the spring rolls!”

Sam made a strangled sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob. Bob buried his face in his hoodie to avoid second-hand embarrassment. Natasha bit into Yelena’s protein bar as if it were popcorn and she was at the cinema.

Bucky dragged a hand down his face. “I meant you. And then I asked if we were official, and you said something about being happy to do business with me.”

“Oh.” Your voice squeaked on the single syllable. “That… does clarify things.”

Steve, who had been silently observing like a patient kindergarten teacher, finally cleared his throat. “Maybe the two of you should talk privately.”

“Great idea,” Kate said brightly. “Before Sam combusts.”

“I’m fine,” Sam said, clearly not fine.

The room erupted into overlapping chatter—Sam defending his assumption, Yelena narrating every awkward beat, Peter mumbling something about how communication is key. Through it all, Bucky kept his eyes on you, a mix of hurt and hope twisting behind the blue.

You swallowed hard, heart pounding like it was trying to hammer out a coherent sentence.

So much for perfectly normal friend behaviour.

“Okay,” you said finally, meeting his gaze. “Maybe we do need to talk.”

Bucky nodded once, slow but certain, like a man accepting a mission. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “We do.”

Steve and Natasha began shepherding everyone out of the conference room. When the door clicked shut behind them, the room felt too silent all of a sudden. The scent of burnt coffee and adrenaline clung to the air, a reminder that superhero drama apparently came with office-breakroom ambience.

The rest of the team’s laughter echoed faintly down the hall.

Bucky stood near the table, arms crossed but not in a threatening way. More like he was trying to keep all his pieces inside. Your stomach did a neat little backflip.

“So,” you said, voice wobbling toward cheerful. “That was… fun. Nothing like a room full of superheroes arguing about your love life to keep a mission debrief lively.”

His mouth twitched. “Could’ve been worse. Sam could’ve made a powerpoint.”

You laughed—short, nervous. “He probably has one ready. Charts. Graphs. Pie slices of evidence.”

Silence settled again. Bucky uncrossed his arms, rubbing the back of his neck. “Look, doll, I’m sorry. I should’ve— I don’t know. Made things clearer.”

You stepped closer, shaking your head. “No, I should’ve—”

But he ploughed on, words rushing. “I just thought— hell, I assumed. We do everything together. You stay over half the week, Alpine’s basically picked you as her human. I figured you were happy to take things slow for me, but then I assumed we made things official. And tonight—” His voice cracked. “I feel like an idiot. Like I set myself up for this.”

“Bucky—”

“I should’ve said something. I should’ve asked. Instead I’m standing there like a chump while half the team thinks I’m your boyfriend and the other half thinks I’m delusional—”

“Hey!” You caught his sleeve before he could spiral farther. The fabric was warm from his skin; the metal of his arm cold through the seam. The contrast shot straight to your heartbeat, a reminder of how many contradictions made him Bucky. “Bucky, stop. This isn’t a one-sided screw-up, okay? We both failed at communicating what we thought we were.”

Bucky finally looked at you, eyes stormy and searching.

You took a breath, steadying the racing pulse in your throat. “I didn’t think we were dating because we never said we were. But that’s on me too. I never asked, never clarified. I just liked what we had and didn’t want to scare you off.”

His shoulders eased a fraction. “You liked what we had?”

You rolled your eyes affectionately. “Obviously. Have you met you?”

That earned the tiniest smile.

“I like us,” you continued, softer now. “I like movie nights and bad diner coffee and the way you always walk on the street side. I like how easy it is to talk to you, even when you’re grumpy and pretending not to care. And yeah, maybe I wanted more, but I didn’t want to risk losing the friendship that’s basically my favorite thing in the world.”

Bucky’s gaze flicked down, then back up. His voice came out low, careful. “You’re my favourite thing too.”

Your chest squeezed in equal parts terror and relief. Apparently, your ribcage had decided to moonlight as a vice. “So maybe we stop assuming and actually start communicating.”

He stepped closer until the air between you warmed. “Communicating,” he echoed. “Like, I want to be your boyfriend. Present tense. Clear as day.”

You grinned, heart hammering. “Exactly like that. Because I want to be your girlfriend. Also present tense, clear as day.”

The grin softened into something else as Bucky reached up, fingertips brushing your cheek like a question. You answered by leaning in, closing the space. His lips met yours in a slow, careful press, the kind of kiss that asked for trust instead of taking it. 

His hand slid from your cheek to the back of your neck, steady and warm, the faint scrape of calloused skin sending a quiet thrill through you. You angled closer, a subtle pull that left you swaying toward him until your chest met the solid line of his. 

His thumb traced a small circle against your jaw, patient and deliberate, like he wanted every second to count.

When you pulled back, breathless and a little dizzy, Bucky rested his forehead against yours. His eyes stayed half-lidded, the corners soft with something that made your stomach flip all over again. “Worth the public humiliation,” he murmured.

The door banged open.

“Please tell me I’m not interrupting more feelings,” Tony said, strolling in with a tablet. “Steve just told me you—” he pointed at you “—thought you weren’t dating the Hot Topic Terminator over here. Congratulations, you are officially the least perceptive spy I’ve ever met.”

You groaned. Bucky chuckled against your hair.

Tony smirked, already tapping on his tablet. “Great. Now that the sitcom subplot is resolved, can we schedule the next mission?”

You buried your face in Bucky’s chest, laughing despite yourself.

[wersies]

WILLING AND ABLE peter parker x f!reader

“I wish you could know me and I wish I could known you much more sometimes.” or You don’t remember Peter Parker. He remembers everything. Now he has to decide whether to (try to) become part of your life again—or let you go for good.

warnings : romance, angst, pre-brand new day! peter; poorly written action & spoiler-free (I hope so). yearning, unresolved feelings from the past, undertones of depression, grief, kinda obsessive behavior/stalking?, alcohol use, profanity, head injury; hospitalization, mention of being in coma.

word count : 13.8k

soundtrack : willing and able by noah kahan , we hug now by sydney rose , what if i call by alex crichton , about you by the 1975 , orbiter by noah kahan , do i wanna know? by hozier.

It had been four years since the spell, and Peter had learned to accept a lot of things.

He had accepted that his life would never go back to the way it was. That the world would keep moving, even if he felt like a part of him had been left behind. He had accepted that his name meant nothing to the people who once knew him, that the memories he shared with them existed only in his own head, and that there was no way to get them back without destroying the peace he had given them.

He had even accepted that Spider-Man had become the biggest part of who he was.

Because, in a way, Spider-Man was New York City.

He was the guy who swung between skyscrapers, stopped criminals, helped strangers, and gave people hope when they needed it most. Everyone loved Spider-Man. They saw him as a symbol, as someone who would always show up when things got bad.

The funny thing was, the person who needed saving the most was Peter Parker himself.

But he had gotten used to that too.

He had gotten used to being alone. To coming home to a small shithole apartment after patrol. To eating dinner in silence. To having no one to text after a bad night or no one waiting for him when he came back bruised and exhausted.

Being a hero meant losing things.

Peter knew that. He had accepted almost everything.

Almost.

Because there was still one thing that haunted him more than anything else.

You.

Ned. MJ. His old life. The people he had lost.

But mostly you.

Because unlike everyone else, Peter knew exactly what he had lost. He remembered every conversation, every laugh, every stupid little moment that meant nothing to anyone else but everything to him. He remembered the way you looked at him before everything changed. The way you always believed in him, even when he struggled to believe in himself.

You were the person he loved.

And the worst part was that he never really told you.

High school Peter Parker was always convinced there would be more time. More time after the next bad guy. More time after the next crisis. More time when things finally calmed down.

He always thought he could tell you tomorrow.

But tomorrow never came.

Even after four years, Peter still found himself doing the same thing.

Lying on his bed late at night, staring at the ceiling for a little too long before eventually reaching for his phone. He never really meant to do it. It always started as something harmless, just checking the time or replying to a message he probably didn’t need to answer.

Then somehow, he would end up on Ned’s Instagram.

Ned had posted a lot over the years. Videos from his and MJ’s first year of university, random moments between classes, graduation pictures, and little memories Peter knew he would have loved to be part of. He watched them all, sometimes more than once.

He saw Ned and MJ laughing together, celebrating things Peter wasn’t there for. He saw moments that felt so normal, so ordinary, and somehow that made them hurt even more.

Because Peter could picture himself there.

He could imagine sitting next to them, making some stupid comment that would annoy MJ, laughing at one of Ned’s jokes, complaining about assignments, pretending he wasn’t secretly enjoying every second of it.

A normal life.

The one he was supposed to have.

And then there was you.

Honestly, Peter didn’t know much anymore.

You had always been private on social media, even before everything happened. You never posted every detail of your life unlike Ned, never shared too much, and Peter used to love that about you. You had this way of keeping parts of yourself just for the people who mattered.

Now, it meant there was almost nothing for him to find.

The only thing he knew came from Ned, from the few times your name came up in conversation.

You went to Oxford. Your dream school.

Peter remembered how often you talked about it. The way your face would light up whenever you mentioned it, the way you had already planned everything before you even got accepted.

And you made it.

You actually got everything you wanted. At least someone was living their dream life.

That night was the same as every other night. 3:22 a.m.

Peter was lying on his bed, phone in his hand, mindlessly scrolling through Instagram even though he knew he should have been sleeping, but sleep never came easily anymore.

Not when his mind was always louder than anything else.

His thumb moved automatically until a new notification appeared. Ned had posted a new reel. Peter clicked on it instantly. It was almost pathetic how fast he did it.

The video loaded, and there was Ned, smiling at the camera with a grin that was somehow even bigger than usual.

“Hey guys!” Ned said, sounding way too excited for it being so late. “I know I’m posting this super late, but something really special happened today.”

Peter stared at the screen, barely blinking.

Ned laughed a little before continuing. “Or, to be more exact, someone special came back home!”

Peter immediately sat up.

The tiredness that had been weighing on him seconds ago disappeared completely. His entire body went still as he watched the screen, suddenly feeling like he was back in high school again, waiting for something important to happen.

Then Ned turned the camera.

And there you were.

Peter forgot how to breathe.

You looked the same.

But somehow, you looked different too. Older. More confident. Like life had continued moving without him. But your eyes were the same. The same warm, familiar eyes that Peter had spent years trying not to think about too much.

The same eyes that had looked at him like he was someone worth believing in.

“Y/n!” Ned called out from behind the camera.

You turned around, laughing as you walked into the frame.

Then MJ appeared beside you, and suddenly it was the three of you together again.

Ned, MJ and you.

A version of his life that only existed in old memories now.

“Hey guys!” you laughed.

Peter felt something in his chest tighten.

It was such a normal moment. Just a simple video of friends being happy.

But to him, it felt like watching a life he was supposed to be living.

“Y/n finally came back from uni!” Ned announced proudly. “And listen, guys… this girl graduated from Oxford!”

You immediately looked embarrassed, laughing as you shook your head.

“I did!”

Peter smiled slightly without even realizing it.

Then you looked at the camera, suddenly confused. “Wait, who are we even recording this to?”

MJ laughed beside you. “That’s just what Ned likes to do. So probably to nobody.”

“Shut up, MJ!” Ned protested. “Someone definitely watches these!”

Peter froze.

Because someone did. He had watched every single one.

Every video. Every update. Every tiny piece of a life he was no longer part of.

But now you were back.

Back in New York. Back in the same city as him—his city.

And for the first time in four years, Peter allowed himself to wonder something he had stopped letting himself think about.

Maybe there was still a chance. Not for things to go back to the way they were. He knew they couldn’t. Too much had happened. Too much had changed. But maybe…Maybe he could meet you again. It probably wasn’t the safest thing to do, but Peter never feared danger. He was Spider-Man, after all.

Patrol usually helped.

Most nights, it was enough to drown out the thoughts. Swinging through the city demanded too much focus to think about everything he’d lost. There were always people to help, cars to stop, robberies to interrupt, cats to rescue from places they had absolutely no business climbing.

It was easier to be Spider-Man than Peter Parker.

Tonight had been quiet, though.

Almost suspiciously quiet.

Peter had just finished stopping a convenience store robbery in Hell’s Kitchen and was making his way back toward Queens. It was well past midnight, the streets below calmer than usual, lit only by the glow of traffic lights and the occasional taxi.

He landed on the cornice of a building overlooking the city, letting his legs dangle over the edge. For once, there was nothing demanding his attention. No police sirens. No cries for help. Just New York stretching endlessly beneath him.

His thoughts drifted to you. They always did eventually.

You had only been back in the city for a few days, yet somehow you were all he could think about. He wondered how you were settling in after four years away. Whether Oxford had lived up to everything you’d dreamed it would be. Whether coming back to New York felt like coming home, or if it felt different now.

He wondered what your plans were.

If you had already found a job. If you were planning to stay in the city for good. Then, against his better judgment, another thought slipped into his mind.

Did you have a boyfriend?

The question made his stomach twist.

You’d been gone for four years. Of course it was possible. More than possible—it was normal. You had moved on with your life, met new people, built a future that had nothing to do with Peter Parker.

You deserved that.

Still, he couldn’t stop himself from wondering. He let out a quiet sigh, shaking his head at himself.

It didn’t matter. None of it did.

You didn’t remember him, and he had promised himself years ago that he wouldn’t interfere with the life the spell had given you.

He was just… curious.

That was all. Or at least, that’s what he kept telling himself.

The sound came before his spider-sense.

Tires screeching against asphalt.

Peter’s head snapped toward the intersection just in time to see a pair of headlights cutting through a red light. Too fast. Way too fast.

There was someone in the crosswalk.

His body moved before his mind did.

A web shot from his wrist, catching the side of a nearby building as he threw himself forward. The city blurred around him, wind rushing past his mask as he dropped toward the street. The driver wasn’t slowing down.

“Come on…”

He hit the ground running.

One arm wrapped tightly around the pedestrian’s waist while the other shielded them both from the impact with the pavement. Peter twisted instinctively, making sure he took the fall instead. They rolled across the sidewalk just as the car sped past, missing them by inches before disappearing into the night.

For a moment, all Peter could hear was his own heartbeat.

He pushed himself onto one elbow immediately.

“Hey,” he said quickly. “Hey, are you okay?”

The person beneath him was breathing too fast, hands shaking as they stared blankly at the empty road.

“I…” Your voice caught in your throat. “I didn’t… I had the light…”

“I know.”

“I-I looked both ways.”

“I know,” Peter repeated, softer this time.

You were beginning to panic.

Your breathing became quicker with every second, your eyes fixed on the intersection as if you were still watching the car come toward you.

“It almost—”

“It didn’t.”

“But it—”

“It didn’t.”

Peter carefully moved back just enough to give you some space, keeping his voice as calm as he could.

“Look at me.”

You did.

“You’re okay.”

You swallowed.

“You didn’t get hit.”

A shaky breath.

“You’re on the sidewalk.”

Another breath.

“You’re safe.”

Slowly, your shoulders began to relax.

Peter stayed exactly where he was, waiting until your breathing settled. He’d talked enough terrified people through panic attacks to know rushing never helped.

“There you go,” he murmured. “Just breathe.”

You nodded weakly.

“Thank you.”

“It’s okay.”

“No…” You let out a nervous laugh that sounded more like relief than amusement. “I would’ve… I would’ve died.”

Peter’s chest tightened. “You didn’t.”

Silence settled between you.

Finally, you looked up at him properly. Peter did the same and the world stopped.

You.

It was you.

Every thought disappeared from his head. Your face. Your eyes.

The tiny scar near your eyebrow that you’d gotten in sophomore year after tripping over Ned’s backpack.

He knew every part of you.

It had been four years since he’d been this close. His breath caught beneath the mask. All he wanted—all he had wanted for four years—was to reach out and touch your face just to know you were real.

To pull you into a hug and never let go. To tell you that he missed you. To kiss your forehead the way he’d imagined doing a thousand times but never got the chance to.

He wanted to tell you your name. Tell you his.

Tell you everything. But he couldn’t. Because none of those things belonged to him anymore. Not when you looked at him with the same grateful smile you’d give any stranger who had just saved your life.

Not when, to you, he was only Spider-Man.

Peter suddenly felt like he couldn’t breathe.

“…You…” escaped his mouth before he could stop it.

You tilted your head.

“What?”

He stared for one second too long before forcing himself to look away.

“You…” His voice cracked slightly. “…should be more careful.”

It sounded stupid. He knew it the second he said it.

You blinked, then gave him a sheepish smile.

“I’ll be more careful.”

Peter nodded quickly.

“Good.”

He pushed himself to his feet before he could do something he’d regret. His hands were trembling. He wanted to help you stand. He wanted to hold your hand just a little longer.

Instead, he took a step back.

“I- I should… go.”

“I didn’t even thank you, ” you said with a small laugh, still trying to recover from the shock.

Peter’s heart broke all over again.

If he stayed another minute, he’d forget every promise he’d made to himself.

He’d tell you everything.

So he fired a web toward the nearest building.

“Take care of yourself,” he said quietly.

Before you could answer, he was already gone.

He didn’t stop swinging until he was three blocks away. Only then did he land on a rooftop, pulling off his mask as he tried to steady his breathing.

His hands still shook.

Not because of the near accident.

Because, for the first time in four years, he’d held you in his arms.

And for one impossible moment… it had almost felt like nothing had changed. Until he’d looked into your eyes and remembered the truth.

You weren’t his anymore.

It started like every average Monday.

Peter went to his usual flower shop, the same one he visited every week to buy flowers for May. Or, well, what was left of her.

A name on a tombstone.

He’d gotten into the habit after she died. He didn’t really know why he kept doing it. Maybe because it was the only thing he could still do for her. Maybe because buying flowers felt better than doing nothing. Either way, every Monday, he came here.

He walked slowly through the store, looking over the flowers while trying to decide what to get this week. Roses were too much. Daisies felt too cheerful. He was considering tulips when a familiar voice reached him from somewhere down the aisle.

Peter froze.

He knew that voice.

He turned his head.

You. Again?

For a second, he just stood there. Then he blinked, almost afraid you’d disappear the moment he looked away.

You didn’t.

You were still there, standing a few aisles over with your phone pressed between your ear and shoulder, one hand holding a small bunch of flowers while you looked over the different options.

Peter stared. He probably shouldn’t have.

It was becoming a problem how often he found himself doing that.

“What do you think?” you asked into the phone. “Sunflowers or lilies?”

Peter’s eyes immediately dropped to the flowers in your hand.

He wondered who you were buying them for.

A friend?

Your parents?

A boyfriend?

The thought made something unpleasant twist in his stomach.

He tried to look away and he failed.

You listened to whoever was on the other end of the phone for a few seconds before groaning dramatically.

“MJ! It does matter!”

Peter almost smiled. Of course it was MJ. You were always close.

He wondered what it felt like to have you close, to know you. To know which flowers you liked.  To know what you’d been doing for the last four years.

Peter knew almost none of that. Not anymore.

He watched as you listened again, your expression slowly becoming more annoyed.

“Okay,” you finally sighed. “I’ll take the lilies.”

You lowered your phone slightly and looked at the flowers in your hand.

Peter smiled to himself.

Lilies.

He wondered if you’d always liked them. Probably.

There were so many things he used to know about you that he didn’t anymore. Somehow, seeing you standing there arguing with MJ over flowers made that hurt more than he expected.

Because it was so normal.

You were just you.

Buying flowers on a Monday morning, talking to your best friend, completely unaware that someone three aisles away was watching you like you’d just walked out of a four-year-old dream.

He still watched you.

Peter started panicking as soon as he saw you handing the cashier the money. He quickly paid for his flowers and followed you outside.

And followed.

And followed.

Every corner you took, he took as well. Every street you crossed, he crossed a few seconds later, keeping enough distance that you hopefully wouldn’t notice him. He kept telling himself there was a reason for it, that he wasn’t doing anything that bad, but even he knew better.

“This is so wrong,” he muttered under his breath.

He should stop and he knew that. He could go home, put May’s flowers on her grave, and forget this ever happened. He could let you live your damn life and stop acting like he still had any right to know where you were going or what you were doing.

Instead, you turned another corner.

Peter followed.

“Just until she gets home,” he whispered to himself.

He immediately realized how terrible that sounded.

It sounded reasonable in his head. Safe, even. He wasn’t going to bother you. He wasn’t going to talk to you or follow you inside. He just wanted to know where you lived.

He was only making sure you got home safely.

That was what friends did, right?

Except sometimes Peter forgot that you weren’t his friend anymore.

Not because you had chosen not to be. Not because you had done anything wrong.

You simply had no idea who he was.

Peter was the only one carrying around four years of memories, the only one who still remembered the late-night conversations, the inside jokes, the almost-relationship that never got the chance to become anything more.

To you, he was just Spider-Man. You didn’t even know who he was beneath the mask. You never saw his face.

To Peter, you were the person he’d spent four years trying to forget.

Maybe that was why he kept ignoring the obvious.

Maybe it was easier to pretend you were still someone he was allowed to worry about.

“Okay,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Definitely not making this better.”

Still, he kept walking.

Peter was just starting to feel slightly less ridiculous about the whole thing when his phone suddenly buzzed.

Not just buzzed.

It practically screamed. That stupidly loud alert sound filled the air, making Peter flinch as he quickly pulled his phone from his pocket.

CRIME DETECTED—0.6 MILES AWAY.

Peter stared at the screen.

“No.”

The phone buzzed again.

MULTIPLE HOSTILES DETECTED.

“No, no, no.”

He looked up immediately.

You were still walking ahead of him, completely unaware, already turning down another street.

Peter looked at his phone. Then at you and then back at his phone.

Of course. Of all the possible moments for New York to need Spider-Man, it had to be now.

He tried to keep you in sight while his brain desperately searched for another solution. Maybe the police were already on their way. Maybe someone else could handle it. Maybe, for once, New York could survive without Spider-Man for five minutes.

He looked down at his phone again.

Then back up.

You were gone.

Peter stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, looking around frantically. The crowd had swallowed you completely.

“Fuck!”

He stood there for another second, hoping you’d somehow reappear.

You didn’t.

His phone buzzed again.

Peter sighed, already reaching for the mask hidden under his jacket.

“Okay,” he muttered. “Crime first.”

A week later, Peter found himself doing it again.

He really needed to stop and he knew that. After the whole flower-shop incident, he’d promised himself he wasn’t going to follow you around anymore. It was weird. It was intrusive. And, more importantly, you didn’t even know him well enough to understand why some random guy kept appearing wherever you went.

This time, he went to the flower shop again. He’d already bought the flowers for May and visited her grave earlier than usual, so technically, he had no reason to be here. None at all.

How did he know you’d be here?

He didn’t. He just had a feeling.

Well, his spider-sense told him otherwise.

Peter casually walked into the shop, trying his best to look like a completely normal customer. He wandered over to the orchids, picking up a little card and pretending to read it while his eyes occasionally drifted toward the rest of the store.

He wasn’t looking for you. Obviously.

He was just…

Looking around.

And fuck. There you were.

Peter immediately looked away, pretending to be extremely interested in an orchid he’d been staring at for the last thirty seconds. You were behind the counter, talking to one of the employees before grabbing your bag.

Then you disappeared through a door he’d never noticed before.

A few minutes later, you came back out.

“Bye, Gwen! See you in a week!” you called, waving before walking toward the entrance.

Peter’s brain caught on one thing.

See you in a week.

A week?

You worked here.

It made sense. You’d always loved flowers. Peter remembered that much. He waited a few seconds after you left before putting the orchid card back where he’d found it.

Then he followed.

He really, really shouldn’t.

He was Spider-Man. A superhero. A guy who spent his nights stopping actual criminals. Not a stalker.

And yet, the second he stepped outside and saw you walking down the street, his feet moved after you.

He kept a reasonable distance. Probably.

You turned left, so did Peter.

You stopped to check your phone and Peter suddenly became very interested in a restaurant menu.

Then you kept walking.

Peter followed.

He could stop right now. Instead, he found himself thinking about something that felt almost normal.

He just wanted to know where his girlfriend lived.

Except…

Girlfriend wasn’t exactly the right word. You had never actually been his girlfriend. Not officially. Not really. You’d been something close to it. Something that Peter had never been brave enough to name because he’d always thought there would be more time.

A girlfriend who never got the chance to become his girlfriend.

And now you didn’t even know him.

He followed you all the way to the subway.

Peter stopped at the top of the stairs, watching you disappear through the gates, and for a moment, he finally let himself think about what the hell he was doing. He had two options now. He could leave you alone, turn around, go home, and put some distance between you again. It was the smart thing to do. The safe thing. 

You were safer without Peter Parker in your life, especially with everything that came with Spider-Man. The criminals, the danger, the constant possibility of someone finding out who he was and using the people he loved against him. And then there was Peter himself, which was probably the biggest problem of all. He had already spent four years keeping you safe by staying away from you. Maybe he should keep doing exactly that.

He took a step back.

He should leave.

He knew he should.

But then he looked down at the subway entrance again and thought about you disappearing into the crowd, going back to a life he knew nothing about. He wanted to know where you were going. Where you lived. What your apartment looked like. If you still listened to music on the way home. If you would get there safely. He told himself it was just curiosity, but even Peter knew that was a lie. He’d spent four years wondering about you, and now that you were finally back, walking away felt almost impossible.

Before he could think about it any longer, he went through the gates.

The train was already approaching, the sound of it growing louder as it pulled into the station. You were standing near the platform, looking down at your phone, completely unaware that he was even there. The doors opened, and you stepped inside.

Peter followed.

The doors closed behind him before he could change his mind.

He stood there for a second, staring at his reflection in the dark window.

“Great,” he muttered.

He moved to the other side of the carriage and sat down, making sure there were a few people between you. This was fine. Completely normal. People took the same train every day. There was nothing weird about it.

Except Peter wasn’t here because he needed to get somewhere.

He was here because you were.

He glanced over.

You had your headphones in, staring out the window as the city lights blurred past. You looked peaceful, completely unaware of the fact that Peter was sitting only a few seats away, trying to convince himself he hadn’t just crossed another line.

He should probably get off at the next stop.

Instead, he leaned back against the seat and looked at you again.

Maybe just five minutes.

Five minutes couldn’t hurt.

At least, that’s what he told himself.

The train eventually slowed down, and Peter looked up at the screen above the doors. Brooklyn.

You stood up.

Peter immediately sat a little straighter, watching as you pulled your headphones out and slipped your phone into your bag before the doors opened. You stepped onto the platform without looking back, and Peter waited a few seconds before following.

He kept enough distance between you that he could still pretend this was a coincidence if anyone asked. The station was busy, people moving in every direction as you made your way toward the exit, and Peter followed you up the stairs and back onto the street.

So, Brooklyn.

He hadn’t expected that.

You walked ahead of him, taking a left at the corner without hesitation. Peter followed, hands tucked into his hoodie pockets, trying not to look like someone who had just followed a girl across half of New York.

The streets were quieter here. The city noise faded into the background, replaced by cars passing and people talking outside bars and restaurants. Peter watched you walk for another minute before you suddenly stopped in front of an apartment building.

He slowed down.

The first thing he noticed was the music. It was loud enough to hear from outside, bass shaking faintly through the walls. People kept coming in and out of the entrance, dressed up, laughing, carrying drinks. Someone nearly bumped into Peter on their way inside.

A party. Definitely a party.

You walked straight through the entrance like you’d been here before.

Peter stared after you.

So this was where you lived? Or maybe you were just visiting.

He should leave. Obviously. There was absolutely no reason for him to go inside. In fact, there were several very good reasons why he shouldn’t. But then he looked at the crowded entrance again. A lot of people went to parties like this. A lot of unknown people.

Which meant…

Peter could be one of them. He could just walk in and nobody would know who he was. Nobody would think it was weird. He could see you again, maybe talk to you for a few minutes, and then leave.

Completely normal. Absolutely not suspicious.

Peter nodded to himself.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “That’s fine.”

He walked toward the entrance.

Then stopped. “What am I doing?”

He looked up at the building, already knowing he was going inside.

The second Peter stepped inside, he realized he had made a mistake.

The music was even louder than it had sounded from outside, the bass practically shaking the floor beneath his feet. The apartment was packed, people squeezed into every possible corner with drinks in their hands, someone yelling over the music from the kitchen while another group had completely taken over the living room. Peter stood near the entrance for a second, suddenly very aware that he had absolutely no idea what he was doing here.

Some random guy walking past offered him a drink, and Peter took the red cup before continuing deeper into the apartment. At least now he looked like he actually belonged here.

He wandered down the hallway and stepped into one of the rooms, only to stop almost immediately. The room felt strangely familiar, even though Peter knew he’d never been here before.

Star Wars Lego sets were everywhere. On shelves, on desks, on the floor. Some were carefully built while others looked like they had been abandoned halfway through. There was also the usual mess that came with too many people living in one place. Clothes thrown over a chair, empty cups on the desk, random things scattered everywhere.

Peter stared at the collection for a little too long.

“Um, sorry?”

He turned around.

Ned.

Peter’s entire brain stopped working.

“Uh—um, I like your Star Wars collection.”

You fucking dumbass.

Ned looked at the set. Then back at Peter.

“Thanks?”

Peter nodded.

“Yeah.”

A pause.

He needed to say something else. Anything else.

Instead, he gestured toward the shelves.

“This is… a lot of Lego.”

Ned laughed, glancing around the room.

“Yeah. My roommates say it’s a problem.”

Peter smiled awkwardly.

“Yeah. I can see why.”

So this was where you lived. You, Ned, and MJ. Three of you.

Peter’s eyes moved around the room again.

It was supposed to be four.

For a second, he could almost picture himself here. His backpack thrown somewhere in the corner, his own Lego sets mixed in with Ned’s, all four of you arguing over something stupid while music played in the background.

But that wasn’t his life anymore.

Ned looked at him expectantly, and Peter realized he’d gone completely silent.

“What’s your name?”

Peter’s stomach dropped.

Don’t say Peter Parker.

He couldn’t risk Spider-Man’s identity, even if Ned had no idea who he was.

His brain scrambled for the first name that came to him.

“Uhh—”

He hesitated.

“Lucas.”

Ned raised an eyebrow.

“Lucas?”

Peter nodded quickly.

“Yeah.”

“Cool.”

Peter took another sip of his drink, trying to act like he’d just introduced himself normally instead of inventing an entirely new identity in front of his best friend.

“Nice to meet you, Lucas.”

“Yeah,” Peter said quietly. “You too.”

And somehow, hearing Ned say nice to meet you hurt more than Peter expected.

“Ned—”

Peter’s head snapped toward the doorway.

You walked in.

His entire body went still. For a second, the noise from the party seemed to disappear completely—the music, the people shouting from the hallway, the laughter coming from the living room—all of it faded into the background as Peter looked at you. 

You were wearing a small smile, clearly looking for Ned, until your eyes landed on him. The smile didn’t disappear, but your expression changed slightly as your eyes scanned him for a second too long, like you were trying to place him somewhere in your memory.

You didn’t recognize him. How could you?

Peter forced himself to breathe.

“Hey,” you said, looking between him and Ned. “Who’s this?”

Ned turned toward you. “This is Lucas. I just met him. He was admiring my Star Wars collection.”

Peter almost winced at the name. Lucas. Right. That was him now.

You looked back at Peter and gave him a polite smile. “Hi, Lucas.”

Peter swallowed. “Hi.”

God, even your voice sounded the same. He wanted to say your name. He wanted to hear himself say it again, just once, the way he used to. He wanted to tell you that he knew you, that he knew your favorite flowers and the way you took your coffee and the stupid little face you made whenever you were trying to remember something. He wanted to tell you that he’d spent four years missing you.

Instead, he took another sip from the red cup, suddenly very interested in whatever was inside it.

Ned pointed toward you. “This is Y/N.”

Peter nearly laughed.

I know.

He knew everything.

Or he used to.

“Nice to meet you, Lucas,” you said warmly.

I’m Peter.

The words were right there. He wanted to correct himself so badly. I’m Peter.

He almost said it, his lips parting before he stopped himself. Because what would happen if you knew? You’d probably just look at him the same way you’d been looking at him all night, like some random guy at a party. But Peter knew better than to take that chance.

So he forced a small smile instead. “Nice to meet you too.”

The words felt wrong coming out of his mouth.

You smiled again, completely unaware that Peter Parker was standing right in front of you, desperately trying not to tell you who he was.

And somehow, that hurt more than anything else.

A few minutes later, Peter was still standing in the same room, pretending to listen to whatever Ned was saying about one of his LEGO sets when his eyes drifted across the apartment again. He stopped when he saw you near the kitchen, talking to some guy he didn’t recognize. Peter immediately disliked him, which was ridiculous because he had absolutely no reason to. 

The guy was leaning against the counter, smiling at something you said, and you were smiling back—not the polite smile you’d given Peter earlier, but a real one, your eyes brighter as you looked at him. Then the guy said something Peter couldn’t hear and you laughed, leaning a little closer. Peter’s jaw tightened. Okay. Fine. It didn’t mean anything. You were allowed to talk to people. You were allowed to flirt with people. You were allowed to have a life. You’d spent the last four years living it without him.

He took another sip of his drink, even though it tasted awful. Maybe the guy was just a friend. Maybe they had known each other for years. Maybe they weren’t flirting at all. Peter kept telling himself that until the guy leaned closer and you didn’t move away. His stomach dropped. Right. Of course. Why wouldn’t you have someone? You’d been at Oxford, you’d met people, gone out, made memories Peter knew nothing about. 

Maybe there had been someone before this guy. Maybe there were dozens of people Peter didn’t know about. And the worst part was that he had no right to care. You weren’t his girlfriend. You weren’t even his friend anymore. You didn’t even know his real name.

Peter looked down at the red cup in his hand. Lucas. He hated that name now. He set the cup down and quietly said, “I should go.”

Ned looked over. “Already?”

“Yeah. I’ve, uh… got stuff.”

“At this hour?”

Peter shrugged, glancing toward the kitchen one last time before looking away. “Very important stuff.”

Ned laughed. “Fair.”

Peter forced a small smile and slipped out of the apartment before he could make himself feel any worse. He didn’t notice you watching him leave.

You did.

A few seconds later, you excused yourself from the conversation and followed him outside. You found him standing near the entrance, looking up at the rain.

“Lucas?”

Peter turned around.

You stood in the doorway, arms crossed against the cold.

“You leaving already?”

“Yeah.”

You looked at him for a second, almost like you were trying to figure him out. “You barely even stayed.”

Peter shrugged. “I’m not really a party person.”

You smiled. “Neither am I, honestly.”

He looked at you.

For a second, neither of you said anything.

Then you nodded toward the street. “Maybe we should hang out sometime when it’s not… this.”

Peter blinked.

“Hang out?”

“Yeah.” You smiled. “You seem nice. And I feel like I barely got to talk to you.”

Peter’s heart did something stupid.

He wanted to say yes immediately.

He wanted to say I’ve been waiting four years to talk to you.

Instead, he shoved his hands into his pockets.

“Yeah. I guess.”

You smiled wider.

“I work at a flower shop in Queens, by the way. You know, if you ever want to stop by.”

Peter almost laughed.

He knew. He knew exactly which flower shop.

“I might.”

“Cool.”

“Cool.”

Another awkward pause.

Peter looked toward the street.

“I should go.”

You nodded. “Okay. See you around, Lucas.”

“Yeah. See you.”

He turned before you could see the way his face changed.

The second he was far enough away, Peter ducked into a dark alley and immediately fired a web toward the nearest building.

Then he swung.

Without the mask.

He knew it was stupid. Risky. Anyone could see his face. One clear photo, one person with a good camera, and Spider-Man’s secret could be gone. He knew all of that.

He didn’t care.

Tonight, Peter didn’t have the energy to care.

The rain was coming down harder now, soaking through his clothes as he swung between the buildings. Usually, the city at night helped. The movement, the cold air, the feeling of being needed—it all gave him something to focus on.

Tonight, nothing helped.

Eventually, he landed on the edge of an empty rooftop and sat down, pulling the mask off again as the rain hit his face. He stared out over the city, thinking about the way you’d smiled at that guy, the way you’d looked at Peter when you’d first walked into the room, and the way you’d just asked him to hang out again.

You wanted to see him again. Just not Peter.

You wanted to see Lucas.

Peter laughed quietly, but there was nothing funny about it.

He’d spent years telling himself that you deserved a normal life, that staying away from you was the best way to keep you safe, and now that you were actually living one, he couldn’t stand watching it. Maybe that was exactly what he’d been afraid of. You had Oxford. You had Ned and MJ. You had friends, a life, memories Peter didn’t know about, and maybe now someone else too.

And Peter had a mask, an empty apartment, and a fake name.

Peter wiped his face, even though there was no point with the rain falling this hard, and shook his head.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Good job, Parker.”

For once, he didn’t feel like Spider-Man.

He just felt like the idiot who had followed the girl he loved to a party, lied about his own name, watched her flirt with another guy, and then ran away before she ever had the chance to find out who he really was.

And somehow, despite all of that, you had still asked him to come back.

Peter actually showed up.

He stood outside the flower shop in Queens for almost five minutes before finally forcing himself through the door. He’d spent the entire morning telling himself he wasn’t going to come, then the entire afternoon convincing himself that if he didn’t, he’d regret it. By the time he finally got there, he’d already come up with at least twenty different reasons why this was either the best or worst idea he’d ever had.

The bell above the door rang as he stepped inside.

You looked up from behind the counter, and your face immediately lit up.

“Lucas.”

Peter’s heart skipped.

You remembered him. wWAt least as Lucas.

“Hey.”

He walked closer, his hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket, trying not to look as nervous as he felt.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d actually come.”

“Yeah, well…” Peter glanced around the shop. “You said I should.”

“I did.” You smiled, looking down at the time on the register. “My shift ends in, like, five minutes. We could go to the park or something?”

Peter froze.

The park.

For a second, he wasn’t in the flower shop anymore.

He was five years younger, standing in almost the exact same situation, listening to you nervously suggest the same thing because neither of you had any idea what you were doing. It had been your first attempt at something that was supposed to be a date, even though neither of you had been brave enough to actually call it that. You’d both been awkward, he’d been painfully nervous, and somehow you’d still ended up having one of the best afternoons together.

And now you were offering it again. Like none of those years had happened.

Peter blinked, forcing himself back into the present.

“Yeah,” he said, a little too quickly. “Sure. Absolutely.”

You smiled.

“Okay. Give me five minutes.”

Peter nodded, watching you turn back toward the counter.

He couldn’t help the small smile that appeared on his face.

Five years ago, he would’ve done anything to get another chance at that day. He just never imagined he’d get one like this.

The park wasn’t far from the flower shop, so you walked there together. It was pretty awkward at first, not painfully so, but enough that Peter kept wondering if you were regretting asking him to come. In the end, you didn’t know each other. Not really. You knew his name—or at least the fake one he’d given you—and that he’d somehow ended up at your party, but that was about it.

“So… you’re from there? I mean, Queens?” you asked, glancing over at him.

“Yeah. I actually walk around your flower shop daily. But I was never there.”

Liar.

Peter went there every week. Every Monday, usually. He’d been buying flowers for May there for years, long before he’d ever seen you working behind the counter.

“Shame,” you laughed. “We’ve got the best lilies.”

Peter smiled. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. They’re my favorite.”

He already knew that. He’d watched you choose them that Monday, standing in the exact same shop he’d been visiting for years.

Before he could say anything, you suddenly looked at him with a confused expression. “Wait. If you’re from Queens, why were you at my party?”

Fuck. Say something, idiot.

His brain immediately went through every possible answer. I followed you home. Absolutely not. I saw you at the flower shop and followed you to the subway. Even worse. I got on the same train because I wanted to know where you lived. He’d never recover from that one.

“I was just visiting a friend from there,” he said quickly. “And when I was walking home, I heard the music and…” He shrugged, trying to make it sound casual. “I figured I’d check it out.”

You looked at him for a second, and Peter could practically hear his own heartbeat. Then you nodded.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s actually pretty random.”

Peter gave a small laugh. “Yeah. I guess it was.”

You smiled and kept walking, apparently satisfied with the answer. Peter let out a quiet breath of relief and looked ahead, trying not to think about how close he’d just come to exposing himself.

Peter broke the silence after a few minutes.

“So, are you studying something?”

Was that too suspicious?

He immediately regretted asking. He knew you had graduated from Oxford. He’d known for months. He’d seen Ned’s post. He’d replayed it more times than he wanted to admit. You laughed and shook your head. “No, no, no. Not anymore. I graduated from Oxford like a month ago.”

Peter nodded like this was brand-new information.

“Oh. That’s… impressive.”

You smiled. “Thanks. Now it’s time for adult life.”

“Sounds terrifying.”

“Yup. It is.”

You laughed, kicking a small stone out of your way as you walked. “I just miss being in high school with MJ and Ned. It was the best and strangest time of my life.”

Peter’s chest tightened.

Right.

As if he hadn’t been there too.

He’d been there for homecoming. He’d been there for your trip to Europe. Prague, when he’d finally told you the truth about being Spider-Man even though you’d already known. Venice, where everything had felt so normal for a little while. All those stupid little moments that Peter had carried with him for four years because they were some of the only pieces of his old life he had left.

But for you, he wasn’t there.

That was the part Peter still couldn’t wrap his head around. You remembered the places. You remembered the people. You remembered the feelings. You remembered being young and stupid and happy with MJ and Ned.

But there was no Peter.

He wondered what happened to the memories that included him.

Were they simply gone?

Was there just an empty space where he used to be?

Maybe you remembered standing beside someone during homecoming but couldn’t remember his face. Maybe there were moments that felt strangely familiar for no reason, little flashes of déjà vu you couldn’t explain. Maybe you’d walk past somewhere in Queens and feel like you were forgetting something, like there was supposed to be another person beside you but you had no idea who.

Peter looked at you as you continued talking, completely unaware of the questions running through his head.

When you thought about Prague, did you remember standing there with someone and talking about Spider-Man? Did you remember the way the conversation had gone? Did you remember looking at him when he’d finally told you the truth?

Or had the entire thing simply disappeared?

Had he disappeared?

Peter swallowed and looked ahead.

Maybe that was the worst part.

He didn’t know whether there was truly nothing left of him in your memories or whether some tiny piece was still there, buried somewhere you couldn’t reach.

You glanced over at him after a few seconds, your smile fading into a curious expression. “You’re so quiet.”

Peter looked at you. “Am I?”

“Yeah.” You laughed softly. “Like, really quiet. I feel like I’ve been talking this whole time.”

“Oh.” Peter looked down, suddenly a little embarrassed. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

“It’s okay, hope I’m not annoyin—”

“No.” Peter cut you off before you could even finish. “No. Never. It’s… exactly the opposite. I like when you talk.”

The words were out before he could stop them.

Peter immediately regretted them.

Was that too weird to say? You’d known him for, what, two weeks? Less, technically. He was supposed to be Lucas, some guy you’d met at a party. A guy you barely knew. Telling you that he liked listening to you probably wasn’t exactly normal.

Oh, God.

Peter watched your expression change. You were studying him now, your eyes moving over his face like you were trying to find something you couldn’t quite name.

Then you shook your head with a small laugh.

“Sorry. I just had this weird feeling like this happened before.”

Peter went completely still.

“Stupid déjà vu,” you added, laughing like it was nothing.

Peter had no words. Everything died in his throat immediately.

It had happened before. You’d said almost the same thing years ago. You’d sat beside him, talked to him for hours, and he’d listened because he could’ve listened to you forever. You just didn’t remember any of it now.

Peter swallowed and looked away before you could see how much that had affected him.

You seemed to think nothing of it, though. After a moment, you continued, “Y’know, I hope this isn’t too personal or whatever. I just have the urge to say it to someone.”

You walked over to a nearby bench and sat down, leaving enough space for him beside you. Peter followed, sitting next to you and keeping his hands together between his knees.

“Since I came back to New York, I feel like I’m missing something.” You looked down at your hands. “I don’t know what, though. I can’t really place it. I just… feel like something is missing.”

Peter stared at the ground.

His chest felt painfully tight.

What was he supposed to say?

It’s me.

The thought came instantly.

I’m what’s missing.

But what if it wasn’t him?

What if you were talking about something from Oxford? Someone you’d met there. A friend you’d lost touch with. A life you’d left behind. Something Peter knew absolutely nothing about.

He couldn’t just assume it was him. He couldn’t make your memories about himself when you didn’t even know who he was.

So Peter stayed quiet for a moment, trying to find the safest thing to say.

“Yeah,” he finally said softly. “I know that feeling.”

You looked over at him.

Peter kept his eyes on the street ahead. Because he really did know that feeling. 

You looked at him for a second, almost like you were waiting for him to say more. Peter didn’t. The silence started to feel a little too heavy, especially after everything you’d just admitted, so you suddenly shook your head and laughed under your breath.

“Okay. Wow. Look at us.”

Peter glanced at you. “Hmm?”

“Two complete strangers sitting on a bench talking about how empty our lives feel.”

Peter let out a small laugh. “Yeah. That’s… probably not the best first hangout.”

“Definitely not.” You smiled, nudging his shoulder lightly with yours. “Okay, enough. We’re not allowed to be depressed anymore.”

Peter smiled. “Deal.”

“Good.”

You leaned back against the bench and looked up at the sky.

“So. New rule.”

“What rule?”

“No more sad conversations.”

“For how long?”

“Until at least tomorrow.”

Peter laughed. “That’s very generous.”

“I know.” You turned toward him with a smile. “Now tell me something embarrassing.”

“Something embarrassing?”

“Yeah.”

Peter immediately shook his head, laughing as he tried to think of something. His mind went through the last four years, but there wasn’t exactly a long list of funny stories to choose from. Most of his life had been filled with loneliness, patrols, bad sleep, and trying to survive one day at a time.

“Wow,” you said, watching him struggle. “Your life is really boring, isn’t it?”

Peter looked at you, offended. “It’s not boring.”

“Then prove it.”

He thought for another second.

“I once had to steal some girl’s Juicy Couture pants and a top because I woke up on the street wearing only my underwear.”

You stared at him.

Peter continued, already laughing at how ridiculous it sounded. “And when I crawled into my apartment building’s laundry room, there was some guy there, so I panicked.”

Your mouth fell open before you started laughing.

“Why did you wake up on the street?”

To be honest, Peter didn’t really remember. Probably tough night. 

You stared at him.

“Party.”

Your laughter immediately stopped.

“Wait. You said you’re not a party person.”

Peter pointed at you. “Exactly. This is the reason.”

You burst out laughing again, covering your mouth as Peter smiled despite himself.

“Then I met her in the elevator,” he added.

That was it. You completely lost it.

You leaned forward, laughing so hard you had to cover your face, and Peter couldn’t stop smiling as he watched you. He’d missed that laugh. More than he’d ever admitted to himself. He’d spent four years remembering the sound of it, remembering the stupid little things that used to make you laugh until you couldn’t breathe.

And now he was sitting beside you, making you laugh again.

You didn’t remember why he knew how but Peter did.

Peter was out on patrol when his phone buzzed with an alert.

CRIME DETECTED: MULTIPLE HOSTILES—BANK ROBBERY.

He was already moving before he even finished reading it. The bank wasn’t far, and Peter swung between the buildings, following the location on his phone. But then his spider-sense suddenly went off.

Someone was approaching the bank.

Peter looked down. You.

His stomach dropped.

“No. No, no, no.”

Of course. Of all the people in New York, it had to be you.

For a second, Peter couldn’t understand how his spider-sense had picked you out from so high above. There were hundreds of people moving through the streets below, cars, sirens, voices, everything blending together into one giant mess of New York noise. Yet somehow, the second you came close, he knew it was you. Maybe after years of knowing you, his brain simply recognized you before he even had time to think about it.

You were walking toward the bank, completely unaware of what was happening inside.

Peter didn’t even think.

He changed direction immediately, swinging lower and faster until he was directly above you.

You barely had time to look up.

“What the—”

A red-and-blue blur dropped from the sky and scooped you straight off the sidewalk.

You screamed.

Peter wrapped one arm securely around you while his other hand shot a web toward the nearest building. He swung upward, carrying you effortlessly as you clung to him in complete panic.

“WHAT THE FUCK?!”

“Sorry!”

“SPIDER-MAN?!”

“Yeah, hi!”

He fired another web and launched himself higher, away from the streets and toward one of the tallest buildings nearby.

You had absolutely no idea what was happening. You were terrified by the height, screaming and clinging to him, desperately hoping he wouldn’t drop you. Peter could feel how tightly you were holding onto him, and despite everything, some stupid part of him wanted to stay like this. He’d spent years missing the feeling of having you close to him, and now you were literally in his arms again.

Except you were terrified.

Probably not the romantic reunion he’d imagined.

Peter landed on the rooftop and carefully set you down.

You immediately stumbled away from him, breathing heavily.

“What the hell are you doing?!”

“Okay, listen—”

“No, no, no! You listen!” you snapped, still clearly shaken. “Did you just kidnap me?!”

“I didn’t kidnap you!” Peter quickly raised his hands. “You were going toward that bank! There’s literally a robbery happening. Guys with guns!”

You stopped.

Your expression changed as you looked at him.

“There’s a robbery?”

“Yes. You haven’t seen all the police cars?!”

You glanced toward the streets below, then back at him, your eyebrows pulling together.

“How did you know I was going there?”

Peter froze.

Right. How did he know?

He could hardly tell you he’d seen you from half a mile away because his spider-sense had apparently decided to recognize you specifically.

“Uh…”

He desperately searched for an answer.

“Hard to explain.”

You stared at him.

“That is not an answer.”

“I know.”

“Spider-Man—”

“Just stay here, please.” Peter gestured toward the rooftop you were both standing on. “I’ll come back for you.”

You looked at him like he was completely insane.

“Wait here?”

“Yes.”

“You just dropped me on the highest building in Manhattan!”

“It’s safer than the bank!”

“That is debatable!”

Peter almost laughed. Almost. But when he looked at you, he realized you weren’t joking. You were genuinely terrified, still breathing a little too quickly as you kept glancing toward the edge of the roof.

He immediately felt bad. You hated heights.

He remembered the way you used to grab onto his arm whenever he took you somewhere high, the way you’d complain about him choosing rooftops as if there were perfectly normal places to hang out. He remembered pretending it was funny just to see you roll your eyes at him.

Peter swallowed.

“Just stay away from the edge, okay?” he said more gently. “I’ll be back.”

You stared at him, still confused and clearly unhappy with the situation.

“You better.”

Peter nodded.

“I will.”

He took a step backward toward the edge of the roof, already preparing to jump.

“Wait—”

He stopped.

You looked at him.

For a second, Peter wondered if you were going to ask him something. Maybe how long he’d be gone. Maybe how you were supposed to get down. Maybe you were finally going to demand an explanation for how he’d known you were coming.

Instead, you just looked terrified.

Peter gave you a small nod.

“Stay here.”

Then he jumped.

He shot a web toward the next building and swung away, the wind immediately drowning out the rest of the noise.

But just before he disappeared completely, he heard your voice behind him.

“I wanna go home!”

Peter winced.

Yeah.

He definitely felt bad now.

It took way longer than it should have. Peter finished the job as quickly as he could, but for you, sitting alone on that rooftop with nowhere to go, it probably felt like entire centuries. By the time he finally swung back, the sun was already starting to disappear behind the buildings, leaving the sky orange and pink above the city. 

Peter landed on the rooftop and immediately looked around for you, expecting to find you pacing, yelling at him, or maybe desperately trying to figure out how to get downstairs. Instead, you were sitting on the floor, leaning against some random pipe with your knees pulled tightly to your chest, staring at nothing. You looked deep in thought, so deep that you didn’t even react when he landed.

“Are you okay?!” Peter called, his voice coming out more worried than he intended. He immediately tried to hide it. He was Spider-Man right now. Spider-Man was supposed to be calm, confident, in control. He couldn’t sound like some worried idiot who’d just spent the entire robbery thinking about whether you were okay.

“Don’t!”

You suddenly stood up way too fast, almost losing your balance for a second. You turned your back to him, refusing to look at him.

Peter froze.

Something was going on.

He didn’t move, just watched you carefully as the silence stretched between you. You stood there with your back toward him, shoulders tense, like you were trying to figure out how to put something into words. Peter’s heart started beating harder. He’d dealt with armed criminals, supervillains, aliens, monsters, and things he still didn’t fully understand. Somehow, standing on a rooftop with you refusing to look at him was making him more nervous than any of them.

Finally, you turned around.

Your eyes immediately found his mask.

Peter’s stomach dropped.

“We knew each other,” you said quietly.

Everything inside him stopped.

You swallowed, still staring at him like you were trying to see the person underneath the mask.

“Am I right?”

Peter’s mind went completely blank.

There was no way.

There was absolutely no way you could know.

For almost half of a decade, he’d watched you live without him. You remembered Ned. You remembered MJ. You remembered high school, Europe, homecoming, Prague, Venice. You remembered all the places where Peter had once existed beside you, but somehow, when you talked about those memories, there was never a Peter in them. 

And now you were standing in front of him, looking at Spider-Man like you were trying to find someone you’d lost.

Peter forced himself to breathe. He couldn’t let you see how badly that question had affected him. He couldn’t just tell you. Not yet. Maybe you were confused. Maybe you’d seen Spider-Man before and something about him reminded you of someone else. Maybe your brain was trying to fill in a blank that wasn’t supposed to be filled.

“Why would you think that?” he finally asked, forcing his voice to sound casual. He tried to play it cool, like you’d simply mistaken him for someone else, like his heart wasn’t practically trying to break out of his chest.

You started shaking your head, almost frantically, like you were trying to make sense of your own thoughts before they disappeared again. “Because this isn’t the first time I’ve seen you. I mean—” You stopped and shook your head again, looking genuinely frustrated. “Spider-Man.” 

Peter’s stomach tightened. He didn’t say anything, afraid that even one word might make you stop talking. “I sat on this damn roof for like two hours,” you continued, gesturing around you. “And I started realizing things. You saved me and my friends in high school. More than once.”

Peter’s heart dropped.

Damn.

Did that mean you remembered Spider-Man being there the entire time? The whole time you’d been talking about high school, the spell had somehow left Spider-Man in your memories while completely removing Peter from them.

How did that even work?

Peter didn’t know whether to feel relieved or completely devastated.

Because if you remembered Spider-Man, then you remembered him without knowing it was him. You remembered the mask. Just not the boy underneath it.

“Washington Monument,” you continued, counting them off on your fingers. “Prague. Venice. London.” You paused, looking at him more carefully. “Once is a coincidence. Maybe twice. But four times?”

Peter’s throat felt dry.

“And you saved me from that car weeks ago,” you added.

He stared at you through the mask.

You remembered. Not him.

But Spider-Man.

All those moments he’d assumed were gone were still somewhere in your head. You remembered being saved. You remembered the feeling of Spider-Man being there, even if you had no idea that the person behind the mask had been the same boy you’d once loved.

Peter swallowed hard. But before he could say anything, you spoke again, your hands moving as you tried to explain something you clearly couldn’t quite put into words.

“And I can’t help myself, but you sound so familiar. You feel so familiar.”

Silence fell over the rooftop again.

Peter didn’t know what to do with that.

He’d imagined hearing you say something like that. He’d imagined you remembering his voice, remembering the way he talked, maybe remembering some tiny piece of him. But now that it was actually happening, he couldn’t move.

You took a small step closer.

“Take off your mask. I think I deserve to know who saved me.”

Peter’s heart stopped.

“I can’t do that—”

“Take. Off. Your. Mask.”

Your voice was firmer this time, but there was something underneath it. Almost pleading. You weren’t trying to threaten him. You were looking for an answer, desperately trying to understand why this stranger felt so familiar.

“Please.”

Peter stared at you.

He should say no. He knew he should. The mask was the only thing keeping this simple. As long as it was on, he was Spider-Man. He could be the person you remembered without having to deal with the fact that the person underneath it was the one you had forgotten.

But maybe…

Maybe seeing his face would bring something back. Maybe you’d look at him and suddenly remember. Or maybe you’d just see Lucas.

Maybe you’d stare at his face and feel absolutely nothing, and Peter would have to watch the realization settle in that he really was just some stranger you’d met a few weeks ago.

Either way, he couldn’t keep lying to you while you stood there begging for answers.

Peter slowly reached up.

His fingers caught the edge of the mask.

For a second, he hesitated.

Then he pulled it off.

The cool evening air hit his face immediately, and Peter looked at you for the first time without anything between you.

He didn’t say a word. He just stood there, waiting.

“You—Lucas?”

That was all you managed to say as you took a small step back.

Peter’s heart sank. Lucas.

His face didn’t mean anything to you. Not really. Whatever you had felt when you looked at Spider-Man, whatever strange sense of familiarity had been pulling at you, apparently disappeared the second you saw the face underneath the mask. To you, he was still Lucas. Just Lucas.

“Look, Y/N. I can explain.”

Peter finally spoke, but the words came out rushed and messy. He didn’t know where to start, and suddenly four years of silence felt impossible to fit into one conversation.

“We—we—we were together, okay?” He swallowed. “I mean, not really. Not officially, I guess, but… we loved each other. At least, I think we did. And I hope you did too.”

You just stared at him.

Peter kept going because stopping felt even worse.

“We went to high school together. With MJ and Ned. You knew me. I knew you. We were… us.” He shook his head, trying to get the words out properly. “And I know this sounds completely insane, but something bad happened, okay? I had to save the world, and the only way to do it was to make everyone forget me.”

Your eyebrows pulled together.

Peter’s voice became quieter.

“Everyone I ever loved forgot me.”

“What?” you finally said.

You looked genuinely confused now.

Peter almost laughed, but there was nothing funny about it. Of course you thought he was insane. If someone had walked up to him and told him this story, he would’ve thought the exact same thing.

“I know how it sounds,” he whispered. “I know.”

He looked down for a second, trying to breathe through the tightness in his chest before looking back at you.

“And the truth is, I really tried to move on. I tried to live my life without you. I thought maybe that was what I was supposed to do. You were supposed to forget me, and I was supposed to let you.” His voice cracked slightly. “But I just can’t.”

He swallowed hard.

“I love you.”

The words finally came out.

“I always did. And you have no idea how mad I’m at myself for never telling you.”

Peter’s eyes burned, and he quickly looked away, but it was too late. He could feel the tears slowly making their way down his face.

Silence.

You didn’t move. You didn’t say anything. Peter almost wished you would yell at him. Tell him he was crazy. Tell him to leave.

Anything would have been easier than watching you stare at him like you were trying to understand how the hell this stranger could possibly be telling you that he loved you.

Finally, you spoke.

“I don’t know what to say.”

Your voice was quiet.

“I—I really try to remember. I swear I do.” You shook your head, looking frustrated with yourself. “But I just can’t.”

Peter’s heart broke a little more.

“It’s like someone actually erased all my memories,” you continued. “Like there’s supposed to be something there, but there isn’t.”

You looked at him again.

“And I can see why the girl I once was loved you, okay?”

Peter’s breath caught.

“But…” You paused, struggling to find the right words. “That’s not me.”

He looked down.

“I mean, I don’t know you. Not the way you know me.” You gave a small, helpless shrug. “But I bet we were fun.”

Peter let out a tiny, broken laugh, but his eyes stayed fixed on your face. He was trying to read your expression, trying to figure out what you were thinking before you even said it. There was still so much he wanted to tell you, so many things he wanted to explain properly, but suddenly you looked at him differently. Your eyes narrowed slightly, like another piece of the puzzle had finally clicked into place.

“Your name isn’t Lucas, right?”

Peter’s stomach dropped. He slowly shook his head.

“No.”

You stared at him, and Peter could practically see your thoughts catching up with everything he’d just told you. The fake name, the party, the flower shop, the fact that he’d somehow known where you were going, everything he’d lied about because he’d been too scared to tell you the truth.

“Does that mean you lied to me—”

You took another step backward.

Peter’s eyes immediately dropped toward your feet.

“Wait—”

Your heel caught the edge of the rooftop.

Everything happened at once.

Your eyes widened as your balance disappeared, and before Peter could even think, you were falling backward.

“Y/N!”

Peter jumped.

There wasn’t even a second of hesitation. His body moved before his brain could process what was happening, launching itself over the edge after you. The city rushed past him in a blur, the wind hitting his face as he reached for you, but you were already several feet below him.

“Shit, shit—”

His web shot from his wrist and attached to the side of the building, but it wasn’t enough. You were still falling too fast.

Another web.

This one caught you around the waist.

Your body jerked violently as the web pulled you back, and Peter immediately swung after you, reaching out and grabbing you before the momentum could throw you away. He wrapped both arms around you, pulling you tightly against his chest.

“Got you,” he breathed, barely able to get the words out. “I’ve got you.”

But he hadn’t stopped the fall completely.

The swing carried both of you toward the building, and Peter twisted his body at the last possible second, putting himself between you and the ground. He tried to absorb as much of the impact as he could, but everything happened too fast.

You hit the pavement.

Your head struck the ground before Peter could fully protect you.

Peter landed beside you and immediately rolled onto his knees.

“Y/N?”

You didn’t move.

His heart stopped.

“No, no, no.”

He crawled toward you, his hands already shaking as he carefully turned your face toward him. For a second, Peter couldn’t breathe. All he could see was you lying completely still, your eyes closed, and the image brought back every terrible memory he’d spent years trying not to think about.

“Hey.” His voice cracked. “Hey, look at me.”

Nothing.

Peter swallowed hard, his eyes burning as he gently touched your cheek.

“Y/N, come on.”

Still nothing.

His breathing became faster, panic taking over completely. He didn’t care that his mask was still somewhere on the rooftop. He didn’t care who might see him. He didn’t care about Spider-Man, the bank robbery, or anything else that had happened tonight.

You were all he could see.

“Please wake up.”

His hand moved carefully to the side of your head, terrified of hurting you but even more terrified of doing nothing. He stared at your face, searching for any sign that you were okay.

For four years, Peter had learned how to live with losing you.

He’d convinced himself that maybe this was just how his life was supposed to be now. He could survive knowing you didn’t remember him. He could watch you live without him. He could even pretend that seeing you happy was enough.

But this?

He couldn’t do this again.

Not after finally finding you.

“Please,” he whispered, his voice breaking completely. “I just got you back.”

“Somebody help, please!” He cried out. 

It had been weeks.

You were still in the hospital, still in a coma. That night, Peter—Spider-Man—had rushed you there himself, still wearing his mask, refusing to leave until the doctors took you from his arms. They hadn’t told him much. They couldn’t. As far as they were concerned, he was just some masked stranger who had brought an unconscious girl into the emergency room and disappeared before anyone could ask too many questions. The only thing Peter managed to find out was that you’d suffered severe traumatic brain injuries, and that they had left you in a coma.

So he waited.

He visited whenever he could, usually late at night when the hospital was quieter. Sometimes he’d come straight from patrol, still wearing part of the suit underneath his hoodie, and sometimes he’d sit beside your bed in normal clothes, looking like any other exhausted twenty-something who had no idea what to do with himself. He always brought flowers. Lilies most of the time, because he’d heard you say they were your favorite. He bought them from your own flower shop in Queens, standing there awkwardly while someone else rang him up, because he couldn’t bring himself to explain why he kept buying flowers for a girl who worked there but couldn’t even remember him.

They reminded him of May, too. Maybe that was why he kept doing it. Flowers were one of the few things Peter still knew how to give people when he didn’t know what else to say. He’d spent years bringing them to May’s grave, talking to a piece of stone because it was easier than admitting how lonely he was. Now he brought them to you and placed them carefully beside your bed, hoping that somehow, somewhere, you could still smell them.

He would sit there for hours. Sometimes he’d talk. Sometimes he’d just stare at you.

He’d tell you about stupid things that happened during patrol, complain about the weather, tell you his random thoughts, even though he had no idea if any of it could reach you. Other nights, he’d sit in complete silence with his hand resting beside yours, too afraid to touch you without knowing if you’d want him to.

And every time he looked at you, the same thought came back.

This is my fault.

Maybe technically it wasn’t. He hadn’t known you’d fall. He hadn’t pushed you. He’d tried to save you. But if he’d never followed you in the first place, you wouldn’t have been on that rooftop. If he’d never lied to you, you wouldn’t have been backing away from him. If he’d just left you alone after seeing you again, maybe you’d still be walking around New York, laughing with MJ and Ned, living the life you’d built without him.

Instead, you were lying in a hospital bed.

Peter couldn’t bear another loss.

Not another person he loved disappearing from his life. Especially not you.

Peter had no idea how long he’d been sitting there that night.

The hospital room was dark except for the small light above the bed and the glow coming through the blinds from the city outside. He was slouched in the chair beside you, arms crossed over his chest, his head slowly dropping forward every few minutes before he forced himself awake again. He’d told himself he was only going to stay for an hour. Maybe two. Then he’d go home, shower, sleep for a little while, and come back tomorrow.

He’d been saying that every night for weeks.

At some point, exhaustion finally started winning. Peter’s eyes closed, his head resting against the back of the chair as he sat beside you, still holding the stem of one of the lilies he’d brought earlier.

Then he heard something. Barely anything.

A quiet, rough sound.

“Peter.”

His eyes opened immediately.

Peter looked around the room, confused and still half asleep. For a second, he genuinely thought he’d dreamed it. He hadn’t slept properly in weeks. His brain had started doing weird things when he was exhausted, and hearing your voice was probably just another one of them.

He rubbed his eyes.

“Okay,” he whispered to himself. “I’m officially losing it.”

Then he heard it again.

“Peter.”

Peter froze.

His head snapped toward you.

Your eyes were open.

He couldn’t move.

You were staring at the ceiling at first, blinking slowly as you tried to focus, before your eyes finally shifted toward him. You looked exhausted and confused, your breathing shallow as you tried to understand where you were.

Peter stood so quickly that the chair scraped loudly against the floor.

“Y/N.”

His voice cracked, and he immediately cleared his throat, trying to pull himself together. “You’re awake.”

You looked at him.

For a second, neither of you said anything. Peter’s heart was already pounding, but then something in your expression changed. You stared at him like you were trying to focus on something just beyond his face, like you were putting pieces together that had been scattered somewhere in your mind.

“Peter?”

Peter stopped breathing.

There was no way.

He stared at you, completely frozen, afraid that if he moved, he’d wake up and realize this was just another dream.

You swallowed, your voice still weak and hoarse from weeks without speaking.

“You’re Peter Parker.”

You weakly pointed at him.

Peter’s eyes widened.

“Yes.” His voice came out almost immediately. “Yes, I’m Peter Parker.”

Your lips curved into the smallest smile.

“My Peter Parker.”

Peter just stared at you. What the fuck. His eyes immediately filled with tears again, and he shook his head quickly, almost like he needed to make sure he’d actually heard you.

“Yeah,” he whispered, a broken smile finally appearing on his face. “Yeah. I’m your Peter Parker.”

Peter saw the single tear that escaped from the corner of your eye and slowly rolled down your cheek. Something in his chest tightened at the sight. You looked overwhelmed, like you were trying to hold onto a hundred memories at once, and then you let out a shaky breath.

“I think I remember now,” you sobbed.

Peter’s eyes widened.

“Do you?”

“Yes.” You nodded weakly, another sob catching in your throat. “I do. Everything that happened in high school.”

For a second, Peter could only stare at you. Then it finally hit him that you weren’t saying it because you were confused or because you’d pieced together a story that wasn’t there. You actually remembered. The memories were yours again—the stupid ones, the good ones, the painful ones, all of them. He didn’t have to convince himself that this was happening or wonder if he’d imagined hearing you say his name.

This was real. You were really here. And you remembered him.

“Oh my God,” Peter whispered.

He reached for your hand carefully, almost like he was afraid you might disappear if he moved too quickly, and gently placed his hand over yours.

“I’m so sorry—”

“No. No, Y/N.” Peter immediately shook his head. “Don’t be sorry. There’s nothing to be sorry for.”

“But I—”

“No.” His voice cracked. “I should be the one apologizing. I shouldn’t have followed you. I should’ve just left you alone and let you live your life. I knew you didn’t remember me, and I still—”

“Just shut up,” you interrupted with a weak laugh.

Peter stopped. For a second, he just stared at you.

Then he laughed too, wiping quickly at his eyes.

“Yeah. Okay.”

You smiled faintly, still holding onto his hand. Peter looked down at your fingers intertwined with his, almost unable to believe he was touching you again without imagining it.

“I missed you so much, Y/N.”

Your smile trembled. “I missed you too.”

And Peter finally let himself believe it. You were back.

They say that when you’re close to death, your whole life passes in front of your eyes. Maybe that’s what happened to you.

Maybe that was why you remembered him.

“You came.”

Peter sighed in relief the second he saw you step through the rooftop door. He’d been sitting there for almost twenty minutes, staring out at the city and wondering if you’d changed your mind. After everything that had happened, he wouldn’t have blamed you.

“Of course I did.” You laughed softly as you walked toward him. “Sorry it took me that long. I mean, I’m no Spider-Man. I had to walk all the stairs.”

Peter laughed under his breath.

“Yeah. Sorry about that.”

“You should be.”

You walked over and sat down beside him, your shoulder brushing against his. Neither of you spoke for a moment. The city stretched out beneath you, glowing in the warm light of the setting sun. It was strangely peaceful up there, especially after everything you’d been through.

“So?”

Peter glanced at you.

“So.”

You smiled, looking at him.

“I mean, you were the one who wanted to talk to me.”

“Right.”

Peter rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly nervous.

“Yeah. I just… wanted to apologize.”

You groaned immediately. “Peter.”

“What?”

“I already told you. Stop apologizing. It wasn’t your fault.”

“I know, but—”

“No.” You turned toward him. “You didn’t make me fall. You tried to save me. You spent weeks sitting beside my hospital bed when you probably should’ve been sleeping. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Peter looked down at his hands.

“I still regret a lot of things.”

“Like what?”

He was quiet for a moment.

“Not telling you.”

Your expression softened.

Peter swallowed, looking out over the skyline instead of at you.

“I had so many chances. Back then, I kept telling myself there’d be more time. After high school. After the next thing. After I figured everything out. I thought I could tell you how I felt when everything was less complicated.”

He let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head.

“Then there wasn’t any more time.”

You reached for his hand.

Peter looked down at your fingers wrapping around his.

“I spent years wishing I’d just said it.”

You squeezed his hand.

“Peter…”

“I love you.”

The words came out quietly, but there was no hesitation this time.

“I loved you then. I love you now. I think I probably would’ve loved you even if you never remembered me.”

You stared at him for a second, your eyes filling with tears.

Then you leaned closer.

Peter barely had time to react before you kissed him.

He froze for half a second, almost like his brain couldn’t believe this was actually happening, before his hand gently moved to your cheek and he kissed you back. He waited for this moment for so long. He never really forgot the feeling of your lips on his. Because, how could he?

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t desperate. It was just familiar.

Like coming home.

When you finally pulled away, your foreheads stayed together, both of you smiling through the tears.

“I love you too,” you whispered.

Peter stayed quiet for a moment, still holding your hand as the last bit of sunlight disappeared behind the skyline. The city slowly lit up beneath you, thousands of windows glowing as the evening settled over New York, and somehow everything felt different now. It was the same city he’d spent four years swinging through alone, but somehow, sitting there with you beside him, it didn’t feel quite as lonely anymore.

You rested your head against his shoulder, and Peter looked down at you with a small smile. “You know how I told you I felt like I was missing something?”

Peter murmured in agreement, his thumb gently brushing over the back of your hand.

“The whole time,” you whispered, looking out at the city, “it was you.”

Peter’s smile slowly disappeared as his eyes filled with tears.

Because maybe that was the strangest part of all.

You had forgotten him. Completely. You had lived four years without knowing his name, without remembering his face, without even knowing there was supposed to be someone missing from your life. And still, somewhere inside you, you’d felt the empty space he had left behind.

You’d felt it without knowing what it was and somehow, after everything, you still found your way back to him.

© wersies 2026 : all works are my own. don’t repost, copy, translate my works on any platform. don’t fed my work into any type of ai.

notes4you : hey guys! my name is Klara! this is my first time posting a fic on here, so please be kind 😭 i left the cinema with willing and able playing in my airpods and a dream, okay? i literally created this blog just to post this fic, so i’m really excited (and a little nervous) to finally share it with you all. i’m sorry for the lack of action —this is more of a romance. i hope you’ll enjoy it tho!🫰🏻 also I have another fic planned so if you’re curious, you can stay around! 🩷

[aquaticmercy]

Emergency Contact

Summary : After dating for six months, Bucky is now your emergency contact. Yelena, your best friend, finds out the hard way.

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x New Avengers!reader (she/her) | Best friend! Yelena

Warnings/tags : Kinda Tower fic!!! Fluff with angst if you squint. Protective!Bucky x chaotic!reader, Reader is ex-red room and thinks of Yelena as a sister, established relationship, mild injury, mild concussion, alcohol concussion, tipsy reader, mentioned bar fight, reader beats up harassers, Bucky being down bad. Set after Thunderbolts (Let me know if I missed anything!)

Word count : 8.2k

Note : I love a platonic buddy cop Bucky and Yelena dynamic. Enjoy!

Yelena had been your emergency contact for as long as you had a life outside the Red Room.

It just made sense. Back when you just had started to be free, neither of you had exactly known how to be people in the ordinary way everyone else seemed to manage. You knew how to run on little sleep, how to disappear into crowds, how to take apart a weapon by touch alone. You knew how to lie without blinking, how to hide injuries beneath sleeves, how to make one fake passport stretch across three countries and four very bad decisions. You did not know how to list a dentist, or pick a primary care doctor, or fill out forms that asked for a “next of kin” as if your family was simple enough to write on a dotted line.

So you wrote Yelena.

You wrote her number.

You wrote her most recent address

Again and again and again, on medical forms, on paperwork, on apartment leases, on job applicants and anything that asked who should be contacted if something happened to you.

It had always been Yelena.

Once, a hospital called her at two in the morning after you dislocated a shoulder in a rooftop in Queens, and she had arrived in the ER in pajama pants, combat boots, and a face so flat with irritation it was almost comforting.

“You are lucky I love you, sestryonka,” she had said, watching a nurse snap your arm back into place.

“You are not much older than me,” you murmured under your breath, not even flinching. 

Another time, when you had been grazed by a bullet and insisted it was “basically nothing,” she had threatened to staple your mouth while a doctor stitched you up because, apparently, your pain scale was “made by idiots, for idiots.”

That was Yelena. She was not gentle, not exactly. But she was there for you. Every time a hospital called, she came.

She was your best friend and your sister in every way that mattered. You had not shared parents or a childhood in the traditional sense, not even in the sense that Natasha had been to her. Still, you had shared training rooms, handlers, bruises, and survival. You had shared the particular feeling of being made into weapons by the same machine and then escaping with pieces missing, only to decide, stubbornly and badly, that you were going to be normal people anyway.

Yelena had been your emergency contact because she was the person you trusted to be there.

She was also the person who understood, better than anyone, that your definition of an emergency was not normal.

“You do not have to stab every man who deserves it,” she had told you once, bailing you out of jail in the early hours of Saturday morning. The cops had let you off on self-defense later, which was true but Yelena found it pleasantly shocking, especially considering how bad the wound you left was. She had her suspicions: mostly that you must’ve tampered with the documents, but who was she to judge? 

“I don’t stab every man who deserves it.”

“No,” she said, dry as dust, “only because there are not enough hours in the day.”

Which was probably why, for years, she had answered the emergency calls with the patience of a saint who had accepted her role in your life as sister, accomplice, and getaway driver.

Then Bucky Barnes happened.

—

You and Bucky lived next to each other in the Tower because Valentina had decided the New Avengers needed a base, a schedule, and probably several court-mandated group therapy sessions.

Not just you two, really. All the new avengers, after the Void incident, got crammed into one still-in progress building with too much fragile glass, too many cameras, and far too many sharp objects for people who pretended they were “doing better.”

You noticed Bucky because it was impossible not to.

He was quiet, but not empty. He was always careful, and you always saw him against a wall. He was always watching doors, windows, reflections, and hands. He moved through life like a man who had learned the world could turn on him without warning.

You understood that.

Maybe he noticed you for the same reason.

You both had old ghosts in different rooms. You might have had different handlers, but they did the kind of damage.

The first kiss happened after a mission.

You had made it home. You had showered. You had told Yelena you were fine, which made her stare at you like you had insulted her intelligence. Then you went to the training room because your body was still buzzing with murderous adrenaline and there was nowhere else to put it.

You hit the bag until your knuckles ached.

That was when Bucky said your name.

You stopped and turned. He stood by the door in a black Henley and sinful grey sweats, hair loose, brows furrowed as if he understood.

“I’m fine,” you said, pretending your knuckles weren’t bleeding through the wraps.

His mouth curved up, but he was not really amused. “Yeah. I know that one.”

You looked away.

He came closer, giving you every chance to tell him to leave. 

You didn’t. 

You just stood there, breathing hard, throat tight.

Bucky stopped in front of you. Suddenly, the room felt smaller.

You told yourself it was because he was being a good leader. That was all.

He was checking on his team. Emulating Steve, maybe, in that painfully earnest way he did when he thought no one noticed. He was just making sure everyone made it back from the mission in one piece. 

That was what leaders did, right? They noticed when a member went too quiet. They followed them to the training room. They stood too close with that gentle, worried crease between their brows and made it almost impossible to breathe normally.

It was definitely not because he was getting closer to you.

Definitely not because, over the last few months, he had started caring about you in ways that felt too intense to be casual. He had stitched you up when Yelena hadn’t been around, sitting close enough that his knee touched yours while his fingers worked carefully over your skin. He had found you in the common room after a nightmare once, shaking in the dark with your knees tucked to your chest, and instead of asking too many questions, he had disappeared for two minutes and come back with one of his too-big hoodies. He had handed it to you without a word, then sat beside you until the sunrise turned the windows gold.

It was definitely not because you had almost kissed him three times in the past two weeks.

Not in the kitchen at two in the morning, when you had both reached for the same mug and ended up standing too close, his eyes dropping to your mouth before he looked away.

Not in the elevator after the Berlin mission, when the power had flickered and his metal hand had caught your waist on instinct, steadying you even though you didn’t need steadying at all.

Not in the hallway outside the med bay, when he had brushed blood from your cheek with his human thumb and froze afterward, like he had only just realized he was touching you.

No. This was not that, right? 

Bucky Barnes was merely being responsible. 

He was your teammate. Your leader, technically. He cared because he cared about everyone. That was all.

Except he was looking at you like you were not everyone.

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” he said.

That almost broke you. So, naturally, you tried to get mean about it. “I’m not pretending.”

Bucky’s eyes did not change. “Okay.”

You hated that. You hated his stupid patience, his awful gentleness, the way he didn’t push and somehow made you feel more transparent because of it. 

Anyone else would have argued. John or Ava would have told you to sit down. Alexei would have made some loud, affectionate declaration about strength and soup. Bob would’ve given you a self-help book and hoped it fixed you. Yelena would have stared at you until you confessed out of irritation alone.

But Bucky just stood there.

“I said I’m fine,” you snapped, turning away from him. “You can go back to bed.”

“I could.”

“Great.”

“I’m not going to,” he tilted his head. 

You let out a laugh, but there was no humor in it. “Of course you’re not.”

His brow furrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re doing the thing.”

“What thing?”

“The good man thing.” You gestured vaguely at him, at his stupid stance, the stupid caring voice, the stupid beautiful blue eyes that kept finding every crack in you no matter how hard you tried to cover them up with plaster and concrete. “The checking-on-the-team thing. You’ve done it. Congratulations. I’m checked on.”

Bucky’s teeth  tightened, just barely. “I’m not here because of that, and you know.”

That made your throat close, looking away too fast.

“Don’t,” you said.

His voice dropped to almost a whisper. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t say things like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you want to give me hope.”

The words left you before you could stop them.

Bucky could only stare at you, and for one terrifying second, you thought he would step back. You almost wanted him to; it would have been easier if he did. It would’ve been easier if he proved you right, if he retreated into duty and all the safe, noble reasons a man like him would follow a woman like you into a dark room after a bad mission.

But he didn’t move. He only said your name, not like scolding you. Instead, it sounded like he was trying to give you a rope, a lifeline, something to reach out to so you could get yourself out of the well you had willingly jumped in yourself.

Your eyes burned, and you hated him a little for it. 

Not really, but almost. 

Because Bucky had always gotten to you in ways no one else had, not even Yelena. Yelena knew your damage because hers had grown beside it, root tangled with hurt twin root, rotten as a result of the same poison in the same soil. She understood you like a blade understood a knife made in the same forge.

Bucky was different.

Bucky looked at you like he knew what it was to be made into a weapon and still wanted to touch whatever soul was still left underneath. He looked at you like he was not afraid of your pain, because he had spent a lifetime bleeding on his own. He didn't meet your defenses with force. He just stood there, ruinously patient, until your walls began to feel dumb for being up at all.

You shook your head and stepped back.

“I don’t need this.”

“I know you don’t,” he said. “That’s not why I’m here.”

Your mouth parted, but nothing came out. Bucky took one careful step closer.

“You can push me away,” he said. “You can tell me to leave. If you really mean it, I’ll go.”

Your chest ached.

“But don’t lie to me because you think it’s easier.”

You swallowed hard.

His eyes dropped briefly to your wrapped hands, to the tremor you had not been able to hide, then came back to your face.

“I know easier,” he said quietly. “Easier doesn't mean it helps.”

And that was it.

That was the stupid, gentle thing that finally cracked you open.

Your shoulders lowered by half an inch. Your breath went thin. You looked down at your hands, at the loose wraps, and suddenly the whole room felt too bright, too much like the place you had been trying to run from inside your own head.

“I hate when it comes back,” you whispered. “I hate that they still get to have me like that.”

His face changed, not out of pity. Instead, it was recognition.

His hand lifted carefully, like touching you was sacred and dangerous all at once. When you didn’t move away, his fingers settled against your cheek, his thumb brushing just beneath your eye.

Bucky didn’t look shocked by the confession. He looked like he had been waiting for you to stop holding it alone.

“Look around,” he said, voice almost rough.

You swallowed. “Buck—”

“No,” he insisted. “Just look.”

So you did.

Past him, past the punching bag still swaying faintly from where you had been hitting it, past the mirrored walls and polished floor and bright lights. Beyond the training room doors was the rest of the tower. You could see the hall that led to the common room where Yelena kept pretending she didn’t leave snacks out for you when she knew you hadn’t eaten. The kitchen where Alexei made too much food and called it portion control. The hallway Ava drifted through like a ghost when she was tired. The pool table where John had taught Bob how to play when he was close to relapsing, just so he could take his mind out of the drugs he was craving. 

You were here, in the strange, broken, impossible home all of you had built because none of you knew what normal looked like.

“You’re safe,” Bucky reassured. “You’re in the tower. You’re surrounded by the only people in the world who could maybe come close to understanding you.”

Your throat tightened when he stepped a little closer, his hand still on your face.

“We protect each other,” he said. “We look out for each other. Because we’ve established, pretty clearly, that none of us can be left alone without causing some kind of international incident, right?”

A broken laugh slipped out of you despite trying to hold it back.

Bucky’s mouth gentled, but his eyes stayed serious.

“They don’t have you,” he said. “Not anymore.”

Your breath shuddered as his thumb moved once over your cheek.

“We have you,” he said, smaller now. “Yelena has you. The team has you.”

He hesitated, as if the last part would cost him something. As if saying it out loud was more dangerous than any mission he had ever walked into. But because it was you, he said it anyway.

“I have you.”

Oh. 

Bucky looked at you like he meant every word. 

It was not duty, not leadership, not the good man thing you had accused him of earlier. He was simply standing there in front of you, asking for nothing, offering everything, and trying very hard not to look terrified by how much he wanted you to believe him.

You stared at him.

His hand was still warm against your face. His body was close enough now that you could feel the heat, close enough that you could see the rapidly healing little cut on his forehead from the mission, the bruise blooming near his neck, the way his eyes dropped to your mouth and then dragged themselves back up like he was trying to be good.

He was trying so hard.

That was what undid you: the way Bucky Barnes, who could have taken apart the whole room without breaking a sweat, held you like you were sacred and waited for you to choose.

So you did.

“Buck,” you whispered.

His breath caught. “Yeah?”

You rose onto your toes and kissed him first.

Just like that. 

You were aware of how warm, aching, and sudden it was. Your hands held the front of his shirt, fingers twisting into the fabric. For half a second, Bucky went completely still, like his body had forgotten what to do with being wanted.

Then he made a small sound against your mouth, not quite a groan as much as a sigh of relief. His hand slid from your cheek to the back of your neck, while his metal hand settled at your waist like he needed to anchor you without trapping you. He kissed you back like he had finally snapped, but softly. He had been holding himself back for weeks, maybe months, and now that you had crossed the distance first, he still refused to rush you.

You pulled him closer, and he came willingly.

The kiss deepened, enough to make your heartbeat trip, enough for his breath to turn uneven against your lips. Your hands moved up his chest, and Bucky’s fingers flexed at your waist before he forced them to be gentle again.

You felt that too.

When you finally pulled back, barely, his forehead rested against yours.

Neither of you spoke for a moment. The punching bag had stopped swinging. Your hands had stopped shaking.

Bucky’s eyes stayed closed, his breath warm against your mouth.

“I have you,” he whispered again, like a promise.

“I know,” you whispered back. “I know.”

You kissed him once more, smaller this time. 

When you finally pulled away, Bucky looked wrecked.

Yours, though neither of you had said it yet.

You touched his stubble with your thumb.

“We don’t have to talk about it tonight,” you said.

His eyes closed for half a second.

“Mmm,” he hummed, then he kissed your forehead, right between your brows.

And when he took your hand and led you out of the training room, neither of you let go.

—

It took a week for anyone to mention it.

A full week.

Which, considering you all lived on the same floor and had the collective subtlety of a grenade launcher, was honestly impressive.

You and Bucky had not exactly been hiding it well, anyway. He stood closer now. His hand found your lower back when he passed behind you in the kitchen. You wore his shirts more often than your own clothes. He had started looking at you across rooms with this horribly longing expression that made you want to throw a magazine at him and kiss him stupid in equal measure.

The whole thing came apart in the common room on a Thursday evening, because John Walker had the social grace of a brick through a window.

You were reaching over the counter for the ketchup when John looked up from his steak, frowned slightly, and said, “You smell different.”

Every single person at the table froze.

You turned your head. “Excuse me?”

John, apparently realizing too late that this was a weird thing to say out loud, gestured vaguely with his fork. “Not bad. You just smell like Barnes.”

Bucky stopped chewing.

Yelena’s eyebrows shot up.

Ava looked down into her mug like she could already see where this was going and wanted no part in preventing it.

Alexei leaned forward with immediate interest. “Like Barnes how?”

John shrugged. “I don’t know. His soap? Cologne? Whatever old men use.”

Bucky looked offended. “Old men?”

Before you could save the conversation, Bob, who had been peacefully munching on his fries at the end of the table, said, “Oh. It might be because they were making out in the sauna earlier.”

What followed was utter catastrophic silence.

Your hand tightened around your mug.

Bucky stared at Bob like he had just launched a missile.

“You saw us?” you hissed.

Bob looked up, mildly confused by everyone’s reaction. “Yeah.”

Bucky’s voice went very careful. “And you didn’t say anything?”

Bob thought about it. “You both looked busy.”

John dropped his fork with a clatter. “I’m sorry, what?”

Alexei slapped both hands onto the table. “In the sauna?”

“It wasn’t—” you started.

Bucky said at the exact same time, “We were not—”

Yelena pointed at both of you. “Oh my god.”

You looked at her, bracing yourself for the protective sister routine. Maybe an interrogation, or a threat. Instead, Yelena broke into the most smug, delighted grin you had ever seen.

“I knew it.”

Bucky’s head turned toward her. “You knew?”

“Obviously.” She leaned back in her chair, looking disgustingly pleased with herself. “You two have been making eyes at each other for months. It was pathetic.”

“It’s really not,” you said.

Ava hummed, because apparently this was a good time to speak up. “It was a little.”

You felt betrayed. “Ava.”

Alexei looked between you and Bucky with shining eyes. “This is beautiful. Two damaged assassins finding love in luxury wellness room.”

Yelena waved a hand. “Whatever. You two are perfect for each other.”

That, weirdly, was what shut you up.

Bucky froze beside you, his shoulder brushing yours. You could feel him looking at you, you could feel that private warmth that had started between you in the training room and somehow survived a week. 

“You think?” you asked, more vulnerable than you meant to.

Yelena’s eyes softened just slightly. Then, because she was Yelena, she ruined it immediately. “Yes. You are both dramatic, emotionally constipated, and terrible at pretending you are not in love.”

Alexei looked near tears. “I support this union.”

“There is no union,” Bucky said, ears pink.

You glanced at him, half joking. “No?”

His mouth opened, but closed almost immediately. 

“Yet,” Bob said under his breath. 

Yelena made a triumphant noise. “Ha!”

Bucky rubbed a hand over his face while the entire table erupted, everyone talking over each other at once. John was asking when it started. Alexei was demanding to know who kissed who first. Ava calmly said she had assumed it happened months ago because Bucky had stopped looking like a kicked dog whenever you walked into a room. Bob asked if the sauna was now off-limits for everyone else.

And through all of it, Bucky’s hand found yours under the table.

You looked at him.

He looked mortified. Happy, though.

So happy it made your chest hurt.

You squeezed his hand back and smiled into your drink while Yelena loudly declared, “Finally. Maybe now the sexual tension in this Tower will stop clogging the ventilation.”

—

For six months, Yelena thought the whole thing was very funny.

At first, anyway.

It was funny when Bucky started leaving his jackets in places you could “accidentally” find them, as if anyone in the tower believed you just happened to keep ending up swallowed in navy cotton that smelled like him. It was funny when you and Bucky tried to sit normally on the couch and still ended up pressed shoulder to shoulder, your knee hooked over his, his hand resting on your thigh like he had forgotten other people had eyes. It was especially funny when Alexei called him your American house cat and Bucky looked personally wounded while you gave him doe eyes, trying to convince him that you both should adopt an actual house cat.

Yelena teased him mercilessly. She teased you worse.

But mostly, she liked it.

Because in the end, Bucky was good for you. He understood the coldness you wrapped yourself in after bad missions. He didn't flinch when you woke up violently from nightmares. He never asked you to be smaller than you were.

And, irritatingly, you were good for him too.

You made him laugh more. Not loudly, not often, but enough that Yelena noticed. You made him less haunted in the mornings. You made him complain about normal things, like burnt toast and John stealing his protein powder and Alexei singing in the shower. You made him human in little ways he had forgotten he was allowed to be.

So, yes, for six months, Yelena thought it was cute.

Until one night, when she decided it wasn’t.

It was one of your nights.

You had it once a month or so. You called it “me time.”

Everyone else called it, “the night you went out alone to random bars, played darts against biker gangs, wagered full-grown men out of their cash, and came home at two in the morning smelling like beer and smuggled cigars.”

Bucky hated those nights, and not because he wanted to stop you. He knew better than to try. You were not a houseplant. You were not fragile. You were a former Red Room operative with excellent aim and a deeply concerning fondness for humiliating men named things like Tank and Moose at bar games.

Still, the second you left, Bucky became useless. He checked his phone. He checked the windows. He made coffee and forgot to drink it. He stood in the kitchen like a widower in a war film, staring at nothing until Yelena threw a peanut at his head and told him to sit down before she sedated him.

Yelena didn’t worry. At least, not openly. She knew you. She knew you liked the adrenaline, the anonymity, the very specific joy of walking into a place where everyone underestimated you and leaving with an ego boost and cash in your pocket. It was stupid, yes, but not unusually stupid for you.

Besides, you always came back.

So once a month, everytime you went out for your “me time,” Bucky and Yelena would hang out together and pretend they were not both slightly empty without you.

They played cards. Sometimes they watched terrible action movies just to complain about the fight choreography. Sometimes they made food neither of them admitted you usually supervised. They never called it waiting up. But they were definitely waiting up.

The two of them were embarrassing without you. Truly embarrassing.

That was how they had ended up at the kitchen island playing heads-up poker with ammunition.

Yelena had dumped a box of bullets onto the counter and divided them into two little piles like poker chips.

“This is bad gun safety,” Bucky scolded.

“These are not in gun,” Yelena said, dealing the cards. “So it is fine.”

“That is not how it works,” Bucky complained, but took the cards anyway.

“You are losing,” Yelena insisted. “Stop distracting.”

“I’m not.”

“You have three bullets left,” she pointed out.

Bucky looked down at his sad little pile, and Yelena smirked. “Very tragic.”

“I’m distracted.”

“Yes,” she nodded. “Because your girlfriend is not here and you are useless without her.”

He gave her a look over his cards. If this was how she was going to act, then two can play at that game. “You’ve checked your phone six times.”

“I am monitoring,” She sneered.

“You’re useless too.”

She kicked him under the counter, and he just glared at her.

This, somehow, was what they had become.

Two people with probably the highest body count in the tower, sitting in the kitchen past midnight, playing poker with loose ammunition because neither of them knew what to do with themselves when you weren’t there.

Yelena tossed a card down. “Raise.”

“With what?” Bucky sighed. “You have all the bullets.”

She slid one bullet forward. “I am generous.”

Bucky opened his mouth, but his phone rang before he could answer. He looked at the screen to see: Unknown number.

He furrowed his brows before he picked it up.

Yelena saw it and sat straighter, all the teasing draining out of her face.

“Barnes,” he answered.

What followed was a couple of seconds of terrible silence as he listened to the voice on the other side. 

Then his eyes flicked to hers. Yelena was already standing.

“What happened?” he asked, her voice low.

Her chair scraped back. “What is it?”

Bucky lifted one hand slightly, as if to say wait. His fist clenched slightly. “Is she conscious?”

Yelena’s stomach dropped. She grabbed her jacket from the back of the chair and threw Bucky’s at him before he had even ended the call.

“Metro General,” Bucky said into the phone. “I’m on my way.”

He hung up. “It’s her,” he said.

“I figured that out, genius.” Yelena shoved her arms into her jacket. “How bad?”

“Forehead cut and a possible concussion,” he repeated back the information. “Awake, but mostly being difficult, apparently.”

Yelena exhaled through her nose. “So alive.”

“Yeah.”

“Good,” she said, “I can kill her myself.”

They moved fast. Bucky barely remembered to grab his keys. Yelena scooped the ammunition back into the box with one sweep of her hand, because even in crisis she was not leaving loose bullets on the kitchen counter for her papa to find and turn into a story.

They hit the elevator together and the doors slid shut.

For two floors, neither of them spoke.

Then Yelena frowned. “Wait.”

Bucky looked at her, tilting his head. 

“Why did they call you?” She narrowed her eyes. “I am her emergency contact.”

For a second all Bucky could think was why does that matter so much— oh.

You had changed it.

To him.

Bucky looked down at his phone.

He tried very hard not to react. He really did. His face went blank in that deeply annoying winter soldier way, but Yelena had known him too long now. She saw the tiny shift, the warmth growing under the panic. She saw the stunned realisation in his eyes.

The pleased, fuzzy glow.

He was worried, obviously. But underneath it, was this absurd, boyish pride.

You had chosen him over her for emergencies. For hospital calls. For the ugly, inconvenient, blood-on-your-shirt parts of being loved.

Bucky looked like you had just handed him the moon and told him he was allowed to keep it.

Yelena stared at him. “Do not,” she said.

His head snapped up. “What?”

“Do not look all pleased.”

“I’m not pleased.”

“You are very pleased.”

“She’s in the hospital,” he insisted. “I’m worried.”

“And yet your face is saying, oh, I am her emergency contact now, this is very special for me.”

His ears went pink.

“You are pleased!” Yelena gasped. “This is disgusting. She has head wound and you are having moment.”

Bucky dragged a hand over his face. “I’m worried.”

“Yes, and pleased,” she crossed her hands over her chest. 

“I didn't even know she changed it,” Bucky said, exasperated now.

“I know.” Yelena sighed.

“I didn’t ask her to.”

“I know, Barnes.”

His voice lowered after a moment of silence, feeling a little guilty now. “She didn’t tell you either?”

Yelena looked away.

There it was: The small hurt she had been trying not to feel.

For years, it had been her number. Her phone ringing at two in the morning. Her job to show up with a jacket and a lecture. Her name on your forms because she had been your person before either of you had learned how to have people properly.

Now it was his.

Which was fine. Obviously.

Normal.

Healthy.

Terrible.

“I am fine,” Yelena forced out, knowing it wasn’t the answer to his question

He did not say anything, but she could tell he didn’t buy it. 

She hated him a little for that too. For not believing her. For knowing what fine meant in their shared vocabulary. Her reflection looked back at her in the elevator doors, blonde hair loose around her face, teeth clenched enough to ache.

“I mean, it is practical,” she said, forcing a shrug. “You are her boyfriend. You are tall. You can carry things.”

The elevator kept descending. 

His mouth twitched, barely. Apparently, he thought this was a good time to be the leader he always was during difficult moments. “She still loves you,” he said.

Yelena scoffed. “Obviously. Everyone loves me.”

Then the elevator dinged.

Saved by the doors.

She stepped out first. “Come on, emergency contact. Your girlfriend has probably insulted three hospital staff by now.”

—

Metro General smelled like antiseptic, cheap coffee, and fluorescent lighting that made everyone look like they were either guilty or about to confess to a hidden treasure on a death bed.

By the time Bucky and Yelena found you, you were sitting on an exam bed in a curtained-off bay with your boots dangling above the floor, one knee bouncing restlessly, a wad of gauze pressed near your eyebrow, and the loose, bright-eyed expression of someone who had definitely been drinking before getting into a fight she absolutely considered justified.

A doctor stood in front of you with gloved hands, carefully stitching the cut along your forehead. He looked like he had already asked you to sit still several times and had not been listened to once.

“Okay,” he said, leaning closer with the needle. “I need you to stop moving your eyebrows.”

“I’m not moving them,” you said, “it’s just my face.” You frowned then, which made him pause immediately.

“See?” he said.

You tried not to laugh. It came out anyway, both tipsy and unhelpful.

Yelena reached the edge of the curtain first, already halfway into her usual annoyed rescue mode, one where she would call you an idiot while checking the color of your lips and the steadiness of your pupils. But Bucky was beside her, stupid and all boyfriend-y. His eyes went to the gauze, then your hands, then the doctor, then back to your face, cataloguing every visible inch of you like he could put himself between you and the past hour if he tried hard enough.

Then you looked up.

The second you saw them, your whole face changed.

“Bucky!” It came out warm and embarrassingly kind. His name left your mouth like he was home, like even a little drunk and bleeding beneath hospital lights, some part of you knew exactly where safety was standing.

He moved before he could stop himself, stepping into the bay like the sound of his name in your mouth had pulled him by the ribs.

Yelena froze, just for half a second.

Of course. Bucky. Not her.

Her mouth curved up into a fake smile because that was easier than letting disappointment show.

“Right,” she said under her breath. “Him. Not me. I am just the sister, obviously. Not important.”

“Hey, trouble,” he said when he got to you.

You smiled up at the nickname, sweet and entirely too pleased with yourself. “You came.”

His frown was a little devastating then. It was as if the part of you that thought he would not come had hurt him. He looked like it made him want to gather you up and never let anything touch you again.

“Of course I came,” he said, holding his human hand out to yours.

The doctor cleared his throat. “Please don’t lean forward while I have a needle near your face.”

You blinked, realizing you had leaned toward Bucky without noticing. “Sorry.”

“You are not sorry,” Yelena said from behind him.

Your gaze drew past Bucky, and your expression brightened again. You had missed her entirely the first time, though you still sounded pleased. “Oh. Lena is here!”

Yelena’s smile went thin.

Lena is here.

As if she would not be. As if she had not once crossed three boroughs at three in the morning because you had texted only the word problem and a blurry picture of your own bleeding arm. As if she had not been showing up for you since before either of you knew what showing up was supposed to look like.

“Wow,” she said. “Lena is here. Incredible. Shocking. Who could have foreseen this plot twist?”

You squinted at her, trying to understand why she sounded like that through the warm blur of alcohol and adrenaline. “Are you mad?”

“No,” Yelena said immediately.

Bucky glanced back at her.

Yelena pointed at him. “Do not.”

He wisely turned back to you.

You reached for more of him without thinking, fingers curling around the hem of his jacket. Bucky noticed. He noticed everything about you, every wince you tried to bury, every joke you used as misdirection, every time your breathing went uneven. His hand covered yours, warm flesh over bruised knuckles, and you melted a little under the touch despite the doctor still working at your forehead.

You loved him so much it felt stupid sometimes.

It felt especially stupid now, with blood drying at your temple and your head pleasantly spinning, because all you could think was that he was so beautiful when he was worried, beautiful like a storm held back by sheer will. 

Bucky’s thumb moved across your knuckles. “How much did you drink?”

You considered lying.

Yelena snorted before you could answer because she knew that look. “Do not.”

You knew exactly what she meant and scoffed. “I was not.”

“Tell him the truth.”

You looked back at Bucky. “A few drinks.”

“How many is a few?”

“Less than many.”

The doctor made a sound like he was trying not to laugh and it was taking everything for him to stay professional.

Bucky closed his eyes for one second. When he opened them again, they were still worried. He was not angry with you. You could handle anger, but Bucky looking at you like you were precious and reckless and his made you want to crawl directly into his arms in front of medical professionals, which was inconvenient.

“What happened?” he asked.

You sighed, because this part was obvious to you and apparently baffling to everyone else.

“I was playing darts with Moose and drinking,” you said. “Normally. Like a normal person.”

Yelena made a rude noise.

“I was,” you insisted, looking offended. “But then there were these guys.” You gestured vaguely, almost hitting the doctor’s wrist.

The doctor caught your hand midair and placed it firmly in your lap, resuming the stitch. “Hands down.”

“Sorry.”

“Thank you.”

You looked back at Bucky, lowering your voice like you were sharing state secrets. “They were being gross.”

Yelena tilted her head. “To you?”

You hesitated. “At first.”

Bucky’s jaw ticked, as if he was going to find these very same guys in here and was going to massively increase their hospital bills.

You waved a hand quickly, or tried to, before remembering the doctor had forbidden it. “I ignored it. Then I had to scare them away. It worked.”

“Mmhmm,” Yelena said.

“But then they started harassing the bartender while she was working,” you continued, ignoring her, “and these guys kept bothering her. Like, they asked for her number once, and she said no.”

Bucky nodded.

“But they didn’t stop,” you said, voice losing some of its tipsy brightness. “They kept leaning over the bar and calling her sweetheart and asking what time she got off. One of them said she was being stuck-up, and another one tried to grab her wrist when she turned away.”

The air in the little bay changed.

Bucky went quiet, and Yelena’s expression flattened. You shrugged, though your own fist tightened at the memory. “So I told them to leave her alone.”

The doctor tied off one stitch and moved to the next. “That’s not exactly how the police report phrased it.”

You frowned. “The police report lacks emotional context.”

Bucky’s mouth twitched up despite himself, as if thinking, that’s my girl.

Yelena crossed her arms. “And then?”

“And then one of them told me to mind my business.”

Bucky looked at you. You looked back at him.

“And I felt,” you said carefully, “that it had become my business.”

“Reasonable.” Yelena nodded once. “So you threw hands.” 

You brightened again and confirmed. “I threw hands.”

A nurse, who had been mindlessly standing at your side, looked at your report and said, “this says you threw a barstool.”

“I used the environment,” you shrugged.

“And a pool cue,” she flipped a page.

“That was already in my hand.”

“Ummm,” the nurse started, reading more, “this said it wasn’t.”

Bucky looked down at your bruised knuckles, trying his hardest not to sound proud. “How many?”

You pursed your lips.

The nurse answered before you could. “Seven injured men were brought in separately. None critical.”

You looked offended. “Eight.”

The doctor blinked. “Eight?”

“One slipped on beer,” you nodded, “I feel like I contributed to that.”

Yelena let out a startled laugh before she could stop herself.

The nurse glanced up from your chart. “You did tell the paramedic, repeatedly, that he should see the other guys.”

You pointed at her. “Because he should.”

“You also asked if anyone had written down your dart score.”

“That was important,” you frowned. “I had a winning streak.”

“You might have a concussion,” the doctor corrected.

You sighed and looked at Bucky, as if he hadn't just heard it himself. “They’re saying concussion.”

Bucky’s thumb stroked the back of your hand again, and the motion pulled your attention back to him like gravity. He loved you so much. It was everywhere when you knew how to look. In his hand around yours. In the set of his shoulders. In the way he kept glancing at the doctor’s needle like he disliked it for hurting you, even though it was helping.

The doctor finished the last stitch and began cleaning around the wound.

“So,” he said, returning to a more professional tone, “the CT was clear, which is good. But given the head injury, the alcohol, and the history, we’re treating this as a mild concussion. She’ll need to be monitored for the next twenty-four hours. No alcohol. No strenuous activity. No driving. No sleeping without periodic checks. If there’s vomiting, worsening headache, confusion, vision changes, unusual behavior—”

You smiled sweetly, interrupting him. “They know concussion protocol.”

Bucky repeated, “We know concussion protocol.”

Yelena said, “Unfortunately.”

The doctor looked between them, then at you. “Right. Avengers.”

How fortunate.

—

Yelena drove because Bucky refused to be more than an inch away from you, and because you were still tipsy enough to keep trying to wave goodbye to the hospital security guard through the back window.

It was late enough that the city had gone a bit quieter for New York standards. Streetlights streaked gold across the glass and rainwater from earlier in the evening shone black on the road. The heater hummed, filling the car with warmth, while you sat in the back seat tucked so securely into Bucky’s side that you might as well have been part of him.

His human arm was wrapped around your shoulders. His vibranium hand rested carefully over your knee, tapping every so often when your head began to loll too comfortably against his chest.

“Stay awake, sweetheart,” he cooed.

“I am awake.”

“Mhmm.”

From the driver’s seat, Yelena snorted before she could stop herself.

She was still bitter. You could tell, even through the pleasant, cottony haze in your head. Yelena’s bitterness had a very specific texture: too sarcastic and too much focus on the road. She had her hands at ten and two like she was angry at the steering wheel. She had been making jokes since the hospital, which meant she was hurt enough to hide behind them.

Bucky noticed too.

His thumb moved gently over your knee. “You doing okay?”

“Mmm.” You tipped your face up toward him. “You’re very handsome when you’re worried.”

His ears went pink.

Yelena made a gagging sound from the front. “Please remember I am trapped in this vehicle.”

You smiled lazily. “But he is handsome, Lena! Don’t you think?”

“Gah,” she said, not even wanting to think of him that way.

Bucky’s mouth turned into a faint smile, but the amusement faded quickly. His eyes dropped to the bandage near your forehead, then to your bruised knuckles, then back to your face. He had been doing that all night, checking you in pieces like he could not trust the whole of you unless he inspected every injured part.

Finally, after a bout of silence, he asked, “Can I come out with you next time?”

Your eyes opened properly, widening in an instant.

In the rearview mirror, Yelena’s eyes flicked up. This was going to be fun.

Bucky looked almost embarrassed as soon as he said it, but he kept going anyway. “Not to stop you. I know you can handle yourself. I just…” He looked away a little. “I just wanna make sure you’re okay.”

Oh.

Your poor heart melted stupid inside your chest.

You reached up and patted his cheek with perhaps slightly too much affection and not enough coordination. “I love you,” you said, very seriously, “but don’t dote.”

He huffed despite himself. “Come on, sweets. Why not?”

“Because,” you almost scolded, “you’re no fun.”

Yelena laughed then. It was a small, surprised laugh that broke through her mood before she could lock it down again.

But Bucky frowned.

He wasn’t exactly heartbroken. It was just a little crease between his brows, his mouth settling into that wounded line he got when he was trying not to take something personally and failing because he loved you too much to be casual about anything you said.

Immediately, you gasped, hearing yourself.

“No. No, no, no.” You pushed yourself upright from his chest, and Bucky’s arm tightened at once like you had attempted to dive out of the moving car. “Baby.”

“It’s okay,” he said, which meant he absolutely was not.

“Baby,” you repeated, cupping his face with both hands. Your palms were warm against his stubbled skin, your thumb brushing clumsily near the corner of his mouth. “Baby, baby, I don’t mean it like that.”

His eyes searched yours. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You nodded, then winced because nodding was apparently not your friend. “Ow. Anyway. I mean… if you come with me, then no one underestimates me anymore.”

Bucky blinked blankly.

You pointed at him with one hand, nearly poking his cheek. “Because you’re all… this.”

“This?”

“Big,” you said. “Beautiful. Scary. Murder boyfriend.”

Yelena coughed so hard it was almost a laugh.

Bucky stared at you for a second.. “Murder boyfriend?”

“You know what I mean.”

He shook his head. “I really don’t know if I do.”

“You do. You walk in and suddenly no one thinks I’m harmless.” You sounded genuinely disappointed by the concept. “Then it’s not fun anymore.”

Bucky looked torn between fondness and despair. “I’m sorry my presence ruins your bar ecosystem.”

“It does.”

“I’ll work on that.”

“You can’t,” you sighed, hiccuping a little before continuing. “You’re too threatening.”

This time, Yelena did laugh. 

Then your whole face brightened, like a solution had dropped straight out of the sky and into your concussed little head. “Oh! I know.”

Yelena’s smile vanished with immediate suspicion, because that sounded like you just came up with a bad idea. 

“Lena should come with me next time!” you exclaimed.

Oh. 

What?

Yelena looked at you in the rearview mirror. “Huh?”

You smiled at her, tipsy and so painfully sincere that Bucky looked like he was actually considering it. “You should come with me. It’ll be fun.”

Yelena didn’t know what to make of it

You leaned forward, eager now, and Bucky immediately caught the back of your jacket to stop you from lunging yourself forward over the center console.

“Careful,” he warned.

You ignored him completely, eyes still on Yelena in the mirror. “We barely go out together anymore.”

Her hands tightened on the wheel.

The streetlights passed over her face in brief yellow flashes, there and gone, there and gone. Yelena was never gentle in the way people usually were, but her anger faltered, just enough for you to see the hurt underneath it.

“I miss going out with you.” Your voice went smaller. “I miss you.”

Yelena looked away from the mirror too fast.

Fuck.

You did?

All this time she thought she was replaceable, you missed her?

She blinked hard, and if her eyes watered a little, no one in the car was stupid enough to point it out.

“You are just concussed,” she said, trying not to sound too sentimental. “And drunk.”

“But I still mean it.”

Bucky’s hand slid over your arm, warm and steady. You settled back against him, still looking at Yelena, your smile hopeful now instead of bright.

That was the thing, wasn’t it? You loved Bucky. God, you loved him. You loved him with the dizzy certainty of a weapon who had found a place to lay down her weapons and still be known. You loved his worried eyes, the way he said sweetheart, the way he looked at you like he was lucky to hold you at all.

But Yelena was your sister. The one you knew as child soldiers in the battlefield. The one who yelled because she was scared. The one who had dragged you through survival and gave you a life.

You had always known that there was room enough in your heart for both of them.

Yelena just needed to hear it.

Bucky seemed to understand that, too, because he lifted to the rearview mirror, meeting Yelena’s eyes there, as if saying, see? She does care.

“She’d be safer with you,” he said.

Yelena swallowed.

The car hummed through another stretch of wet road before she nodded once, like she was accepting a mission.

“Fine,” she said. “I’ll take care of your girlfriend, Barnes.”

You sighed happily and melted back against Bucky’s chest. “See? Perfect.”

Bucky pressed his mouth lightly to your hair, careful of your injury. “Perfect,” he echoed.

“Now,” you added, holding up one finger with great importance, “you can be both our emergency contacts!”

Yelena rolled her eyes. “Now that is pushing it.”

Bucky laughed then, his chest shaking beneath your cheek. You giggled into his jacket as he pulled you closer.

Up front, Yelena pretended to be annoyed. She rolled her eyes, muttered something in Russian under her breath about how grossly in love you two were, and kept both hands firmly on the wheel.

But she ended up avoiding all the potholes she had planned to run over on the way home.

—end.

[aquaticmercy]

Meet Me Halfway

Summary : Bucky has to recruit the love of his life to save New York from the void. He doesn't know if she wants to ever see him again, though.

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x reader (she/her) 

Warnings/tags : Thunderbolts* spoilers below the cut!!!!!!! Exes to friends to lovers. Fluff,  angst, reader is a tracker with enhanced senses. Cursing, Trauma. Implied sex. Alcohol consumption. Death(Please let me know if I miss anything!!!)

Requested by : anon 

Word count : 15k whoops

Note : This story touches on the events of Civil War, IW, Endgame, FATWS, BP Wakanda Forever, and Thunderbolts*! I used google translate for the Xhosa, so please let me know if it needs to be corrected. If you’d like to be on the taglist, message me! It gets lost in the comments sometimes. Enjoy!

You were a tracker.

Your body was a weapon, biologically improved by enhanced senses. You could smell a carcass from ten miles away. You could hear a pin drop on the other side of town. Your eyes could track body heat through a crowd of thousands— and it meant you were a hunter in a world full of invisible prey. Some people hunted with tools. You were the tool. 

So, of course Steve Rogers found you when he needed to find a ghost. Steve found you when the world turned on James Buchanan Barnes. 

After the UN bombing in Vienna, when Bucky was framed and every intelligence agency on Earth wanted him in chains or dead, Steve came to you— he heard of you through old SHIELD files— with desperation and a duffel bag full of cash. 

“I need you to find him,” he said. “Before they do.”

You didn’t even hesitate before taking the job. Because even then, before you met Bucky you believed Steve. And more than that, you believed in redemption.

You tracked Bucky down with your senses—following the scent of gunpowder and cold metal, the subtle trail of heat left in his wake, the ragged sound of breath through the cities of Bucharest. 

You found him before the world did and pointed Steve and Sam in the right direction.

— 

By the time the Avengers disbanded, you were a fugitive—hunted by that least half of the world’s government. Helping Steve Rogers had branded you a traitor in their eyes, but you didn’t regret it. Not then. Not now.

When T’Challa offered sanctuary to Bucky, he extended the same offer to you. Wakanda didn’t just take you in; it gave you purpose. In exchange for refuge, you worked for the royal family— tracking those who dared to steal vibranium from the borders and ensuring justice found them before they slipped through the cracks.

Your home was a modest apartment tucked into the east wing of the palace. It was secluded, perfect for someone like you.

—

When Bucky finally woke from the ice and the trigger words were gone, he didn’t know who to trust. The world had changed too much. He had changed too much.

He trusted Queen Ramonda, who always made sure there was room for both of you at the palace table. He trusted Shuri and the Dora Milaje, because they helped him heal his mind. He trusted both you and T’challa, simply because… Steve trusted you. 

He didn’t expect to fall for you, though.

—

At first, Bucky barely spoke. He moved like a shadow through the palace when he even left his little hut at all. 

He was healing, but not whole. Not yet. The arm was gone—torn from him in Siberia, left behind with the rest of Hydra’s wreckage. 

Bucky hadn’t gotten his new arm yet. Shuri insisted they take their time, that his body and mind needed rest before they complicated him with upgrades. It was the right call. But it left him vulnerable in ways he hated. 

For a man who’d lost so much already, it felt like one more cruel subtraction. You noticed how he avoided using his left side. How he winced at imbalance. How he hated needing help.

You didn’t pity him. You just made space for him to breathe. You shared meals together in the palace garden, never pushing for a conversation he wasn’t ready for.

Sometimes, you’d sit and sharpen your blades while he watched the sky. Other days, you’d bring him small things—a worn paperback with dog-eared pages, a piece of fruit from an outreach mission, or a knife he could train with using only one hand.

“You're not trying to fix me,” he said once, more surprised than grateful.

You shrugged. “You’re not broken.”

You started getting really close because of jars. Peanut butter, mostly. Occasionally pickles. Once, a stubborn jar of papaya jam.

You noticed how he hesitated at cabinets, how he didn’t ask for help even when he clearly needed it— especially because he didn’t know how to use just one hand. 

If he needed a jar opened, you’d walk by, say nothing, and twist the lid off. Then you’d leave it on the counter and move on. No questions. No pity. 

Over time, it turned into more than jars.

He started joining you on your patrols—not in an official capacity, just to walk, perhaps to feel the beauty of the world again without being chased. You’d track down potential threats to Wakandan borders—smugglers, black market mercs—and Bucky would wait for you to get back before having his meal. 

He eventually told you about Bucharest in fragments. About Hydra in pieces. In return, you told him about the experiment. Not all of it—just enough for him to understand that you, too, had been shaped into something you didn’t ask to be.

Days passed like water through your fingers.

You trained with him in the early mornings — barefoot in the dirt, palms open, bodies moving like you were learning each other through motion. You’d fight, laugh, fall, rise again.

At night, you sat together under the stars, sharing stories in fragments — half-finished memories neither of you were strong enough to say out loud in full. You learned he liked fruit, that he slept on his side, that he sometimes talked in Russian in his dreams and didn’t realise it.

One night, you asked, “Do you remember who you were, before all of it?”

He hesitated, then shook his head. “I think… I remember who I loved. My sister. Steve. The Howling Commandos. But who I was a long time ago? He’s long gone.”

“He’s not,” you whispered. “You’re him. Just… in pieces.”

He looked at you like you were a miracle.

And one of those days, you fell in love with him. 

You didn’t fall in love all at once. It happened slowly, quietly—like stepping into warm water without realising how deep it’s gotten until you’re already submerged.

You tried not to make too much of it. Tried to keep it buried. But your heart had a mind of its own.

So one afternoon, you found yourself pacing in the royal garden while Nakia and Okoye pruned herbs, and blurted it out before you could stop yourself.

“I think I’m in trouble.”

Okoye raised an eyebrow, “Did you get injured?”

“No,” you said, “but I—“

Nakia interrupted you, a knowing smile curling at the edges of her mouth. “Is this the kind of trouble with blue eyes and long hair?”

“Well, yes, I—“ You groaned, pressing a hand to your face. “—I think I like him.”

Okoye tutted, not unkindly. “You think? I’ve seen the way you look at him like he’s a sunrise after a long night.”

Nakia laughed.

“I’m serious!” you said, trying to sound firm and absolutely failing. “He looks at me like I’m not broken.”

“What is wrong with that?” Okoye asked.

“Because I might believe him.” 

Nakia finally stopped  laughing. Her voice softened. “Sounds like someone sees you the way you’ve always deserved to be seen.”

You didn’t answer her. 

—

Meanwhile, Bucky sat on a sun-warmed bench beside T’Challa, overlooking the city below. After a long silence, Bucky confessed, “I think I’m in trouble.”

T’Challa turned to look at him and raised a brow. “The kind with bullets or feelings?”

“Feelings,” Bucky muttered under his breath. 

“Ah. More dangerous,” T’Challa smiled slightly. “The tracker?”

Bucky blinked. “How the hell does everyone know?”

“You are not subtle, my friend,” T’Challa said, patting him on the shoulder. 

“Yeah,” Bucky chuckled cynically, “Well…”

There was another pause, and then T’Challa spoke softly, “When I was hung up on Nakia, my baba used to tell me Uthando aluyomdlalo; ngumlambo ongenamkhawulo.”

Bucky stared at him for a while, translating in his head. Love is not a game. It is a river with no end.

“You cannot control where it takes you,” T’challa explained, “Only whether you choose to step in.”

Bucky sighed. “I think I already have.”

—

Later, by the lake, the air was still. The moonlight danced on the surface of the water, casting silver over the little hut Bucky called home.

You stood at his door, hands in clenched fists at your sides, heart racing in a way you hadn’t felt since you first got your powers. You knocked, and it was softer than intended— like a question more than a demand.

He opened the door like he’d been expecting you. You didn’t wait. You didn’t explain. You just looked at him and said, “I think I’m in trouble.”

He stepped aside without a word and let you in without a word. “Me too,” he whispered.

Inside the hut, the world seemed a bit quieter.

Bucky stood a few steps away, uncertain. You didn’t move at first. Neither did he.

Then he reached out, slowly, like approaching a wounded animal. His fingers brushed yours. You curled into his touch without thinking. “I— I think,” you choked out the words. “Fuck— I don’t know how to say it or where to begin…”

“Shhh, I know,” he whispered reassuringly, “because I do, too.”

You nodded, throat tight. “I know.”

You had known for a while now. Your senses allowed you to smell the oxytocin in the air when he was around you, to hear his heartbeat quicken when you spent time together, 

He didn’t ask. He didn’t need to. He just stepped closer, forehead resting against yours like it was the only place he belonged. Your fingers traced the curve of his jaw, then slid to the scar marring his shoulder—a mark where his Hydra arm used to bed.

“I’m scared,” he confessed, voice low.

“Me too,” you whispered, your lips trembling.

But then you leaned in, and kissed him.

At first, it was tentative—testing. Then, almost immediately, it turned urgent, like you needed to carve this moment into memory, like you were oxygen to him. 

He kissed you back with desperation, like he was terrified you might vanish if he let go. His hand gripped your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space left, no more hiding. When you finally broke apart, gasping, foreheads pressed, fingers still clinging to each other like anchors, you said it again, softer this time. “I know.”

“Yeah,” he smiled, “I know.”

The next few months unfolded in pieces.

You were his lover, though neither of you used the word much. Labels felt too fragile, too small for what you were building. You sparred in the mornings, slept tangled together some nights. Sometimes you held him through dreams he didn’t remember. Sometimes he held you through memories you couldn’t say out loud.

Neither of you said “I love you.”

You didn’t need to. You showed it in the broken ways people like you do. He cleaned your knives after missions. You kissed the scars on his body without asking where they came from. But in each other, you found peace.

But you did, though you didn’t say it until a year later, When Thanos’ army broke through Wakanda’s barriers.

You stood on the battlefield, shoulder to shoulder with the Dora Milaje. He was beside you, new arm gleaming.

You both knew you might die here.

So just before the charge Bucky turned to you and reached for your hand, calloused fingers threading with yours.

“I love you,” he said.

You looked at him, heart pounding. And in that final moment—when the world outside this little bubble burned and the force field opened—you said it back. “I love you too.”

And then you let go and ran into the fire together.

—

The battle was chaos.

Together, you carved a path through the madness, never far from each other’s side. Each glance was a tether. But when Thanos snapped—

You felt it first. A strange pull in your chest. Like gravity forgot you.

Bucky turned just in time to see you stumble.

“Doll?” He breathed out, voice catching in his throat.

You looked down at your hand— and your fingers were dissolving.

“Hey…” you said softly, like you didn’t want to scare him.

And then— you were gone, carried by the wind.

Bucky’s knees gave out next.

His vision blurred as your hands started to vanish. The world felt far away as he turned to Steve next and said his best friend’s name.

There was no time to be afraid. He just had one last thought— I’m coming with you.

And then— nothing. 

—

Five Years Later.

You came back gasping.

One moment there was nothing—and the next, the battlefield roared around you again. Portals opened. War cried out for soldiers. You ran through it, only searching for one person. You searched the air for his scent, tracked body heat through the crowds looking for Bucky.

When you found him, he grabbed you and pulled you into his arms, and held you so tightly it hurt. But you didn’t care. You buried your face in his shoulder and let yourself feel everything all at once. 

You fought side by side again that day, but even after Thanos was defeated, even after the dust finally settled, the weight on Bucky's shoulders hadn’t lifted.

That night, you and him laid down on a half-collapsed med tent. You were bruised, your leg cut, his knuckles torn open—but you both refused to be separated.

“Bucky,” you said gently as you took his shaking hands. “I’m here.”

He didn’t answer, he just stared blankly at you like you might disappear again.

“Talk to me,” you whispered.

And then— he broke.

His hands grabbed your face and kissed you like he had to prove you were real. Like if he didn’t, the universe might take you away again. His breath was uneven, voice hoarse as he finally spoke, “You turned to dust in front of me.”

You pulled him in, forehead to forehead, hearts thundering between bruised ribs. “We came back.”

“I watched it happen,” he choked. “You looked right at me—and then you were just gone. I—“ 

“I came back,” you repeated, firmer now. “I am here.”

He didn’t ask. He didn’t explain. He just pushed his forehead into your collarbone and let his walls fall. 

And in that surrender, you undressed in a desperate attempt to feel something, anything at all. 

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t perfect. His hands shook against your bare skin, yours ached. You kissed the scar at his shoulder where metal met flesh, and he kissed the bruise on your cheekbones as if he could heal it. 

And when you moved together, it was achingly intimate— two ghosts trying to remember how to be alive.

After, he stayed wrapped around you, hand on your stomach, breath finally steady. You ran your fingers through his hair and kissed his temple.

—

You soon learned that you were different people to who you were five years ago. 

You were still yourself—but edged. The senses they’d carved into you had only grown keener in the dust. You could smell grief in the air. Taste the metallic echo of time. You threw yourself into your work because it was the only way you could process anything. You have given more time to your job and less to everyone else in your life because it was the only way to block your demons out. 

And Bucky—God, Bucky.

Maybe it was watching you vanish into nothing. Maybe it was watching Steve choose a life he didn’t get to have. Maybe it was both. Whatever it was, it left him wound tight, walking through the world like it might crumble beneath his feet at any second. He became suffocatingly protective.

Now, he was always checking exits. Watching windows. Reading strangers’ faces. Looking for ghosts with Hydra insignias or familiar flags. Always ready to run.

You soon realised that while you both have survived death, surviving life was harder.

Some nights, he woke drenched in sweat, eyes wide and terrified. Sometimes he dragged you with him—out of bed, into the hall, whispering about danger that wasn’t there. About people who might take you from him again. You held him anyway.

You wrapped your arms around his trembling body.. You whispered to him that he was safe, that you were real. And some nights, he even believed you.

And on the quietest nights, when your pulse thudded steady beneath his hand, you’d say the only promise that mattered, “If we vanish again—we vanish together.”

He would nod against your chest and weep. 

And while your words helped him in the moment, things only got worse. 

He was still obsessed with not losing you again.

He watched you like a man teetering on the edge of a cliff. Always scanning, always planning, always afraid. He checked your comms before you left on a mission. He memorised your schedule like a battle plan. He begged for access to your Kimoyo beads so he could track your movements like a tactician studying the terrain.

It wasn’t protective anymore. It was paranoia.

He wouldn’t sleep if you were out past dark. Would sit by the window, waiting for footsteps or the sound of your key in the lock.

You tried to reason with him—gently, at first. You reminded him who you were, what you could do. 

None of it mattered.

To Bucky, you were breakable simply because you were his.

When he got pardoned, the first thing he said was, “Come with me. Brooklyn. I have to… make amends.”

“Bucky, the Wakandan royal family is extending my contract,” You sighed, kissing the crease between his eyebrows. “They trust me. I’m not leaving that behind.”

He didn’t argue. Not really. He just clenched his teeth and nodded. But you could feel the storm brewing, so you compromised. You would spend three months in Brooklyn with him, then three in Wakanda for work. A split life. 

But even in that compromise, the obsession bled through. Every time you left, he’d call. Text. Ping your locator chip on your kimoyo beads. Just checking, he’d say. Just making sure you’re okay.

It stopped feeling sweet. It started to feel like surveillance.

Sometimes you’d be halfway through a mission—deep in a jungle or in the middle of a compromised crowds—and his name would light up your screen five, six, ten times. His worry grew into desperation. 

You knew he didn’t mean to be cruel. But it didn’t make it easier.

And then one day— it was too much.

You’d just gotten back from a run along the Wakandan border. You were bruised but fine as you walked into your apartment and found your phone flashing with fourteen missed calls and a message that said, “If you don’t answer in five minutes, I’m calling Shuri. I’ll track your signal myself if I have to.”

When you called him, he picked up instantly. “Are you okay? I thought—God, I thought something happened—”

“Bucky,” you snapped. “Stop.”

You were pacing now, your heart hammering harder than it had in the field. “You have got to stop doing this. I am not going to disappear every time I step outside!”

“I just—” he started, but his voice cracked. “I can’t lose you again. I can’t—”

“I’m not yours to lose,” you said, quieter this time.

“I love you,” he whispered.

“I love you too,” you said, softer now. “But this—this isn’t love. This is fear in disguise. You’re watching me like I’m one wrong step away from disappearing, and it’s like you’re still stuck in that moment five years ago.”

“I am,” he said, unbearably honest. “You turned to dust. We can't just pretend that's not real.”

“We turned to dust, Bucky,” you corrected, your voice shaking now. “And we came back. We both did.”

There was a long pause. He just exhaled like the air had been punched from his lungs.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he said again, but this time, it sounded like a prayer. 

You wiped a tear from your cheek and whispered, “Then let me live.”

That night, he promised he’d do better.

He swore he would be on time to his therapy sessions. That he’d let you breathe. That he’d learn how to love you without gripping so tight it left bruises.

And for a while, he did. 

But healing isn't linear, and Bucky Barnes fell back into the spiral like it was a black hole.

Two months later, the calls started again. The check-ins. You’d wake to a dozen voicemails. You’d tell him your mission schedule, but he’d still show up unannounced in Wakanda under some flimsy excuse, saying he just needed to see you, to make sure.

Then the court notices started coming. Missed sessions. Warnings from the state department. Red letters in bold ink.

He wasn’t going to therapy anymore. He was tracking you instead.

When you returned from your latest mission along the southern border, there he was— waiting in your apartment in Wakanda, hands shaking.

“Bucky?” you asked, dropping your gear. “What are you doing here?”

He didn’t answer at first. Just stepped toward you, breathing hard like he’d run the whole way from Brooklyn.

“I tried calling,” he said. “You didn’t answer. You were late reporting in. You weren’t supposed to be gone that long—”

“I was on a stealth mission, James!” you shouted, incredulous. “Do you hear yourself?”

He winced when you used his first name. “I thought you were in trouble.”

“You thought I was in trouble so you hopped a plane, skipped two international borders, and missed court-mandated therapy to come stalk me?!”

“I wasn’t stalking—” he started, but you cut him off, voice shaking.

“Bucky, go to fucking therapy! You are missing mandated sessions to follow me around like I’m going to vanish into smoke again. You’re not okay.”

His eyes flashed with tears building up in the corners. “I’m not okay because the one person who makes me feel safe disappears for weeks at a time without warning!”

“What kind of pressure is that? I am not your fucking safety net!” you finally screamed, though you did not mean to. “I am your girlfriend, not your property.”

He flinched.

“You don’t trust me,” you said, your voice cracking at the seams. “You trust your fear more than me. You trust your obsession more than you trust my skills, my choices, my life.”

“I do trust you—”

“No, you don’t!” you snapped. “If you did, you wouldn’t be here. You’d be in therapy. Not sitting on my damn bed, panicking because I missed a check-in by three hours.”

He looked down. “I just wanted to make sure—”

“I know,” you said softly, bitterly. “I know. And I love you. God, I love you.”

Your voice cracked again, but your words were firm. “But this isn’t love anymore, Bucky. This is control. This is not good for you. Being here? With me? It's hurting both of us.”

Finally, Bucky nodded. Just once.

“Do you think we’ll ever be okay again?” he asked, voice barely audible.

You swallowed the lump in your throat and sat next to him, squeezing his human hand. You didn’t want to do this like this. But the moment you looked at him you knew you couldn’t keep pretending everything was fine and dandy. 

You took a breath.

“This…” you started gently, like saying it softer might hurt less. “This isn’t working.”

He blinked. “What?”

“This,” you said, motioning between you with a shaking hand. “Us. The way it is right now. It’s not working.”

He jerked his hand back, standing up in shock like you’d slapped him. “Wait—what the hell are you saying?”

“I’m saying you left Brooklyn without clearance. Again. You broke parole—again. You’ve got people looking for you.”

“I don’t care about any of that,” he snapped, eyes dark. “You weren’t answering. You were off the grid. What was I supposed to do? Just sit around and wait?”

“Yes,” was all you said. You didn’t need to remind him that he needed to trust you. That he needed to trust your skills. 

His voice was shaking now. “What happened to ‘if we vanish again, we vanish together’?”

You closed your eyes at the words. You’d meant it.

But promises can rot when fed with obsession.

Your voice cracked. “I said that when you could breathe without having to know where I was every second of every day, Bucky.”

He looked down, jaw, hands balled into fists. “I can’t lose you again.”

“And I can’t live like this,” you said, voice strained as you wiped your tears away. “I’m not your leash, and I’m not your cure. You can’t chain yourself to me because you don’t know how to be with yourself.”

His eyes filled with watery tears, and he didn’t speak.

So you did. 

“Please,” you said, “leave by morning. Go home. Check in with Dr. Raynor when you land. If you don’t, they’ll arrest you.”

He opened his mouth, but you shook your head. You couldn’t do another round of argument.

“Don’t,” you whispered. “Don’t make this harder.”

He took a breath, chest heaving like he’d run a marathon just to make it this far. “So that’s it?”

You didn’t answer.

Just stepped up and pressed your hand gently against his chest—where his heart still beat too fast and your enhanced hearing was picking it up too well—and whispered, “Goodbye, Bucky.”

He turned without another word, because anything he said might break you both.

And when the door shut behind him, the silence that followed felt like a funeral.

—

Bucky didn't know where to go, so he wandered and wandered until he sat down on the palace steps, hands shaking, heart swirling like a thunderstorm in his chest. 

He didn’t notice T’Challa approach until the king sat beside him, arms resting on his knees.

For a long while, neither of them spoke. “She told you to leave,” T’Challa said simply. Not unkind, but not sparing.

Bucky’s teeth clenched. “Yeah.”

“She’s right, you know.”

“I don’t want to hear that right now.”

“I know,” T’Challa said. “But I am saying it anyway, my friend.”

Bucky said nothing, fists digging into the vibranium infused staircase step beneath him. T’Challa went on, “You love her. I know. She loves you too. But love twisted by fear is dangerous. You were not protecting her. You were holding her hostage in your panic.”

“I wasn’t—”

“You were,” T’Challa interrupted gently. “And she forgave you for longer than most would. But she cannot carry both her past and yours. You nearly became what you once fought against: control.”

Bucky turned his head away, chest tight. “I didn’t mean to. I just— I couldn’t lose her again.”

“It’s not just you,” T’Challa said softly, “she… she needs space. She’s throwing herself into work, and perhaps that’s how she copes, but she’s becoming… distant. From you. From all of us.”

Bucky’s breath hitched.

“You know I know what it feels like firsthand to come back from being turned to dust.” T’Challa said, “and when we came back, we all changed. I believe you might need time away from each other to first understand how you both have changed.”

Bucky finally looked at him, eyes rimmed with red. “So what, I just pretend none of this happened?”

“No,” T’Challa said. “You leave. You go to therapy. And you become someone who deserves a second chance—not from her. From yourself.”

Then T’Challa stood, brushing nonexistent dust from his robes. He looked down at the man once known as the Winter Soldier— now just a man.

“I will have a jet ready within the hour,” he said. “You will not say goodbye. That would only cause more pain.”

Bucky could only nod. Deep down, T’challa was his friend as much as he was yours. He was looking out for him as much as he was looking out for you. 

—

Bucky didn’t go straight to the jet in the landing pad. 

He walked around first—through the gardens he used to kiss you in, down the quiet stone paths lined with flowering trees. And then, when he couldn’t stall any longer, he found Shuri.

She was in her lab, sleeves rolled up, a smudge of grease on her cheek, working on a new upgrade for the Kimoyo bead system. She didn’t look surprised when she saw him.

He stood just inside the door for a while, fidgeting with the strap of the bag slung over his shoulder. 

“I’m leaving,” he said finally, voice hoarse.

Shuri nodded with a sad smile. “I heard.”

He hesitated. “Can you keep tabs on her for me?” He asked. As soon as the words came out of his mouth, he realised how bad it must’ve sounded. “I’m not asking you to spy on her. I swear.”

That made her pause. She turned to him, brows raised in wary curiosity. “Sounds like you are.”

“I’m not,” he said again, hands up in surrender. “But I need—I just need to know if she’s hurt. That’s all. If she’s injured. If something happens in the field. Not every move, not every detail, just... if she’s okay.”

Shuri’s eyes softened. “She wants you to move on. You know that, right?”

“I know,” Bucky said quickly. “And I won’t reach out. I won’t interfere. But if something serious happens—if she’s in the med bay or worse—I need to know. I can’t breathe not knowing that.”

Shuri crossed her arms. Studied him.

“You still think it’s love, don’t you?” she asked quietly.

He flinched. “I don’t know what it is anymore. But I know that it’s not trust. Not peace. That’s why I’m leaving.”

She held his eyes for a long time. Then she nodded once. “If she’s ever in danger, you’ll hear from me. That’s all I’ll promise.”

He nodded, relieved. “Thank you.”

Shuri stepped closer, pressing a new set of Kimoyo beads into his palm. “These won’t track her. But they will let you receive encrypted pings if I send one. No contact. Just information.”

Bucky curled his fingers around the beads like they were a lifeline.

“I’ll earn my second chance,” he whispered, almost to himself. “Even if it’s just for me.”

Shuri nodded. And with that, she turned back to her work.

Bucky walked out of the lab with the bracelet tucked into his pocket and boarded the jet alone.

Not with closure. But with a choice to begin again.

—

Six Months Later

You hadn’t meant to watch the news. It was just playing in the corner of the lab, the volume low was meant to be background noise.  

But there he was.

Bucky, onn screen, his hair shorter now, beard shaved. He was standing next to Sam, both of them looking like they’d just walked through hell and come out victorious. 

“Barnes and Wilson led the operation to contain a Flag Smasher attack—”

The footage cut to shaky video: Bucky saving hostages from a burning truck. Sam dropped from above, wings that Shuri gave him expanding in the night sky

You stopped breathing for a second.

Not because he looked good— though he did— but because he looked... different. Lighter. Still sharp around the edges, still Bucky, but not strung so tight he might snap. His shoulders weren’t so hunched. His eyes didn’t carry that haunted glaze you'd come to know too well.

You looked down at your phone, thumb hovering over the screen. Muscle memory had already opened your messages. The text thread was still there.

You started to type. 

Saw you on TV today. You looked—

You paused and backspaced.

Took down some Flag Smashers, huh? Didn’t even trip once. I’m impressed.

Delete.

You looked okay.

No.

You stared at the screen. You wanted to say something small, something kind. Something to let him know you’d seen him, that you still cared.

And then—

“Nope,” Okoye said from behind you.

You jumped, flipping your phone face-down like a teenager caught texting a crush.

Okoye raised an eyebrow, arms crossed in full general-mode. “I know that look. You are thinking about him.”

You sighed, rubbing your forehead. “He looked... better.”

“Good. That is what healing is supposed to look like,” she said, tilting her head. “But do not dishonour that progress by dragging each other back into the fire so soon.”

“I wasn’t going to send it,” you muttered under your breath. 

Okoye gave you a really? look. 

You smiled sheepishly. “Okay, maybe. But just a little.”

She stepped forward, took your phone, and pocketed. “Let him move on. I will take you on patrol,” she said briskly, already walking toward the hangar. “And after, we have tea. And girl talk.”

“Girl talk?” you chuckled, following.

“Yes. I have opinions on your taste in emotionally volatile men. It is time you heard them.”

You laughed despite yourself.

—

One Year Later.

The palace was quieter now that T’Challa was gone.

And grief didn’t move cleanly through your body like it used to. It crept and lingered and collected behind your eyes, in the back of your throat, in the hollow ache of your chest that wouldn’t quite go away.

You’d expected to feel lost. But not like this.

You stood at the balcony outside your quarters, fingers curled around a steaming cup of tea Ayo had forced into your hands. 

You hadn’t slept. Couldn’t eat. Before returning back to your quarters, you stayed with Shuri the entire day today, being present for her and Queen Ramonda.

And then the doorbell chimed.

You opened it to find a small wrapped bundle of flowers on the floor. A delivery slip attached in elegant Wakandan script: With honor and remembrance.

In the bouquet was Snowdrops, winter jasmine, and White hyacinth.

It was a winter bouquet.

Not many people in Wakanda would choose those blooms. Not unless they’d meant something.

It was him. Bucky.

He must’ve contacted his old florist in the city to have it delivered to your wing of the palace. 

You sat on the edge of the bed, the flowers still in your hands, too stunned to cry.

And then, before you even realised what you were doing, your phone was in your lap. You opened the message thread with Bucky. 

You typed, Shuri said she texted you. Said you could come to the funeral. Why didn’t you?

You stared at it. Then, slowly, you deleted it.

Because what would he even say? That he wanted to give you space? That he didn’t know if you wanted to see him? That he sent flowers because showing up would hurt you more?

Maybe he thought the blooms were enough. But they weren’t.

You needed him— a friend who had known T’Challa like you had. Someone who remembered the man like you did— not just the king.

You wanted Bucky to hold you and reminisce about that time you dared T’challa to arm wrestle him. You wanted to laugh about his horrible jokes during harvest. But all you got were flowers.

And wasn’t this what you asked for?

You had told him to let go. To move on. To live his life. And he had.

You wiped at your eyes with the back of your wrist, too tired to be angry. Too empty to cry. Later, you placed the bouquet beside the small altar in the throne room, next to T’Challa’s photo.

A winter gift for a king.

You whispered, "I miss both of you."

—

You didn’t sleep much the year after that.

You didn’t eat much either. Grief gnawed at your gut like hunger, but nothing ever settled. Not even water. Not even rest.

All you had left was work. You helped Wakanda defend itself from foreign attacks, and when the time came, you helped track Riri Williams for Shuri. 

But when Shuri was taken by the Talokan, your sanity was cracked clean in half.

You didn’t feel fear. Or rage. Just focus. Razor-sharp, ice-cold, deadly focus.

You helped Nakia track her— followed her scent through the water, infrared vision scanning jungle heat signatures, nose full of salt and humidity until found her underwater. You got her back.

But then Namor attacked, and Queen Ramonda didn’t make it.

You had to look at one more coffin. One more goodbye to one more person gone who had offered you safety, love, and dignity.

Ramonda had seen both you and Bucky when you came to Wakanda scarred and haunted. She had welcomed you with open arms. And now she was gone too.

At the funeral, you held Shuri up because she was shaking. You held her hand. And when it was over, you took her into your quarters and let her sob into your shoulder for hours

You didn’t cry.

You couldn’t. You had to be strong for her.

That night, your phone buzzed with a message.

Bucky : “You okay?”

That was it.

You stared at it. You read it again. Then again.

Are you okay? 

You almost laughed. As if that was a question that could be answered in a text. As if that was something you could possibly explain.

Your queen was dead. Your sister in everything but blood had just buried both her brother and mother within 14 months. The kingdom you had called home for the past decade was under attack. You hadn't slept in four days. Your body was covered in bruises. And Bucky—the man who had once buried his face in your collarbone and sobbed because he couldn’t bear to lose you—sent a text.

A fucking text. Not even a call. 

You set your phone down and didn’t respond.

You didn’t throw it. You didn’t curse. You didn’t scream. You just... sat there. Numb. 

And that was the first night you drank.

You drank because your hands wouldn’t stop shaking and your mind wouldn’t stop screaming and no mission could numb you enough to silence the memory of T’challa’s last words or Ramonda’s last breath or Shuri’s tears soaking through your shirt.

You didn’t stop after one. You wanted to not feel at all. And when the bottle emptied, you drank again. And the next night. And the one after that.

It didn’t fix anything.

—

A Year Later.

You had buried yourself in fieldwork— back to back missions for Wakanda with little to no rest in between. It dulled the ache of grief, but it never fully faded. You were getting better. Still dying inside, but a little slower now.

You took risks that made even Okoye grit their teeth, but you didn’t care. With Shuri as the new Black Panther and the Midnight Angels at your side, it felt like movement was the only thing keeping you from collapsing. 

You didn’t care if the assignments were dangerous. Maybe you even preferred it that way.

Shuri was adjusting your new visor in her lab when she glanced up casually. “You know your ex is running for Congress?”

You tilted your head, “What?”

She flicked her fingers and brought up a holographic newsfeed. There he was—James Buchanan Barnes. Neatly combed hair in a dark blue suit, sporting a nervous half-smile. He was shaking hands somewhere in New York, surrounded by cameras.

You stared. “Bucky… in politics? Are we sure that’s not a skrull?”

Shuri laughed, brightening the room. “Positive. He filed last week. His campaign’s all over the place—veteran advocacy, post-Blip recovery programs.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Making amends.”

“He always said he wanted to,” she said gently.

You nodded, silent for a second too long. “He’ll do well.”

Shuri studied your expression. “You think?”

You didn’t answer right away. Your eyes stayed on the image—on Bucky’s restrained expression, the way he looked down like he was afraid to take up space.

“Yeah,” you said. “Have you seen that smile? He could charm a whole room without opening his mouth.”

Shuri laughed again. You found yourself smiling too, even if it hurt to do so.

For a while, she was as self-destructive as you. But now, you didn’t know how Shuri carried her own losses so gracefully, how she held herself together. Maybe it was the suit or the legacy. Or maybe she was just stronger. Your method was simpler: run into danger and don’t care if you make it out. It wasn’t healthy. But it was efficient.

Still, your senses were stronger than ever. You have noticed how Shuri’s heartbeat always picked up when you mention Bucky. You always assumed it was because she was worried about you— about the old wounds reopening. 

What you still didn’t know, what she never told you, was that she and Bucky were in constant contact. And after her mother’s death, her updates to him became more detailed, more frequent. Perhaps, it was because you were the closest thing she had to a sister. Perhaps she wanted to keep you safe— and letting Bucky know of your missions meant that if anything were to go wrong, he would be there to help.

She had already lost T’challa and Ramonda. She was not going to lose you, too.

—

Utah. Thunderbolts* timeline.

The gas station was run-down, lit by flickering fluorescent lights and signs buzzing with static. Inside, the team Yelena had apparently nicknamed the Thunderbolts stood in varying degrees of impatience as Bucky took off the last of their restraints.

Yelena rubbed her wrists and shot Bucky a sidelong glance. “So. How are we going to track Bob?”

Bucky didn’t answer immediately. He was already pulling out his phone, lips pressed in a hard line. “Can’t track Mel’s phone,” he muttered under his breath. “Wherever they are, they must have signal jammers.”

“Great,” John said. “And we’re just supposed to... drive and hope we’re going in the right direction?”

Ava narrowed her eyes. “We don't have time. If Val has Bob, there’s no telling—”

Bucky raised a hand. “I… I might know someone nearby who can track a scent halfway across the world.”

Alexei straightened with a hopeful gleam in his eye. “Ah! We are getting reinforcements?” He cracked his knuckles. 

Bucky was already reaching for his phone, hesitation coiling in his chest. His thumb hovered over the screen.

He shouldn't be doing this, right?

Were you ready to see him? After everything? After how you ended things? Did you even want to see him?

He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to shove down the uncertainty clawing at his ribs. 

Focus, Barnes. 

This wasn’t about closure or guilt or anything personal. Civilians could be in danger. And if Sentry project was as dangerous as they said, then they were way past playing it safe.

Even if it was messy. Even if it hurt.

“Something like that,” Bucky muttered, then hit Call—and walked out into the gas station parking lot.

—

Call to Shuri,  Wakandan Secure Channel.

“Bucky,” Shuri answered briskly, “If this is about a replacement arm because the raccoon stole it again—”

“It’s not,” Bucky cut in. “I need hotel information.”

A pause. “For whom?”

“For her.” He didn’t have to say your name. Shuri knew exactly who he meant.

“Why?”

“You told me she was in a joint op with Everett Ross in Salt Lake City. I just need the hotel name, Shuri.”

“That’s classified,” she said, more defensively than she meant. She was willing to give him many things about you, but this might be teetering on a line she wouldn’t cross.

“I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t urgent. We need to track someone before he levels a city,” Bucky explained, “Please.”

Shuri went quiet, because she knew a call from the White Wolf meant things were getting out of hand. 

—

You smelled him before he knocked.

He smelled like leather and metal. He had that faint, signature scent — like snowmelt clinging to old wood. 

You just finished an intel swap with Everett Ross, and now all you wanted to do was lie down and sleep. That was until you caught a whiff of his scent and you stopped dead in your tracks. 

The knock came a second later.

You took a breath, schooled your expression, and opened the door.

And there he was. James Buchanan Barnes. Standing in a Salt Lake City hotel hallway. 

His hair was longer than you last saw on TV, a little more silver threading through the temples. A black t-shirt that clung to him in all the ways that weren’t fair, leather jacket over it. 

You froze for a moment. 

“Wow… I— you…,” he said, as if he couldn’t help himself. “You’re still as beautiful as the last time I saw you.”

You let out a dry laugh before you could stop yourself, folding your arms. “You showing up uninvited in a hallway in Utah wasn’t exactly how I imagined hearing that.”

Bucky gave you a lopsided little smile — the kind that once made your knees weak. “Yeah, well… surprise?”

You rolled your eyes. But it was hard to ignore how your heartbeat had kicked up. “How did you even know I was here?”

He winced. “Okay, so… don’t be mad.”

“Oh no,” you said, flatly. “Great way to start.”

“I, uh… may have asked Shuri.”

Your brows rose. “You what?”

“Just for updates.”

“Bucky.”

“She didn’t tell me much! Just—like—general stuff. Missions. If you were injured. If you’d… eaten.”

“You’ve been asking my best friend to report on my food intake?”

“Okay, that was one time!”

“You don’t get to be worried anymore,” you cut in ever so gently, and the smile dropped from his face.

“I know,” he said. 

You stared at him, longing pressing under your ribs.

“You could’ve just called,” you said.

He swallowed. “I didn’t think you’d answer.”

“Then why are you here?”

“I…” He ran a hand through his hair. “I needed your help. For something. But part of me… I- I don’t know. I would be lying if I said I didn't want to see you.”

“Well, congratulations.” You rolled your eyes, “You found me.”

He didn’t respond. Just stood there with that goddamn puppy-dog look on his face — the one you used to wake up to. The one that said he still loved you in ways he probably didn’t know how to stop.

The silence stretched thin.

Finally, you sat down on your bed and said, “You weren’t there.”

Sitting down on the armchair across from you, Bucky’s brows pulled together, and he knew instantly what you meant.

“T’Challa,” you said. “Ramonda. You didn’t come. You sent flowers. A text. That’s all.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” Your voice cracked at the edges. “You don’t get it, Bucky. You were family. They loved you.”

“I loved them, too,” he said. “God, I loved them. T’Challa gave me a second chance. Ramonda treated me like a second son. You think it didn’t kill me not to be there?”

“Then why weren’t you?” you asked, quieter now. “Why didn’t you show up?”

He looked away. “Because I knew I’d see you, too.”

Oh. 

He continued, voice rough, eyes fixed on a random point over your shoulder. “I knew I’d see you in white, standing in front of that city that saved both of us. And I knew I wouldn’t be able to hold it together. I couldn’t go to Wakanda to grieve them and be reminded of you. I was already falling apart. I couldn’t break in front of everyone.”

Your breath hitched, just a little.

“You think I didn’t fall apart?” you whispered. “You think I didn’t wake up everyday being reminded of you? That I didn’t carry Shuri when she couldn’t stand even when I missed you?”

He looked back at you, “You are stronger than me.”

“No, Bucky,” You shook your head. “I just showed up.”

He swallowed hard, his chest heaving just slightly.

You stared at each other again — that thick, choking silence drowning you like a wave.

And still… underneath it all, there was love. Frustrated, frayed, unresolved — but alive. 

Bucky leaned forward. “I know I messed up. I know I don’t deserve to ask you for anything.”

You didn’t answer. You just watched him, waiting.

“I’ll stop,” he promised. “The updates. Everything. I’ll leave you alone. I just… need you to do one thing.”

Before you could respond, your nose twitched.

You frowned and sniffed the air, eyes narrowing when your ears picked up four new heartbeats in the vicinity. 

“Bucky,” you said slowly. “Does this have anything to do with the four jackasses currently pressed up against the hallway wall?”

He blinked. “...No?”

You sighed, walked to the front of the room and opened the door.  Yelena, Ava, John, and Alexei all flinched like a bunch of kids caught behind a curtain.

“I told you to wait in the car,” Bucky groaned. 

You crossed your arms at the four extremely guilty faces frozen mid-lean.

Ava, arms crossed like she wasn’t just eavesdropping with laser focus. Yelena, who gave a tiny wave. “Hi.” John, trying very hard to act casual. Alexei was grinning wide. “Ah! She is even more terrifying than Mr. Soldier described! I like her.”

You stared at them. Then at Bucky.

He winced. “...So yeah. About that one thing.”

—

They gave you the rundown on Bob and the Sentry Project—chaotic, riddled with questions and coded language that made you realise that Bucky was right— this was a larger-than-life situation.

It was enough to raise every red flag in your head, and by the end of it, you were just dragging a hand down your face like you were wiping off the last shred of peace you had left.

“Fine,” you muttered, already rerouting your mental map like instinct. You stepped in closer, tilting your head just slightly at the three people who had been in close vicinity to Bob. 

Yelena, John, and  Ava.

You went in close and did a focus inhale through your nose. Your senses lit up. You could smell a thread between them— that must be Bob’s smell. 

You could pick apart the sweat and smoke residue. You could smell the iron-spike scent of stress hormones surging through their blood. You could practically taste the adrenaline.

“Got it,” you said, nodding once.

Then you turned, already moving.

Your pupils contracted as you flipped into the edge of your infrared vision, sweeping the environment in layered pulses of heat and light. People lit up like sketches in flames. Your hearing tuned up next, catching radio chatter three blocks out, the thrum of a drone overhead.

You walked out, and they followed you as you followed the scent straight toward Avengers Tower.

—

Void, New York.

The city was being devoured—block by block, building by building—into a yawning chasm of darkness,a  negative space eating reality alive. It was as if Bob had carved a hole in the fabric of reality and let nothingness bleed through. The skyline blurred at the edges, buildings sucked into the black like paper into flame. 

People were turned into shadows, and what scared you the most was you can’t smell them anymore. You can’t hear them anymore. They… vanished.

You stood on the edge of where Grand Central Station used to be. Bob was in the center of it all—or what was left of him. 

You had found him, and it had gone bad. Catastrophically bad.

Yelena didn’t hesitate. She was the first one to go in. 

The others had followed—Alexei, John, Ava—one by one, swallowed whole by the nothingness.

Now it was just you and Bucky.

The edge of the Void shimmered like a heat mirage, the floor fracturing under it. 

You stared into the nothingness and it looked exactly how you’d felt the day Wakanda lost its king. The day Ramonda breathed her last breath in that throne room. The day you held Shuri’s hand as she lost everything.

And all you could think, selfishly, was how Bucky hadn’t been there.

You swallowed hard, voice barely more than a whisper. “I’m scared.”

Bucky looked at you, eyes softening.

You didn’t know what was on the other side. You didn’t know what you’d see— what the Void would show you, or take from you.

But for the first time in years, the love of your life reached out and took your hand. 

“If we vanish again,” he said quietly, “we vanish together.”

Right. 

Your fingers curled around his, Your voice barely trembled as you said it again, “Together.”

Then you stepped forward and let the Void take you both.

—

Bucky woke up in the snow.

He recognised this place even before he heard the screaming wind, before he looked down and saw his blood soaking into the white ground.

Bucky was twenty-something again—still Sergeant James Barnes. Still just a soldier, a friend, a smartass.

He was watching himself fall. Watching his arm catch on the railing, and breaking on impact. He watched his body spiral and bounce once before settling.

He tried to look away, but he couldn’t.

He remembered waiting for hours for help. No one came.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky whispered, but the younger version didn’t respond. He blinked once more and then stopped moving altogether.

Then, in an attempt to escape this vision, he buried himself in an avalanche of snow.

He woke up in another room. It was his apartment, familiar and claustrophobic at the same time. The curtains were drawn tight, the air thick with the scent of cheap whiskey 

And there he was — himself again. This Bucky was slouched on the floor, back against the wall, surrounded by a graveyard of bottles. Some still full. Most empty. The floor was soaked where he’d dropped one earlier.

He had a bottle pressed to his lips now. He took another long, angry swig. Then another. Then—

Nothing.

No burn. No warmth in his chest. No haze. He roared suddenly, launching the bottle across the room. It shattered against the wall. Glass rained down like glittering snow.

“Why won’t it work?” he shouted, voice hoarse. “Why won’t it fucking work?”

He lurched to his feet, fumbling for another bottle in the kitchen. His hands shook. His breathing was ragged.

“Just let me forget,” he begged, staring at his reflection in the microwave’s glass. “Let me forget. Let me be numb.”

But his body refused. His curse of super soldier metabolism was that he would never let him escape. He would never get drunk ever again.

He threw the next bottle harder. The glass cut his knuckles. He didn’t feel it.

He had only landed from Wakanda twelve hours ago. But this time, he landed with the knowledge that you were not his anymore. And now there was no one to fight with. No one to talk to. No one to hold his hand when the nightmares got bad. No one to anchor him when he spiraled.

He slid down the wall and pressed his forehead to his knees like he could disappear into his own body.

He whispered your name over and over again.

The most devastating part was knowing that he had finally found someone who saw him, and still, somehow, he had driven you away.

He stayed like that for what felt like hours. Days. Maybe he never left that floor at all.

Then — Bucky saw a ripple from a puddle across the room where he had spilled his drink earlier. 

He looked into it, and instead of a reflection, he saw you. 

You were curled up on a couch in another life, in another room. Fingers wrapped around a half-empty bottle. Your head lolling against the armrest, eyes glazed. Laughter bubbled out of your mouth that didn’t belong there — not the happy kind. This laughter was crooked, the kind you used to hide the sobs building beneath your ribs.

The bottle slipped from your fingers and onto the floor.

You were drunk. Not a buzz. Not a haze. You were gone, and it showed.

You started slurring words to no one and between fits of laughter. The makeup smeared across your cheek wasn’t from a night out — it was from wiping away tears with the back of your hand over and over again.

You were wrecked in a way Bucky couldn’t be.

You had the freedom he envied, the escape he was never allowed. You could bury the grief. He had to live with it. And then— he saw what you were clutching in your lap.

It was a photo of You, Bucky, Shuri, and T’challa, taken by Queen Ramonda by the lake, only a couple of days before Thanos attacked. 

You stared at the photo like it might move. Like if you looked hard enough, you could reach through the glossy paper and pull them out.

But they were gone.

T’Challa. Ramonda.

And Bucky.

He hadn’t died, but he wasn’t there either. Not when it mattered.

Your grip on the bottle tightened. And then—suddenly—you screamed. “WHY AREN’T YOU HERE?!”

The words tore out of you like glass, shredding you from the inside out.

You hurled the bottle across the room. It hit a wall, shattered, and splashed liquor across the floor. Your body jolted with it, like you’d thrown a piece of yourself.

And then you just collapsed yourself, rocking back and forth. “My fault,” you whispered over and over again. “My fault. All my fault. My fault.”

Bucky watched from the other side of the reflection, both of you broken in different ways—he, invulnerable and furious that he couldn’t feel the poison work; you, drowning in it.

The grief between you wasn’t just shared.

It was mirrored.

Both of you in your separate corners of the world, drinking like it might erase memory, like it might bring someone back, like it might turn regret into penance.

With a deep breath, he took a leap of faith and stepped into the puddle. 

It felt like falling like leaping off a rooftop with no guarantee of landing, but choosing the fall anyway because it might bring him back to you.

And he was right.

He was there, with the real you. 

You were in that room, in the corner, watching it all play out like a film you couldn’t pause.

That puddle had been more than a doorway. It had been a choice. And he had chosen you.

Bucky knelt down beside you slowly. He didn’t say anything at first. Just pulled you into him.

And for a moment, you didn’t move.

But then his arms wrapped around you, the walls gave in. Your fingers clutched at the back of his jacket and you buried your face into his shoulder.

You stayed like that for a while. 

Then, muffled against him, you said, “I should’ve called.”

He just held you tighter.

You continued. “You gave me flowers. A text. It wasn’t much, but… at least it was something. I didn’t even text back. I didn’t give you anything.”

Bucky pulled back slightly to look at you, his hands still resting gently on your shoulders. “No,” he said. “Don’t apologize. I—” He exhaled slowly, eyes dark and honest. “I was suffocating you. I… I ruined you.”

“You never ruined me, Bucky,” you said. “You broke my heart. But you never ruined me.”

Silence stretched again — for a while.

“I was scared I’d never see you again,” you admitted, quieter now. “That you’d disappear into some mission and I’d never get to tell you I was still… that I still— fuck… I—” Unable to finish your sentences, looked away instead, chewing the inside of your cheek. Then you asked what had been burning in the back of your throat this whole time: “Are we ever going to be okay again?”

His answer was quiet, immediate. “We already are.” He kissed your temple — not possessive or desperate, just… loving. 

You blinked up at him. “What?”

He smiled. “You’re here. I’m here. We’re talking. Yelling. Holding each other. That’s more than most people get.”

You chuckled, exhaling a shaky breath, forehead resting against his. “So what now?”

“Now?” he murmured. “We get up.”

Your hand slid down his arm and laced your fingers with his. “And what about the end of the world?”

He gave a half-laugh, half-sigh. “Right. That.”

You both stood, like people learning how to walk for the first time again.

He looked at you, wiping a tear from his cheeks. “C’mon,” he said, nodding toward the door. “Let’s go find Bob.”

And this time, you walked out together.

—

Post-Void. New York, again.

You’d done it. You’d pulled Bob out, helped him control the void inside of him. 

And just as the dust started to settle, Val ambushed you all with a press conference. She threw around the word New Avengers like it was already printed across a glossy magazine cover. 

Your phone immediately lit up like a Christmas tree.

Everett Ross: Did my EX-WIFE just put you in the New Avengers lineup? Why did you not tell me this?

You winced. Ex-wife. Of course.

Then, Shuri: ??? What is HAPPENING? Should I have not given Bucky your hotel?

And the kicker came from the current king of Wakanda himself.

M’Baku: Weren’t you on a foreign mission on behalf of Wakanda? You are now on AMERICAN NEWS? Call back immediately.

You groaned and thumbed your phone to Do Not Disturb.

The others were watching you now. Bob was still sitting in the sun. Yelena tried ignoring the cameras with practiced disinterest. 

Beside you, Bucky was catching his breath, hair tousled, jacket streaked with dust. 

“You wanna come back to my place?” he asked, pointing to your phone. “Make the calls from there, if this is too much.”

You blinked. “Don’t you live in D.C. now? Whole Capitol Hill, suit-and-tie Bucky?”

He shrugged, glanced at a hovering drone cam, and flipped it off without changing expression. “Kept my old apartment in Brooklyn. Rent controlled.”

You smirked, though the change in his heartbeat did not go unnoticed. “You’re sentimental.”

“No,” he chuckled. “I’m cheap. But if it helps, the water pressure is still garbage and the radiator still sounds like a haunted typewriter. Just like last time you were there.”

Before you could answer, Alexei called out from behind you. “Can we all come? Team debrief?”

You turned, and shook your head. “Top secret. I’ll find you later.”

Ava lifted a hand lazily. “She’s a tracker. She will.”

She was right. If anyone tried to disappear, you’d have them in an hour.

As you turned away with Bucky at your side, your super-hearing picked up everything. Far behind you, John Walker, never one for subtlety, muttered to someone — probably Yelena, “Twenty bucks says they’re back together by tonight. I mean, do you see how they look at each other?”

You kept walking. Bucky hadn’t heard it — his senses weren’t as sharp as yours, even with the serum.

You debated pretending you hadn’t either. 

—

You knew before he even unlocked the door that keeping this place wasn’t about rent control.

When it creaked as you walked, the first thing you could smell was remnants of yourself. 

The radiator still coughed in the corner like it was dying. Everything smelled faintly of old wood and clean laundry, and something faintly him — steel and cedar and memory.

Your breath hitched when you saw the shelf to your left still had your copy of Baldwin’s The Fire Next Time, the one Bucky swore he never borrowed.

Your old hoodie — the grey one with the thumb holes — was folded on the arm of the couch like you had just worn it yesterday.

The photos in the frames hadn’t changed. There was one of you and him, laughing in the sunset. One of Bucky, Sam, Steve, and T’challa with you and Shuri making faces while photobombing them. Then, a photo of you, him, Shuri, and T’challa— his copy of the one Ramonda had taken. 

Oh. 

The space was like a museum and a time capsule rolled into one.

You didn’t say anything at first.

You sat down at the kitchen table and pulled out your phone. A stack of voicemails and messages had piled up, still buzzing in the background. The world was catching up to what had just happened — the Void, Val’s PR machine spinning headlines while you were still scrubbing concrete dust out of your hair.

You answered M’Baku first, then Shuri, then Ross. But your eyes kept drifting to the photos, the jacket, the battered mug with the chipped rim that you used to have your coffee in, no matter how much it leaked.

Bucky stayed quiet. 

He didn’t hover. Just leaned against the counter with a mug in his hand that had long since gone cold.

When you finally finished the last call, you let out a deep breath. Your fingers tightened around the edge of the table. Then, you looked at him. “Rent control, huh?” you raised an eyebrow.

He blinked, looking down to his feet.

“You’re full of shit,” you added, gentler this time.

And Bucky chuckled his first real laugh since your reunion. He dropped his head for a second, shaking it slowly. “Yeah,” he said. “I guess I am.”

He stepped a little closer, leaning one hand on the table across from you. His other hand hovered, like he wanted to reach out but didn’t want to break whatever fragile platform you were both standing on.

“I kept thinking I’d throw it all out,” he said. “That I’d come back one day and finally… take it all down. Pack the clothes. Box up the books and mail them to you. But I never did.”

You looked down at your hands. You could feel his eyes on you.

“I think,” he said, quieter now, “that part of me thought… if I kept it all exactly the same, maybe you’d come back.”

Your throat tightened.

He ran a hand through his hair, his voice rough around the edges. “I don’t know how to do this. I’m not… good at this. At any of it. But I don’t want to keep pretending I don’t want you in my life .”

Silence stretched for a long moment.

Finally, you said, “Shuri told me something the other day.”

Bucky straightened a little.

“She was trying to explain quantum entanglement to me. That even when particles are separated by galaxies, they still feel each other. React to each other. Like distance doesn’t matter. Not really.” You met his eyes. “That’s us, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.” Bucky gave you a sad smile, “It’s us.”

You looked around the room again.

“I’m not ready,” you said. “I don’t know how to go back to what we were. I don’t even know if we should.”

“I don’t want what we were,” he said, without hesitation. “I want better.”

You studied him. He looked different than the last time you saw him — older, maybe. Not physically. But his eyes were angry. Less anxious.

You nodded. “Slow,” you said. “We take it slow.”

He looked… relieved. 

He didn’t step closer. He didn’t grab you or kiss you or make some grand statement. Instead, he reached out and gently rested two fingers against the back of your hand, just enough to feel you there.

“Okay,” he said.

And somehow, it was enough.

Not everything was fixed, but for the first time in a long time, you had him back in your life. —

You didn’t know what you expected when you landed in Wakanda. Maybe M’Baku would challenge you to one final sparring match and attempt to win the truth out of you with his bare hands. Maybe Shuri would yell. Maybe Okoye would look at you like a traitor.

But no one raised their voice, and that almost made it worse.

The throne room was still. M’Baku stood tall with his arms crossed. As you stepped forward, you tried to square your shoulders, trying to find the version of yourself that had once stood tall here— not as a visitor, not as a liability, but as someone who helped this nation rebuild from the blip, from the loss of their king, from the loss of their queen.

But your throat was dry. Your heartbeat thrummed in your chest. “I came to explain,” you said, voice thinner than you’d hoped.

“You do not need to,” M’Baku replied, his voice grave but not unkind.

You stopped, stunned by how final he sounded.

He descended the steps from the throne, each footfall echoing through the vibranium coated walls. “I regret to inform you that your contract with Wakanda is terminated,” he said. “Effective immediately.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but he lifted a hand before you could speak.

“You are now aligned with the New Avengers,” he said, reciting an uncomfortable truth. “You report to the CIA’s director. Your loyalties have shifted—by necessity, perhaps, but shifted nonetheless. Wakanda cannot afford blurred lines.”

Fuck. 

“I didn’t ask for the public announcement,” you said as a last line of defence. “Valentina made that move without consulting anyone.”

“And yet the world knows,” M’Baku answered. “Perception, as you know, is reality. The eyes of the world are on you now. And those eyes inevitably turn toward Wakanda.”

You lowered your gaze, heart dropping in your chest. “I understand.”

“But…” he continued, “I want you to know that you were never just a contract to us.”

When he stepped closer, his stance shifted. He wasn’t Wakanda’s king now. He was M’Baku— your sparring partner, your most stubborn friend, the man who once cracked your rib in training and called it ‘bonding.’

“You were family,” he said quietly. “You annoyed me more than any outsider I’ve ever met, and I will miss that more than you can imagine.”

Before you could speak, he pulled you into his arms and… hugged you.

You held onto him—tighter than you meant to. You didn’t want to let go. Wakanda had been more than a mission or a job. It had been your home. It was the place that gave you purpose when the rest of the world had hunted you. And now, with a few words and a king’s goodbye, it was slipping through your fingers.

“You’ll be alright, sister,” he reassured, voice. “You always land on your feet.” He pulled back just enough to smirk. “Like a very ugly cat with no grace.”

You laughed. Or maybe you cried. You weren’t sure.

—

Outside the throne room, Shuri was waiting.

She stood like she’d been pacing with her eyes trained on the floor— but when you appeared, her head snapped up. Okoye was beside her, and even her usual perfect posture had softened.

“I’m sorry,” Shuri said the moment your eyes met, brittle at the edges. “For giving Bucky your location.”

You let out a deep breath and a sad smile ghosted across your face. “Don’t be.”

“He said there was a threat,” she shook her head, stepping closer. “And he wasn’t wrong. But I didn’t know it would end…. like this. I thought I was helping.” Her voice broke slightly. “I thought I was giving you back something you’d lost.”

You shook your head. “You weren’t wrong.”

She didn’t look at all startled by that— as if she knew whatever hole had been carved into you by the loss of Wakanda had immediately been filled by Bucky coming back into your life, by the rest of the team that you found. 

“Every time I hit a wall,” you said, just above a whisper. “I throw myself into work and pretend I don’t need anyone.” Your voice cracked open without permission like a dam that had held too long.

“But maybe…” You glanced down, then up at her. “Maybe it’s time I stop pushing away the people who love me. Maybe it’s time I meet them halfway and let them care for me.” You took her hand, “like you do.”

Shuri stared at you like sunlight through storm clouds— equal parts pride and heartbreak.

“Bucky cares,” she said. “Do not let each other slip away this time.”

You swallowed hard.

Okoye, always watching, always knowing, stepped forward.

“He is better,” she said, almost approvingly. “He has learned how to breathe without you. Perhaps it is precisely the reason you need him again. And he might just remind you that life is not all about survival and contracts— it is meant to be lived.”

You tried to blink away the sudden sting in your eyes. “Okoye…” you managed.

She raised a finger in warning. “Do not make me cry, girl.”

That startled a snorting laugh from Shuri.

You smiled. Just a little.

—

Two days later, Bucky helped you move into Avengers Tower.

He smiled sadly when he spotted your duffel bag on the curb beside a single, battered box.

“That’s it?” he asked, easily lifting the box labeled in your unmistakable handwriting: SENTIMENTAL SHIT.

You raised an eyebrow. “You expected me to have more emotional baggage?”

He let out a small laugh, missing your sense of humour. “I meant literal baggage. But…” he glanced down at the label, the corner of his mouth twitching, “…noted.”

You fell into step beside him, entering the still-mostly-empty tower. The echo of your footsteps followed you down halls that smelled like fresh paint and industrial cleaner. A few rooms were already occupied—Bob’s, Ava’s, and an unnamed office space—but yours was at the far end of the residential floor: a bit secluded, sunlit, and overlooking New York in a way that felt almost too generous.

You dropped your duffel onto the bed with a sigh. He set the box on the desk and stood back, studying in the space like he was mentally filing it away for future reference.

“You alright?” he asked softly.

You shrugged, arms crossing out of reflex. “I guess. Feels… weird.”

“What does?”

“Living out of Wakanda.” You glanced at him. “It’s even weirder being around you like this.”

“Like what?”

“Friends,” you said, with a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “That’s what we are now, right?”

“I guess so.” He gave a gentle laugh, scratching the back of his head. “Friends who know exactly how the other one likes their coffee.”

You smiled for real then. “Friends who have seen each other naked. And cry. And leave.”

His voice was quieter now. “And come back.”

—

Two days later, the tower was silent after midnight.

It didn’t feel like a base yet—more like a draft of a memory— place still deciding what it wanted to be. The lights in the common room were dimmed to an amber gold. Somewhere down the hall, a ventilation unit clicked and sighed like an old house learning how to breathe again.

You couldn’t sleep.

You’d unpacked your bag. Stacked your few books with spines you knew by heart. Hung your jacket on the back of the door and lined up your toiletries with mathematical precision, like symmetry might trick your brain into believing this was home.

But your body didn't buy it yet, So you wandered barefoot down the hallway in an oversized sweatshirt—the same one Bucky had given you all those years ago.

You found him in the common room, curled into one corner of the couch, damp hair curling at the ends from a recent shower and mug of tea cradled between his metal fingers,

He looked up when he saw you. “You too, huh?”

“Sleep is a myth,” you said, plopped onto the cushion beside him. 

He handed you the mug. You didn’t hesitate before sipping— he used to share drinks with you all the time. The tea was warm, chamomile and honey, just the way you used to make it for him when he couldn’t sleep.

You let the heat sink into your palms for a few seconds longer than necessary before handing it back.

“This place is too clean,” you said at last. 

Bucky nodded. “Won’t be for long. Alexei just moved in. Give it two days before something explodes.”

You snorted. “I give it twelve hours.”

That made him laugh, as he leaned his head back against the couch cushion and looked up, like he could see constellations through the ceiling. You looked at him and, for a second, you imagined  you were both back in his hut again, painting stars on the ceiling with glow-in-the-dark stickers and half a bottle of wine.

“Remember that night by the river?” you asked.

His eyes flicked to yours. “The one after T’challa’s birthday dinner?”

You smiled. “Yeah. We dragged the blankets out and tried to sleep under the open sky. You brought out your old army jacket. I stole your pillow.”

He didn’t say anything for a second. Slowly, he reached out, brushing his fingertips across yours. 

—

The next few months passed easily.

You and Bucky slipped back into some old habits. Mornings were for training. Afternoons often ended in sparring sessions and conversation. And in the hours in between, you found each other again and again— sometimes late night tea. Sometimes, you'd leave a book by your door. Sometimes, he’d put in your favourite movie after a stressful day. He never made a big deal out of it, and neither did you. It wasn’t discussed. It simply was.

Of course, the team noticed.

Ava, subtle as a brick, started running a betting pool in the group chat on who would initiate getting back together. She never said who the odds favored, but winked at you every time you entered a room with Bucky in tow.

John grumbled about “weird tension” on mission briefings, mostly because he lost his first bet. Even Bob— still learning how to survive in a household of ex-spies, assassins, and super-soldiers—picked up on it. One morning over coffee, he glanced at you, then at Bucky, then said, completely unprompted, “You breathe easier when he’s around.”

You blinked at him, stunned. He just sipped his coffee and went back to his crossword.

But the real kicker came at breakfast, a few weeks later.

You were barely awake, slouched at the long kitchen island in the tower. Bucky sat beside you, reading news with a tablet in hand.

Yelena walked in, grabbed a banana, and without hesitation said, “So. When are you two getting back together?”

You nearly choked on your tea. Bucky froze mid-scroll. You coughed for a solid ten seconds before managing, hoarsely, “I—what?”

Yelena leaned on the counter. “Please. The movie nights? The sparring together all the time? You are basically together.”

Bucky cleared his throat. “We’re… talking. Taking it slow.”

Yelena squinted at him like he was the world’s worst liar. “Slow like friends slow, or slow like ‘you slept in her room after the Prague mission and thought no one noticed’ slow?”

You could feel the heat rising to your cheeks. Bucky stared at the ceiling like he was considering defenestration.

“I—I didn’t—we didn’t—” you stammered.

“She had a nightmare,” Bucky said valiantly. “I stayed in her armchair.”

Yelena raised her eyebrows. “How noble. You’ll be married by June.”

And with that, she bit into her banana and walked out as if she hadn’t just casually set your entire life on fire before 8 a.m.

You stared at the doorway for a long time before turning to Bucky. “We are never living that down.”

He smiled, just a little. “She’s not wrong, though.”

You tilted your head. “About what?”

He shrugged. “About the slow part not really being all that slow anymore.”

That shut you up, but not in a bad way.

—

The day it had finally happened, though, you’d been in the tower’s comms room, backlit by flickering screens, teeth clenched as you watched the mission feed buffer and skip. Bucky and John were on the field on recon and containment. It should be routine. No reason to worry.

You told yourself it was fine. You knew Bucky could handle himself. You’d said it a hundred times.

But then the feed glitched again. Then John mentioned gunfire and Bucky’s comms went dark.

The jet returned fifteen minutes later, skidding onto the landing pad. You were already waiting there when they brought him in.

Bucky.

His combat suit was torn, blood soaking through the thigh, gashes deep in his side. His vibranium arm was scorched, still hissing faintly from an energy blast. And yet… he was awake. Breathing. He gave you a small smile, somehow, even when the poor nurse wheeled him into the med bay. You ran to follow

He could’ve died. And you weren’t there.

That’s when you saw John.

“You were supposed to watch his six!” you shouted at him before you could even register how much you meant them. “Do you even know what a field partner does, or do you just wing it and hope the super soldiers heal fast enough?”

John blinked, surprised. “Jesus, I didn’t—”

“Don’t!” you snapped. “You were with him! He had your back—where the hell were you?”

“He told me to take the high ground!” John barked, his voice rising. “I didn’t know they had long-range fire!”

“It’s literally your job to know!” Your skin felt like they were on fire now. “Do you even remember the brief? You think because he’s got the Hydra serum he can take every shot for you?”

“Hey.”You heard Bucky say from the bed behind you. “Relax.”

Your head snapped toward him. “Relax?”

He half-winced as a doctor pulled a bullet fragment from his thigh. His breathing was shallow, but the corner of his mouth tugged upward in dry amusement

“Yeah. Relax. You’re doing that thing.”

You narrowed your eyes. “What thing?”

“You sound like me back in the day,” he managed to say, letting his head fall back on the pillow. “God. The role reversal’s kinda scary.”

And just like that, you shut up.

He did used to do this. When you were still together. When it was you on the field and him pacing the halls of the palace like a caged wolf. Every bruise you got, he catalogued. Every mission report, he read twice. When you brushed off injuries, he’d pull you aside and look at you like you'd died and no one told him.

And now here you were, standing over him, boiling over like your heart had been under for years.

“It’s different,” you whispered under your breath. “You were obsessed.”

Bucky opened his eyes again, squinting slightly. “What?”

You could hear the beeping of monitors overwhelming you. You could taste the metallic tang of blood and antiseptic. “You were obsessed,” you said, a bit louder, “I’m freaking out over bullets. You used to freak out over a scratch.”

He gave a nod, not flinching. “Yeah. I know.” He shrugged. “Wasn’t healthy. But I cared.” But then his tone shifted. “And you don’t get to talk to John like that.”

You took a step back, caught off-guard. “Are you serious?”

“He’s not perfect,” he said, matter-of-fact.

“Wow,” John interjected under his breath, “Thanks.” 

Bucky paid him no mind “But he tried. This wasn’t on him.”

You pressed your fingers into your temple, trying to breathe. “I know, I just—I didn’t know what else to do, Buck.”

You looked at him then, and all the fire in your chest dimmed into ash. He looked… tired. Older. Stronger, too. But there was something in his eyes—some flicker of the man you left behind. 

Bucky glanced toward John. “Give us the room when they’re done, yeah?”

John, for once, didn’t argue. He just nodded and backed out, probably relieved.

The door shut with a hiss, and you waited until the doctors had finished stitching him up and giving him the okay to rest before you walked back to his side, a little more tired, a little more human.

You sat on the edge of the bed. Your hand found his immediately, as if it was instinct. His skin was warm and he smelled like bullets and iron, the way it always got when he’d been running on too much adrenaline and too little self-preservation.

“Is this okay?” you asked, voice barely more than a whisper.

He nodded before reaching for you with both hands in that familiar, greedy way he always used to, like he couldn't stand another second without you touching. “C’mere,” he said.

So you climbed carefully onto the too-small mattress beside him, your body curving into his like muscle memory. You avoided the bruised side, settling in close with your head tucked beneath his chin, just where it used to belong. His wrapped his arm around you.

Your palm rested over his chest, right above his heart. It beat steady, and you wondered if it ever really stopped beating for you.

He breathed in your hair. "You always smell like home," he whispered, so quiet you almost missed it.

You watched the little cuts and bruises heal on their own, bit by bit. His lashes fluttered like he was teetering on the edge of sleep — then opened again, just to make sure you were still there.

You stayed tucked beneath his chin for a long while. Eventually, you spoke, your voice muffled into his chest. “I didn’t mean to scream at Walker,” you said with a small laugh. “Or be… so overbearing. Like you used to be.” You peeked up at him with a sideways smile. “Funny, right?”

Bucky chuckled. “I deserved that,” he smiled, rubbing slow circles against your back with his human thumb

You swallowed, then pulled away just enough to look at him properly.

“I just…” You hesitated, choosing your words carefully, like they mattered. Because they did. “For the first time in a long time, work isn’t the most important thing to me.” You reached up and gently brushed your fingers along the edge of the bruise on his cheeks. “You are.”

“I know,” he said, voice rough. “And I… I just wanted you to know I never stop caring — just didn’t know how to care right.”

You both laughed a little at that — sad and sweet, like the punchline to a very old joke.

“Remember that time you hacked into a satellite feed because I missed one check-in?” you teased, smirking.

Bucky groaned, his cheeks turning pink. “Okay, first of all, it was a tactical recon satellite, I didn’t hack it, I borrowed a login.”

“Oh, that makes it better,” you said, eyes sparkling. “You bribed M’Baku with a reservation at a two Michelin Star vegan restaurant just because I didn’t text ‘safe’ fast enough.”

“I was worried,” he shook his head, then, quieter, “You didn’t answer for four hours.”

“I know,” Your brows relaxed again. “I know you were trying to love me. I just… couldn’t let myself be loved like that back then.”

Bucky reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “Are you now?”

You smiled, eyes filling up with a puddle of tears.“Well,” you said, voice a little wobbly, “Only if we meet halfway.”

He smiled, and god, it was like the sun rose just for you.

“Okay,” he agreed, leaning in until you could taste the air he breathed.

Just before your lips touched, he stopped. “You sure?” he asked, looking down at your lips.

Your heart was pounding so hard you were sure he could feel it through your chest.

You nodded. “I’m sure.”

He didn’t move yet.

“You sure you’re sure?” he whispered, voice lower now. His fingers had tightened just slightly at your waist, anchoring you there,but he just needed to give you one last chance to run — but you didn’t take it.

“Bucky…” you whispered, and the way you said his name answered everything for him.

“Okay,” he said, more a sigh than a word. “Okay.”

Then he kissed you.

It was heat and hunger that only two people who had been starved of each other, who’d tasted what it was like to be apart and never wanted to go back could feel. His mouth claimed yours like he needed to make sure you were his and you kissed him back just as fiercely, just as desperate to prove that you were.

You curled your fingers into the collar of his tac vest, pulling him closer, and he groaned against your lips. His metal hand slid up your back, and his other hand cupped your cheek and pulled you closer

And he kept saying it between kisses, like a litany, “You’re sure?”

You answered with another kiss. Deeper now, borderline bruising.

“You’re sure?” he asked again

“I’m sure.” Your lips parted on a gasp, and you nodded, forehead pressed to his. “I’m so sure, Buck, I— I never stopped—”

His mouth was on yours again before you could finish, and it didn’t matter. His thumb traced your cheek like he was re-learning you all over again, when he realized he still remembered all the ways you liked to be kissed. When you finally pulled back, breathless, he looked at you like you’ve been to hell and back for him.

“God, I missed this,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I missed you so bad, doll.”

You smiled, blinking back the tears that weren’t sad at all. “I missed you worse.”

He grinned, all wrecked and completely in love.

You kissed again, gentler this time, remembering how good it felt to be known by each other again.

Which was exactly when the door slid open with a cheerful whoosh.

“—Bucky! I was gonna check on—oh,” came Alexei’s voice, suddenly flat as pancake batter left too long on the griddle.

You froze, lips still an inch from Bucky’s. Your heart leapt straight into your throat, and you turned slowly toward the door, horror across both your faces.

Alexei stood there, blinking once, before giving the slowest nod known to man. His hands were crossed on his chest, looking too smug for his own good.

“Well,” he said, dragging his voice out. “Well. I’m going to tell team it finally happened!”

Bucky let out the deepest, most resigned sigh imaginable and let his head thunk back against the pillow. “Can you please wait until I’m discharged?”

“Nonsense!” Alexei said brightly, already halfway down the hallway. “Ava owes me twenty American dollars. And John will make that face. You know the one.”

You groaned and buried your face in Bucky’s chest, playfully mortified. 

“Back then,” he chuckled, lips brushing your hair, “I would've fought him for interrupting.”

You peeked up at him, “And now?”

He smiled. “Now I’m just glad you’re here.”

-end.

[obsessivefanfictionauthor]

The Other Woman —Peter Parker

Summary: Falling in love with your neighbour, Peter Parker, was easy. Accepting him as Spiderman? Still easy. Dealing with his change into arachnid Spiderman? Still easy. But dealing with the fact that he still loves MJ, that she still comes first? Not so easy. When he saves her over you, can you ever forgive him? (8.8k)

Pairing: BND!Peter Parker x fem!reader

TW: 18+ MDNI, NSFW; Sex scenes containing p-in-v, mentions of oral, the bed breaks;Angst; Some liberties taken with the Jean Grey possession thing; Peter has a choice between saving MJ and saving Reader and chooses MJ; Peter has to win the Reader back over; Covers their meeting, relationship and then the heartbreak just so it hurts more; dual POV; when Peter is arachnid Peter, the only one who breaks through is the Reader kind of like Natasha and the Hulk (or Cardan and Jude when he's the snake); Bruce Banner is a prof at NYU rather than Empire State for the sake of my narrative.

Credit: GIF made by @manny-jacinto

The building is strangely quiet, that’s the first thing you notice as you climb up the stairs, a stack of two cardboard boxes in your arms, chin resting on the very top of one, just enough that you can see the next stair. Because of course the elevator wasn’t working on the day that you need to move in. Because life is just like that. 

            “Woah, hey!” a voice calls out from behind you, deep and light in the same instance, the sound a shock from the previous silence, your body seizing, shaking, a slight jump, the top box sliding off your arms and falling, hitting the stair ahead of you with that peculiar thump of cardboard against, well, anything. 

            “Shit!” you hiss, looking down at the box on the step, at the one in your arms before glancing over your shoulder, looking for the owner of the voice, the one who startled you. 

            “Let me help,” the voice says again, this time from beside you and you turn, startling again, breath hitching but not just from fear because there beside you is one of the single-handedly most attractive men you’ve ever seen with dark curly hair, curls falling onto his forehead, partially obscuring the dark brown colour of his irises, the corner of his lips curled up into a half-smile. A kind of crooked grin that sets your heart alight. 

            He bends down, lifting the box from the stair in front of you, your breaths ragged for a moment more before you blink, shaking off the daze and forcing yourself to smile, the kind of practiced smile that you learned long ago for school pictures and talks with older people who always want to tell you how to live your life. 

            “Thanks,” you tell him and he smiles at you, a full smile, one that sets your heart alight as the two of you climb the stairs, a comfortable silence descending. He seems like the type of guy who would never push for conversation, who is okay with silence, familiar with it. 

            “What floor?” he asks you as the two of step onto the fifth floor landing. 

            “This one,” you tell him, stepping forwards, your back against the heavy metal door, pushing against it, pushing it back, swinging it open and holding it while he steps through. You step away from the door and out into the floor, stepping around him, shifting the box to one arm, reaching for your keychain in your pocket, pulling the bright, bedazzled SOURcharm from your hoodie, flipping it to grasp the key, stepping forwards and slipping it into the lock of 502. 

            “We’re neighbours,” he says from behind you and you turn towards him, pushing your door open, keys slid back into your hoodie pocket. 

            “Are you new here?” you ask him, one eyebrow arching as you step backwards into your new apartment, him following you with the last of your boxes. 

            “To the building?” he asks you, his voice confused, eyebrows knitting together, nose crinkling and you can’t help but roll your eyes as you step into your kitchen, setting the box down on the counter by the sink. 

            “No,” you call out as he follows you, setting the second box beside the first, “to New York. Because if so, you’re neighbours with the right person.”

            “Why?” he asks, his voice growing suspicious. Like he suspects that you’re hitting on him, which objectively he’s attractive enough to be hit on, you are just not the kind of person to do said hitting on. “Because you’ll show me around?”

            “No,” you reply, drawing out the word, making it as long and dramatic as possible, your eyes drifting around your crappy apartment, a true New York experience. “Because I’m new and haven’t you always wanted a buddy to explore a new city with? You know, experience everything with someone who also has no experience with said things? Because, honestly, it’s scientific at its base. You experience one thing and the other experiences something else and you’ll get the clearest picture of New York by comparing the two new experiences.” Your voice has risen and sped up in the way it does when you get excited, your hands moving with your words, gestures always arising when you’re interested in a topic, an experiment. 

            But this guy…he doesn’t look annoyed by it, rather the way his lips are curved into a smile that seems soft if a smile can be such a thing, suggests that he…he might like it. 

            “Yeah,” he whispers, one hand reaching up to brush his curls back from his forehead, showing eyes the colour of melted chocolate glimmering in the dim lighting of your apartment, “I’m new.”

            “So,” you say, both eyebrows arching as you peer at him, “buddies?” His smile widens, dimples showing in a way that makes your breath hitch, but you ignore it, simply reaching your hand forward for his. You’re good at ignoring things especially when they’re related to your feelings. 

            “Buddies,” he agrees, taking your hand in his, the callouses on his skin rubbing against yours in a way that is strange, but not unpleasant. His grip is firm, his hand is warm and the smile he gives you bright. He’s like sunshine in a person. 

            “Well,” you tell him, letting go of his hand and walking towards your door, putting it between your body and him, using it as a shield against emotions you’re going to need to tamp down, ignore, shove past and aside. “Thanks for your help.” He nods, stepping out of your apartment and turning, eyes narrowing as you begin to close the door. 

            “Peter!” he calls out, the words loud and echoing in the hallway, his face flushing a deep red, face shifting into embarrassment as he continues, his voice barely audible, barely a whisper as he says, “my name…it’s…it’s Peter.” He sounds so nervous as he says it that a small smile blooms across your face as you look at him, at the way he’s glancing down and away from you, cheeks flushed bright red. 

            “My name’s Y/n,” you tell him and he looks up, the motion abrupt and rapid, so fast you worry that he’s going to get whiplash. 

            “Nice name,” he whispers, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he waves, watching as you close the door, the sound of the latch clicking ominous and final. Not really, because no sooner have you closed it than have you wrenched it open again, seeing him still standing there, looking slightly frozen. 

            “You want to find a place to get hot dogs?” you ask him and he startles, like you did on the stairs, nodding and you nod once, back at him, ducking back to your kitchen, pulling your wallet from your bag and tucking it into your pocket before slipping out and closing your door, locking it behind. “Let’s go, buddy!”

            “Sooo,” you say, your legs hooked over the fire escape ledge, your hot dog in one hand, the other pressed against the metal grate beneath you. 

            “Sooo what?” Peter asks, his mouth slightly full, the sounds of the words off and you glance over at him, a smile threatening to form on your face at the way mustard is smeared on his cheek. 

            “Um…you have a little something,” you say, taking the napkin from your lap and leaning forwards, wiping it away, his eyes locked on you, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows, hard. “Anyways,” you continue, looking away from him, back to the New York City skyline, the napkin set to the side, “I was going to ask what you do.”

            “I, um, I’m going to NYU,” he says and you look back at him, a smile blossoming on your face, the kind of smile you have when you’re genuinely excited, when something has genuinely made you happy. A smile you’ve kept smiling at Peter. 

            “Me too,” you tell him, your voice light in a way that it rarely is, in a way it hasn’t really since you packed up all your stuff to move alone to the city of your dreams. The city that’s strange and rings with a hollow sort of loneliness, except for right now on a fire escape ledge, the skyline twinkling like stars. “What are you studying?”

            “Engineering,” he says, his voice quiet, unsteady, just a little unsure, his gaze turned away from you as he sets the wrapper from his hot dog down beside him, brushing his hands together, brushing crumbs off of them. 

            “What’s your specialty?” you ask him and he glances back at you, surprise glimmering in his warm eyes, eyebrows knitting together, lips quirking up just a bit like he’s pleased that you’ve surprised him. 

            “Hold up,” he says, “what are you studying?”

            “Engineering,” you tell him, your smile growing wider as the surprise shifts to a pleasant kind of shock in his eyes, like he didn’t expect to have something in common with you. “Specifically,” you continue, “biomedical engineering focusing upon neuroengineering.”

            “A brain girl,” he says and you nod, the smile pleased as you turn away from him, back to the skyline of the city that never sleeps. The city you used to dream of as a kid. You lean back, your back slumping against the grated brick wall of the apartment building, your wrappers set aside, hands in your hoodie pockets, gaze trained on the blinking, twinkling lights of the city. “I’m in biotech,” he says and you let out a low whistle as he turns back to look at you, his body leaning forwards against the railing. “What?”

            “And I thought I was a nerd,” you tell him and he tosses a balled up napkin at you, one which you swat away with a laugh, one light and bright that has him pausing, just looking at you like one looks at an oasis in the desert. “What?” you ask, a familiar heat flooding your face the kind that comes from embarrassment. Or the fear of it. “Do I have something on my face?”

            “No,” he whispers, scooting himself back over the grating to slump beside you. “I just haven’t had something like this in a long time.”

            “Well,” you tell him, letting your head rock to the side, rock to face him, eyes blinking once before focusing on him, tiredness seeping into your bones, to your eyelids, “you have it now.” The smile you give him is hesitant, but he returns it, taking your hand in his, palms against one another, his fingers closing around the sides of your hand, a slight, gentle squeeze given. 

            “Yeah,” he says. “I guess I do. We do.”

            “Yeah,” you agree, your gaze darting away from him, flutters in your stomach that are unfamiliar, but also familiar. “We do.”

            Peter knows that he should stay away from you, that he should avoid you if he knows what’s good for him. That all knowing you will cause is danger, put you in harm’s way the way it did Ned and MJ, but he doesn’t want to stay away from you. You, the girl who didn’t look at him for a one-night stand, but a friend. Someone to experience New York City with for the first time. 

            You were lonely, but braver than he’s ever been and you were so…enthusiastic about the comparing of experiences that how could he ever say no to you. He just couldn’t. There’s just something about you that drew him in and the late night talks that keep happening, legs dangling over the fire escape, whispers carried to one another on the breeze, watching as New York lives on, gleaming and twinkling, just make him want to stay more. 

            Like last night, when you fell asleep beside him and he lay you down, your head on his lap, his hand smoothing down your hair over and over while you slept on, safe and content beside him. He’d whispered to you then, even though you couldn’t hear him, that he should stay away, but he just couldn’t seem to close the door on you. 

            “You know,” he’d said, “I should stay far away from you and keep you safe but…something about you keeps drawing me back. Like I can’t stay away from you, pretty girl.” That’s what he’s called you in his head, pretty girl, because you are. You’re pretty and you’re nice and you’re smart and you laugh too loud and too long and it’s just perfect and he knows in some way that he’s falling even when he wishes that he wasn’t. 

            Because he’ll just bring harm to you. That’s the nature of his life, isn’t it?

            But can’t he have a friend? Does he have to be alone? he wonders as he swings his legs over the edge of his bed, standing up on slightly shaky legs, tired from the fight yesterday and the classes he rushed to get to. 

            “PETER!” he hears you call, your voice echoing through the thin door of his apartment, palm flat, slamming against the door and he sighs, an annoyed sounding sigh even when he’s not really annoyed, but happy, excited. Excited in the way you make him because you live and you’re dragging him along with you. 

            “What?” he rasps as he pulls the door open, the clock reflecting 5:00 AM at him from its perch beside the door. You’re fully dressed, jeans and boots and an Olivia Rodrigo t-shirt on, a trench coat thrown over, arms crossed. 

            “It’s Saturday,” you tell him and he closes his eyes, sighing again, this time real as he leans his forehead against the door, tired and sore and so not in the mood for this. 

            “I’m aware.”

            “Then you’re aware of the fact that we’re looking for the best place to get breakfast,” you say, one eyebrow arched in the way you have when you’re annoyed, your hips canting, weight resting on your left foot, right loose. 

            “Right,” he sighs, pushing himself off the door and holding up four fingers to you, closing the door, saying, “four minutes!”

            “I’ll be waiting!” Maybe that’s what keeps drawing Peter in, the fact that you wait, that you never push, that you plan. That you’re so different from MJ, the girl he still loves, can’t entirely forget, can’t entirely erase no matter how hard he tries. Most of the time he still remembers that goodbye, holding her tight, but when he’s with you…he can see that there is a future. One where he’s okay. 

            “Why NYU?” he asks you, his hand wrapped around yours, the two of you walking on a path in Central Park, raincoats on, the sky grey and overcast, clouds hanging low, swollen with impending rain. “I mean,” he continues when you look back at him, your expression quizzical and so, so pretty that his breath catches in his throat, “why not MIT if you had the grades?”

            “I did have the grades,” you tell him, tipping your head up, eyes closing for a moment as you breathe in the smell of the rain. He knows that you do this often, that you like the stormy weather, has watched you climb out onto the fire escape when it rains to just stand there, arms wide, the rain soaking into your clothes. “I got into MIT, Yale, Stanford, Harvard, Columbia and Cornell, plus of course, NYU. But as a kid,” you pause, your head tipping back down, gaze falling on the cracked pathway, the lines of breaking. “As a kid, I dreamed of New York and NYU because…I don’t know…I just felt that it was right.”

            “Gotta say,” Peter says, squeezing your hand, breath hitching as you look over at him, lips curled into a soft smile, the kind you reserve for him, “that I’m glad you chose NYU.”

            “Me too, buddy,” you tell him, knocking your shoulder against his, his skin tingling, feeling alive in a way it hasn’t really. It’s felt like rubber stretched over bone and now it feels like skin, like he’s alive. 

            But is it selfish to love you?

            “Hey! Puppies!” you cry, tugging him along behind you, taking off towards the animal shelter set-up, puppies tumbling over one another and as he follows, as he watches you scoop a wriggling rottweiler mix into your arms, as he watches that puppy lick your face, eliciting a giggle, one that rings through the park and his heart, he finds he doesn’t care if it’s selfish to love you because he’s fallen anyways. 

            And he can love you from afar, be your friend. It doesn’t change that. 

            It won’t. 

            It can’t. Right?

            The stadium is packed full, your baseball cap pulled low, a newly bought Yankees jersey on, Peter beside you, his body radiating heat as the game goes on. You don’t entirely understand what’s going on having never been a baseball fan before, but it’s the Yankees and it’s iconically New York so you dragged Peter with you after saving up for the tickets. 

            It’s been six months of being buddies with Peter and it’s a sweet kind of torture because every minute that you spend with him, the more you learn about him, the more you feel for him. You don’t know if it’s love, if it can be quantified as such but it’s something. It’s something and you know you should stop hanging out with him, just give your heart a break, but something about him means that you can’t stop. 

            He just keeps drawing you back in. You’ve gone shopping with him, picking out books for one another based on vibes. You’ve spent hours together poring over engineering books and formulas, doing homework side-by-side and every time, there’s that moment when he looks at you with pupil-blown eyes and you think maybe, just maybe but then the moment passes and you curse yourself every time. 

            You curse the heart that just can’t stop hoping. It hurts to hope yet it doesn’t stop. 

            “HOLY SHIT!” Peter yells, standing up and pulling you with him, a baseball flying up at you and you shriek, lifting your hands to bat it away from you, but rather your fist closes on it and you’re left staring at the baseball in your hand. “YOU CAUGHT IT!” he cries and then his arm is around your shoulder and for a moment you can’t breathe because to breathe is to smell him, his uniquely Peter scent of vanilla and sandalwood and nutmeg. 

            The casual touch is the worst part of this torture. 

            “What…what do I do with it?” you ask him and he looks at you, face incredulous before he curls your fingers tighter over the ball, the fingers that had opened, holding the ball out to him like an offering. 

            “You keep it,” he tells you and there’s another moment. Another one where you think maybe, just maybe, his gaze dropping to your lips, his lips parting, but then he blinks and turns away, neck muscles rigid and you can feel that deflating, that crushing. That loss of hope. 

            “Will do,” you whisper, your eyes on him, on the line of his neck, of his jaw. Of him. You really hate hope. 

            The street is lit by the streetlights, dark descended while you were still in the stadium watching a game you didn’t really understand, holding a ball you didn’t mean to catch in your hands. 

            “Let’s go here,” you tell Peter, the two of you looking for a place to eat something sweet, a bakery just off to the side with lights blazing. 

            “No,” he says. “They suck.”

            “You’ve been there?” you ask him, lips curving up as you look at him, watching as his expression blanches, eyes go wide, calculations occurring in that wonderful brain of his. 

            “Yeah,” he says and then he tugs on your arm, pulling you towards a dimly lit diner, an overhang in red and black obscuring a sign that glimmers, refracting at you. “And this place is good.”

            “And how would you know that?” you ask him, tone leading, high-pitched in the way it is when you know something and you’re trying to pry what you already know from someone. 

            “Um…well…uh,” he swallows hard, gaze focused solely on the diner as the two of you run across the street, rushing just as headlights come up to the side, the two of you stepping onto the cracked and falling apart sidewalk as the car rushes past, a breeze blowing by you. 

            “You’re from New York, right?” you ask him and he looks over at you, shock writ upon his features as he pulls the door open, the two of you stepping into the diner, knocking dust and street litter from your boots on the mat. 

            “How’d you know?” he asks and you roll your eyes, sighing as the two of you cross to a table, him sliding in on one side of the booth and you frozen for just a minute. A part of you wants to sit beside him, but you know you shouldn’t, but as you go to slide in across from him, he pats the seat beside him and you slide in beside him, your side pressed against his, heart racing, racing, racing. 

            “No one just finds all of those places on the first try,” you tell him. “Plus…you have this look about you, like the city isn’t a marvel, but rather home. I don’t have that.”

            “So, you just knew?” he asks, his elbow on the table, cheek resting on his palm, attention locked upon you. “You just knew?”

            “I told you I’m smart,” you tell him and he smiles at you, your body alight with feelings and sensations and you look away from him, picking up one of the grease-covered plastic menus, the red binding fraying, plastic cracking in a way that tells you this place is good, well-loved. 

            “What will it take to earn your forgiveness?” he asks and you glance up at him, eyebrows knitting together, your heart climbing into your throat as you look at him, at the way he’s looking at you. Looking at you like you matter. 

            “You don’t have to earn it, Peter. I’m not mad, just curious. Why’d you lie?”

            “Because you were so…enthusiastic and I…I was enamoured by it and didn’t really want anyone else to be your buddy.” You swallow hard, your throat thick, tears stinging your eyes because of what can never be. 

            “Oh,” you whisper and he takes your hand in his, the one beside him, interlacing your fingers with his, resting the joined hands on his thigh. 

            “Do you want to go out with me?” he asks you, stare intense and you can feel your skin heating up, flushing, heart racing and you swallow hard again, mouth just a little bit dry. 

            “Aren’t we kind of already?” you ask him and you like how he ponders what you’ve said, his stare changing, shifting as he considers. 

            “I guess so,” he says. “I mean, we spend all our time together. We might as well just make it official.”

            “Official?”

            “Will you be my girlfriend?” he asks, his cheeks a bright red and you nod, the gesture fast and excited and then he’s letting go of your hand, shifting, hands coming to rest on your cheeks, pulling you to him and pressing a soft and lingering kiss against your lips. 

            It’s a kiss that tastes of first chances, of hope and promise. 

            It’s a kiss for the ages. 

            “I don’t want anything to really change between us, Peter,” you whisper one night, your body curled into him on the fire escape, the two of you watching the skyline of New York, entranced by it. 

            “Then it won’t,” he whispers and you lift your head from his chest to look at him, at the way his face is relaxed, his body safe and warm and not tense like it sometimes is. 

            “Promise?” you ask and he nods, leaning forwards, his lips pressing against yours, open-mouthed and hot, tongue sliding in like a promise, his grip tightening on you like he never wants to let you go. Never wants to lose you. 

            “Promise,” he vows, breaking away from the kiss, his forehead pressing against yours, his eyes closing like you’re his safe space. 

            You think you just might be.

            “Jesus!” you cry out, your back arching off the bed as Peter thrusts in for the first time, sliding in with ease, but the stretch still burns a little bit no matter how long he spent with his face buried between your legs, wanting to make this first time with him the best. It’s a good kind of burn though, a good kind of pain. 

            “’m sorry,” he breathes out, hips rolling slow and steady, the rickety bed still creaking beneath him. 

            “Don’t be sorry,” you whisper, your nails digging into his back. “Just go harder.” He looks at you, concern etched upon his face before he nods and it’s like he’s had restraint and then just lets go, driving in and out of you with force you didn’t really know he had. 

            It’s hard and fast and relentless, stimulating every part of you as he drives in and out, your body moving with the force, his lips hot on your neck and chest as he sucks hickeys into your skin, marking you, the bed creaking and creaking and creaking. 

            Honestly, the warning signs were all there, but you were too fucked out to notice and Peter was too obsessed with the feel of your walls clinging to him, to the taste of you on his tongue and the way you cry out his name, but the bed creaks one more time as Peter thrusts in and then it feels like the ground has given way, the bed breaking, landing on the floor with force. 

            “Shit,” Peter whispers, pausing in his rhythm, hands running over your body, not to turn you on, not to make love to you, but to check for injury. “You okay?” he asks and maybe it’s the way he asks, but you can’t help but let out a small giggle, one that grows as he looks at you with such horror on his pretty face. “Why are you laughing?”

            “We broke the bed,” you tell him, your voice high, a giggle itself. 

            “And that’s funny? Because I’m still inside of you and you laughing is not doing much for my confidence,” he tells you and you’re still giggling as you lift one hand to his cheek, his head moving into your hand, pressing in. 

            “I just think it’s funny that we broke the bed, Peter. We were already going to get noise complaints,” you tell him and his expression darkens, but not in an angry way, rather a horny way. 

            “We’re gonna earn those noise complaints,” he tells you and that’s all the warning you get before he’s thrusting back into you without abandon, your back arching up and into him again, the giggles turning to cries of his name. 

            It’s later, after, the two of you curled into each other on his broken bed when he rests his hand upon your cheek that he whispers, “I love you.” It’s like the world has stopped, your heart in your throat, tears stinging your eyes, but the good kind of tears. 

            “I love you too,” you whisper and he pulls you even closer against him like he’s trying to fuse the two of you together, just burrow into you. 

            And it’s the best sleep you’ve had in ages. The first time you’ve ever felt safe. 

            Peter’s tired as he swings into his apartment, ready to just peel his suit off and fall into his bed, the attic apartment better for his arrivals, better because it goes unnoticed, it’s not right next to your apartment. He can’t drag you into this if you don’t know. 

            He lands in his bedroom, hands drifting to his mask, pulling it off and preparing to toss it onto his bed when he shrieks, a figure sitting on the bed, arms crossed. 

            “Who the fuck are you?!” he yells, shooting a web at the figure only to hear your muffled groan of distaste. “Pretty girl?! Is that you?!”

            “Yeah, it’s me,” you tell him, voice flat with distaste, your figure pushing off the bed, rising and walking towards him, expression irritated, arms stuck to your torso by webs.

            “What are you doing here?” he asks, his voice gentle as he walks to you, pulling the webs from off your body, tossing them aside, his hands, still gloved in his costume, resting on your upper arms, grip warm and your expression softens. 

            “I figured out that you were Spiderman weeks ago and I’ve been waiting for you to tell me, but you haven’t and I was tired of waiting so I…you know, broke in.”

            “You broke into my apartment?” he asks and you nod, your hand coming to rest on his cheek where a bruise is forming from where the bad guy hit him. He hisses as you touch it, your touch achingly gentle but the skin so sensitive. 

            “I wanted answers,” you tell him and he walks the two of you backwards towards his bed, pulling you onto his lap, your body curling into him, fitting to him in a way that makes his heart ache in good ways and bad, guilt seeping in. 

            It’s a guilt that made him write a letter weeks ago to MJ, one to never be sent. He feels this deep guilt because he worries that he moved on too soon. But when he’s with you like this, feeling alive, feeling loved when to the rest of the world he’s naught but a ghost, he doesn’t feel guilty at all. He feels like he’s right where he belongs. 

            “Are you mad?” he whispers and you look at him, shock and hurt on your face as you press a soft, gentle, tender kiss against his lips, the taste of your cherry lip gloss slipping into his mouth.

            “Never,” you whisper and he relaxes, your hand tracing shapes on his still suit covered chest. “It’s just…can you tell me everything about Spiderman or…” you trail off, your gaze falling away from him, brow furrowing and he lets go of your thigh to reach up, pulling your face to him, making you look at him, his lips pressing against yours in a harder kiss, one that says forever. That says everything he needs it to say. 

            “I don’t want to have secrets from you,” he whispers and then he tells you everything. He tells you about his parents, the spider bite, the first villain, the meeting of MJ and the Europe debacle; Aunt May’s death, the other Spidermen, the erasure of himself from everyone’s memory. 

            He doesn’t know what he expected when he finished, but it wasn’t this, the way you hold his cheek so tenderly, so preciously, like he’s everything, your eyes warms and glimmering, full of love. 

            It wasn’t you whispering, “I know you, Peter. You’re not a ghost. Not to me. I didn’t know you before but I know you now. I don’t think that’s nothing.”

            “It’s not,” he whispers, pressing his forehead against yours. “It’s everything because you’re right. I’m a ghost to everyone, but you and I love you. More than that, I’m in love with you.”

            “Me too, Peter. I’m in love with you too,” you whisper and that’s how the two of you fall asleep, curled into one another, his suit still on. 

            And when he wakes in the morning, he doesn’t move, doesn’t shift, just pulls you closer. You, the only person in the world who knows him. All of him. 

            He wouldn’t trade that for the world. 

            “Peter!” you squeal as he swings into his apartment, scooping you up and running to the bathroom. “Put me down! You need to shower!”

            “I know,” he says, closing the door behind, peeling his suit off, standing there in nothing but his boxers before you, a tent noticeable. “You don’t expect me to do this alone, do you?” You laugh as he strips entirely naked and pulls your clothes off, guiding you into the shower and under the spray. 

            It’s not rough sex or fevered sex. It’s slow and gentle and full of kisses, lips gliding along skin, tongues against tongues. Him tracing the lines of your body with his mouth, whispering I love you against your body with every kiss. 

            It’s hot and sweet and perfect. Just like him. 

            You didn’t go looking for the letter, you went looking for your notebook that you left at Peter’s place two days ago, but you found the letter anyways. The letter written for the girl who forgot him, the girl he apparently never got over. 

            And sometimes, Spider-Man has to do the hard thing. Even if it breaks Peter Parker's heart. Maybe I'll never read this to you. Maybe I'm just writing this for me. Maybe that's my responsibility, to live alone with the truth. But the truth is I love you. 

            And I hope that deep down, something inside you remembers you love me too.

            You didn’t go looking for the letter, but you found it anyways when it fluttered out of the pages of his favourite book. Almost four years of being with him, of knowing him, every piece of him and it’s not enough. 

            It’s not enough because someone else holds his heart and you are just the other woman. You are the one warming his bed until some miracle occurs and she remembers and they can live happily ever after together. And you’ll be nothing but a footnote in his story. 

            An adventure without her. 

            The truth is I love you. 

            How many times has he said that to you, you wonder, your tears soaking into your pillow, body shaking with your sobs, blankets pulled up to your chin. 

            Logically, you know it could be old. That it doesn’t matter, that things changed, but you…don’t believe that. You have spent nearly four years loving him and he hasn’t loved you. Maybe he doesn’t even now. 

            Maybe he’s never loved you. How do you know? The problem is you don’t. 

            All you know is that your skin is seared with tears, throat thick, heart racing, chest constricting, lungs burning as you cry. As you cry everything out, sobs hurting your body, destroying you because you know that even after that, you will not leave him. Because you love him. 

            Because how can you leave him when you don’t know the truth of the letter? Maybe it’s old. Maybe he does love you.

            And life is good, isn’t it?

            You just need to cry right now. That’s all. 

            “Peter?” you call out, pushing his door open, stepping into his apartment in the attic, webs everywhere. You’ve been avoiding him for a week, the hurt of the letter still too fresh. It’s why you’re here now, you want to talk to him about it, get the truth behind it, but the apartment…it looks destroyed. 

            Furniture knocked over, webs on every surface, over all the walls. Nail marks on the walls, deep gouges. 

            “Peter?!” you call out, your voice urgent, worried, your heart beating a frantic rhythm as you step deeper into the apartment, hearing a strange sound from his room. “PETER!”

            “Go away!” you hear him yell, his voice hoarse, halfway between his voice and a deeper sound, a growl. “Just go away!”

            “No,” you call out, heart beating both out of fear and anger because you are here because you need answers and you’re not just going to be turned away. “No, come out here!” You hear him stand, shuffle out towards you and your breath hitches when you see him, eyes black, just black. “Peter? What’s wrong?”

            “I’m not…me,” he rasps, the black leaching away as he looks at you, body sweating, shaking, stumbling towards you. “I’m worried I’ll…hurt you.”

            “You won’t,” you whisper and then he’s there, pulling you against him, his body shaking as he holds you, his nose buried into the crook of your neck, breathing you in. 

            “It’s like…the world is dark…” he whispers. “Like I know…nothing. Nothing but you. Always you.” And then he’s pulling you down onto the floor, his body holding yours, tight, tight, tight like he can’t let you go. Like if he lets you go, he’ll lose you. 

            Like you’ll leave him. 

            And if he knows nothing but you…doesn’t that mean he loves you?

            “Peter,” you whisper, “is this because I’ve been avoiding you?” His grip tightens, a growl sounding deep in his throat. 

            “Mine,” he whispers and you swallow hard, guilt leaching into your bones as you shift, your hands brushing his hair back from his face, the black in his eyes leaching back to the warm, soft brown. “I think…maybe…it was a trigger. For my…change.”

            “Peter,” you whisper and he looks at you, warm brown eyes filled with tears. “I’m not leaving you. I’m not. I was dealing with some stuff and didn’t know what to do, but I’m not leaving you. I love you.” And that’s your truth—you love him. Deeply, like it’s a piece of you. 

            “Don’t leave,” he whispers and you press your forehead against his, hands still smoothing his hair back, his body shuddering beneath you. 

            “Never,” you whisper and that’s how you stay, held tight by him all night. Because he needs you. 

            And you need him too.

            “What if we…inhibit whatever is changing you?” you ask him the next morning, seated on the only intact chair in his apartment, pencil moving on the scrap piece of paper, formulas spilling out, a design sketching across the paper. “Like…Professor Banner did one. If we could inhibit this change in you, chemical or biological and prevent it from controlling you…that would be good right?”

            He turns from where he’s been struggling to make coffee around all the webs and destruction. “God, I love you,” he says and you roll your eyes, a pleased smile growing on your lips nonetheless. 

            “Well come on, biotech engineer! Can’t do this without you!”

            Peter knows nothing when the arachnid comes over him, takes over. It’s like the world is dark and everything is strange and foreign and so much. Too loud, too strong, too bright. It’s like he’s possessed, the real him shoved down, but one thing he does know. 

            You, always you. It’s like he’s engineered to know you, designed to love you. 

            He always knows you. 

            The arachnid in him always whispers mine and when Peter wakes up…he can’t argue with it. Because he’s never loved anyone like he’s loved you. 

            Peter doesn’t know how Jean Grey got into his apartment, but she did. She found the letter he wrote three years ago to MJ, back when he was feeling guilty, back before he’d spilled everything to you. Back before you became his everything. 

            But Jean Grey found the letter to MJ and once again he’s put her in danger. Because he loved her once, because he knew her. Because he misses her, not as a girlfriend, but a friend. The person he used to know. And he feels so guilty over putting her in danger again.

            Which is why he’s here, at MJ’s apartment, bursting in only to see you there too, sitting and talking with her, that soft smile on your face, the one he fell in love with all those years ago.

            “Babe?” he calls out and you turn, a question in your eyes. 

            “Why’d you ask me here?” you ask him and he can feel the ground shift underneath his feet as he looks at MJ, a smile on her face that he doesn’t know. One that’s wholly not her. 

            “You’re in MJ aren’t you, Jean?” he asks and the grin only widens as she nods, stepping around the kitchen counter, a knife in her hand. “Come on! Stab me, I can take it.”

            “It’s not for you, Peter,” Jean says, but it’s MJ’s voice and it hurts, hearing her voice say his name. “It’s for your girlfriend.” He barely has time to breathe, to speak before he’s watching MJ (Jean) plunge the knife into your stomach, your body bending into the gesture, folding in, a silent scream leaving your lips. 

            “NO!” he yells and he can feel the arachnid claw up into him, the inhibitor not yet finished as he crosses the room to you, your body falling into his arms. 

            “Peter, Peter. Peter,” Jean says, her words in a parody of MJ’s voice, dark and cruel and unrelenting, teasing and taunting. 

            “WHAT?!” he roars, turning, his arms still holding you, tears slipping down his cheeks. 

            “I’m giving you a choice,” she says and he realizes just how close MJ stands to the open window, the one that if she fell out of would kill her. “You choose one of them to save. There’s a right choice and a wrong choice, Peter. The right choice saves them both, the wrong choice has one die. Who’s it gonna be, Peter?” He watches as she climbs onto the window ledge, turning, preparing to jump, that cruel smile on her face. 

            “Peter,” you whisper, your hand reaching for him, your blood soaking your shirt, soaking the floor and he feels his body hitch, fold in on itself because he wants to stay with you, call the ambulance and save you, but he knows that MJ is the right choice. Because he failed her once and he can’t fail her again. 

            “I’m sorry,” he whispers and he lays you down on the floor, gentle and takes off, jumping out the window, arms wrapped around MJ, webs shooting up and out, carrying her away, carrying her to safety in Castle’s hideout. 

            “Wrong choice, Peter,” Jean whispers and then she’s gone and in her place is MJ, scared and terrified MJ who he explains some things to and she relaxes, going with him. He drops her off and then he’s rushing back, his heart feeling like it’s breaking as he races against time back to MJ’s apartment, hurrying and breaking, bursting back into the window, your body unconscious, the blade removed, a giant pool of blood beneath you. 

            “NO!” he cries, falling to his knees beside you, shooting webs into your stomach, using them to hold you together, the sound of the ambulance roaring, the webs soaking with blood and he holds you against him, crying, your pulse so weak. “NO! STAY! I LOVE YOU!” 

            And he stays with you until the EMTs take you away and then he leaves the apartment, needing justice. Needing to finish this. 

            For you. 

            “Why’d you do that to me, Jean?” you ask, your body lying flat in the meadow. A memory of yours that you’re in, that she’s in too. 

            “To show Peter the truth,” she says and you sit up, turning to look at her, a redheaded girl no older than you are, her face worried and tear-stained. “That sometimes you make the wrong choice and you have to live with that. With what it does.”

            “So, you killed me for that?”

            “No,” she says, sinking down beside you in the swaying grass. “No one was ever going to die. I called the ambulance as soon as he made his choice. I just need him to understand.”

            “Why Jean?” She looks at you, utterly broken. 

            “Because I have answers that I need and I keep making wrong choices. And I have no one.”

            “Not true,” you tell her and she looks at you, brows knitting as you reach for her hand, taking it in yours. “You have me.”

            “I almost killed you.”

            “But you were never going to let me die,” you tell her and watch as a single tear slips down her cheek. “You know, there’s this story I read once about sisters forged in blood. And I don’t know your story, Jean. But I can be that if you need it.”

            “Why?” she asks you, her voice not breaking so much as already broken. 

            “Because everyone needs someone. And you’re not evil, Jean. You’re just…you need someone and that can be me.”

            “I’d like that,” she says and the two of you lay back into the meadow, the ring of ambulance sirens just cutting through along with the echo of someone yelling stay. “I’ll see you later.”

            “Yeah,” you tell her. “Later.” And she disappears and you’re left with the knowledge that Peter didn’t choose you ringing in your heart, tears slipping down your cheeks until the light flares bright and pain flares stronger and the meadow winks out and the hospital lights wink in. 

            “She’s back!”

            But back to what, you wonder. What’s there for you now in a city where you’ve only really found pain?

            When you got discharged from the hospital, the first thing you did was pack up all your stuff, the acceptance to Oxford for your Ph.D finally chosen. Two weeks before you fly out. Two weeks before you leave New York behind for good. 

            You took your stuff to your best friend, Gwen’s house where you’ve been ever since, camping on her couch, alternating between crying your eyes out and going out only when you know that Peter will be busy with work. The times where you’ll never cross paths. 

            He didn’t choose you. He chose MJ. He had the chance to save you both and he saved her because he didn’t see the fact that he could have caught her with a web while staunching the flow of blood from your wound. Choosing you was the right choice but he didn’t think at all. He just said sorry and took her to safety. 

            He left you to die. 

            He left you to die like you were nothing. 

            You can’t stay around him because when you look at him, how will you ever see anything but the man who left you to bleed out? How can you forgive him?

            You can’t. 

            You just can’t. 

            So, you’ll bide your time before you fly out, before you leave New York, leave the fucking country behind, finding safety at Oxford, at the hallowed halls you’ve always wanted to be at. 

            You’ll leave Peter behind and move on with your life. 

            Because you deserve that.

            Because he didn’t choose you. He’ll never choose you. You were just the Other Woman. 

            Peter didn’t want to meet with Ned, but he’s spent weeks moping over you, over the fact that everywhere he looks you’re not there. The arachnid is not happy, but it can’t do anything, not now that Peter can control it. Not now that he knows that it’s him. 

            He went because he just wanted to know if he could remember him and he wasn’t expecting that spark, the handshake or the way Ned cried after he said Peter. He wasn’t expecting him to remember. 

            “You really love her?” Ned asks now, the two of them in his attic apartment, piecing Legos together to form the Millenium Falcon. 

            “I really do,” he answers, pressing a block down and Ned sighs, leaning back in his chair and shaking his head at him. 

            “Then dude! You have to get her back.” Peter looks at Ned, red just tinging his vision, the urge to smash the work of several weeks still there, the darker side always going to be there. 

            “How, Ned? I chose MJ and she thinks I left her to die! I doubt she’ll believe anything I have to say.”

            “If you really love her,” Ned says, leaning forwards in his chair, arms resting on his knees, hands folded under his chin, “then show her. Put everything on the line for her and tell her everything. Even if it means leaving it all behind.”

            “But what if she still says no?” Peter whispers. 

            “But what if she says yes, man?”

            The airport is far too loud for this early in the morning and you’re still sad, that particular sadness of leaving your life behind swirling in your gut, the sight of Gwen’s teary face as she waved goodbye still eating at you now while you sit, waiting for the time to board. Waiting for the time to leave it all behind. 

            At least that was until you heard your name being called in a voice you never wanted to hear again. You turn in your chair, taking in the sight of Peter, his curls brushed out of his face, hooded jacket on, dark blue jeans and the Rolling Stones shirt you bought him one Christmas on his frame. 

            He looks good. And that hurts. You turn back around, ignoring him, hoping he doesn’t come closer, but of course you aren’t that lucky, his footsteps, his unique rhythm echoing behind you as he steps around to sit down beside you, his hands folded in his lap, attention focused on the large windows exposing the planes. 

            “When Harry Met Sally,” he says and you glance at him, surprise etching on your face, throat thickening and lungs burning as you look at him. 

            “What?” you ask, your voice thick in that way a voice is when you’re holding back tears, that image of his masked face whispering sorry still too strong. 

            “Hardy-Weinberg equilibrium, blue, popcorn and milk duds. You hate coding but you love calculating. You love watching sunrises but hate watching sunsets. You like the moon more than the sun but the sun more than the stars. You hate sleeping with the windows open. You love sleeping with your arms out of the covers. You love when we cuddle. You love coffee, so much so that if we cut you open, you always say that you’d bleed caffeine.”

            “Peter,” you whisper and he looks over at you, his face creased with pain, tears slipping down his cheeks over and over again, his face carved with the rivulets of grief. “Peter, you didn’t choose me. You left me to die. How can…How can I-I forgive you?” Tears are slipping down your cheeks now and he sighs, reaching for your hand, fingers interlacing through yours. 

            “I chose wrong,” he whispers. “I know that now. I could have saved you both, but all I thought in that moment was that I had already failed MJ and that I didn’t want her to die because I felt guilty. But I went right back for you. I must have broken a thousand speed records to get back to you. 

            “I held you as you bled. It were my webs that saved you, staunching the blood flow. I held you until the EMTs arrived. I yelled and begged and pleaded for you to stay, but you were unconscious, you didn’t hear me. But I was there.” He looks at you with such pain that you reach forwards, hands cupping his cheeks, thumbs wiping away his tears. 

            You look at him and in his eyes, you see the truth there. You know he’s not lying. You know he loves you. That he would do anything for you. That he loves you. That it wasn’t fake. 

            You weren’t the other woman after all. 

            “Peter,” you whisper, your voice still hitching with the tears, “I forgive you…but I can’t stay here. I can’t stay in New York.”

            “I know,” he whispers and then a figure steps up beside him, two carry-on bags on his shoulders. 

            “I’m Ned,” he says and you can feel a bit of shock in your system, this man, Peter’s best friend. The one who forgot him. “And yeah, I remember.”

            “I’m coming with you,” Peter says. 

            “While, actually,” Ned says. “We’re coming with you because he’s following you and I’m following him because I’ve gone four years without my best friend and not any more. Also, I’m mission control so… you know. He needs me.” He sits down beside Peter and Peter elbows him, a choked giggle escaping from your throat as you wave at Ned. Peter whispers, “Shut up” at Ned and it only makes you laugh harder. 

            “But what about Spiderman?” you whisper and he looks at you with such love as he pulls you against him that it feels for a moment like you’re complete. 

            “I’m always gonna be him,” he says. “It’s not the city that matters. It’s you. I can be Spiderman anywhere so long as my home is there. As long as you’re there, because, pretty girl. You’re all that matters to me. Where you go, I go.”

            “I hope you like rain,” you whisper and he pulls back, pressing his forehead against yours. 

            “I love it,” he whispers and then he’s kissing you, hard and deep and fast and you were wrong before. Your first kiss wasn’t a kiss for the ages. 

            This is. 

            Because this is the moment that you became real. 

🏷️ @thatsrafbuddy @stydiauslly @shedevil56 @jarnesbames108 @yourfav31 @hobinistaworld @papitas-con-sal @lushalternative @imaloserbby @randumfanfics @winkymar @meilvn @elliewilliams-wife @sugardih

[luveline]

𝗮 𝘀𝗶𝗴𝗻𝗮𝗹

You tell Spider-Man about your crush on an oblivious Peter Parker. Spider-Man recommends giving Peter a signal—a sign, so he knows what you want. [4k words, shy!fem!reader/tasm!peter]

˚₊𓆩༺ 🕷༻𓆪₊˚ 

The night is sweet and warm.

The sun is setting, and the bakery at the end of the street is closing. You watch from your rooftop as one of their workers smokes a cigarette out back, smoke drifting upward, a sight at odds with the smell of powdered sugar ever-present on the breeze. 

You pull your knees up toward you and rub your face with a sleeve-covered hand. The hoodie Peter got you is soft to the touch, smelling of detergent against your nose. You stretch it over your knees and peer down at your socks, black with little flowers on the sole. Peter said they looked Minecraft-y, and then he asked if he could borrow a pair from the pack that you never saw again. 

You like thinking of him wearing them. Maybe he thinks of you when he does, or maybe they’re rolled up and forgotten under his bed. 

You loose a depressed sigh and lean back in your summer chair. There wasn’t much heat for sunbathing today, but the roof makes for a good place to rest in the agreeable evenings. Less so when it rains, which is often. You eye a grey cloud on the horizon but your reluctance to move nor gather your stuff leaves you frowning. You are trying quite hard to stay away from your apartment and, as a consequence, your evil phone. If you have your phone, you’ll check over and over if Peter has replied to your message, but he hasn’t. He doesn’t, really, reply very often. 

The sun goes and goes, presenting a miserable dark sky with little in the way of stars, but there are lights in the distance, buildings and cars, all now flocked in artificial white. It’s no soft glow. 

You lay down, sit back up, lay down again. You reach for your book and discard it with a sigh. You count the planes that fly overhead, searching for the next whenever the former flies from view. You think about Peter and his big hands, how hot they’d felt pressed to your waist. How brown his eyes are, how soft his lashes must be when touched. 

The swip and thwip of spiderwebs being thrown catches your attention immediately. Spider-Man. He must be near—you’ve seen him in person more times than you can remember, and the sound puts you at ease, that delicate snap and stick as he ejects, lets his weight pull, then cuts the line. You lean over the edge of your chair to look for him–

And almost lose your nose as a suit of red and blue comes flying up toward your rooftop. 

“Holy–”

“Fuck!” you say, throwing yourself backward with a shout. You bring your hand to your chest, pressing your heart back behind your ribs as the blur of colour comes to a stop on the edge of the roof. 

“Sorry!” Spider-Man says. “Jesus, you didn’t see me? I’m kind of, you know, brightly coloured?”

“You came out of nowhere! You’re going sixty miles an hour!”

Spider-Man rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “I got places to be. Well, most of the time.”

You feel your heart jumping under your palm. Spider-Man shifts, his head tilting down as though he’s squinting at you assessingly. 

“Hey, are you okay? I didn’t mean to scare you.”

You swallow your nerves. “Yeah. Yes, I’m fine. You scared me, s’all. Sorry for cussing. And yelling.”

He giggles brightly, plonking down on a creaky lawn chair, unperturbed by its green moss. “Yeah, you should be sorry, potty-mouth. Kiss your ma with that mouth?”

You laugh without thinking. “Sometimes.”

Spider-Man lays back in the chair and folds his arms over his stomach. It strikes you that you wouldn’t know if his eyes were open or closed, he looks relaxed, like he could doze. He looks tired, actually. He gives a long sigh and sits up some. Eyes open, decidedly. 

“What are you doing up here?” he asks. 

“Oh, I’m reading.”

“Reading what?” 

You refuse to tell him that it’s a silky sweet romance with a besotted leading man and a beautiful girl, but struggle to think of a lie. The silence lingers until it’s awkward.

Finally, Spider-Man waves a hand at you, his voice genial as he says, “Keep your secrets.”

“Are you okay?” you ask. 

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

It might be more apt to ask him what it is that he’s doing up here. Surely Spider-Man has more important things to get too than sitting in a rinky-dink chair waiting to snap beneath any weight at all on your dreary rooftop in the cold weather. And more that he doesn’t know you, hasn’t ever spoken to you, no matter how many times you’ve seen him around the city. 

“You look tired,” you say softly. 

“I’m okay. But, hey, thanks for asking.”

“Sure.”

Awkward silence lingers again. Your blatant confusion as to his presence becomes obvious, and Spider-Man looks away, rubbing at his neck again with that same nervous hand. 

“You looked lonely,” he says. “I guess I wondered if you wanted company, or– or a shoulder to cry on, or something. Anything.”

“Is that something you do often?” 

“What good is looking after the neighbourhood if everybody in it goes home sad?” Spider-Man shrugs. “You don’t have to tell me anything, I’ll only sit here if that’s cool.” 

“Don’t let me stop you.”

You’re thinking about Peter again. It’s ridiculous, there’s a superhero on your roof and you’re thinking about Pete, but you can’t help it. Spider-Man reminds you of him, his height and build, even his voice, though Spider-Man is all bravado and gruffness where Peter’s a tiny bit shy. It’s what made becoming his friend possible—he’s shy and you’re worse, you’re immovable, you struggle to talk half the time. If Spider-Man hadn’t scared the fuck out of you scaling up the building, you wouldn’t have been able to open your mouth. 

“I have a friend,” you say, buckling under the pressure of the quiet. “And I like him. And I don’t know what to do, so. That’s why I’m all messed up.”

“You don’t look messed up,” he says, bringing a hand to his chin to hold like he’s pondering something deeply. “You like someone? That’s a good thing.”

“I don’t think he likes me back.”

“That sucks, but– okay, sorry if this is weird, but you’re beautiful.” Spider-Man straightens in his chair. “Like, you’re really beautiful. And your voice is so nice, I’ve barely heard it and I already know it’s addictive.”

You laugh again without meaning to, a sputter of sound. 

“You’re really pretty. If he doesn’t like you back, I’m sure you can find somebody else.”

“Thank you, Spider-Man, but I don’t want anybody else,” you say softly. “He’s really perfect. Have you ever–” You clear your throat, picking at a scagged thread on your pajama bottoms and avoiding his gaze. “It’s stupid.”

“I bet it’s not.”

Nobody’s ever called you beautiful before. Nobody’s ever… 

Peter makes you feel beautiful. Tips your chin up with his pinky finger to get your eyes, takes a good look at you when he’s seeing you for the first time in a while, but he never says anything about it. He smiles and he's sweet, but he doesn’t call you beautiful. 

“He makes me feel like the only person in the world,” you confess. “He’s not perfect, like I said. He lashes out, and he forgets all the time, he’s late constantly, but he always says sorry, and you know he really means it? He’s the most genuine person. And he’s–” pretty, you want to say, but you look sideways at Spider-Man and can’t bring yourself to say it. “I want more of him than he wants to give me, is all, but I don’t mind. I like being his friend.”

“You want more,” he says, as though turning the words over in his mouth. 

“That’s the hard part.”

“That’s a nice love story.” He exhales slowly. “Lucky guy.”

“It’s not a love story,” you say, trying for happy acceptance and sounding weak. 

“It could be. Have you told him how you feel? I don’t see how a guy could hear all that from a girl like you and not at least try to make it work?”

You bring your knee up and rest your nose on the fabric there. “I don’t usually talk to people like this. I find it really hard.”

“Oh, so I’m special?”

“You’re an exception.”

“You don’t talk to this guy?”

You press your face fully to your knee, thighs aching. 

“Peter doesn’t answer the phone,” you mumble, hoping Spider-Man won’t hear you. “Can’t talk to him about anything. And what would I even say? I know we’ve been friends for years and all but I like you now, and I’m prepared to make things awkward between us forever?” You whine quietly. “Everything’s so hard.”

“It doesn’t have to be.”

Spider-Man sounds flustered. Sounds like he took a long plunge from a tall skyscraper. You look up, perplexed, and he’s facing you completely still. It’s like he’s been turned to stone. 

“You–” He swallows. “This Peter guy, you really like him?”

“I’ve had a crush on him since forever! And he never notices me, ever!” You scrub at your face. “I know it’s stupid and childish and high school, I know I should tell him how I feel even if there’s not the slightest chance that he’d ever want me back–”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

You squint at him. “You don’t know Peter.”

He laughs, still sounding all flustered and weak. “Okay.”

“Sorry. I guess I’m being really corny, huh?” 

“No.” His voice is higher, too, almost like he’s holding his breath. “It’s not corny, it’s nice.”

“He’s really pretty,” you say, lamenting your sad lonely life without him. And now you’ve made a mess all over Spider-Man’s generous listening. If there was a chance he’d come to see you again, you have surely ruined it. 

Spider-Man squeaks. 

You stare at him. He’s pulling at the edge of his mask, fanning himself, giving you rare glimpses of his pale skin. 

“Are you okay?” you ask.

“I’m sorry, I’m– super warm.”

“Oh. Is the suit hot?”

“It can be, yeah.”

“I guess I don’t know how to move on,” you say, breaking your gaze to stare at the gravelly rooftop instead. “He’s a great friend, and I didn't always want it so badly. I don’t know why… why it got so much worse lately. I see him and I wish he’d grab me and– and kiss me–” You bite your tongue. “Sorry, Spider-Man. That’s too much information."

“Kiss you how?” he asks. 

You jolt a little. “Uh, you know. Just kiss me. A real kiss. He’s kind of affectionate, like, sometimes he tries to hold my hand before we cross the street, and one time he did kiss my cheek, but it was, like, a bit. I want a real kiss.” 

“Huh.”

“It’s lame.”

“Love is kinda lame. Corny and cheesy,” Spider-Man sounds oddly pleased. “But maybe he’s got all these lame feelings too, and didn’t want to push you. You seem kinda shy. Maybe he’s worried he’s not reading things right. If you’re the kind of girl who’s easily flustered, how can he know if it’s because of him or not?” 

“But what do I do?”

“I don’t know.”

You laugh. “Thanks.”

“I’m sorry, but whatever you do, if he gets the signal, he’ll reciprocate.”

“How do you know?”

“Girl as pretty as you?” Spider-Man’s voice goes soft as butter. “He’d be an idiot not to.”

—

By the time you’d made it back inside that night, Peter had replied to your message. 

In fact, Peter had spammed you. Answered everything you said with detail and then launched into an apology for not responding, cos he had a bunch of stuff to do and Aunt May had the car and his phone died on the subway home, yada yada. 

He then asked you out. 

Alright, he didn’t. He asked if you wanted to come over and watch a movie the next day, which is pretty standard Peter friendship activity, but has you smiling like a loser at your phone. 

Yes, you’d texted him, would love to, I’ll bring dinner?

Do not!!!! I will order in for us when you get here :D 

You’re standing in your nicest skirt, a pretty pink thing that ends at the knees and, and your newest converse, which aren’t all that new. Your cardigan is charcoal wool and buttoned all the way up to fight the sudden chill. It’s later than you realised; you spent an hour panic-changing your clothes and lamenting your response Spider-Man’s advice. You have to give Peter a signal, right? 

You are dressed very cute for a movie at his place, and you smell delicious. You’re gonna give him a wide-eyed flirty stare and who knows, maybe he’ll finally get the message. 

Or he’ll wonder why you’re so overdressed. 

The door finally opens, and Peter’s already smiling. His cheeks are red like spring cherries with a flush that crawls down his neck and probably stains his broad chest, too, his hair in order for once, his usual hoodie and jacket traded in for a plain white t-shirt that’s a little tight. Shows the indents of his chest, the lines of firm muscle there. 

“Hey, beautiful,” he says. 

You want him to call you beautiful forever. “Don’t,” you say instead. He should know better. You fluster at anything. 

Peter stands aside to let you in. You’ve been to the Parker house a ton of times, but it’s noticeably clean, and dimly lit. There are a couple of candles lit in the living room and a bowl of popcorn stands on the coffee table, filling the room with the smells of toffee and butter. 

“Was it cold?” he asks. 

You nod hurriedly. “So cold. I thought it was supposed to be summer.”

“We’re not that lucky. Make yourself comfy, okay? I gotta grab your drink.”

You unlace your shoes and leave them by the doorway, padding into the living room in your socks. The couch is fitted with enough throw pillows to turn a three-seater into a two-seater. You’re forced to plop yourself somewhat in the middle, but you’re too tempted by the popcorn to worry. You sneak a piece while Peter’s gone, humming as the sweetness breaks out across your tongue. 

“I’m sorry about yesterday,” he calls. 

“For what?”

“For not answering you!” His voice echoes nearer, and he grimaces his way through the hall into the living room, two glasses of your favourite in his hands. “I’m awful. I’m an idiot, and I never check my phone. I’m sorry.”

“Peter, it’s fine.”

“You sure?”

Your eyes widen of their own accord as he sits down next to you, thigh to thigh, so close you can see the little bits of amber that swim in his irises, all that brown fragmented by shards of sunlight.

“I–” You nod oddly. “Am sure. Of course. I don’t expect you to drop everything–”

“I know you don’t, but still. I have my phone with me. I can answer you more, and you’re important to me. I get distracted.”

“Did you get all your errands done?” 

“Sure.” He hands you your glass and puts his own on the coffee table. “Thanks. You’re an angel.”

“You’re not so bad,” you say. 

You relax. Peter lets you choose the movie, and you feel warm sitting there pointing his remote at the TV, flicking unsurely through everything, but he’s Peter. You put on Cado Lake and hand him the remote, sure he’ll enjoy a sc-fi flick, and are instantly gratified when the movie hooks his attention. Not too much, though. He’s clear of mind enough to put the popcorn bowl in your lap and nip you with little questions. Who’s that again? Hey, she looks like May. Wow, you smell good, what is that? 

You’re about an hour into the movie when Peter’s hand sews itself behind your back. 

It’s warm, and big. His fingertips skate over the mall of your back until he’s found your side, where it curls, and he pulls you gently toward him. Your head drops into the space between his shoulder and head, the TV a colourful blur in front of you, your hand paused dead in the nearly empty popcorn like you’ve been frozen. 

“Okay?” he murmurs. 

“Yeah,” you say. You’re fine. 

He’s warm. He’s solid beside you. 

“You’re letting me eat all the popcorn…”

His laugh is a huff against your head. “I’ll make some more.”

“No.” You rest your cheek on his arm. Bliss flits through your entire body like a wave. “It’s okay. I won’t eat your share.”

“You do what you want,” he says, and you wonder if he’s relaxing beneath you, too, heat of his body seeping through his clothes and into your skin as his fingers rub gently into your side. “Get you a sack of popcorn, if you want me to.”

“This is nice.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah. This is good.”

You struggle to pay attention to the movie for the next few minutes, wondering if this is really what you think. It’s not exactly friendship-level affection to wrap your arm around someone, is it? But Peter’s so lovely, it could be nothing. Why would it mean anything? What could Peter want with you? Of course you have a crush on him, he’s gorgeous, but Peter has no such motivations about you. Does he? 

He’s quiet for a while. You think the movie might’ve really snagged him, but then he turns to you with a shy smile that brightens exponentially when you sneak a glance at him and end up smiling back. 

He doesn’t look away. 

It gets so hot you wish you could peel out of your cardigan, but you don’t wanna move and displace the moment. 

“You’re missing the movie,” you whisper. 

“I’ve missed so much of it,” he says. 

“What?”

“Look.” He swallows. “Look, I don’t know if I’m– maybe I’m way off base here, and all, but,” —his hand climbs your side, folding over your, pulling you even closer— “maybe I’m not? I don’t know.”

“Off base about what?”

“You know.”

“Do I?” you ask. You can hardly speak above a breath, but Peter hears it. 

Peter’s gaze darts down. 

You lift your chin. Spider-Man, you think, watching as Peter’s brows knit like he’s in pain and his pupils turn to dimes, sunshot brown melding dark, this better work. 

Peter inches his face down until your noses are touching, your eyelashes forced shut in a flutter at his proximity. 

He lingers there, in the quiet, breathing the air your exhale and holding his tongue as he raises his hand to cup your cheek tenderly. His fingers slip beneath your ear and his thumb drags over your cheek, distending your lips, and his lips brush against yours so softly you aren’t sure if he really has kissed you, or if you want it bad enough to conjure the sensation. But then he presses in for a proper kiss, and the quiet in the room gets replaced by the pounding of your heart in your own ears. 

He tips your head a little and kisses upward, parting his lips to encourage you to let him in. You suck in a breath as he wades in for a real kiss, the heat of tongue and the soft plush give of his lips on yours. He encourages your head back quick, your eyes squinting ever so slightly, but he’s only moving you to wade in for the same kissing at a new angle. His nose tip scrunches into yours. 

Your thoughts are electric. Your hand vies for a place to anchor, grasping tightly at his shirt, screwing the fabric over his chest into a ball. 

“Holy crap,” he says, pulling back a touch. 

His eyes are shining. His mouth is damp with spit, but you aren’t certain if it’s yours or his.

“I can’t believe I had the willpower to wait this long for that,” he says, running his thumb over your bottom lip. “Shit, you're just as perfect as I thought.”

You laugh in a tangle. “What?” you ask breathlessly. 

“I’ve wanted to kiss you for so long. Wow, you taste like toffee.”

“I’m sorry–”

Peter gets his thumb under your chin to tip your face up. “For what? For being perfect?” 

“For tasting like popcorn.”

“That is the least of my worries.” He does a one-eyed squint at you, stroking your chin and cheek with his thumb, a caress that makes your stomach ache as much as the kisses had. “Sorry it took me so long to kiss you. You’re a hard girl to read.”

“I know,” you mumble. 

He kisses your cheek and ducks his face into the side of your head, gathering you in for a hug that’s strong but careful, too, your thigh curving into his lap. He doesn’t seem to notice the way he’s dragging you onto him as he breathes in your hair. 

“Pete?”

“Yeah?” 

You struggle out of his arms. “Can you kiss me again?” you ask. 

“Yes. Yeah. Oh my god, absolutely.”

Your laugh as he bends your backwards into the mountain of throw cushions is ecstatic. Then smushed, quickly, but it’s fine. The kiss is worth getting cut off. 

—

(One month later.) 

“I was going to tell you.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Seriously, I was! But I didn’t want you to be embarrassed."

“Right.”

“And I didn’t want you to be mad.”

You stare at Spider-Man in your boyfriend’s bedroom, unmasked, Peter Parker with hair like a dandelion and eyes so sorry he’s almost winning you over, the mask clasped in hand. 

“You knew who I was talking about,” you say, crossing your arms over your chest, “and you still made me give you a signal? Do you know how hard that was for me?”

“You can do hard things!”

“Peter.”

“I wanted to be sure. I have a huge crush on you, you know that? It was just as scary for me as it was for you.”

You sniff indignantly. Spider-Man drags himself from his window to take your hands, pouting like a loser for your forgiveness. 

“Can you please forgive me?” he asks. “Don’t you think it would’ve given my secret away if I turned up at your door and planted one on you? You do not understand the strength it took to wait.”

“Peter, it wasn’t even twenty four hours.”

“You’re really pretty,” he mumbles. 

You forgive him already, not that he needs to know that. You have more important questions to ask. 

“So, what’s with the webs?”

“D’you like ‘em?”

“I didn’t say that.”

He whines. 

You plant a little kiss on his jaw and make for the bed you’d been planning on napping in before his impromptu return through the open window. “Come hold me while I nap,” you say, moving back his sheets, “please. And maybe I’ll think about forgiving you.” You’re too tired to think about this in depth. 

Peter throws himself into the mattress. You crawl into his arms. 

“You kinda smell like street,” you mumble, nuzzling his neck, a hint of forgiveness to settle his bad nerves. 

His head falls back as he lets out a relieved sigh. “You smell perfect,” he says. 

It’s far too hard to be mad at him after that. 

[anlyaan]

Faith.

Peter Parker x reader

Synopsis: he was sick of being alone, he wanted you back, he wanted your love back so he played with faith

Peter Parker knew you believed in faith more than anything else, for you coincidences didn’t exist, for you everything was written, for you every single thing had a meaning

He loved that about you,

He remembers your days at high school when you would tell him that he could laugh if he wanted, but you and him were meant to be together since the day you opened your eyes, that the fac that he sat next to you in chem class on your first day wasn’t a coincidence at all

Of course he’d laugh, but deep down, he believed you were right,

Even more now, now that you have no idea who he was, now that you completely forgot about him just like the whole world did,

Nobody had any clue about who Peter Parker was

And the loneliness was becoming unbearable, he couldn’t sleep thinking about you, about what you two had

Before the spell cast, he made a promise, to both you and himself, he promised you that he’d come back, he’d make you remember

But unfortunately he never brought himself to do it

After Aunt May’s passing, he refused to get you involved in his life, he couldn’t bring himself to lose you twice

So instead of interacting with you, he checked on you, regularly

On socials, and in real life

He told himself it wasn’t weird, that he was just making sure you were alright from time to time

Until he realized that he unconsciously memorized your schedule more than his own,

That every evening he’d be at a roof, watching you from afar as you left your apartment to go to work, then come back home at exactly 9pm

That it was in fact a bit weird,

But he was eaten up by guilt, he wanted you god he wanted you, he wanted his girl back, his home, his everything

He just wanted to be held in your arms and just cry until no more tears could come out

He needed you, more than anything

It was a bad idea, god he knew that it was a real bad idea, he felt awful

But he wanted to be selfish for once, just this once, just for you

So he showed up

You were there, walking down the street holding in your hands few water packs, he couldn’t bring himself clearly see that you were struggling, it wasn’t really obvious but he knew you like the back of his hand

He knew that look on your eyes,

He thanked the universe for giving him such an opportunity to finally introduce himself,

Even if it hurts him to think that he has to pretend that he didn’t know you

Just like that, he pretended to notice you and slowly walked toward you, he couldn’t help the shaking of his hands

From excitement and anticipation, maybe a hint of fear too

“Excuse me-“ his words died in his throat when he saw you looking up at him, his eyes widening at the sight of you

Last time he saw you that close, it was five years ago when you were still a teenager

Now you’re…a woman

“Yes?” The slight confusion in your eyes made him snap out,

He had to fight the urge to just close up the distance and hug you tightly

“Y-you look like you need a hand…let me help you,” he finally managed to say, his lips forming a thin line

Your eyes soften a moment, you took few seconds to consider his offer “my apartment is a bit far I wouldn’t want to both-“ “no!” He worded it too quickly “I mean- I don’t really have anything to do so..”

You nod and hand him a pack “alright then! Thank you…?” he effortlessly held the water pack then paused a moment, he didn’t know if he should introduce himself with his real name,

He didn’t know if he could approach you again

Fuck it

“Peter, Peter Parker” he gave you a small hesitant smile

“Nice to meet you, Peter, I’m [name]”

His heart ached, he knew you, he knew your name, your favorite color, your favorite show, god he knew everything about you

“So..where do you live, [name]” he said giving you a smile and following you as you led the way

“About five blocks away” you explained looking at the man beside you, he looked cute

Really cute even

“That’s not that far” he replied giving you a small smile

“Mhm I just wanted to make sure you weren’t busy or anything, don’t like to bother people” your voice was music to his ears, he felt like crying by the familiarity of your discussion

“How can you bother me when I’m the one who offered to help you” his tiny chuckle made you smile,

“I really really hate bothering people” you insisted smiling as well

The rest of the walk to your home took place in small comfortable talks,

It wasn’t awkward or anything, it was just casual

And that broke him

He took a deep breath and told himself that it was worth it, that he was going to win you back, and who knows

Maybe your relationship will be even better than the old one

He tried to reassure himself as much as he could

Once arrive to your apartment, you let him in as he sets down the packs where you asked him to,

His gaze drifted up, taking a look at the small studio you lived in,

His heart ached at the nth time today, when he realized that he used to sneak in your teenage room, and now you have your very own apartment

The decoration was very minime but still very you,

He could see your favorite fluffy blanket on your couch, the small figurines you put on the shelves right under small pictures of you and your friends,

He paused at that, and took a look at each one

Pictures of you with Ned and MJ, pictures of you with your close friends, pictures of you with your family

He smiled his hand subconsciously reaching up to brush his finger against the picture of you Ned and MJ,

“Those are my high school friends” you explained from behind him “that’s Ned and MJ” you approached slightly

“They look…fun” he muttered

A chuckle escaped your lips “mhm! They are, we had the best days together” you explained a bit of nostalgia staining your words

“Are you…still friends?” He dared to ask

“Yeah, of course yeah” he observed your curved lips a moment, he loved the shade of whatever makeup you had on right now “it’s just that we grew up, we don’t have as much time as before to hang out” you explained softly

“Oh…sorry to hear that” he muttered stepping back from the wall where the pictures were settled on “it’s alright they’re still my very best friends” you smiled

He mirrored your smile, a deep sadness hiding behind it

He wondered how his life would have been if all that mess didn’t happen, if he would’ve been able to go to college, to grow up with his friends and you

His fist tightened

You smile having not idea that his mind was tormented “it’s a bit late, are tou hungry?”

He snapped out of his thoughts and cleared his throat, he felt his checks burning a little “o- oh? Yeah yeah totally”

“Don’t get too excited, I’m just gonna make instant noodles” you started heading to the kitchen

“I like instant noodles” he followed close behind you

“Who doesn’t?” You replied looking over your shoulder at him “so, sir Parker would you allow me to thank you by blessing you with my incredibly tasty noodles?”

A laugh escaped form him -a genuine one- that he hadn’t been able to come out for the last five years

“I do accept the offer, lady [name]” the banter between you was so easy, it reminded him of why he loved you so much.

Few weeks passed since you two ‘met’ you exchanged your phone numbers and he found himself texting you quite often

He thanked your belief on faith for that, if you weren’t that superstitious you probably wouldn’t have let him in so quickly

You guys bonded well, and it conflicted his heart in a bitter mix of sadness and happiness

He still didn’t know if he was sure of what he was doing, he wanted you back, but if things got serious maybe this time he won’t be telling you about his double life

He’ll keep you safe this time, safe and away from danger

He knew if the old you heard about his decision you’d call him an idiot, a stupid stupid selfish idiot who can’t let her make her own choices

But he thinks he deserves to be selfish

The two of you were sitting on a roof in the middle of the night, the only source of light was provided by the infamous buildings lights of New York

Your gaze was focused on admiring the latter, completely unaware of the mesmerized eyes of the young man fixed on your side profile

“It’s so pretty, I didn’t know this spot existed” you murmured breaking the silence

“Yeah? I often come here when…it’s too much” he matched your tone, low and slow “really? It’s kinda hidden, how’d you find it?”

He smiled at you “it’s a secret,”

You chuckled “you’re so annoying” you joked

He hummed “i don’t think you’d be sitting with me right now if i was really annoying” he couldn’t hide his smile anymore

You glanced at him, finally blessing him with those beautiful eyes of yours “you’re right,” his hand reached out, his fingers gently brushing against a strand of your hair

A soft silence took place, rocked by the familiar sounds of cars and few voices that reached the top of the building

“You know ” you started “I’m grateful I met you” you murmured your eyes fixed on his “I…you just fit in my life so well, as if you were always here”

He almost flinched at your words, his heart was beating fast now, really fast

“I don’t know if I mentioned it before, but I strongly believe in faith, I believe that every single thing that happens has meaning” his hand found yours, squeezing it real tight “l think meeting you was faith”

God, his heart ached

He pulled you closer, pulling you in a tight hug “yeah…that was definitely faith” he murmured “I don’t know what I’d do without you…actually I don’t even want to imagine it”

His voice creaked, because he knew life without you, he knew it damn well. And he had no intention in living it another time

Your hugged him back, chuckling at his reaction

“I’m glad I met you too” he murmured holding you closer “I- you’re the first person I let in ever since my aunt passed” his voice was shaking “thank you,”

You smiled “for what?”

“For being here, for being you.”

“That’s so corny” you murmured laughing, he froze and buried his face further into your neck “stop! I thought we were confessing a-“

He got cut by his phone ringing, his wince it really wasn’t the moment

He pulled back babbling few excuses as he pull out his phone, it was a signal from the police chief, they needed Spider-Man

He looked at you, then down at his phone

You gave him a worried look “Peter? Is everything alright?”

“O- yeah yeah yeah! Everything’s perfect! But I’m so so sorry I have to go” you blink “what? Where?”

He sighed wincing “I have- something super duper important like-“ “at midnight?”

Your frown made his heart tighten “are you sure it’s not anything serious?” He shook his head standing up “no no no! Nothing for you to worry I just have to go now!”

He was about to jump off the roof when he remembered you didn’t know about Spiderman, you didn’t know the truth

He sighed and gave you his hand to help you stand up

He accompanied you on the stairs to the entrance of the building, he apologized a million times before he ran to the opposite of where he lived

You just looked at his back while he ran, that was…weird

And you weren’t even surprised, it happened a lot of times before

You sighed and headed home, your hands tucked in your pockets

You were a bit disappointed, you expected the night to go a bit further,

You wanted to confess tonight, but seems like Parker had other things to do

It hurt you a tiny bit, but you just sighed and brushed it off

The next morning, you woke up to about twenty messages from Peter,

From apologies to lame excuses

You believed that he was sorry, but those excuse he found just didn’t sound right, not right at all

But you just ignored it, maybe he had a personal issue or something

So you quickly texted back saying it was alright, that you weren’t mad, which was true

It was a bit late in the evening when you finally finished your shift at the part time job you had to help yourself on the rent

You walked out of there adjusting your shirt when you saw a familiar head of brown curls waiting for you right at the entrance

Your eyes widened a bit when you spotted him, you couldn’t help but fasten your steps to meet him, taking note of the bouquet of flowers he had in hand

You smiled “Peter?”

He snapped out of his thoughts as he heard your voice, he immediately approached you smiled back at you

“There you are” he says stopping right in front of you

“Pretty flowers” you didn’t see his face yet, focused on the beautiful flowers he had “yeah? They’re for you, actually”

When he handed them to you, your heart swallowed with affection as you stepped forward to hug him tightly

“Thank you, they’re beautiful”

“Not as beau-“ “what’s that on your face?” Your frown made his words die in his mouth

Your hand immediately touched his bruised eye “Peter? What’s that?” You repeated the worry evident in your face

“I- it’s nothing really! I just fell the stairs an-“ he hissed when your finger pressed tighter against his bruised eye

“That doesn’t look like a fell Peter, did you get in a fight or something?” He sighed, louder than he intended to make it sound

“Please, it’s really nothing” his calloused fingers soothed the frown of your brows “don’t worry about it”

You sighed and looked at him

He just gave you a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes

A lot of weird things started happening since then, or rather you started noticing them more than before

Anytime you’d hang out he’d randomly disappear out of nowhere

He’d just get those weird signals on his phone then poof! Not there anymore

You started having doubts

But you stayed quiet about it

If he had something to tell you, he would. Right?

When you arrived to his apartment the first thing you noticed was how many computers he had

You knew Peter was a genius, and you always thought it was such a waste that he dropped college, but you didn’t know more about it, and you didn’t really ask more about it

You looked around “whoa, that looks…expensive as hell”

He smiled “it was,” he confirmed

You wandered around his small studio, it was a bit of a mess, but you couldn’t expect less from Peter,

Peter offered you a pair of shorts and a big shirt of his to make you more comfortable, which you agreed to with no hesitation,

That’s how you ended up there

The comfort you felt right now was unexplainable, the feeling of the bed dipping down under your two weights combined

His strong arms around you,

The hushed words you shared

The fact that bed was supposed to serve a single body made the whole thing even more snuggly

“You look so pretty in my clothes” he murmured smiling, his cheeks slightly red

“Do I?”

You were trapped between his body and the wall, your arms were wrapped securely around his waist while his own were holding you tightly against him

“I didn’t think your clothes would be so big on me” you murmured smiling

“Well, I’m not really lean you know”

Another chuckle escaped your lips as you tilted your head up to him “yeah I noticed”

“You sleepy?” He asked in a hushed voice

“A tiny bit”

It made him smile “then sleep”

His forehead gently rest against yours, shutting his own eyes as he took you in,

Then he remembered, he remembered the sleepless nights he spent here alone, the tears he cried because of how heavy his loneliness had been

And now here he was

With the love of his life, in bed, cuddling

He couldn’t be happier

He held you tight against him

Then again, his phone rings

You both sigh at the sound, both knowing it meant he had to go

You frown a bit looking up at him

“Peter, don’t tell me you’re really leaving” you sit up slightly on the bed

“I have to.”

“Why the hell do you have to? It can’t wait till tomorrow?” Your frown made his heart ache

“I’m really sorry, but it’s urgent” he quickly got up from the bed “just stay here alright? I’ll be back soon”

You sigh and stood up as well

His eyes followed you “What are you doing?”

“Going home”

He blinks “what? Why?!”

“What do you mean why Peter? I dont want to stay here waiting for you patiently while you’re out there doing god knows what!” Your tone made him wince

“Listen- I know! I know it’s very suspicious but trust me! It’s nothing weird” god he hates that look on your face

“Trust you? You’re not even telling me everything! Why would I trust you if you don’t!”

His heart sinks down his stomach, no, no no no he can’t lose you

Not again

“Please, I’m begging you just stay here, we’ll talk when I’m back okay?”

The trembling of his voice calmed you down, you look up at him still unconvinced

“I promise”

You sighed loudly

He stepped closer, holding you tight against his chest as his head dropped down on your shoulder

You didn’t hug him back, which made his chest hurt, but hey at least you’re not leaving

That was the most important,

And just like that, he pulled back, grabbed something you couldn’t quite identify before rushing out the apartment

You felt a frustration growing more and more in your chest

What was he hiding? Why couldn’t he share it?

You thought you two were close…you were just about to make things official

Why would he be acting like that?

You waited, and waited

A whole hour passed, then you got bored of your phone

You got up and started wandering around the apartment,

You stopped at his desk, and with a curious look you picked up a small familiar polaroid setting on the wood

It was a picture of you, one he took last week when you two went to the park together

You smiled, the thought of him keeping a picture of you there, where he could see you whenever he works on his nerdy shit

Then, you saw something

Your head tilts on the side when you picked up the piece of paper

You read the words there, recognizing Peter’s writing, you blink multiple times, rereading the same words over and over again, and your brain completely shuts down

Because I’m not just Peter Parker

I’m Spiderman

And at the exact same moment, you heard the door opening

You looked up just to find him there, Peter

He looked sweaty, and pretty beaten up which only confirmed what you just read

your eyes widened,

“[name]? God don’t tell me she left” he muttered then froze when he saw you

The paper in your hand

“Let me explain-“

“Explain what? That you’re Spiderman?! That everytime you left me there alone you were out there fighting psychopaths!” You snapped

“Yes?”

You took a deep breath, surprisingly you were kind of expecting it,

“Okay, okay alright” you sat down on the chair there “w- what do you mean I forgot everything? Please tell me” you muttered your voice shaky

“I-“ he shut his eyes a moment, then he approached you, kneeling down in front of the chair where you rested

His hands took yours, resting them on your laps

“Five years ago, an asshole revealed to the whole world my secret identity then you were in danger! Ned was in danger MJ was in danger aunt May was in danger so DR strange decided to cast a spell on everyone to forget who I am but I lot him to let you remember! But he just messed up I guess so no one knows who Peter Parker is”

You blink

He said all that in one single breath, his eyes grew teary as he kept going

“We were dating, I loved you- I love you! And you loved me! We were happy so so happy but then I made a huge mistake, I’m sorry” he explained breaking in sobs “I’m sorry…I love you I’m sorry”

Your own eyes grew teary at his words,

“Peter…why didn’t you just tell me” you muttered

“Aunt May…she died because of me- I didn’t- I can’t lose you too [name], you’re my everything I can’t-“ he sobbed even harder, his head dropping in your laps

Your breath hitched

“I had the right to know” you muttered your throat tightening

“I’m so sorry” he repeated again and again

“I love you” he muttered tilting his head up, his nose was red, his cheeks matching as his eyes were bloodshot

Your lip shivers

“I- I like you too Peter” you murmured “oh my god” you hugged him tightly “you’ve been alone all this time”

He sobbed and nodded against your stomach

“I’m so sorry” you muttered holding him “I’m here now…I’m here”

After you both calmed down, you found yourself in the bathroom patching him up,

You frown at his injuries

“How the fuck…” you muttered

“I was thrown at a building” he said shrugging, as if it was the most normal thing in the world

Your eyes widened

He gave you the tiniest smile

“I heal quicker too” he said a tiny spark in his eyes “tomorrow I’ll be fine”

“Of my god” you mumbled

His eyes soften

“You have the exact same reactions as the first time, you know” he murmured

You blink at him “really?”

His hand reached up, gently brushing your cheek as he nodded “same words same everything”

You smile “it’s not fair”

He tilt his head curiously

“You know me better than I know you, it’s cheating”

That made him chuckle “yeah? Well now you have all the time in the world to get to know me” he said softly

You smile, and shyly he leaned closer, pressing a tender kiss on your lips

You shut your eyes, losing yourself in his lips, god he tasted just like you imagined

He tilts your head down, moving his lips along with yours, your hand grabbed his hair, making him hum

He loved that,

He felt good.

He was finally home.

Maybe it was really faith after all.

A/n: IDK ABOUT THIS OKAY I rushed a bit but I was too impatient to post it cuz I love Peter sm AND I WAS SICK OF ONLY FINDING SMUT UGH

[imani4reading]

The Feeling | Peter Parker x Psychometric!Fem!Reader

SUMMARY: After you move in across the hall from Peter Parker, the boy you loved before you lost your memories, Peter decides he can’t take it anymore. He wants you to remember. Late night at a college party, a guy accidentally bumps into you, spilling his drink all over you. Under any normal circumstance, you would’ve brushed it off…but your powers are triggered and suddenly you remember that this isn’t just any guy. He isn’t just your neighbor. He is, or rather was, your boyfriend.

WARNINGS: Reader has psychometric abilities (she can touch certain objects or people and see into the past), some angst, Peter yearning big time, happy ending!

A/N: Don’t worry, there are absolutely no spoilers for BND, I’m going to see it Friday! So, here’s one last post before I go off the grid for BND :)

WC: 5.3K

Main Masterlist!

Peter Parker’s soul had been fractured some time ago and he craved a feeling that he believed to be the remedy.

What that feeling was, his mind wasn’t so sure, but his heart and soul knew.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

Peter Parker’s quaint little apartment was awfully loud for someone who lived alone.

The window was wide open, the hustle and bustle of New York infiltrating his home. The crap dryer was in the middle of shrinking his jeans as it hummed loudly, sounding as if a few screws were loose.

Which, come to think of it, probably were.

His speaker played music softly as he was hunched over the small desk near the window. He was in the middle of patching up his suit after an intense fight with The Hand.

Crash!

Peter jolted up, on high alert for any other sounds. His spider senses weren’t going off, but he was still worried about what caused the sound outside of his apartment.

He quickly grabbed his phone, pausing the music to hear better.

He was met with a dead silence until-

“Shit!”

Peter let out a sigh of relief, hearing a muffled voice from behind his door in the hallway.

The person must’ve dropped something.

Peter rose up from his seat and cracked open the door, only for his breath to quite literally catch in his throat.

You were standing there, three boxes stacked on top of one another, a fourth box on the floor with shattered glass surrounding it.

You set the three boxes down and huffed, scratching the back of your neck and looking at the mess you made in the hallway. You glanced up at the boy staring at you as if he had seen a ghost.

“I’m sorry,” you said sheepishly. “I just- well I thought I could carry all these boxes to my apartment, but clearly not.”

Peter swallowed hard and blinked, snapping out of the trance he was in. “You- wha- Sorry,” he laughed awkwardly, making you quirk a brow. “You’re moving in?” he asked, glancing at the apartment door right across the hall from him.

You nodded with a small smile, dangling your keys up. “Yup. Right across from you apparently.”

Peter’s eyes widened.

He hadn’t seen you or heard from you in years. Not since Dr. Strange casted that spell and made everyone forget who he was. For years he wondered where you were, if you were okay, and more importantly, if you found someone new because truth be told, he hadn’t.

He wasn’t even looking.

At university, girls would flirt with him every now and then, falling for that shy and dorky personality with something more mature growing around the edges. Peter Parker was an attractive guy and he was so sweet, so kind, to everyone he met.

The boy could’ve honestly had a new girlfriend by now.

But he didn’t because it had always been you.

You were the only girl he ever wanted.

You rocked back on your heels, staring at Peter with narrowed eyes. You couldn't quite place it, but he seemed familiar, like maybe you had seen him somewhere before, but then again, he looked like your average young adult in New York. “Do I know you from somewhere?”

Peter blinked. “Me?”

You looked around the empty hallway with a small giggle, already finding your new neighbor rather entertaining. “Who else?”

“Oh. Duh,” Peter lectured himself from under his breath with closed eyes and a pitiful headshake. He cleared his throat and straightened up, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. “Yeah, no, you don’t.”

He hated lying, especially to you.

You tilted your head slightly. “Are you sure? You seem…I don’t know. You seem familiar. What’s your name?”

“P-Peter,” he stuttered. “Peter Parker.”

You hummed, the name not entirely ringing a bell. “Peter Parker,” you repeated, as if it would jog your memory. “Sounds familiar, but then again, you have the most generic name.”

Before Peter could respond, you stuck your hand out and introduced yourself.

Peter stared down at your hand, then pulled his lips into a tight line. He knew that if he touched you he risked you immediately being overloaded with the knowledge of who he was and the history you both shared.

The day Dr. Strange casted that spell, he promised you that he would remind you of who he was.

That was the first time Peter Parker ever lied to you.

He went down to the pastry coffee shop he knew you and Ned would hangout at just to bother MJ, because there was once a time Peter was in the picture too. When he saw you sitting beside Ned, a small warm peppermint hot chocolate in your hands, his heart fluttered, excitement coursing through his veins as he made his way over to introduce himself, just like he had rehearsed a million times.

“Hi, I’m Peter Parker, and you don’t know me, but we used to be friends, more than friends actually.”

Was what he was supposed to say.

But when he got close enough for you to look up at him, a glint of confusion in the very eyes he had fallen in love with, his own eyes that you had no recollection of caught sight of the healing gash that caused a slit in your eyebrow and the bandage a few inches away from it on your forehead.

A painful reminder of what it meant to get too close to someone like him.

It was his fault that you had gotten hurt and nearly died.

He didn’t ever want to put you in a situation like that again, and after Aunt May…he figured it would be best if you were no longer associated with him.

He froze up completely and ended up telling you his name like some kind of dork and asking you if the peppermint hot chocolate was worth the five dollars.

So now, in the present moment, his heart was slowly breaking because you hadn’t fully remembered him from that day, which was fine because why would you have?

He was just a weirdo who approached you awkwardly and asked how the peppermint hot chocolate was, which…was strange because it wasn’t inherently obvious to anyone that wasn’t MJ or Ned that that was what you were drinking.

But Peter knew because it was your favorite.

“Sorry,” he apologized. “I would shake your hand, but my hands are dirty. I was just uh…cleaning.”

“Oh,” you muttered quietly, pulling your hand away awkwardly, glancing away from him feeling slightly embarrassed.

The hallway was silent as you stood there for a second, Peter thinking of something, anything to say to you because he didn’t want the moment to end.

“Do you want me to help you carry your stuff in?” Peter offered.

Your brows pressed together. “I thought your hands were dirty. I don’t want you touching my stuff,” you half joked.

“Right…” Peter replied. “I’ll sweep up the glass.”

You smiled softly and nodded, unlocking your door and dragging a box inside, thinking that your new neighbor was a little weird, but meant well.

Peter smiled and as soon as you disappeared into your empty apartment, his smile fell instantly. He squeezed his eyes shut, muttering a list of profanities under his breath as he returned back into his apartment to retrieve a broom and dustpan.

He swept up the glass and you thanked him before going back into your apartment.

For the next couple of days, you wouldn’t see Peter often. You’d sometimes cross paths heading downstairs to retrieve your mail, earning a small wave from him or see him on your way out to work. 

Regardless, that little to no interaction was driving him up the wall.

You were right there.

Right across the hall.

Right within arms touch, and one touch…just the one, had the potential to ignite an old flame again.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

Peter lied on his couch, staring at the ceiling while tossing a pen into the air and catching it mindlessly. He was supposed to be figuring out what to eat for dinner, but alas, you were on his mind.

He had missed you before, but ever since you moved in he felt like he was losing his mind.

You consumed each and every one of his thoughts, every fiber in his being. If there was one thing Peter Parker wanted, it was you.

He jolted up, hearing the sound of someone knocking on his door. He practically bounced off of the wall, his spider senses going haywire, sensing that it was you. He swung the door open and saw you standing in the hallway wearing a casual outfit that you still looked cute in. Cute top, sweatpants, and pair of slippers that he bought you for Christmas one year that made him smile from ear to ear.

“Hey,” he said casually, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed over his chest, his biceps flexing, which he was doing on purpose.

He watched as your eyes darted down quickly and back up. He noticed the way you swallowed, blinking quickly as if to get your mind back on track, which only made him smirk.

He was glad to know you still liked that.

“Hi,” you chirped. “So…” you trailed off, rocking back on your heels. “I made dinner and I accidentally made too much, I doubled the recipe,” you explained, rolling your eyes at your own stupidity. “Anyway, I was wondering if you wanted to come over and have dinner with me?”

Peter blinked, caught off guard. “I uh…yeah, I’ll have dinner. I’ll be over in a few.”

Your smile widened. “Perfect. See you in a few.”

You turned on your heel and went across the hallway to your own apartment. Peter went back into his and scrambled across the living room into his bedroom where he yanked off his tank top and sweatpants. He threw clothes out of his closet and tried on about five different outfits before deciding on a t-shirt and pair of jeans. He nearly tripped over the clothes that were now all over his floor as he raced towards his cologne, deciding on the one he knew you loved.

He grabbed his shoes and-

Wait…

Does he need shoes to take two steps across the hallway to your apartment?

He decided to slip on his slippers like you had. He grabbed a bottle of wine that he was saving for his Daily Bugle office party, figuring that this was more important.

Did you drink?

He wasn’t sure.

He’d bring it anyway.

He raced over to the door, hand halting over the handle.

Hold on…

Jeans? Really? You were in sweatpants!

He groaned and ran back into the kitchen, setting the wine bottle down and running back into his room, yanking a drawer open and grabbing a pair of sweatpants. He kicked the slippers off, hobbled on one foot, nearly falling over as he took his jeans off and replaced them with the sweats.

Peter went back to grab his slippers when a new thought filled his mind.

What if you had changed into jeans?

“No,” Peter lectured himself. “You look fine. You look great,” he reassured himself, though his heart was racing, which could’ve been because he just ran around his entire apartment in less than five minutes.

He made his way out of his apartment, standing in front of your door and taking a deep breath.

Knock knock.

Within two seconds you were at the door, opening it all the way.

He let out a sigh of relief to see that you were still in your sweatpants.

The scent of his cologne immediately filled your nose and you felt an odd tingling sensation in your finger tips, as if your powers were so desperately trying to remind you of something.

You raised a brow, knowing you didn't smelled cologne when you initially went to his place, meaning he put it on before coming to yours.

“Brought some wine!” Peter chirped, holding up the bottle. “I actually don’t know if you drink, but if not I have uh…” he trailed off, thinking. “Well, I don’t have anything except for water…out of the sink, but I’m saving up for a filter!”

You raised your brows as he rambled, and his face quickly went red in embarrassment. “I uh…” he laughed. “I’m joking,” he breathed out. “Well…not really, but…”

You giggled, stepping aside. “I don’t drink, but I’ll gladly try with you. Come on in.”

Peter made his way inside and looked around as you shut the door. Your apartment reminded him so much of your bedroom back at the Avenger’s Tower, it just looked as if you had grown up.

Because you both had.

Peter Parker was still the nerdy, awkward, and awfully cute boy you met back in high school that you unfortunately didn’t have the pleasure of remembering. But something about him had changed. He was more mature. Slightly less awkward but still rather awkward to a fault.

“Your apartment is nice,” he complimented, following you into the kitchen.

“Thanks,” you beamed. You reached into the cabinet and pulled out two regular glass cups. “I don’t have wine glasses,” you said sheepishly. “This should work, right?”

Peter smiled. “Yeah. It’s perfect.”

“Now would probably be a good time to tell you that I don’t have a bottle opener either.”

Peter shrugged, taking the foil off of the bottle. “It’s alright. I got it.” Peter’s muscles flexed ever so slightly as he quite literally flicked off the top. “Tada!”

Your eyes widened. “What the hell? How’d you do that?”

Peter smirked. “Well, I work out a lot,” he said smoothly, leaning against the counter.

You raised a brow. “Do you now?”

Peter nodded. “Yeah. Like, a lot.”

“Mhm.”

“I’m at the gym all the time.”

“Right.”

Peter smirked, watching as you tried to conceal your smile, which you were doing a very poor job at. “You’re smiling.”

Now you broke, smiling like a dork. “Because you’re funny.”

“But I didn’t say anything funny.”

“You did,” you said matter of factly. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re trying to impress me, Parker.”

“Are you impressed?”

You rolled your eyes and snagged the glasses off of the counter. “Come on. The food is getting cold.”

Peter smiled triumphantly to himself. Back when you two first met, you were both incredibly shy, but you managed to take charge, flirting with Peter constantly, making him a nervous mess.

But now time had changed you both.

Now Peter was the one with the confidence to flirt with you and make you all nervous.

He followed you to the small table in the kitchen where two bowls of pasta were sitting. You both sat down, Peter pouring both your glass a little less than halfway.

“So,” he said, trying to spark up a conversation, aka, trying to figure out how you had been the past few years since he had missed out. “How’d you manage to afford to live in the most expensive place in all of New York?”

You laughed because you and him definitely did not live in the most expensive place in all of New York. It was actually the cheapest and you considered it to be a literal shit box.

“I’m making, like, fifty cents above minimum wage working at a bookstore a few blocks down,” you said as he slid your glass of wine over to you. You grabbed the glass from him, your fingers just centimeters away from ghosting his…just centimeters away from knowing the truth. “It’s not bad though, I like it. What about you?”

Peter filled his glass the same amount as yours. “I work at the Daily Bugle. I get all the pictures of Spider-Man and stuff like that.”

Your eyes widened as he set the bottle down, meeting your gaze. “You know Spider-Man?”

Peter shook his head, averting his gaze. “No. I- I mean, I just get the pictures,” he said sheepishly, bringing the glass up to his lips.

You gave Peter a confused look. “Come on,” you said. “You must know him. I mean, how else do you get literal selfies of him on top of the Empire State Building? Unless…you are Spider-Man,” you joked.

Peter spit his drink out back into the cup, becoming a coughing mess. “Wha- What?! N- No-!” he managed out between coughs.

Your face contorted into one of pure bewilderment at his reaction, something you weren’t at all expecting. “Jeez, okay…”

Peter put his glass down, shaking his head adamantly. “I’m not Spider-Man,” he said sharply.

“Okay.”

“That wouldn’t even be possible.”

“I believe you.”

“I just…we’re close enough that he gives me those pictures.”

“Right.”

“I am not Spider-Man.”

“Exactly.”

It was silent for a beat as you stared at each other. By your expression and tone, Peter could tell that you were catching onto something, but he wasn’t quite sure what. It could’ve been the fact that he was Spider-Man, it could’ve been that you were slowly starting to realize you knew him before, he wasn’t sure.

One thing he knew for sure was that if you kept staring at him, you would probably start to put two and two together somehow, because you always did.

“Are you gonna try that?” he asked, motioning to the glass on the table.

You glanced down at it and grabbed it, bringing it to your nose.

“Oh, shit,” you grimaced, the scent burning.

Peter smiled. “It’s not all that bad.”

You brought the glass to your lips and immediately spat it back out into the glass. “What the hell!” you exclaimed. “How does anyone drink this shit?!”

Peter laughed. “This is supposed to be the good stuff.”

You gagged. “Gross.”

“So uhm,” he began, changing the subject, grabbing his fork and picking up some pasta with it, you repeating the action. “You got any family close by?”

Now, he was just checking to see if you still had your family of Avengers.

To his knowledge, and based upon where things were the last time you two were actually together, you had already lost Nat, Tony, and Steve, so you were really left with the only two people you were close to.

Sam and Bucky.

You had been complaining to Peter your whole field trip across Europe about how you hated living with Bucky because he was insanely over protective and the only reason you were on that trip was because of Sam.

But then again, Sam was also over protective, just slightly less.

Your fork clattered against the plate, making Peter’s brows raise slightly.

“Sorry,” you laughed awkwardly, picking it back up. “I uh…I don’t,” you said, figuring it would be best to not tell a stranger that you were a superhero and after you moved out, Bucky Barnes and Sam Wilson had a falling out, which meant they went their separate ways and suddenly you didn’t seem to exist to either of them anymore.

Bucky was a new Avenger and Sam was rounding up his own team and you were left behind.

“No?” Peter asked, not wanting to pry but so desperately curious to know that the past few years you’d been okay.

You couldn’t look at Peter as you shook your head. “No,” you said quietly.

Peter’s heart broke because that told him everything.

You had been just as alone as he had, with the exception of MJ and Ned of course.

You had no family and neither did he.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

Peter shut the door behind him, back pressing into it as he slowly sank to the floor, letting out a deep sigh.

God, he still loved you more than anything.

Of course he did.

Peter was completely lost.

He wanted you to know that just a few years ago you were both so desperately in love with one another, and you were just one touch away from knowing it.

You clearly were interested in him, already starting to fall back in love with him all over again.

He could just fall back in love with you and act like there was no history, but what was the point?

He didn’t want you to know who he was anyway to keep you safe.

But his soul craved to be with you again.

He bit his lower lip in thought, deciding what to do.

He had to tell you.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

Your nose was filled with the putrid smell of alcohol and marijuana as you leaned against the wall that was vibrating against your back due to the music.

You sipped on the red solo cup in your hand, the plastic filled a quarter of the way full with soda, which was probably meant to be used as a chaser, but you didn’t drink.

Your eyes scanned the party, watching college students do the most heinous things while under the influence.

“And then…there’s Miles. This random high school kid from Brooklyn who might be Spider-Man, but my friends said we probably shouldn’t be stalking a fifteen year old.”

Your friend, Ned, was rambling to someone about how you, MJ, and himself were on the brink of discovering who Spider-Man was, though you were all more than likely far off in your guesses.

MJ was beside you, arms crossed over her chest as she pointed out people for you to look at. First it was some frat guy standing on top of a table while chugging a bottle of beer, then it was some girl making out with her boyfriend, and now it was some loser who allegedly kept staring at you.

“That guy,” MJ said, nodding her head across the room. “He keeps looking over here every ten and a half seconds.”

You didn’t know who she was talking about due to the sheer amount of people in the room, and you didn’t necessarily care. “Glad to know you’re keeping tabs on potential threats,” you teased lightly heartedly.

“Hey,” MJ, shrugged. “Maybe once Spider-Man stops taking all your villains, you can get back at it. I feel like you don’t pay attention to anything anymore.”

Ever since the Avengers had gone their separate ways following Thanos, you hadn’t really done much as a masked hero. 

You vaguely remember fighting alongside Spider-Man to defeat Mysterio and then there was something that felt like a blur with three Spider-Men, Dr. Strange, and villains from differing universes.

On numerous occasions, the ‘New Avengers’ had reached out about you joining their team, but you objected each time, partially because you hated the idea of your family of heroes being replaced, partially because of the politics surrounding it with Sam fighting for copyright, and partially because you enjoyed being a normal person for once.

Your entire teenage years were dedicated to fighting and for once in your life, you wanted to just live.

“I pay attention,” you said, finishing your drink.

MJ, pursed her lips, giving you an uncertain expression. “You know, a few years ago you would’ve thought that weird guy over there was out to get you because he’s been staring at you since you got here,” she said matter of factly. “Oh, not to mention he keeps scanning the room as if something bad is going to happen.”

You smirked. “Imagine he’s Spider-Man.”

MJ raised her brows. “That loser?”

You giggled. “I honestly don’t even know who you’re talking about.” Before MJ could respond, you flashed her your cup. “I’m going to get some more soda. Want anything?”

“Soda is good.”

You nodded with a smile and began to push your way through the crowd.

MJ’s eyes followed you briefly before glancing to the side. The ‘loser’ that she said was staring at you was following you, pushing his way through the crowd.

“What a dork,” she mumbled to herself, assuming that he was some socially awkward dweeb who had a crush on you.

In the kitchen, you had already filled up MJ’s cup and now you were filling up your own. You weren’t paying any attention and didn’t seem to notice the guy whose hands were shaking as he moved to stand beside you, refilling his cup that was already full.

It was Peter Parker, your neighbor, and you couldn’t seem to notice him in a crowded room. A few years ago, you would’ve thought he was the only person in the room, your eyes locking with his naturally.

It was like he didn’t even exist in your world all over again, and it was then he realized he couldn’t take it anymore.

You had to know.

You screwed the cap back onto the soda and grabbed the cups. The boy opened his mouth to say something, but you were already walking away.

As you began to push through the crowd again, you glanced down at the soda you had poured for MJ.

It was Sprite and he hated light soda, she preferred dark, something like Coke because ‘Light soda isn’t on the same wavelength as my soul,’ or whatever nonsense she said back in high school.

“Damn it,” you muttered to yourself, turning abruptly onto your heel.

Little did you know, that ‘loser’ MJ mentioned just moments ago was hot on your tail, following you.

You both accidentally collided into one another, your chest hitting his, sending your drinks, and his splashing, and very conveniently only hitting your clothes.

“Oh no!” he exclaimed. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to! Are you alright?!”

Peter scrambled to figure out how to help, worried that he had completely ruined your night.

Then he looked at you and panic set in.

He recognized your reaction all too well.

Your breath caught in your throat as you looked down at the half empty cups in your hands. You looked like you had seen a ghost.

As soon as you touched him, you saw everything.

The boy in high school you had fallen in love with.

The first time you’d met, Tony Stark introducing him as ‘The Spider-Ling’, to which Peter embarrassingly looked away from you when you laughed.

All those late nights staying up together over a video call, ranting about whatever books you were reading, a science project he was working on, or rambling on about your days, which you’d already spent together.

The first time he swung you all around New York when you couldn’t sleep, your arms wrapped tightly around him as your stomach dropped each time his webs redacted from a building.

Your first kiss at the top of the Empire State Building, slow, desperate, and messy.

The entire team of Avengers finding out about you two being together and embarrassing you both endlessly.

The two of you growing and maturing together right before college applications.

And that was the last you could remember of it because your memories had been taken from you.

It was like the room had fallen silent, the music fading out, and suddenly only you and the boy you spent your entire teenage years loving were the only people in the room, two hearts beginning to beat in the same rhythm again.

Your eyes slowly glanced up to meet his gaze, tears threatening to spill from them. Your mouth had gone dry, not even knowing what to say.

Peter’s face immediately washed over with realization.

You knew.

You touched him and your powers went off, telling you exactly everything that happened.

Before he could say anything, you turned around quickly, pushing as fast as you could through the crowd.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

You managed to get away from the party, and found an empty fire escape on the side of the building where you sat crisscrossed, staring at the busy city despite it being so late at night.

You heard someone grunt softly and the sound of metal clanging. You turned and saw familiar brown hair and brown eyes.

Peter.

He gave you a soft smile, but you looked away, out into the skyline.

Peter’s smile faded, heart aching as he moved to sit beside you.

It was painfully quiet as he played with his fingers, not knowing what to say just yet.

Thankfully for him, you spoke up first.

“You promised me,” you whispered, voice trembling. “You promised you’d remind me of you. Of…of us.”

Peter glanced over to you, though your gaze remained on the skyline. “I know,” he said. “And I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” he apologized sincerely.

You finally turned to him, tears in your eyes. “Why?”

Peter swallowed, blinking rapidly. “I don’t know,” he mumbled. “I just…I thought that everyone was finally okay because I wasn’t there. You all got to finally go to college because you didn’t know me. You all got to be happy and live a life away from all that stuff. You guys didn’t need me.”

“I needed you, Peter,” you said. “I needed you more than anything.”

Peter’s heart absolutely shattered at your words and the pure hurt in your tone.

You grabbed Peter’s hand and squeezed it tightly. “I’d go back and do everything all over again if it means being with you. I’d go back and not get accepted into MIT. I’d go back and nearly die. I’d do it all over again, Peter.”

Peter’s expression softened. “I just wish it wasn’t like this. I want you safe and I want you to get everything you’ve ever wanted.”

“But that’s just the cards we’ve been dealt,” you said softly, his hand still in yours. “If we hadn't been dealt them, who’s to say we would’ve ever been together?”

Peter sighed, staring out into the city. “It’s not fair to you. You deserve better and it was selfish of me to even think about getting back with you.”

You stayed silent, staring at Peter before looking away again.

“You know,” he began, letting out another sigh. “I had this whole plan to tell you tonight about everything. I assumed you wouldn’t believe me so then I was going to get you to use your powers and-” he cut himself off, shutting his eyes. “It was stupid. So stupid.”

You shifted your body, turning sideways to face him fully. “Peter,” you said softly.

He slowly glanced up to meet your gaze. “Yeah?”

“It wasn’t stupid.”

Peter’s brows pressed together. “But it was-”

“Not, it wasn’t,” you interrupted him.

Peter then began to ramble a mile a minute, and it started to remind you of him in high school.

“Okay, but like, I just keep you in danger, and I know you always have been in danger because you have powers, but I feel like you’re in additional danger and-”

“Peter-”

“I just want you to be safe and I think maybe we should go back to not knowing each other-”

“Peter-”

“Not that I don’t want to know you, because I love you, and I-”

Peter cut himself off, face a bright shade of pink. He looked at you with wide eyes, your lips parted slightly.

Your lips slowly curved upward into a teasing smile as he began to panic again.

“No! I didn’t mean that!” Peter exclaimed. “Wait! I mean, I do love you but- but- like, you know- actually-”

Peter’s words weren’t cut off because you interrupted him verbally again.

No.

You kissed him.

Soft and gentle just like you had that night on the Empire State building.

Peter didn’t freeze up like he did that night.

He immediately melted into it, kissing you back.

Your powers gave you the ability to recall history or memories of the past. Peter’s did not, but something about that kiss made him remember the feeling he had been missing for years. The feeling he craved to experience again.

And that feeling was you.

The missing piece of his soul was you and it always had been.

You pulled apart, forehead resting on his. “I love you too,” you said softly, glancing up at him, cupping his cheek.

Peter swallowed. Hard. “You- You do?”

“I do.”

Peter’s lips curved into a smile. “I love you too.”

“Good,” you said, thumb brushing his cheek. “So, do you wish I could lose my memory of you again?”

“No,” Peter chuckled, leaning into your touch. He reached for your hand that held his cheek and kissed it softly. “Never.”

[marsaffair]

˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ THOSE EYES, I STILL KNOW ━━━━ peter parker 

pairings. peter parker x new avenger!reader

summary. after meeting spiderman, something inside you tells you that you’ve met the man beneath the mask in the past, and once you see those eyes again, everything you once thought was lost returns with the promise of a new beginning. 

word count. 4.2k 

warnings. BRAND NEW DAY SPOILERS!! english is not my first language. reader is female. reader was an avenger and now is part of the thunderbolts. reader is a tracker/hound. yelena cameo. father figure!bucky. slight angst. happy ending.

playlist more

Memory is the capacity all human beings have to store and retrieve previously learned information. Experiences, our knowledge, precious memories, and moments spent with loved ones are stored in our long-term memory, remaining in our minds for life.

But what happens when part of your memory cannot be recovered?

The consequences of Doctor Strange's spell were clear; everyone who knew Peter Parker would forget him forever, with no trace left of the warm-smiling boy with a heart of gold who would do anything for the people he loved most. It was a consequence that would save the world, but it wouldn't save the friendly neighborhood Spiderman from the pain that came with letting go of not only his identity as Peter Parker, but also an entire life built around aunt May, the Avengers, Happy, his friends, and the love of his life, you.

Letting you go was the hardest decision he'd ever had to make. And how could it not be? For years you'd been side by side, overcoming every adversity that came your way. It was in the fight against Captain America that you’d met, and from that moment on, your hearts had never stopped beating for each other.

Loving you was easy; loving you was feeling a breath of fresh air every day that gave him a purpose to get up for, an inexhaustible stroke of luck that made him invincible no matter how complicated his life became. In short, for Peter, you were his driving force and lifeline, someone who could understand and love the boy beneath the suit of the Spiderman suit and, at the same time, the local vigilante who regularly protected New York.

So, of course, for him, letting you go was like dying while still breathing in the putrid smell of a place he could no longer call home.

And even though in your mind there was no memory that Peter Parker ever belonged to your chaotic life, the body remembers.

Sooner or later, all memories suppressed by Stephen Strange's spell would cease, and perhaps your path and his would cross once again in an attempt to make up for the lost time…at least that’s what he still hoped for, even though four years had passed since the multiverse had opened and closed with the promise of leaving a ghost of Spiderman’s true identity in everyone’s lives.

Now, all he knew about you was through the news reports that showed you alongside the rest of your new team, the New Avengers. Despite all the years that had passed, he still wasn't strong enough to approach you and confess everything he had written on that crumpled piece of paper, stained with the faded traces of the tears he shed on his nights of utter solitude. For the time being, that paper was hidden in the coffee cup he once ordered just to be close to his friends one last time. It was the only evidence of who that boy was, at least, it was the only one he allowed himself to have.

For the moment, it was still just him against some criminal trying to disrupt the peace on the streets of New York, and thanks to the new settings he'd created on his phone, he could instantly know when the city was in danger and be ready to come to the rescue like the admired and respected Spiderman. Fortunately, there wasn't nearly as much crime as before, thanks to him and his work alongside the police and detective DeWolff.

But the peace the city was trying to get used to did not last that much longer.

Damage control was under attack again, for the fourth time in a month, and things were spiraling out of control. Peter couldn't stop feeling those strange sensations in his body, like it was bracing for something. His headaches were only getting worse, and no amount of aspirin would do the trick to make them go away.

And what happened in the last attack, when people like the old lady who had driven the tank and that guard who let the Scorpion go, seemed to be mind-controlled by someone else in the shadows, which only made the situation worse. It made him realize that he needed help from someone, someone who knew how to search for a person, who had more access to information he couldn't.

That person? Yelena Belova, the new Black Widow.

Peter knew she could help him, just like on previous occasions when he’d needed her services, or all those other times when he just needed to talk to someone and Yelena would ask stories involving her sister Natasha.

Seeing her meant hearing about you, which was a bonus, and something that sent his heart racing.

Just thinking about the possibility of knowing something beyond what the news, magazines, or interviews said about you and the new Avengers made him ecstatic, eager to learn about this new mind-controlling threat and, if the universe allowed it, knowing about you.

What Peter Parker didn’t expect when he arrived at the place where Yelena had summoned him to —which seemed to be a Russian spa rather than an actual office— was that, first, Black Widow was in a heated pool completely naked, asking him to take off his clothes, and second, she wasn’t alone.

Because next to Yelena, there was you, a little embarrassed by Yelena's lack of filter but at the same time ashamed of having to be naked in front of a total stranger, at least, that's what your mind was telling you.

This wasn't what Yelena promised you for a "girls' day out."

It seemed as if the world had stopped for an eternity for Peter, who looked at you with a gaze filled with all the emotions that flooded over him every time he thought of you or saw you, until the russian spy caught his attention.

“Helloo? Earth to Spiderboy,” called Black Widow after he didn’t answer her, and snapped off his daydream.

Filled with a flurry of nerves, he took off his suit, leaving only his mask on, and went into the water, trying to keep his body from tensing up and forgetting the real reason he was there now that you were here.

“I hope you don’t mind her being here. I tricked her into coming but i think she can help with your little problem,” Yelena said, pointing her thumb at you.

You waved to the masked hero with an awkward smile, not really knowing what was going on. Yelena hadn't mentioned anything about a meeting with Spiderman; you were supposed to go out so you wouldn't be stuck with Alexei and John competing over who was better than Captain America again.

While Spiderman and Lena were exchanging theories about what was happening with the Damage Control buildings and the attacks they were receiving, you just watched them, listening carefully to what they were saying and drawing your own conclusions.

“You said that the person who was controlling the workers and the old lady who was driving spoke directly at you, right?” you asked, trying to prove a theory you had.

“Uhm– Well– Yeah, it was like they were trying to see right through me,” Spiderman explained, feeling the heat rise to his ears and cheeks when he heard your voice.

He was lucky to have the mask on because hearing you, speaking directly to him after everything that had happened four years ago, was like falling in love with you all over again, just like when you spoke for the first time at the airport in Germany.

His heart was about to burst out of his chest and his stomach was churning, just like that time. He was lucky that the two women in front of him couldn't see his face.

The only difference between then and now was that both of you had grown up, your features making you look older, wiser and more mature. Your eyes carrying the burden of loss, sadness and new beginnings, a life he could no longer be a part of.

At that moment, the only thought running through his mind was simply being able to take off the stupid mask he was wearing and kiss you with that sweet gentleness that used to bring you so much comfort and security.

“Are you even listening to what Puppy here is saying?” Yelena interrupted his reverie yet again.

“S-sorry, what?/I told you to stop calling me that,” you and Spiderman said at the same time.

“She’s telling you something that could help you and you’re in another world, Spidey. It's rude,” Yelena pointed out, and you didn’t know where to hide.

It was true that the hero in front of you seemed not to have heard anything you'd said in the last minute, as if he'd been momentarily disconnected from himself. You couldn't help but feel something strange in your chest when you looked at him again, even without seeing his face, your heart started pounding faster than usual.

It must be the nerves, you thought as you tried to explain everything again.

“I was saying that maybe that person–”

“Leshy,” Yelena interrupted.

“Yes, Leshy,” you corrected, rolling your eyes before continuing, “He probably knows you, or at least know you have arachnid powers. Maybe he sees you as someone who's like him? Criminals often gravitate towards those they see similar to themselves…”

“Good one, Puppy,” Yelena praised.

“Thank you,” you smiled, ignoring the nickname for now.

"Wow, that's– that's a good theory, seriously. Thank you. You’ve alwa– I mean, I hadn't considered that," Spiderman said, impressed and hoping you hadn't caught his near slip-up.

You did, but you tried to not overthink it.

After a few more minutes, Yelena started rambling about small potatoes and big potatoes, apparently a topic she was far too passionate about to explain what you guys did compared to what Spiderman did in New York City.

“You should hurry and find out who that person is. I remember someone who was close to me had similar powers to those you mentioned, and believe me, things can get worse way too fast,” you warned before the masked man began to emerge from the pool, remembering when Wanda had mentally controlled you and the rest of the Avengers during the fight against Ultron years ago, a memory you were not to be very fond of.

“I’ll go to Damage Control and ask them myself,” the hero concluded, finally emerging from the water.

It was at that moment that you caught a familiar scent in the air coming from him, a very familiar one that didn't remind you of anyone in particular but at the same time made your heart beat a thousand miles an hour, heat rising to your cheeks without you being able to control it. When the hero was ready to leave, you spoke before it was too late. 

“It was a pleasure meeting you, Spiderman”

“T–thank you, it was the same for me,” he replied nervously before leaving the room.

Little did you know that seeing you again reopened a wound that hadn't yet healed, but it’d also given him even greater motivation to find the person behind all the attacks on Damage Control. 

Meanwhile, Yelena looked at you with a raised eyebrow and a mischievous smile.

"What?"

“Do you have a crush on Spiderman?” she asked with the same smile.

“Of course not! It’s just that…I don’t know, talking to him felt like I’d already met him and his scent–”

“Ew!  I don’t want to hear it anymore,” Yelena cut you off, submerging herself in the water while you were left thinking about the interaction you’d just had.

And if Spiderman was a complete stranger to you, why did you feel this pressure in your chest that told you otherwise? It was impossible that you knew who he really was; you remembered working with him, but he never took off his mask, just like now, when he hadn't either.

Weird, you thought, with the feeling in your chest giving you a headache that lasted even when you arrived at the old Avengers tower that now belonged to you and the rest of the losers that Valentina called the New Avengers.

Bob had prepared you some herbal tea for you to soothe the pain you were feeling, and Bucky tried to talk to you about what was happening, being the only one who had known you for a long time, but you declined his offer with a tired smile, promising to tell him everything soon.

When you were in your room, you decided to investigate what the arachnid had said, as well as search the internet for what you were feeling and also started reading the old files that were written about the friendly neighborhood spiderman.

A day had passed since your conversation with Spiderman in Yelena's office, and that feeling you had when you were talking to him and smelled his scent still lingered within you, except now something new was part of the equation.

Inevitably, during your research last night, you had fallen asleep. Apparently, you had searched enough for your brain to activate and started dreaming about someone you didn't remember meeting, but that was the thing about dreams, they could create a whole relationship with someone you saw passing by on the streets.

Even so, when you woke up in the morning, dried tears remained on your face, evidence of something much bigger than you could remember.

Your chest tightened when you thought of that someone, that boy from your dream who held you tightly in his arms and promised that everything would be okay, even though all you heard in his voice was agony alongside your desperate cries to stop what was happening.

Again, your heart wouldn't stop beating with a force you’d never felt before, as if you were missing someone you couldn't quite recall, longing for a warmth like the sun being close to you.

And despite never having seen his face in your dream, for some strange reason, all you could think about was how the only person who could possibly have  the answer was the friendly Spiderman, which was totally ridiculous and and beyond insane. You didn't even know his identity, and you didn't remember him being close to you during the time when you both belonged to the Avengers.

Were you going crazy?

“Are you alright, kid? You’ve been staring at that plate of pancakes for almost an hour,” Bucky Barnes said, who was sitting next to you. He was the only one who got up so early in the morning and the only one who knew you well enough to know that you were acting differently.

You looked at him for a second before nodding, unsure how to explain what was happening to you, but you knew that if anyone could understand, he would be the one. You took a deep breath before telling him absolutely everything that had happened in the last 24 hours.

“I know it sounds far-fetched, I know…but there’s something about that guy that reminds me of someone, someone i loved very much but can’t remember who he was,” you explained, your voice trembling and afraid that everything you were saying sounded completely crazy.

“I understand,” Bucky replied, with a nostalgic smile that expressed much more than he let on, “Kid, you know my head has been a minefield for a long time, and when i couldn’t even remember Steve, something inside me told me i knew him anyway…”

"Yeah?"

“Of course i did, what I’m trying to say is that– it seems like your body, your heart, remembers something that was altered in your memory and is trying to break free,” he explained softly, and clarity began to dawn on you after his confession.

“I think…I think you’re right, Buck. Maybe it’s best to look for the answer, isn’t it?” you asked, even though you already knew what you would do it.

“I looked for one when i felt like that, you should too,” he encouraged you.

With a smile and a quick side hug, you said goodbye to Bucky, grateful for his words and quickly leaving the tower. 

You opened the app that Spiderman fans used to track his location. It had been created by a guy named Ned Leeds, whom you somehow knew, but you couldn't quite put your finger on why you did. That same feeling from before resurfaced, a gnawing pressure, awakened by not knowing exactly what you were forgetting.

But while you were waiting to see the masked hero's location, a notification from an unknown contact lit up your screen.

Hi! Ms. Black Widow gave me your number :)

I hope you don't mind – S

Meeting at the top of the Empire State Building at night was private and beyond intimate; no one would be eavesdropping on your conversation with Spiderman. On the other hand, your nerves were on edge, your heart pounding in your chest again at the thought of being alone with New York's local hero, who hadn't said much more in his message than the meeting place and that it was urgent, which only made you more nervous.

When you reached the top, Spiderman was already there, holding something in his hands as he paced back and forth as if he were feeling the same way you were.

“Hey…You wanted to see me?” You asked timidly, your right hand holding your left forearm, trying to pretend that you weren’t on edge and your heart wasn’t about to jump out of your mouth.

Spiderman turned towards you at that moment, abruptly stopping whatever he’d been thinking before you arrived and approaching you. The air carried back that scent you had smelled in the Russian spa, the same one you had felt in your dream— a comforting, clean, soft musk aroma that reminded you of a hug from someone you’d loved in the past. He smelled like home, warm and safe.

“Hi…yeah, Uh– sorry, I didn’t want to say much over the phone, i was afraid you wouldn’t come or wouldn’t want help with what Yelena said about the small potatoes and–”

“Don’t worry,” you smiled at him, “I can help you with whatever you need.”

“Thank you,” he replied softly, his voice echoing in your head again.

You both sat on the floor near the building's optical towers, and it was when the arachnid started asking you if you could help him find a teenager who apparently seemed to be the threat that had been attacking Damage Control to look for this «V-max» thing. You felt a sense of déjà vu, a feeling that you had once helped him with a similar situation to the one he was going through right now, but again, that mental block  in your mind prevented you from going beyond what your memories allowed.

It was when his hand raised an old, used paper cup towards you that a chill ran through your body, a violent reaction that took the air out of your lungs and made you quickly stand up from where you were.

Your skin prickled, and it wasn't from the cold of the city at night, it was from the electric sensation that ran through your body, as if a switch that had been off for a long time had been abruptly flipped.

The person next to you wasn't just a former colleague you'd crossed paths with in the past, he wasn't a stranger. You knew him, and quite well it seemed, but the reason you couldn't recall his name or face was unknown to you, though perhaps not to him.

“Excuse me, but…do we know each other?” you asked Spiderman in a whisper, who, while you were lost in your thoughts, had also gotten up, worried about your reaction to his gesture.

“What did you just say?” he asked, his voice strained and tense. You could smell the levels of cortisol his brain had begun producing after hearing what you’d said, confirming his theory that this person in front of you had something to do with what was happening to you since yesterday.

“It’s true, isn’t it? Were we– were we friends? Something more? Please, ever since i saw you yesterday, i’ve been feeling like a thread is pulling me towards you, and my heart keeps racing every time i think about your scent, your voice, your face, which is still a mystery to me,” you blurted out quickly, trying to recall everything that was happening to you so that he could understand. “I swear i won’t tell anyone, but please…let me see your face…” you begged.

At that moment, it was his turn to stop breathing, not knowing what to do. This was the scenario he had dreamed of for all these years, and though part of him said it wasn't a good idea to succumb to your pleas, the other, much larger part allowed your hands —those hands he missed so much— to grasp the edges of his mask and beginning to slowly lift it, gradually revealing his face until the mask fell delicately to the ground.

His eyes, which he had unconsciously closed, opened slowly, and your gasp was the first thing he heard before noticing your eyes filling with tears that streamed freely down your face.

Your chest tightened again with a new feeling; memories lost in a locked cage began to flood your head. Silences that spoke louder than a thousand words, conversations that lasted until dawn, shared laughter over jokes that only you and him knew the meaning of, soft whispers murmuring those three words that many were afraid to promise.

A name came to mind as the face of the person in front of you filled those spaces where you thought you had been alone. That name was Peter Parker.

Peter, the boy you’d met thanks to Tony in Germany.

Peter, the boy who, despite not having known you for very long, was already more of a friend than all of the people who had surrounded you for years.

Peter, the boy to whom your heart belonged to, the love of your life that you’d lost thanks to the stupid spell of the stupid Sorcerer Supreme.

Peter Parker, who stood before you with that look that even with a spell cast upon you, you could never forget. Those eyes, full of sweetness and melancholy, watched you as if you were about to disappear at any moment, his hand extended towards you, waiting for you to take it as proof that you were real, and that you weren't going anywhere.

“Peter!” You exclaimed, hugging him with a force capable of knocking you both to the ground, and he immediately returned the embrace, tears welling in his eyes and a relieved laugh escaping his throat as he heard you say his name after so long n of not hearing it.

“I’ve missed you so much,” he whispered against your ear after kissing the top of your head, and you smiled, unwilling to let go of him.

“I love you, I’ll love you forever, baby, I promise,” you whispered as your hands gently cupped his face and your lips met in a kiss that unleashed a torrent of ​​emotions within you.

Your breaths mingled and Peter's hands wrapped around your waist to get as close to you as possible, a muffled moan escaping your mouth as your hands played with his hair, recalling the countless times you had been in the same position.

It was a kiss filled with love, longing, and the memory of something you thought you'd never had.

And the thing about memories is that, despite being repressed, they will always find a way out. Thoughts of the past may not reside in our memory, as if a wall were blocking their escape, but the truth is that memories don't only exist in the mind.

The body remembers an unavoidable truth, whether it's a scent, a melody, or the voice of the love of your life yearning for you even after so much time apart.

For Peter Parker, meeting you had been his salvation, and for you, remembering him was like learning to breathe again. And if you had overcome a spell that wasn't supposed to be broken, you could handle that little bugger that was threatening New York City again, and this time, you would fight as you always had before.

You would do it together, for the rest of your life.

author's note. my first peter parker shot! i saw Brand New Day on wednesday and needed to write something about the movie. I cried so much watching it and loved the interactions between Peter and Yelena. Did anyone else miss Happy's absence? Cuz i did ):

btw, i used google translate for this, i proofread it and i think it’s okay but im sorry if there's any mistake!

P.S. i hope someone noticed that when I wrote Peter from reader's pov, he was just spiderman, but when i wrote about Peter, he was just himself and nothing else T-T

© MARSAFFAIR

[cosmicschmidt]

I’ve been checking the Peter Parker x reader tag every FIVE MINUTES. Those fics better start rolling in 😩 I mean just LOOK AT HIM HELLO?!

[jeonidas]

HATE THAT I MADE YOU LOVE ME. — P. PARKER.

CHAPTER ONE : (NOT SO) FRIENDLY NEIGHBOR.

warnings. sns post with a written part. some cussing. one mention of puking, reader smokes a cig. nothing else really.

prev . mlist . next

“…Fucking finally.” You exhale the grey smoke through your nose and a little bit through the mouth. The nicotine burns momentarily then relaxes you. 

You don’t have much of a habit to smoke but occasionally, when things get to your head too fast, you dash to the rooftop and smoke one cigarette or maybe two. Today is one of those days. 

After a less than pleasant call with your father, your world seems to spin for a few seconds before you find yourself outside, sitting by the edge and looking down. You have a lot to think about but little to no time to do so. Soon you will be forced to begin getting ready for work. Forty minutes max before you have to and the idea doesn’t make you any happier. 

You close your eyes, relaxing before the sound of some horns and screams catch your attention. It appears like there is some sort of ruckus on the street and although that does peak your interest, the drive to go downstairs isn’t really enough to move you. Sitting down more comfortably, you bring the cigarette to your lips and hear some applause in the background, breaking your peace again. 

Your phone buzzes in the back pocket of your jeans and you groan, already knowing who is trying to contact you again. You take it out, seeing a notification from your father and just as you are about to unlock your device, you catch the Spiderman swinging across the buildings near you. 

Instinctively, you open the chat with your friend Ned and text something quick until the hero lands on your rooftop. 

“Oh my…holy shit!” 

A groan pierces the air and the arachnid friend leans down to catch his breath before noticing you and jumping a few steps back. 

“I…I’m not a threat, dude. It’s okay.” 

“No, no you don’t understand,” Spiderman interrupts. “I…hold on, just, just give me a moment.” He winces and you raise up from your place, getting slowly closer. 

“You look pretty hurt, Spiderman.”

“I’m- I’m fine. As good as I can be.” 

“Want me to be honest?” You don’t wait for him to reply. “You look like someone threw a bus at you or something, it’s pretty bad. Want me to help you with those wounds?” 

“No! I mean, no, I can’t…It’s okay. I said I’m fine, and I’m super fine, really.”

“If this is about the identity thing, you can keep the mask on. I don’t care. I just know all that red I’m seeing is actually not a part of your suit.” 

“Seriously, I can handle it.” Spiderman tries to take a step back but nearly trips. You rush to grab him and slide an arm of his over your shoulders. 

“Come on, dude. I swear I won't bite, let me help you.” 

He groans but caves in, leaning on you as you two walk to the entrance of the rooftop. The cigarette gets passed by and forgotten, just like the piles of trash and some boxes someone left there a while ago. 

You carefully get him downstairs, passing by your neighbor’s door, until you reach the level of your home, opening the unlocked entrance. 

Your house is as tidy as it could be on a Wednesday afternoon. Some books are scattered around the coffee table, a jacket and a hoodie are discarded on your couch.Light music plays in the background and the tv is up and running fully silenced. Other than that, the house is intact and mostly okay, you aren’t much around to mess with the whole place anyways, between work and your studies, you only get to truly be at home on your only free day which is usually on Saturdays. 

“Here, sit down.” You instruct the man to the couch, lightly letting him go until he plops on the comforting furniture, getting swallowed between the many little blankets and plushies you have. He exhales a heavy breath and begins to finally scan the place, letting the TV catch his attention as images of him fighting a villain display on the screen. 

You rush to your bathroom, picking up the first aid kit you have and go back to the couch, sitting on the coffee table. 

“Who attacked you? A big cat?” You laugh out as Spiderman unzips part of his suit, letting it fall down and exposing his chest. There are tiny cuts and some badly beaten parts of his body already showing signs of turning purple and greenish. 

“Do you know what you are doing?” Spiderman interjects, answering your rhetoric question with a more inquisitive one. You put some drops of alcohol on a piece of cotton before beginning to dab over the nearest scar with delicacy. 

“One of my brothers fights for sport, I’m too used to disinfecting scars.” You announce, not offended at all by his previous tone. You understand he must be annoyed by having to require the help of some commoner right now. He probably has bigger fishes to fry, but you also know he’d not be able to do much if he is covered in wounds rubbing against his suit. 

If you can be of help, you will be. 

“I didn’t know you had siblings.” He murmurs and quickly counter attacks himself with a question to distract you from the suspicious comment. You notice it but let it pass by. How would he know anyway? This is the first time you two interact, unless he thinks you are some other familiar person to him. “Your brother is a box fighter?” 

“Sorta, sorta not…” You smile a little and bite lightly on the tip of your tongue, concentrated over his scars. “I did sign him up for some classes and he is doing well, the thing is he can’t help but get into fights at school too. You know, he has some sort of hero mentality, he sees someone getting picked on, suffering somehow, and he throws a punch to solve it. Pretty punk of him to stand up for others, to be honest, but also a big problem — sorry,” you pause. “I’m talking too much.”

“No, it is…It is fine.” You notice the man relax a little and you cannot help but look at his masked eyes with content. A few screams pierce through the air and a wave of noise comes from downstairs, alerting you two. 

Spiderman quickly jumps from the couch and rushes to the window, looking down. 

“I need to go.” 

“You can’t leave with these scars —.” 

“People need me, I have to. Thank you for cleaning my scars!” 

“Wait, wait! Spiderman!” You manage to grab onto his wrist and momentarily have him still. “Give me your hand.” 

“What do you —.” 

“Just take off that part of your suit, I need to touch your skin.” 

“What the —.” 

“Just do it!” You finally yell and he obeys, reluctantly. 

You press your palm against his, closing your eyes for a second, and a little halo of light emerges between your touched skin. Sparks of purple, pink and white crawl from the point you connect with Spiderman under his suit, illuminating him from the inside and he separates, surprised. He observes how he lights up and a warm feeling takes over him, dissipating his growing nerves and panic over whatever is happening outside. 

“What the actual fuck?” He whispers and the lights fade, leaving a sense of calmness in his heart. His body no longer hurts anymore and whatever scars were bothering under his skin are non-existent now, he is sure of that, he can feel it. He is healed. “What did you just —.” 

“Don’t.” You cut him off. “I couldn’t let you go and save the day all wounded.” 

“You have powers.” He states. 

“No, baby, you totally hallucinated — yes I have powers. Now you can go save the day, man.” 

“You have powers,” he repeats, stunned. 

“You can leave me a five star review for my service, yes.” 

“You have —.” 

“My god! Yes, Spiderman. I have powers, now go do your hero gimmick. If you are so weirded out about it you can ask me about it later. Now go!” 

Spiderman finally nods, rushing to the window and opening it. He shoots a web outside and before swinging out, he mutters a small ‘thank you’ to which you nod, giving him a thumbs up before seeing him go. 

[4stephanie4]

anyway, don't be a stranger

pairing bnd!peter parker x reader summary years ago when Peter refused to tell you the truth after Strange's spell, he thought it would be for the better. but fate brings you together when you take the apartment next to his after graduating from MIT. Peter tries so hard to distance himself from you, but he just can't, until you're sobbing in front of him and calling him selfish for doing that to you. warning angst but with comfort, a sprinkle of yearning, tension, peter has a good ending because i'm tired of this boy always having sad endings, a few cursewords, MJ and Ned are mentioned a few times. word count 7k

Nothing about today was fine.

It was a really rough day. You’d planned on meeting Ned and MJ in the morning, but unfortunately the elevator wouldn’t open meaning you got stuck with your weird neighbour that you barely know the name of.

You’d moved in last week, right after graduating from MIT with Ned and MJ. During those years, it was the best time you’d ever had, studying and meeting new people in a different place. It’s all you have ever wanted in your life, but still, it was like something was missing in your life.

You don’t understand what it was, what was missing from your heart, ever since you went to MIT, it was like there was an ache in your heart, a missing gap in your heart that someone used to fill.

You’d ignored it for years, but being back in NYC, it just makes you sick to your stomach everytime you pass a familiar restaurant or cafe, even talking to MJ makes you feel like something’s wrong. Whenever you order a coffee from the cafe next to you, it always feels like someone used to stand beside you and laugh. It makes you shiver every time you think someone is talking to you, but turn your head to the side and find no one.

It becomes worse when you’re alone lying in your bed. There’s something bugging you that you can’t place your finger on. You’re sure your mind is playing tricks on you just because you miss high school, but still this thing. . . is just unexplainable. Even years of engineering can’t describe or explain what was happening.

Now, back to the present, you missed your hangout with your friends because of that stupid elevator your landlord won’t fix. It’s driving you mad, and when you look up at the man in front of you he visibly twitches, wearing. . . juicy couture?

You pull out your earbuds from your ears, looking at him in perplexion, he averts his eyes quickly, clears his throat and tries to play it off cool before you ask him, “where’d you get them? I have wanted a pair since forever.” It’s more of a joke, but you have been looking for something like that for a while now.

When the boy’s voice comes out, it sounds like a squeak, curly hair falling on his forehead. “Uh, they’re my girlfriend’s. I-I promise, not like I stole them from the washroom downstairs or anything.” Hm, familiar. You try not to think about his eyes for too much. They look sweet as honey, which makes your heart ache even harder. What the hell was going on?

You nod, sliding to the ground because you know it’s going to be a while until someone cracks the door open. 

You offer him a half-smile, “My name’s name. Yours?”

“Uh, pet- Ned! Ned. It’s Ned.” He stutters, trying to maintain eye contact with you, but failing.

“Chill, dude, you look like you’ve seen ghosts. I have a friend called Ned too. Didn’t know it was a famous name.” You attempt a joke, because the look on his face is worrying.

Peter, on the other hand, is absolutely losing his shit right now. His mind can’t comprehend the fact that after all these years you’re standing in front of him looking angelic as ever. His heart starts pounding faster, and he stammers, “I live right by you..”

“You stalking me or something?” Your eyebrows draw upward, turning your head to the side to find him trying, but failing to, to stop his shaky hands from shaking, but it’s obvious he’s extremely nervous. Maybe he has a job interview or something?  Or maybe he’s claustrophobic. There has to be something that’s making him shake like the world was gonna end.

But for Peter, his world already ended a lot of time ago when you were out of his life. He found no will to let his heart continue beating when he couldn’t hear the sound of yours beating beside him.

He couldn’t find the will to get up in the morning after you were no longer by his side.

He couldn’t find the will to live anymore.

“Dude, you’re shaking like hell. Are you okay? You need to calm down a bit.”

But before he could reply, a light started to shine inside between the doors. The firefighters had finally managed to open the door. You let out a breath of relief and stand up, muttering under your breath,  “finally!”

And when both of you are out of this elevator, one of the medics tries to wrap a blanket around you but you refuse stubbornly, and Peter finds himself watching you from afar, tears starting to form his eyes. When nobody notices Peter anymore like always, he squeezes himself out of the room, walking up the stairs until he’s in his gloomy room, that was devoid of any light, once more.

Unfortunately, MJ and Ned had gone separate ways before you could even meet up with them. You still find yourself at the coffee shop, sitting by the window with a confused expression on your face. Meeting Ned, no, not original Ned, new Ned, has made a pounding headache form in your head.

Sighing, you find multiple notifications from MJ on your phone asking if you were alright. You’ll reply later when the headache goes away, but right now, you don’t have any energy to even send her a text.

You’re halfway through your coffee when you hear the loud shrill screams from people around you. Eyes widened, you find yourself running out of the coffee shop, heart pounding from fear without even knowing what’s wrong. All you know is that someone was harming people considering you could hear the cracking of bones behind you.

While pushing people out of your path, you find an old woman on the ground, not being able to sit up without assistance. Stopping briefly, you look at the woman with hair as fluffy as snow in the middle of winter.

Speaking of Winter, you remember walking through the snow with someone beside you. The memory crushes you like a train weighing down on you and pushing you downward until you’re in the dirt. It hurts, and it feels like your heart will explode. You blink, head moving in different directions.

You see figures completely black everywhere. Next to the woman helping her, on the rooftop dangling their legs, even in front of you with their hands on your cheeks. You’re about to fall to your knees from the overwhelming surge of thoughts that make no sense, but you remember the woman in front of you.

You place a gentle hand on hers and help her up, she thanks you in spanish, or italian, you don’t know. While you’re helping her up, she kisses your cheek and rubs her hand on your cheek, like she knew the turmoil happening inside of you.

She walks away slow-paced in comparison to the people pushing you and running away. You’re about to start speeding down the street, back to your apartment for safety, until a whole bus is thrown in your direction. You try to move, but your feet are planted on the street, unwilling to move. 

Freezing, you shut your eyes and prepare yourself. It all happens too quickly. One second you’re preparing for your death, the other your legs are wrapped around Spiderman’s waist soaring through the skies of New York City. Is this the American dream?

You scream when you look down and notice how high up you are, but Spiderman just tightens his arm around your waist, and tells you, “don’t panic! It’s okay! You’re gonna be fine.”

Both of you land on a rooftop of a random nearby house, and you almost immediately start thanking him, muttering thanks over and over again until Spiderman is looking at you like you grew two heads which is funny considering he’s a half-spider half-human.

“It’s fine, sweet-, ma’am. I’m glad to be of assistance.” He replies. The word sweetheart almost slips out of his mouth out of habit. He fakes a cough awkwardly and you tilt your head at him.

“You sound familiar.” You comment. There’s something funny about his voice, like you’ve heard it before.

“Uh. . .you hear me on the news everyday?” The sentence comes out of his mouth as more of a question than a statement.

You nod, “touché.”

But you feel like you know him.

Your head is still spinning from what had just happened until Spiderman cuts your train of thoughts and offers if you want him to take you back to his apartment, and since your apartment is far away from here, you agree and that’s how you find yourself flying through the sky while Spiderman shoots webs around buildings, swinging both of you as you yell directions in his ear. 

Spiderman and you land on the rooftop of your apartment. You don’t land on your feet steadily, wobbling but Spiderman wraps his arms around your waist to prevent you from falling. 

His hands on your waist are the only thing you can think about right. It feels right, like it had always been there.

“Uh, uh, so this is you, right? Nice-nice building.” He stammers, retrieving back his hands to his side. Under his mask, embarrassment floods through his cheeks, painting it a light pink.

“Yeah this is me.” You can’t deny that there were butterflies in your stomach, and when his hands left, your body was filled with disappointment at the emptiness you felt.

You’re about to turn your back on him before you half-turn and clasp your fingers in front of you, “do you want to come inside? I’ll make you tea. . .as a thank you.”

Spiderman wants to say no to you politely. If he goes down that road, he might never find his way out. He can’t let you remember him. He just can’t let it happen.

But there he is, inside of your apartment adored with posters on the wall and takeout on the counter.

“Sorry, I didn’t clean up. Didn’t know I’d be having Spiderboy in my apartment.” You tell him grabbing the takeout boxes and throwing it in the trashcan. You try to clean up as much as you can before putting the kettle on the stove.

It softly hisses, steam escaping the silver kettle. You clear your throat, “you can sit down by the way.” You motion at your couch. He sits down and looks around again at your apartment. His heart aches from the way he misses you. Something inside of him begs him to tell you the  truth, to say the words he has memorised, but his heart won’t let him do it. He won’t put you in the danger he put Aunt May in ever again.

Outside your window, there was a breath-taking display of the kaleidoscopic colours in the sky. It just reminded him that the world doesn’t stop turning and everything continues even when you  have a minor issue or a big issue in your life.

You hand him the tea, and he thanks you. Both of your hands brush for a second, too long to be accidental, and he removes it like he was burned.

Peter could have never believed that he’d have the confidence to be standing in front of the person he used to love years later. He doesn’t know what hurts more, the fact that he still loves you but he’ll never be able to experience your love and touch again, or the fact that you don’t even remember him as a friend. 

You sit across from him on your lazy boy, watching criticisingly under your gaze. Without a second thought, you throw an orange that was in  your fruit basket. His eyes widened, “what was that for?”

“Don’t you have spider senses? Aren’t you supposed to know that I’m going to throw an orange at you?” Your eyebrows draw upward accusingly.

“Yeah, but not for oranges. I’ve never met a villain that threw oranges at me.” Under his mask, wrinkles adorned his forehead from the way he was furrowing your eyebrows. 

You throw another orange at him, hitting him straight in the forehead. Your eyebrows draw upward, expecting him to sense and duck if that’s even how his senses work. “You’re supposed to duck.”

“Next time.” He says in amusement. 

The next hour, Peter finds himself missing you more than ever. His untouched tea grows cold, too invested in talking to you. You’re right there, but he can never have you. He’s already decided to put you in a protective glass box from harm’s way, but still, he can’t find it in himself to move his legs and walk away when this is the closest he’s been to you in years. Peter has been watching you from afar, or from Ned’s videos that he loves to watch in his free time. All he feels is love for you right now, nothing less and nothing more; he knows when goes home he’ll be looking out the window, looking out the universe and begging it to let him have something for once. All his life, Peter has known sacrifice. He always put people first, in hopes of the universe looking back at him and rewarding, but when he grew older and much wiser, he knew all of that was child’s play. The universe does what it wants whether you like it or not. It doesn’t care about your feelings. It doesn’t care about your emotions. It doesn’t care about you at all. You’re the one who has to learn to make your place even when you have nowhere to go.

Your voice fades into the background, his ears starting to ring from the amount of sudden sadness and homesickness he feels for a place that once existed but can never exist anymore. It’s like visiting your childhood home that had been sold to another family making their own memories. The new family doesn’t know the old family, and vice versa. It’s a loop in some twisted way.

You’re talking about what you have done the past years, graduating from MIT, trying to look for a job and all of that. You don’t know why you’re telling Spiderman all of that, but there’s this invisible connection that you feel connects both of you together and you feel so drawn to him you’ve never felt it before in your whole life.

And when he finally finds the will to move, he opens the window and looks back at you, watching your face glisten in the moonlight, eyes drooping when he remembers reality.

You latch onto his arm and beg, “come back, will you? I’ll make you more tea.”

And how can Spiderman say no to such a pretty face?

That’s how he Peter finds himself at your apartment again and again and he’s in high school all over again where you find out he’s Spiderman by accident, how you’re patching him not because he asked you but because you were adamant on helping him while you told him, “let someone save you for once.”

Then he’s in high school again asking you out with flowers in his shaky hand, stammering over his own words before you place a tender kiss on his cheek. That shuts him off immediately. You smile at him, “yes, and stop shaking so much will you? You’re making me nervous.” You grab his hands in yours, and that’s all he needed for him to stop shaking.

Oh, how Peter would give anything just for you to hold his hands for once last time.

You have changed so much, so has your personality. You’re a bit colder now, even though you were so warm, but time does change people. It carves them into the people they never want to be. Some good people turn wicked, not because they want to, but because time has ruined them, run their dirt all over them and buried their soul six feet under. And when they push themselves out of the dirt, they’re called immoral.

But you’re so much wiser that Peter nicknames you ‘Aspasia’. You remind him so much of Aunt May too.

Your ways of hanging out have become more simple. Years ago, you’d invite Peter to feed pigeons, or even beg him to swing you through the skies of New York City just because it felt cool. Now, you and him are eating tubes of ice cream from the container itself on the rooftop. His mask isn’t removed completely, but he’s become a bit comfortable to the point where he curls it above his lips, shoving ice cream in his mouth.

“Don’t you get tired of the secret? Hiding who you really are, I mean.” You question. It’s been bugging you for weeks now because you’re a person who talks too much. You spoil secrets before you even know what you’re talking about. He must be extremely patient to hide his identity for all these years alone.

“Does anyone know?” You continue, eyes turning to him.

The answer to that question is complicated. Spiderman mixes the ice cream inside the container absent-mindly. He sighs, and his shoulders hunch forward like he’s been carrying the whole of NYC on his shoulder, and maybe, in a way, he is. He’s been lowering crime rates, but it must get lonely, doesn’t it?

“Sometimes it gets boring, but at least I have you, right?” He blurts out. That sentence has been lodged in his throat, shuffling and begging to leave his throat so badly. It was like there was a heavy blanket on his heart that was removed immediately. Spiderman looks to the side, and you hope you didn’t make him angry.

You put the ice cream container on the side, grabbing his hands in yours. At that moment, Peter felt like the universe was maybe thanking him for his good deeds. Peter’s been nothing but good his entire life, and maybe the universe finally decided it’s time for his reward. Tears start to form in his eyes and thankfully you can’t see anything under his mask.

“Hey, listen. I’m sorry, but of course you have me. I’m your friend, Spiderboy.”

‘You used to be more,’ Peter thinks.

“Thanks,” Peter mumbles, as your fingers lace with his. They then move around them, wrapping around his body, giving him a much needed hug. He hadn’t felt the touch of a hug in so long. That makes it worse and better at the same time. He coughs when you remove your arms, muttering an excuse under his breath until he’s on his feet, shooting webs on buildings to swing away from you considering he literally lives right next to you. He ignores the people screaming his name on the streets this time. The sound of NYC becomes an annoying hum in his ears, and he finds himself wondering why he was even doing this anymore when there’s no one by his side.

Spiderman doesn’t stop by at your apartment the next few days which makes your heart beat faster in worry while you twitch on your nail, watching the news as Spiderman saves the day again. You hope you didn’t ruin what you had with him.

You just. . .it’s unexplainable. You can’t explain why you’re trying to push him gently. It feels like he’s hiding something from you, something you desperately wish you can understand or even know. You’re going crazy, trying to connect the dots and remembering the memories before you can sleep. You even see the black figure beside you sleeping on your bed in your beds.

But during those days, you see New Ned not Original Ned more often, greeting you in the hallways with a bright smile. You wonder how someone could be this bright and cheery this early.

In the elevator, it’s awkward, silence fills the gap that your voice should fill, but you don’t speak to him.

The next day, you find yourself asking him if he’d like coffee. He looks like he’s about to refuse, but the words refuse to be uttered out of his mouth so he accompanies you to coffee. He even offers to pay it for you like a gentleman, but you refuse.

“You’re Ned, right? I just get a bit confused ‘cause my best friend’s name is also Ned.” You ask, hoping you weren’t being rude or anything while both of you were sitting in the cafe. 

He always looks nervous for some reason, like he was hiding some super secret thing in his life.

“Yeah, Ned.” He nods, hands wrapped around his cup of coffee.

And then you find yourself bickering with him like both of you were childhood friends, talking about your common interests. He lies to you, though. He tells you a random university he graduated from, but you don’t notice, nodding along to his words.

When both of you part, you start to miss him, so you make it your mission to get to know him better.

The next day, you see him in the elevator again, smiling and waving at him as he repeats your actions. He was going to the park for a random park(he wasn’t but he knew you’d accompany him), and you actually did.

Peter walks through the towering trees that casted shadows over both of you, walking with you by his side, just like old times in high school. He glances at you every now and then while you talk, hands moving around in the air. All Peter can think about is how he feels like a weight on his heart has been lifted.

When he’s back home, he spends hours looking at your social media, scrolling endlessly with love that wouldn’t go away pounding in his heart when he sees your pictures again online.

And you find yourself missing him for no particular reason.

One night, during a sleepless night, you’re tossing and turning until you hear a knock on your window. Before you could even look at your window, it’s being opened, and someone enters. Gasping, you sit up, before running over. It’s Spiderman’s suit torn at his chest,  bleeding all over your floor. You start panicking, “Oh my gosh, oh my gosh!” You place a hand on his shoulder as you walk him to your bathroom, letting him lean against your bathroom floor.

“I don’t have a first aid kit!” You whisper-yell, looking at Spiderman who mumbles incoherently under his breath in pain. You’re supposed to be helping him, but right now all you can do is panic like a maniac, pacing through your apartment looking for a clean cloth and some alcohol.

“What do I do? What should I do?” You repeat over and over again. You’re panicking because of the way Spiderman looks, you’ve never seen someone covered in this much amount of blood. You feel like you want to throw up all over yourself and then faint.

“Breathe. Deep breath.” Spiderman orders, hand on his stomach and the other on your shoulder, trying his best to comfort you.

“Pour some alcohol on the cloth, yeah? That’s so good. You’re doing so good. Now put it on a wound you see. Any wound you see.” Spiderman tells you.

Peter shouldn’t have come to you, but it’s been a really dark time and he knows no one better to be by his side even though it goes against all he did just for you, just to protect you. He could do this by himself, but miss your touch? That’s an easy choice. 

Peter hisses when the alcohol lands on his wound, you wait a few seconds before asking, “aren’t you supposed to stitch them up? I can’t- I don’t know how to do that.”

You’re about to start panicking again, before Peter places a hand on your shoulder again, “that’s fine, sweetheart, I’m gonna be fine.” He doesn’t even notice his stupid slip up, too busy in pain while trying to make you not panic again while trying to make himself not kiss you right there in your bathroom

Oh, how he misses you. What could’ve been.

When you’re done, he’s about to leave, but you glare at him and start arguing about how you woke him up in the middle of the night to clean up after him, and you start to throw your hands in the air frustratingly so much that he drags his feet to the couch. You hand him a pair of clothes, a very tight pair of pants with a crop top because you quote ‘were washing up all of your clothes and that’s what you had left’.

When he’s all dressed up, he lays on your couch, no longer bleeding but still aching from inside. You grab a pillow and a blanket and sit in your lazy boy, opting to sleep there.

He blinks at you, “I’m not going to escape I promise.”

You look at him like he cursed your entire bloodline, “just making sure. If you do, spiderboy, I’m hunting you down myself.” It’s an empty threat, but he’s not sure of that.

He scratches at his cheek and grimaces, “got that.”

However, both of you catch no sleep. He didn’t mean any offense towards you, but your couch was extremely uncomfortable that it could probably break his back if he slept the wrong way on it. His mask is still on and he looks at you to find you also not asleep. He catches lingering glances at you, admiring you from afar.

“Do you have any neighbours?” He decides to tread softly on that line, not trying to be suspicious.

“Yeah, someone called Ned.” You reply, opening your eyes to look at him. He’s laying on his back on the couch, and he looks extremely uncomfortable in that position, grimacing every time he moves his back.

“Do you like him? Not. . .romantically I mean.” He questions as if it was an interrogation which was weird because why would anyone ask that? Even MJ never asked you if you were romantically involved with anyone.

Furrowing your eyebrows in confusion, wrinkles appearing on your forehead, you look at him and ask, “why do you care? He’s fine.” 

In response, he nods, lips slightly curling into a frown. You seem to notice his discomfort at your reply. Maybe you were a bit too rude or mean. Sighing, you tell him, “he’s a bit cute.” The tip of your ears go hot. At what you said, he sits up in a split second. You swear his back was about to bend and break from the sudden movement.

“You like him romantically then?” He almost demands, words coming out of his mouth in such a fast way it’s like they were racing each other, each one of them begging to get out.

“A little bit, maybe,” you shrug, “but I don’t think he feels the same way honestly.”

In that second, another memory slaps you in your face,  brown eyes looking at you in despair, holding your arms, telling you everything was going to be fine. Those same eyes belonged to New Ned, your neighbour who you've been hanging out with the past few days in the Park or at the Cafe. They’re the same ones you glance into every time you greet him in the hallways with a warm smile. 

Standing up, your breath starts becoming faster, everything’s not fine. Every memory you’ve ever remembered where there is a black figure inside of it, is replaced with New Ned, but that’s not his name is it? You remember calling out for a name, begging him to not do it. Not do what? You don’t know, but you know calling out for him and calling him ‘Peter.’

Peter.

Spiderman is on his feet already, worried as you keep glancing around like a mad woman, heart pounding and not being able to breath properly. You ignore what he has to say. You remember Peter taking you out on dates or being there with MJ and Ned. You remember walking through the snow. You remember, you remember, you remember.

But most importantly, you remember how you were swinging in NYC the same way Spiderman swung you back home, shooting webs and laughing in your ear at your frightened eyes. You turn your head to him. He’s wearing the clothes you gave him but his mask is still on, helping to keep his identity a secret. 

Your shaky hands move to his mask; he doesn’t push them away. Without a second thought, your fingers curl his mask upwards until its above his lips. You remove it fully, and you’re about to break down in tears because the memories are too much. They’re all coming at once and you’re not able to catch up.

Spiderman is New Ned, or you mean Peter. Peter Parker.

A river of tears starts to form in your eyes when you can finally remember him, “Peter?” You call out softly, and he nods teary-eyed. Your hands move to his cheek, caressing it with your fingers like you’ve done so many years before.

Anger starts to form in the pit of your stomach, and it makes the pain of everything worse as it mixes with grief. “Why, why would you do that? Why would you let me do this alone? Why, Peter?” 

“I didn’t want you to get hurt because of me. I couldn’t see you hurt just because of me, that would’ve been the end of me if you were in pain because I’m spiderman. There was no other choice. I had to make you forget me.” His own hands that were painted with scars on them, find themselves on your cheeks, finally touching you after what had been years.

“But I’m still in pain, Peter, when you’re not here. You shouldn’t have done that. You shouldn’t be carrying it on your own, Peter.” You continue, letting your tears fall on your cheek but he wipes them away, not being able to watch you cry over his mistakes.

“You were never supposed to find out this way. I thought that if you didn’t know, then I could sleep without worrying someone would end up dead because of me. You don’t understand it, sweetheart.” His voice breaks, his heart hurting for you from how you’re processing those memories.

“Tell me if you still care about me, Peter. Tell me that you did this for a good reason, not the bullshit you’re talking about right. Tell me you did it for a good reason.” your hands move from his cheeks to your side, taking a few steps back until his own hands aren’t on your cheeks. You wipe your tears away furiously with the back of your hands.

“Listen to me.” He starts, but you cut him before he can complete his words.

“I loved you, Peter. Why would you do that to me? You were always by my side, why couldn’t you let me be by your side? Why, Peter? What gave you the cue that you suddenly needed to drop me when you could’ve been doing this with you by my side. You’re hurting, Peter, and you’re hurting so badly and you’re so selfish. You’re so selfish and I hate that you just thought you didn’t need me. You’re so selfish for thinking for a second that I didn’t need you. You. . .”

You gasp for air, red-rimmed eyes refusing to look at the person you thought you knew in front of you. To be frank, you did forget him and then remember him, it’s a confusing situation. You think you know him, but you’re not sure if you actually do.

You go quiet, the only sound you make is your shallow breaths and hiccups. 

“I don’t think I know you anymore, Peter.” It broke your heart to say that, but you had to. You didn’t understand the man in front of you that you had supposedly loved back. 

Your hands start to shake, and Peter takes a step forward, ignoring the pain in his dislocated shoulder, or his broken rib. You step back and tell him to not touch you with a hurt look on your face.

Exhaustion falls on you, and you feel you’ve been running a marathon you never got ready for.

The next morning, before the sun can even shine, Peter puts on his suit and finds himself flying through the sky, shooting webs on buildings. The people who see him cheer, yell and scream, and Peter, for once, doesn’t want to hear them. He wants to silence them. He has always loved the people when they yell his name over and over again, and even more when they thank him. 

He shoots a web, and when he needs to shoot another one, his body refuses to cooperate. He finds himself falling down on his stomach. Why should he care? He has nothing to live for again. He thought it could be better, but it will never be.

But, he continues and shoots another web anyway, tells himself it’s for the best, that this is what you would’ve wanted. Does he even know you anymore? 

That day, he shows up and fights crimes even though he’s exhausted. He knows it’s for the better. 

He doesn’t go home, because you live right beside him and it’s the worst thing of all. He stays on rooftops of random buildings.

When the sun finally appears, MJ is at your door, knocking angrily. When you open the door, she’s standing there with her eyebrows raised in an angry way, “where the hell have you been? You’ve been ignoring my messages for about a week now.” She pushes herself into your apartment, but finally notices your damp cheeks and black bags under your red eyes.

She doesn’t know how awful you feel right, how ashamed you are of your outburst when Peter was doing nothing but trying to protect you. You’re so selfish it’s unbelievable. 

“Family problems.” Is what you tell her, but she doesn’t believe you at all, just looks at you in that way that makes you want to break down again.

“Hypothetical question.” You say, hoping she’d agree.

“Tell me.” She leans back against the chair like therapists do, and you let out a breathy chuckle despite the sadness you feel right now.

“If  someone loves you, but they remove themselves from your life because they want to protect you, what do you do?” You elaborate further. If you didn’t think it was possible, MJ’s eyebrows raise upwards even more.

“Do you love them?” She inquires.

“No. . . maybe?” It comes out more like a question.

“Either yes, or no. No in between. For yes, you go to their door, demand why they did that and fight for them. If not, don’t bother yourself with even trying.”

You barely find any sleep, and if you do, it’s either filled with nightmares or regaining memories of Peter and you. You don’t want to say, but it’s even lonelier than when you didn’t remember him.

You don’t even visit the Park you used to go with Ne- Peter anymore. You don’t try to feed the birds, you don’t try to do anything. Your exhausted and you’re wondering why the universe decided that right now was the right time for you to be feeling like you’re carrying the world on your shoulders.

Every time you walk through the streets,your eyes sting. There’s pain in your heart like it’s dust that won’t go away even when the wind blows harshly.

I mean, you have MJ and Ned, why do you keep chasing something that used to be?

Still, every time you see Spiderman swinging in the air, or even on live air, your throat tightens, heart hammering behind your ribcage. You’re so tired from the emotional consequences of your fight with Peter that you can barely walk in a straight line or pull yourself from your bed.

You fall asleep everywhere, waking up to sleeping on the floor, on the couch or even the dinner table. Your kitchen used to be spotless, now the sink is full of unwashed dishes, and next to it a cracked mug that Spiderman, or Peter, had brought to you as a silly gift. You couldn’t find it in yourself to throw it away.

From the sheer tiredness, the hallways of your apartment looks like a never-ending tunnel. You stare at your walls for hours during the day, finding nothing better to do. When Peter was there, you could be hanging out with, but you ruined it. At least that’s what you think.

That’s how, when you muster up confidence a few days later, you knock on Peter’s door; he won’t probably answer you, but you still try. On its own accord, the door slightly opens. You open it slightly, stepping in and looking at his apartment. You’re wandering around aimlessly until Spiderman, or Peter, clears his throat from behind you.

With a yelp, you turn around and find him still in his suit with the window opened. He tears off his mask, and makes his way to where you’re standing. You bite on your lip when he approaches you, mask in his hand and lovely curls falling on his forehead. 

Both of you pause, unsure of what to do. Your eyes burn with shame, glancing at him. You look down at your feet, but his eyes  don’t falter; he continues to look at you like you were sacred. You fidget with the necklace around your neck, a black dahlia that you assumed Peter had bought for you.

You don’t wait until your arms are around his body. He’s surprised for a second, but his own wrap around yours. Sighing, your arms tighten around him, “I’m sorry, Peter. You didn’t deserve that. I was being an asshole. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

His arms remove themselves from around you and instead place themselves on your cheeks where you’re breathing shakily. 

“No, don’t be sorry. You were right. I shouldn’t have done that. I shouldn’t have pushed you away. I’m the one who’s supposed to be sorry, yeah? I was just afraid, but it made me lose my closest friends.” This time, when your tears come, you don’t wipe them away. Mid sentence, you don’t notice the way Peter’s eyes move to your lips, silently begging you. 

You forget what you were about to say, instead you improvise. The fear inside of you argues that you shouldn’t do that, shouldn’t tread on that dangerous line, but you can’t stop now. You can’t stop now when it’s all you wanted for the past few days.

You swallow harshly, shifting on your feet before asking with your voice lowering, “Can I?” 

Peter’s wise side tells him to be strong and tell you no. He wants to protect you, he does badly, but restraint hurts so bad. His body is hurting, and restraining him from the only thing he wanted in years.

You hesitated, but moved first, crushing your lips with his. You were so close you could feel the warmth radiating from his body, the pressure of reality narrowing down at you. Peter doesn’t seem scared, instead his hands are on your cheeks, caressing them tenderly. Both of you part, taking a deep breath, but when you kiss for the second time, it’s even more messier, underlying tension from yesterday.

His soft, rosy lips mirrored the same colour on his cheeks. With a racing pulse, fireworks explode in your mind, and you feel butterflies in your stomach. It feels all too familiar, just like you’ve done before. And there, you felt like there was no point of having scared thoughts in your mind, you were past the point of any return. His hand moves to your waist, pulling you closer.

When both of you part, Peter catches you in a bone-crushing hug with only thought in his mind.

He loves you and the world be damned.

[sluvaffair]

🕷 The Words Unsaid 🕷

     ↳ Warnings/Themes: CONTAINS BND SPOILERS / DIALOGUE. PG. Minor Angst.      ↳ Pairing: Peter Parker x F!Reader      ↳ Words: 1495      ↳ Summary: You find the words that Peter hid from you.

☁️: angst comes before the fluff. my attempt a drabble ‪‪❤︎‬

General Masterlist here. Peter Masterlist here. First Part here. [can be standalone]

The door knocked three times before your brain even registered what it was, dragging you out of the thoughts swirling endlessly through your head. Still, you sat perfectly still on the sofa, not trusting that your legs would hold you if you tried to stand.

Between the last message you'd exchanged and the sound of his knuckles against your door, you'd read over the letter so many times that the words have begun to blur together.

'Hi, my name is Peter Parker, and you don't remember me, but I have something to tell you...'

'But the truth is, I love you. And I hope that deep down, something inside you remembers you love me too.'

The first time you read it, you laughed, just your luck to find someone crazy enough to think that they were Spider-Man.

But the more you read over how he recalled your time together, the more you saw the small, intimate details of yourself that you barely noticed yourself. Little things that no stranger could have known.

And suddenly, it all made sense. The headaches, the images you couldn't place, the empty feeling in your chest.

He knew you, and you had known him.

Another knock.

You drew in a shaky breath, shaking your head as if that could clear your thoughts, and finally stood. The apartment felt too quiet without MJ and Ned here, but they couldn't be here for this conversation. Not for this.

Making your way towards the door, each reluctant step seemed to echo through the silence. By the time you reached it, your heart was beating so hard you could feel it in your throat. You paused, hand hovering over the handle.

For a brief, immature, second, you considered pretending you weren't home. But, if he really was Spider-Man, he'd probably be able to hear you anyway.

So, you opened the door.

Peter stood in the hallway, one hand tucked in his pocket while the other clutched a flower bouquet, your favourite flowers.

His eyes softened the second they found you, the nerves in his face melting into something warm and familiar. It was a reaction that had your stomach turning.

"Hey," he said, letting out a long breath. "I'm sorry I'm late. I-"

His voice cut off when his eyes dropped to the jacket in your hands. You were shaking, fingers curled tightly around the fabric. His gaze moved back up to your face, brows furrowing at the glassy look in your eyes.

"Are you okay?"

"You left something in the pocket."

Peter's expression changed, the realisation hitting his chest deep and immediate.

"I'm sorry."

The apology came so fast it almost felt like a reflex.

You pulled the letter free.

"Is it true?" You raised the letter between you both. "Or are you just crazy?"

In this moment, you weren't sure which option you would have preferred.

His head dropped, brown curls falling over his forehead.

"Yes."

"Prove it."

"What?"

"Prove to me that you're who you say you are here." You waved the letter at him.

Peter looked around the hallway before there was a sharp thwip, a web shooting from his wrist and hitting the kitchen counter behind you.

You stared at it for longer than should have been necessary for your brain to process. Every word in that letter was real.

"Oh my god."

The tears begun welling in your eyes so fast it nearly startled you, blurring the edges of his face.

"Take it," you huffed, pushing the jacket and letter into his hands before turning on your heel.

"Wait," he called behind you.

The door closed softly as he followed you into the apartment. He set the things down on the kitchen counter before following you deeper into the room.

"I'm sorry."

"You wanted me to find it?"

"No," he said, holding his hands up, eyes immediately pleading. "I swear, I- I- forgot it was in there."

You let out a laugh so sharp that it barely sounded like one. "You expect me to believe that?"

His eyes fixed on the letter on the counter.

He said your name in a way that was too familiar, too strained, as if you'd had arguments before and he knew how to plead with you. You had, you supposed.

"I'm really sorry."

You whirled around to face him so fast that you felt slightly dizzy. "I don't really need you to keep telling me that you're sorry."

"What do you need?" He asked, moving closer. "Anything, please?"

"I need you to tell me why you'd do this to me."

Peter blinked, caught off guard. His mouth opened and closed as he searched for the right words.

"I lost someone," he said finally. "Someone close to me and it was my fault. I couldn't- I couldn't have that happen to you. I couldn't lose you."

The way he looked at you, genuine and pleading, made your head swim.

You pressed the palms of your hands to your face, willing the stupid tears to go away. It only made it worse, your palms becoming damp as your breathing turned uneven. "That wasn't your choice to make."

"I know."

"Then why did you make it?" Your voice rose and cracked all at the same time.

"I'm sor-." He stopped himself, swallowing. "Because I thought it would be best. And I tried to live my life without you but I can't. I love you. So bad that you're all I think about every day."

Your weight shifted to the other foot. It was hard enough to believe that some guy named Peter loved you, but trying to process the hero Spider-Man telling you he couldn't live his life without you felt all too much.

"Okay." Was all you could say.

He shoved his hands into his pockets; eyes fixed on a spot on the floor.

It took some time before you could find your voice again.

"When you did whatever you did, did I know that I would lose you?"

"Yes."

"And did I ask you to make me remember you?" When nothing came out of his mouth, you knew the answer. Your throat tightened, the words catching painfully as you continued to press. "I feel like if we were as in love as you said we were, I would have asked you to make me remember you. Did I?"

"You did."

"And did you say you would?"

"I did."

At least he had the decency to sound guilty. He continued actively avoiding looking at you.

"How long?"

"What?"

"How long did you keep this from me? How long did you lie to me?"

"Four years."

Something in your chest pulled tight. Four years. For four years he was alone, no Ned, no MJ, no you.

And some small, bewildering part of you wanted to reach out, to pull him into your arms and wipe away the tears that had collected on his face, because seeing him cry felt wrong in a way you couldn't explain.

But the other, stronger, part of you broke down. He had lied to you for four years.

The tears ran freely down Peter's face. "I was trying to protect you."

You swallowed against the ache in your throat. "Protecting me isn't the same as choosing for me."

The sob wracked through you before you could stop it. Peter rushed forward, stopping just before you, his arms opening instinctively.

"Can I?"

"No," you cried. "I don't know you."

The words came out as bitter and cold as you meant them, but when Peter flinched, you immediately wanted to take them back.

"I understand." He stepped back, arms dropping to his sides. "I should go, then?"

He turned slowly, moving slowly to the door as if he could slow down time.

"Peter," you called as his hand hovered over the door handle. You didn't want him to leave just yet.

When he turned back, his face was full of hope, and something horrible twisted beneath your ribs at the sight of it.

"What were the last four years like for you?"

"Lonely," he admits, a laugh that's not really a laugh escaping him.

You nod through the tears, shoulders rising with a shaky breath.

"I know why you did what you did. And I'm grateful that you loved me enough to do something unselfish."

"Love," he mumbled.

You ignored that. "Would you like to say hi to Ned and MJ?"

He looked up at you. "Really? Yeah, I'd love that."

"Maybe not today, we're kind of..." You gestured between the two of you. His face was red and puffy from the tears, and yours probably looked the same, lips raw where you'd been chewing on them.

"Thank you." He turned to leave again before stopping. "Can I ask you something selfish?"

"Yes."

"I know you don't remember me, but could you think about it? About me?"

You looked at him for a long moment, dried tears staining your face.

"I'll try."

taglist: @anglheartz

If you enjoyed, please consider leaving a comment, ask, reblog etc. it means a lot x

[sluvaffair]

🕷 What the Heart Remembers 🕷

     ↳ Warnings/Themes: CONTAINS BRAND NEW DAY PLOT POINTS! PG. Fluff. Barely!Angst.      ↳ Pairing: Peter Parker x F!Reader      ↳ Words: 4012      ↳ Summary: 4 years after Dr.Strange's spell, Peter finds himself face-to-face with you again.

☁️: i LOVED these requests!! very challenging but fun to get out of my smut comfort zone. there are plot points from the movie, but they're not used in a linear way and are not exact scene matches.‬

Requested: here. General Masterlist here. Peter Masterlist here.

The headache started before you were even fully awake. A dull pressure that built somewhere in your skull until it settled just behind your eyebrow. It was a familiar enough situation that you weren't at all surprised.

At first, they had been easy to ignore, a fleeting headache every couple of weeks that could easily be attributed to life at MIT. But two years ago, something shifted. The headaches became more insistent of being recognised and acknowledged.

They began to be accompanied by fragments of images that you couldn't place flashing through your mind; a laugh that wrapped around you; a hand that fit perfectly in yours; the feeling of rising and falling through the air without fear; and the worst, places you didn't recognise but somehow missed.

Every scan had come back normal. "There isn't anything medically wrong with you," the doctor had gently insisted. She had smiled in a way that you knew was an attempt to be encouraging but it had missed its mark. At least if there was something medically wrong, you would have some sort of an explanation.

You pinched your eyebrow tightly and stayed where you were for another minute, staring at the ceiling whilst you waited for it to pass. Most of the times, that was enough. This morning, however, it wasn't.

Letting out a slow breath, you pushed yourself upright. Outside was a normal day, car horns echoed somewhere below your apartment, followed by the sounds of arguments. The familiar rumble of the subway beneath the street sounded through the air.

Today was a normal day, and so yours would be too.

By the time you were dressed and made it to the kitchen, the headache had dulled into something more manageable.

MJ was perched on the kitchen counter, sipping a hot drink while watching Ned wrestle with a string of fairy lights that had somehow tied itself into an impossible knot.

With a genuine attempt at a smile and a grumbled good morning, you moved through the kitchen almost on auto-pilot. Pulling out breakfast ingredients without a thought as to what you actually wanted to eat.

“I hate decorations,” Ned muttered sometime later.

The snort that came from you was louder than intended and two pairs of eyes turned to look at you. MJ had a shit-eating grin on her face, while Ned's eyes narrowed.

“My sympathy is very low,” you shrugged. “You're the one that brought them.”

“I know.”

“You also suggested the party,” MJ added helpfully.

“I know.”

“Plus, invited half of the population of our graduate class,” you added, mouth full of toast. “So, our home has to look presentable.”

“I know.”

MJ took another sip from her mug to hide her smile. “So... whose fault is this?”

Ned sighed dramatically, his head dropping. “...Mine.”

“Bingo.”

Turning his attention back into the project before him, Ned continued untangling the fairy lights. It only took five minutes of silence before he was sighing again.

“You're hanging those back-to-front,” MJ called out.

Ned's eyes widened as he looked between you both. “Fairy lights have a front?”

“They do,” you smiled, Ned made it too easy sometimes.

Ned's eyes continued to move between you both, waiting for one of you to break. It was always you. The laugh slipped past your lips before you could contain it.

“I swear,” Ned muttered, shaking his head, “we need another person to balance this...” Ned gestured between you both “...out.”

For a few seconds, everything went quiet, like someone had turned the volume down on the world.

An image flashed in your mind, you, MJ, Ned, and a fourth figure that was there, but not really. You could see where they were supposed to be, where they'd fit if they were actually there. It was like someone had taken a pair of scissors to the picture, leaving behind nothing but the outline of a person.

Before you could focus on it, it was gone.

The headache arrived a heartbeat later, sharp enough that you instinctively reached for the edge of the counter to stabilise yourself.

“You okay?” MJ's voice cut through the haze.

The apartment rushed back into focus as you blinked, willing the image away. Ned was already looking at you. It was irrational, and you knew it, but the look of concern only made you feel the sudden urge to shrink until completely invisible.

“Yeah,” you said. You straightened to quickly and your words came out too snappy to be the truth. “Fine.”

Ned ignored it. “Headaches getting worse again?”

“Not worse. Just...” You searched for the words, finding it harder when two pairs of eyes looked at you with a pity that rested uncomfortably on your skin. “...I don’t know. It’s stupid.”

“Try us,” Ned said, untangling the fairy lights from his arm to move next to you. He rested his hand on your forearm.

When you offered no more words, MJ set her mug down and turned to you. “You know, Governments like us to think what’s going on in our heads is stupid, keeps us compliant.”

You would have laughed if you thought MJ was joking.

Fingers drumming against the counter, you swallowed the lump in your throat and began trying to pull non-coherent emotions into something logical. Your eyes remained fixed on the counter as you stumbled through your words.  

“It’s like... not worse because it’s more painful. It the feelings that come with it. And... like...the images. It’s a lot.”

There was so much more that could be said, “My headaches make me feel like there’s something I left behind.” “They leave me searching for something I can’t name.” But they barely made sense to you and, despite their reassurances, you knew it was something you’d have to try to explain, so you trailed off.  

“You’re seeing things?”

There were probably nicer ways that Ned could have asked that question. He clearly noticed it too, because he immediately winced.

“Harsh, dude,” MJ said.

“It’s okay,” you said quickly, stopping Ned’s response before it could even form. “It’ll pass, I think it’s just stress or whatever.”

MJ watched you with that same unreadable expression she always wore when she was thinking something she wasn’t sure she should say aloud.

The resulting silence stretched over the three of you in a way that made you shift on your stool. You glanced around the apartment, grounding yourself with what you saw. The unpacked boxes that still lined one wall despite having moved in nearly a month ago, the ragged sofa that you’d watched Ned and MJ argue over, and the clock, that flashed a time that told you you were boarding on lateness.  

“I’m with Dr. Banner today... I should go.” The words came out quieter than you intended. You cleared your throat, forcing a warmth back into your voice. “I hope those decorations will be ready for later.”

Ned dramatically stood, straightening his spine and raising his arm in a salute. “I will make it my sworn mission.”

Dr. Banner’s lectures always followed the same pattern.

He’d make a genuine attempt to impart years’ worth of knowledge, while at least half of the lecture hall made equally genuine attempts to steer the conversation towards his time as an Avenger. Every so often, the guy that always turned up in green body paint would shout, “Hulk smash.” And, every time, the lecture hall would descend into a fit of giggles and cheers.

By the time the lecture came to an end, you were fairly certain that everyone knew more about what an Avenger had for breakfast than they did about the actual topic.

You smiled to yourself as you zipped your bag shut and made your way down the steps.

Dr. Banner was already talking to a student by the time you reached the front.

He had his back to you, but even with his back turned, there was something strangely familiar about him. You didn't mean to listen in to the conversation, but it happened so naturally as if something declared your attention was needed.

“My name's... Ned.”

The hesitation caught your attention before the name did.

“Ned?” Dr. Banner sounded unconvinced.

‘Ned’ shifted awkwardly, his hand finding the back of his neck. “...Yeah.”

“Well, Ned,” Dr. Banner said, folding his arms, “what you’re talking about is dangerous. If you were going to target specific strands, how would you decide which ones are the ‘bad’ ones?”

You hadn't heard enough of the conversation to know what they were talking about, but you’d never heard Dr. Banner sound as serious as he did now.

“Just... theoretically,” ‘Ned’ responded.

Dr. Banner held his gaze for a moment, looking deep in thought as if he was considering whether or not to answer the question.

“Theoretically,” he repeated, more to himself than anyone else.

“Please, sir.”

Whatever he found in ‘Ned’s’ expression seemed to reassure him. “Yes. In theory... it’s possible.”

“Thank you.”

Before you could try to piece together the conversation, Dr. Banner glanced over ‘Ned’s’ shoulder.

“Ah, there you are,” he smiled, all traces of seriousness gone from his features. “Would you mind meeting me in my office in about ten minutes?”

Banner barely waited for your response before making his way out of the lecture hall.

“Of course,” you replied anyway.

At the sound of your voice, ‘Ned’s’ shoulders stiffened. He turned around slowly, eyes finding yours immediately. No words came out when his mouth opened, and then closed, and then opened again. He just stood there, brown eyes wide and slightly glassy.  

Without thinking, you smiled at him. It wasn’t the polite smile usually offered to a stranger who happened to make eye contact, but something warmer and more familiar. Like seeing someone you'd forgotten you were looking for.

Something shifted in his expression, a flicker across his face that you might have missed had you not been looking at him. It was replaced by a small, tentative smile of his own.

Neither of you looked away, even after the socially acceptable length of time for staring had long passed. His gaze wandered over your face, lingering on your eyes before dropping to the smile you'd barely realised you were still wearing.

His hair fell in soft brown curls in a way that made him look like the kind of person who had their life together, but there were faint shadows beneath his eyes, the kind that only came from too many late nights.

Under your gaze, he swallowed hard, his fingers gripping the straps of his backpack. When he finally spoke, his voice was somehow softer than it had been before.

“Hi,” he murmured, the word tentative, as if testing whether he was allowed to say it at all.

“Hey,” you replied. “Do I... know you from somewhere? You look really familiar.”

“No,” he said softly. “No, I don’t think you do.”

That should have been the end of the conversation. You could laugh it off, wish each other a nice day, and walk away. But the desire to know more about the boy with the familiar soft brown eyes and a curious mind who felt the need to lie about his name consumed you.

You tilted your head slightly, studying him. “What’s your name?”

He pointed to himself, eyebrows lifting. “M-my name?”

The corner of your mouth twitched, a smile threatening to break through. “Yes, your name.”

He looked caught off guard by the question, lips parting, and then closing again. It was like you could see the lie forming on the tip of his tongue.

“And don’t say Ned,” you added, unable to hide your smile now. “I’m pretty confident that’s not it.”

A breath that sounded suspiciously like a laugh escaped him. “You caught that, huh?”

“You weren't exactly convincing.”

“I've never been very good at lying.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

The words slipped out of you so naturally that neither of you questioned them.

He rubbed his thumb along the frayed edge of his backpack strap as he drew in a deep breath. For a moment, he looked like he was working up the courage to say something far more difficult than his name.

“It’s Peter.”

“Peter,” you repeated.

The name vibrated against the walls of your mind like it was a word that you had thought of a thousand times.

“Yeah,” he said quietly.

You tilted your head slightly. “It’s nice to meet you, Peter.”

“You too.”

Silence settled over you both again and you found yourself trying to think up ways to start the conversation again. Your eyes drifted past him, towards the hallway where Dr. Banner had disappeared. The question came to you almost immediately. “Are you a fan of the Avengers?”

Peter blinked, his hands shifting nervously on his backpack straps. “Uh... what? Why do you ask?”

You smiled slightly. “Why else would you be pretending to be one of Dr. Banner’s students?”

“I just wanted to pick his brain about something,” Peter admitted. “He’s... kind of brilliant.”

“I mean I agree, but why do you think so?”

The way Peter’s face changed when the topic of science came up was almost unfair.

He spoke with an enthusiasm that was impossible not to get caught up in, his hands moving just as much as his words while his thoughts raced just ahead. More than once, he caught himself drifting off-topic, only to circle back again a heartbeat later.

You found yourself smiling, a warmth spreading across your chest.

“...Sorry,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I kind of talked your ear off there.”

“I enjoyed listening to you,” you said easily. “Now I understand why you risked committing identity theft in front of a literal Avenger.”

Peter groaned, his head tipping back for a moment. “When you put it like that...”

“It sounds unhinged?”

“Very.”

“Good. Just so you’re aware.”

He laughed again, this one a little louder. “What about you? Are you a student of his?”

“No, I’m doing project work with him for my PhD.”

Peter’s face lit up, his eyes crinkling deeply around the corners with a pride that felt entirely too big for someone you'd only met less than ten minutes ago. “I’m happy for you. You’ve always wanted to do that.”

 “Yeah, I have actually.” You tilted your head, eyes narrowing on him. “How did you know?”

“Would you believe me if I said that was supposed to be a question?”

His question earnt a small laugh from the both of you, his cheeks turning a pretty shade of pink. Peter had a dangerous ability to disarm you, you realised. Even more dangerously, you weren’t sure you were bothered by it.  

Students drifted past in the hallway, heading towards their next lectures as you and Peter settled into another round of silence and stares.

“So...” Peter said eventually, shifting his weight to break the heavy silence. “I should probably let you get to your meeting.”

“You probably should.”

Peter rocked back on his heels, but made no attempt to move. It was such a small thing, but the fact he seemed just as reluctant to leave as you were sent a pleasant tingle through your body.

Sighing, you opened your mouth to say goodbye, but instead, you heard yourself ask, “are you doing anything tonight?”

A woosh of air left Peter’s mouth, as if he’d been holding his breath. “...Tonight?”

“Yeah.”

“Um... I don't... think so.”

“My roommates and I are throwing a party. You should come.” The silence from Peter was long enough that you wondered if you’d completely misread the situation. “If you've got other plans-.”

“I don't,” Peter interrupted. He let out a quiet breath through his nose. “I'd... I'd like to come.”

A grin spread across your face before you could stop it. “Really?”

He mirrored it, smaller than yours, but no less genuine. “Really.”

“Great.”

“Good.”

You reached into your bag for your phone, then paused. “Actually...” Holding out your hand, you nodded towards the phone sticking out of his hoodie pocket. “Give me your phone.”

Peter raised an eyebrow, even as his hand slowly moved towards his phone.

“I mean, unless you're planning on memorising my address.”

“Oh.”

He fumbled the phone out of his pocket so quickly it nearly slipped through his fingers. Once unlocked, he held it out to you.

Your thumbs flew across the screen, typing in your number and name before shooting yourself a quick text.

“There,” you said, sliding the device back into his hand. “Now you have my name too, since you forgot to ask.”

Peter looked down at the contact for a long moment. When he looked back up, there was something in his expression you couldn't quite place.

“Thanks.”

You smiled. “I’ll see you later?”

“You will,” he promised.

You’d changed outfits five times before finally deciding that the first one had been fine. The apartment was already loud by the time the first wave of guests arrived and you found yourself glancing towards the front door more often than you cared to admit.

By the time the party was in full swing, you’d convinced yourself you weren’t waiting for anyone even though your eyes kept scanning over the crowd.

The disappointment that settled in your chest was irritatingly disproportionate for someone you’d only known for a few hours and had one conversation with.

You were halfway through a conversation you weren’t really listening to when the front door opened. Without thinking, you looked over. The relief that washed through you was immediate.

Peter stood just inside the doorway, a red cup in his hand, looking around the apartment like he was still deciding whether he belonged there.

You excused yourself before you could think better of it and crossed the room.

“You came.”

Peter smiled softly when he saw you. “I promised.”

“Good to know you keep promises.”

It took less than thirty seconds for Ned to spot the unfamiliar face. He appeared seemingly out of nowhere, all smiles and unnecessary enthusiasm, a half-eaten slice of pizza in one hand.

“Hey! I don't think we've met.”

A look flashed across Peter’s face; one you’ve become all too familiar with in the short time you’ve known him.

“I'm Peter.”

“Ned.”

As they shook hands, Ned turned to you, his eyes twinkling. “You invited him?”

“Evidently, Ned.”

“Wow. Good for you.” He nodded slowly as he disappeared back into the crowd.

“Sorry about him,” you said, turning back to Peter. “He gets overexcited.”

“I know,” Peter laughed softly, the words a little too confident.

You spent the next few minutes introducing Peter to people and trying to coax more information about himself out. But as the party grew, so did the tension in his shoulders.  

“Do you want to go up to the roof?” you asked. “It’s less crowded there.”

Peter looked back at you. “Yes, please.”

You set your drink down on the counter. “Come on.”

A rush of cold New York air met you the second the door to the roof opened. You stepped out first, pulling your sleeves over your hands as the breeze caught against your skin. You rested your arms against the low brick wall and looked out over the city. The noise of the party faded behind the door, replaced by the distant hum of New York.  

“I forgot how nice it is up here.”

Peter moved beside you. “The view is always nicer from above.”

Glancing over, you caught him staring at you. The second you caught him, his eyes shifted away.

You smiled slightly. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Sure, Peter.”

You let out a soft huff of laughter, turning your attention back to the city in front of you. Out of the corner of your eye, you watched him shift his weight, his shoulder brushing against yours before he pulled back.

The contact was brief, but the warmth of it lingered through the fabric of your top, leaving a strange, electric tingle in its wake. You kept your eyes fixed on the traffic below, suddenly hyper-aware of the distance between his arm and yours, waiting to see if he’d move closer again.

Instead, the wind picked up, sharp enough to cut through the quiet and make your shoulders shiver. Peter looked at you, his jacket was already coming off before you could stop him.

You immediately shook your head, waving your hands. “No.”

“It's fine.”

“You'll freeze.”

“I'll survive.”

“Peter...”

“I promise,” he said, holding the jacket out to you.

You hesitated, looking from the fabric to his earnest face. Then, quietly, “thank you.”

It was still warm from him as you put it on. You pulled it a little tighter around your chest, eyes closing as you buried your face slightly into the collar, and breathed in absentmindedly.

“Mhm, your aftershave smells good.”

The smell of the jacket brought a dull pressure behind your temples, like something was gently gnawing at the back of your head.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah.”

Your eyes opened as you turned to face him. He was much closer than you’d realised. Close enough that the rest of the city lights seemed to blur out of focus. Peter's hand came to cover yours, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. You weren’t sure if he even noticed he was doing it. But maybe he had. Maybe that's why he looked as though he was trying very hard not to breathe.

Your eyes drifted, just for a second, to his lips. When you looked back up, he was already looking at yours.

Peter couldn’t seem to stop himself from taking a small step forward, crowding into your space. Your fingers curled instinctively into the fabric of his jacket.

His hand lifted slowly, hesitating for the briefest moment before reaching you, as though he was giving you one last chance to pull away. You didn’t. His fingertips brushed against your chin, his skin warm against the chill of the night.

“Can I?”

When you nodded, Peter tilted your face up slightly. His breath warmed your lips, the tip of his nose brushing against yours as he titled his head.

He was so close now, less than half an inch away when the heavy rooftop door swung open. Your entire body flinched, and you practically fell into Peter’s arms.

“There you are.”

Ned's voice carried across the roof before you’d even had time to register what had happened.

Peter let go immediately, dropping his hands to his sides and taking a step back. The cold air rushed back into the space between you where his warmth had just been.

You cleared your throat. “Hi, Ned.”

“MJ sent me,” he explained, narrowing his eyes slightly at Peter. “She’s deeply mistrusting of people and we don’t know you.”

“She is,” you admitted, looking up at Peter. “We're alright,” you called back to Ned, surprised by how steady your voice sounded.

Ned looked between the two of you, his eyes lingering on the jacket. “MJ said to tell you there's cake.”

You managed a small smile. “I suppose we can't ignore that.”

“No,” Peter murmured, his voice quieter than before. “I suppose we can’t.”

Before anyone could move, Peter’s phone buzzed. The smile disappeared from his face as he looked down at the screen.

“I have to go.”

You tried to hide the sudden drop of disappointment in your voice, but it leaked through anyway. “But you just got here.”

“I know.” Peter looked at you and for a moment, he looked almost as disappointed as you felt. “I’m really sorry. I have to.”

“Okay.” You immediately started to slip your arms out of the sleeves to hand his jacket back. “Thanks.”

He hesitated, his hands resting on top of yours to stop you from taking it off. “Why don’t you keep hold of it?”

“Won’t you need it?”

“I’ll come back for it.”

You bit your cheek to stop the smile from showing too brightly.  “Is that your way of saying that I’ll see you again?” “Yeah,” he whispered, words heavier than you knew. “It is.”

I genuinely only seem to be capable of writing smut, so I'M SORRY THIS WAS SO BUNS AND THE PACING IS BAD. I TRIED OKAY!! xx

[superbassbuck]

call me if you get lost | peter parker (18+)

⤷ pre-brand new day!peter parker x fem!reader

⭐︎ warnings: pre-brand new day canon compliant, fluff, huge idiots in love, hurt/comfort, typical depictions of violence (fighting, blood, guns, injury), near death experience, angst, light banter, suggestive themes, abandonment issues, touch-starvation

⭐︎ word count: 9.6k

⭐︎ a/n: there are no major spoilers for bnd in this fic !! i've only mentioned/alluded to things that were already shown in the trailers, so you do not need to watch the movie to understand.

synopsis: You have been Spiderman’s communicator—his eyes for crime and the voice on the other end of a staticky little radio that took him less than an hour to build. He doesn’t know your name, or what you look like. And you don’t know a single thing about him. Peter tells himself it’s better this way, that keeping you at arm’s length is the only way he can keep you safe. But the longer he speaks to you, that promise slowly begins to fray.

← previous fic | marvel masterlist

“Alright, Spiderman. There’s a bank robbery going on at 30th Avenue. Suspect is—uh, hello? Is this thing on?”

Peter laughs, already swinging through the tall buildings of New York City, zipping and flying through them faster than you can even say ‘Spiderman.’ While one arm is busy slinging out webs from building to building, his other arm holds onto a thick communications radio that looks like an amateur concoction of a walkie-talkie accompanied with old thick wires he found in a junkyard.

“Yep, I hear you loud and clear,” Peter says from his end. “I’m already a few blocks away. What does the suspect look like—”

“Spiderman? Hellooo?” Your voice cuts him off in a burst of static that makes his ears ring. “Ugh—is this radio even working? Are you still there?”

He needs to make a mental note to figure out a way for your voice to come through clearer—and preferably not through a brick of what feels like a tenth-century sad excuse for a cellphone that he has to clutch every time he wants to talk to you.

“I’m here!” Peter shouts through the mic, swinging around a corner.

“Ah! There you are!” you say, sounding like you’re smiling, if only Peter could picture what you looked like. “Missed your voice for a second.”

Peter’s face flushes under his mask.

“Detecting a sudden increase in body heat—specifically around the facial region—and a spike in heart rate despite no intense physical activity being performed—”

“Shut up, Evie,” Peter mumbles, hoping you didn’t hear him from the other end of the line.

He hadn’t gotten around to fixing the background noise integration yet, so the shitty microphone attached to the radio picks up almost everything. He hears you laugh on the other end, and he has to force down the rapid thumping of his heart before Evie calls him out on it again.

“Are you blushing, Spiderman?”

“What—no!” Peter immediately interjects, landing on top of a tall building on 30th Avenue. His eyes scan the windows of the bank directly across the street. “Just tell me what the suspect looks like, alright?”

You chuckle again. “Okay, the suspect is tall, wearing dark clothing, and probably handsome—if it weren’t for the ski mask covering his face.”

Peter rolls his eyes underneath his goggles.

“Now’s not the time to play around,” he says, already swinging through the entrance as innocent bystanders and employees run out in a panic.

He swings above the crowd in a perfectly prone position mid-air until he lands on his feet in the center of the bank. He doesn’t need your comms in here—he can handle whatever gets thrown at him at this point. His ears tingle with a warning that tells him the enemy is to his left. He turns his head to that direction, and…

“Spiderman!” A tall man in dark clothing and a ski mask holds up a rifle, pointing it directly at Peter. “You’re dead, kid!”

“Oh, jeez,” Peter says, slowly raising his hands in surrender.

“Oh, and I forgot to mention,” your voice statics through. “He’s heavily armed.”

“Yeah, good comms,” Peter scoffs sarcastically.

“Who the hell are you talking to?” the man shouts, pointing at the radio in Peter's hand. “Is that a bomb? Drop it!”

Peter furrows his brows, glancing at the object in his hand. A bomb? Seriously? The radio really looks that bad?

The man’s grip on the gun tightens, holding it in a way that lets Peter know he has clearly never held a gun before in his life. The panic among the people remaining in the building surges at the sight of the weapon, everyone shoving past each other toward the entrance.

“Come on, man. Don’t shoot—there are innocent people in here!” he tries to interject.

“Innocent dead people soon, if you don’t put that weapon away!” the man barks back.

“The police are on their way,” you explain, serious this time, through the radio. “Take care of that gun now, or he’ll start shooting like a madman once he sees the sirens. You have less than two minutes.”

“Okay,” Peter says. “Time me.”

“Starting now?”

“Starting now,” he confirms before switching off the radio’s microphone input.

The man takes the loud clicking sound as a threat, his finger hovering over the trigger with every intention to shoot—but Peter moves faster.

Extending his left hand, a thick layer of web covers the muzzle, trapping any potential bullet in the barrel. The poor man doesn’t even have time to react before Peter webs the gun, yanked it out of his hands, and tosses it aside. Just as the man turns to make a run for it, Peter pins his ankles together with a thick strip of webbing, sending him face first onto the floor before securing his wrists behind his back with another band of webs.

From where he still stands in the center of the room, Peter unclicks the microphone. “You got it, Static?”

He can practically feel you rolling your eyes at the stupid nickname. “That was fifteen seconds. Good job,” you applaud. “And are you seriously still sticking with Static? I hate that nickname.”

Peter chuckles, scanning the area for any signs of injuries, but finds none. The police finally arrive, pulling up with sirens blaring as they assess the crowd and begin scouting the area with weapons drawn. Seeing the suspect already bound by webs on the floor, they immediately move in with handcuffs.

Knowing the police will take it from here, Peter zips out of the building as if the entire fight—if you would even call it that—was just a quick pit stop.

“Well, that’s just what I’m gonna have to keep calling you, because your voice always comes through staticky,” he says, the wind picking up through the microphone and making it harder for you to hear him. “Unless… you wanna give me your actual name. Then maybe I can call you that instead.”

You pause at the other end of the radio, the silence between you filled only by the harsh wind and the snap of spiderwebs on his end.

As Peter swings his way back to his apartment, his heart pounds wildly in his chest with anticipation.

This isn’t the first time he’s teased you to get you to give up your name, and you’ve asked for his name more times than he can count on his fingers.

“Very funny,” you muse from the other end, your voice drawing out with a teasing tilt. “I could say the same thing to you.”

Peter smiles, landing on his apartment rooftop with a huff. “I don’t know—I think I like the way Spiderman rolls off your tongue.”

For the very first time since you two found each other through a stroke of pure luck—when Peter spent a night building a radio to hijack police comms and accidentally connected to you, a woman doing the exact same thing—you find yourself completely at a loss for words.

He doesn’t even know where the sudden boost of confidence came from to blurt out a flirtatious comment like that. Maybe it’s the suit, or maybe it’s that flutter of excitement he gets every single time he talks to you.

But that confidence slowly teeters away the longer you stay quiet. He grimaces, feeling like he overshot his mark big time.

Finally, he hears a slow draw of breath from the other end.

“That’s a shame,” you tease. “I would’ve loved to hear the sound of my name in your voice.”

Peter sucks in a sharp breath, his body tensing as your words travel down his spine and straight to his heart. It was the way you said it—that sultry little rasp that even the static couldn’t mask. An awkward silence takes over the both of you, and for once, Peter is grateful for how poorly he configured this radio, since he can use it as an excuse for a faulty mic.

“Dramatic increase in heart rate detected. Body heat has increased an additional two degrees, and your suit—specifically around the groin region—appears to be tighter. I am also detecting a heightened state of arousal—”

“Evie!” Peter barks suddenly. He hears your laugh come through the other end, and the sound definitely doesn’t help his situation at all.

“Got you to blush twice today.” You taunt. “I think that’s a record, Spidey.”

“I wasn’t blushing,” Peter lies. “Anyway—enough of that. Are you seeing any other criminal activity in the area?”

You hum, and he hears a faint clicking noise on your end. “Nothing,” you say. “But what’s the rush? You’re given the opportunity to relax. You should take it, considering how hard you’ve been pushing yourself.”

Peter hops onto the ledge of his building and starts idly pacing back and forth, smiling under his mask as he holds the radio close to his ear. “Aw, you don’t have to worry about me. I have Evie for that.”

You blow a raspberry, and Peter’s smile widens.

“Yeah—well, Evie is an artificial intelligence. She can only care so much. Plus, she can’t make as many good jokes as I can.”

Peter’s tongue pokes the inside of his cheek as he kicks a tiny stray pebble off the ledge, watching it fall ten stories to the ground. “Are you getting jealous of my assistant now?”

A garbled noise leaves your lips, and he chuckles as you stammer over your own words.

“God—you’re so full of yourself, aren't you?” you huff. “I’m your partner—so it’s only natural for me to look out for you.”

“We’re partners?”

“Haven’t we been this entire time?”

Peter pauses, glancing up at the sky, where the orange sun is starting to set behind several towers of buildings.

Partners. He hasn’t had anyone he could call a partner since everything happened—since he made the whole world forget who he was. He hasn’t had a real, caring partner since… them. Ned and MJ.

And now, after all that time spent in solitude, he’s finally found someone to call his partner again. Someone he’s never even seen, whose name he doesn’t even know. All he knows about you is that you’re smart—smart enough to build a radio and link up to his frequency—and that you live in New York. He could’ve passed you on his way to buy groceries, or seen you on the subway. Hell, you might even live in his building. Maybe you’re even that girl he accidentally swapped laundry with the other night.

“Spiderman? You still there?” you ask, snapping him out of his daze.

Despite your usual spunky attitude, in that moment, you sound so… small. Like you don’t want to hang up, even if there aren’t any crimes to report.

“I’m here,” he breathes, his voice coming out softer than he expected. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You smile at that. He can hear it. “Okay. Good.”

The microphone picks up shuffling noises on your end—judging by the sound, he pictures you rolling over in bed and getting comfortable.

“How about we play a game?” you ask before the radio falls into silence again.

Peter raises a brow under his mask. “A game?”

“Yeah—every time you complete a successful mission, we trade a fun fact about each other.”

He hums, taking a seat on the ledge and letting his feet dangle over the edge. “Okay, sure. And since I just finished one—does that mean the game starts now?”

You chuckle softly at his enthusiasm to play along. “Sure. Want to go first?”

Peter cranes his neck back to look at the sky. Although neither of you has ever brought it up, he has a feeling you’re both on the exact same page when it comes to secrecy. Neither of you wants to give away too much and blow your identity, but you share just enough to keep things interesting.

And by letting him go first, it feels like you’re giving him the chance to set the tone.

“Hm. Let me think.” He rubs his chin through his mask. “Okay—I’m ready. My favorite coffee is a hot Americano.”

You snort. “The first fun fact you want to share is your coffee order?”

“Hey—coffee can be fun!” Peter interjects. “Now tell me yours.”

A little laugh escapes you, and he can hear you shaking your head. “Fine. I get an extra-hot almond milk latte, with one pump of sugar-free vanilla, one pump of regular hazelnut, and two scoops of vanilla bean powder.”

The white lenses of Peter’s goggles widen, and he lets out a brief, disbelieving laugh. “Oh—so you’re pulling my leg because I started us off with a lame fun fact? Is that it?”

“What?” You giggle along. “I’m not! That’s my actual order—especially on chilly days. You should try it sometime.”

Peter imagines it: a girl—a pretty one, judging by your voice and personality—ordering that ridiculous concoction at a coffee shop while the barista rolls their eyes at how long it takes to recite. For some reason, the visual warms his chest.

“Sure. And I’d tell you to try a hot Americano—but based on the order you just gave me, I don’t think you’d like it very much,” he jokes.

You chuckle. “No, probably not.”

Silence fills the space again, and Peter kicks his legs over the edge of the ledge, trying to think of something to say before he loses you.

He clears his throat. “So, uh—”

“Can I ask you something?”

You both talk over each other, and his face warms with embarrassment. “Sorry. Go ahead.”

“Okay,” you continue. You let out a shaky breath, and he instinctively braces himself for whatever you’re about to ask. “I’ve noticed that your receiver is always on. Do you forget to turn it off?”

Peter pauses, confused by the question. “No. It’s on twenty-four seven—just in case something happens, you know?”

You hum softly. “I get that. But I guess what I’m trying to ask is… don’t you have other things in your life to worry about, instead of fighting crime behind a mask?”

Peter stays quiet for a moment.

In truth, there’s a bigger reason he keeps the radio on besides his duties as Spiderman. He could easily listen in on reported crimes just fine without your help, but he keeps it on twenty-four seven in the hopes of hearing your voice ring through—just in case you might… need him.

There have been several nights since meeting you where he tosses and turns in bed, reaching for the radio to see if your receiver is on. It usually isn’t during consistent parts of the day—meaning you’re either at work or in class. It’s usually off at night, but sometimes around three in the morning, he’ll see your receiver light up and you’ll call in, your voice completely wide awake, proving you can be a real night owl.

Ever since meeting you, it feels like he finally has a friend to talk to. The worst part of it all is that he doesn’t even know your name. And he can never meet you, no matter how badly he wants to.

Peter finally found someone he cares about—and he isn’t going to risk losing you.

“I… I guess I do,” Peter says, trying his best to tread carefully. “I always keep an earpiece in, just in case something happens. You can never be too careful.”

You hum again, and Peter knows that answer wasn’t enough to buy it.

“And I guess I also keep it on… just in case you ever want to talk.”

Shit, Peter curses to himself. If his half-assed answer just now wasn’t enough to make you switch off the line, this one definitely takes the cake. You’re quiet on the other end, and each passing second makes him want to do you both a favor and turn it off himself.

“In that case,” you speak softly, “I’ll keep my receiver on in case you want to talk to me.”

His heart stutters in his chest, feeling as though all the air has been sucked straight out of his lungs.

Peter hasn’t felt this way since high school. He’s grinning ear to ear—a smile so wide it hurts the muscles in his cheeks. He lets out a chuckle, a raspy, disbelieving sound at the realization that there’s a chance you might feel the exact same way about him.

“Don’t say that,” he says before he can stop himself, trying to inject some humor to cover up his flustered state. “You’re gonna get annoyed with me.”

“Who’s to say I’m not already?” you joke back.

And for the first time in a long time, Peter feels like the happiest man on Earth.

He looks up at the sky, watching birds fly across the orange hues as he kicks his feet like a high schooler who just scored a date with the prettiest girl in class. His heart is racing so fast in his chest and he feels so giddy that he’s actually surprised Evie hasn’t called him out on it yet.

He wants to make this last—to say something, anything, to keep this moment from ending.

Suddenly, a series of sharp beeps emits from your end of the radio. It's a sound he knows all too well, a reminder that duty calls before anything else.

“Oh, God,” you mutter quietly.

Every hair on Peter’s arms stands on end. He leaps to his feet, ready to launch himself toward whatever is happening. “What is it, Static?”

“There’s an alarm triggered at Grand Central Terminal,” you explain. “NYPD comms just flagged it—there are a bunch of hostages. It looks bad, Spiderman. Multiple armed men have barricaded the main concourse.”

Peter wastes no time, shooting a thick web line toward the nearest building and flinging himself into the sky. “How many hostages are we talking?”

“At least fifty. Commuters, staff—they were trapped during rush hour,” you answer, the clack of your keyboard clattering over the staticky connection. “I’m tapping into the security feed right now. They’re holding guns, and… it looks like there’s a heavy grade explosive right in the center, attached to the information booth.”

The wind roars through Peter’s mic as he accelerates through the air. “How much time is on the clock?”

“I’m trying to zoom in—eight minutes,” you say. “They’ve blocked all the major exits with deadbolts and wired the perimeter. It looks pretty half-assed, Spidey. If SWAT breaches the doors, or if even a piece of rubble hits that rig, the whole thing will blow.”

“Alright, no breaches,” Peter takes a mental note, his mind racing through entry points as the massive arched roof of Grand Central comes into view. “You’re my eyes in there, Static. Find me an entry point that skips the doors.”

“The skylight above the west balcony has an old grate,” you reply instantly. “It leads directly into the ventilations—high enough to keep you out of sight, but close enough to drop in.”

“Got it,” Peter replies, landing silently on the glass roof. He peers through the skylight, his eyes adjusting to the interior where dozens of terrified people are huddling on the floor, held at gunpoint by masked men with automatic rifles.

Right in the center, duct-taped to the information booth and blinking with a harsh red timer, sits the bomb.

“Okay, I’m in position,” Peter breathes through the radio. “Time me?”

He hears a soft click on your end, signaling that your timer is already running.

“Be careful, Spiderman.”

He tucks the radio against his thigh, securing it with a thick band of web.

Peter moves exactly in the direction you tell him to—he wedges his body into the dusty vents, moving with the practiced speed of an arachnid that takes him from point A to point B in the blink of an eye. He slowly lifts the grate, the poor thing held up by only a flimsy screw, and sets it down softly beside him to avoid any loud noises.

He lands gently right in the center of the terminal—but his plans for discretion don’t last when a hostage looks up and yells, “We’re saved, everyone! It’s Spiderman!”

Immediately, all the armed threats spin around, several barrels abandoning the hostages to point straight at the man in the red-and-blue suit.

“Oh,” Peter smiles. “Making my job a lot easier. Thanks.”

Before giving them the chance to shoot, Peter fires off thick strings of web into every single barrel, clogging up the firearms. With every weapon bound, he tangles the web lines together into one big knot and yanks them all out of their hands.

The guns crash into each other in a tangled mass of spiderwebs and steel. With the firearms rendered completely useless, he tosses the mess aside to focus on the men—who are now charging at him with combat knives and sidearms.

Peter quickly makes short work of the pistols, disarming the men with his webs before a stray bullet can even graze the bomb. One by one, he takes them down, firing webs with every intention of keeping them bound and completely immovable.

When Peter gets down to the last guy, slinging a thick web to pin him flat against the wall, your voice rings out from where the radio sits tucked against his thigh.

“SWAT is moving in—mind the doors and tripwires!”

“Shit,” Peter curses, whipping his head toward the exits—but it’s already too late.

The SWAT team breaches fast, shouting and gesturing for the hostages to run. Panic surges through the crowd, and every frantic step from the civilians echoes like thunder in Peter’s ears. One misstep, even one piece of falling debris, could set this entire place off. Peter snaps his head back to the bomb. Four minutes remain on the digital clock, but suddenly the numbers freeze—and a sharp high pitched frequency fills the room.

It’s quiet to everyone else, but to Peter's heightened senses, it might as well be an air siren.

“Wait!” Peter shouts, turning to vault himself away before the bomb sets off.

But it’s too late.

“Spiderman! Get out of there!” you cry out through the radio—right before a brilliant flash of red and white blinds the entire building.

Pressure and heat slam right into Peter’s chest, throwing him backward through the air and showering him in flying stone like a ragdoll. Glass shatters overhead, raining down thousands of sparkling fragments as the information booth detonates into a massive cloud of fire and smoke.

Peter crashes hard against the far wall, the impact knocking every last drop of air from his lungs. He coughs up blood, staining the inside of his mask, before sliding down a broken slab of marble. He wheezes violently as dense gray smoke fills the room. His ears ring loudly, drowning out the shouting SWAT officers, the screaming crowd, and the creaking support beams above.

Evie’s voice sings in his ear like a taunt.

“Detecting bone fractures near the lower hip. Internal bleeding. Labored breathing—”

Then, your voice comes cutting through the static.

“Spiderman! Answer me!” Your voice cuts in and out, and despite being crushed under rubble with smoke filling his lungs, he reaches for the radio at his thigh.

He lifts it with a trembling hand, and his heart stops. It’s broken, snapped open with electricity sparking near the wires.

“Please—are you there? Spiderman! Check in!”

“Time, Static,” he manages to croak out.

Even through the static, the sheer panic in your voice is unmistakable. “The ambulances are on their way. Just hold on for a little longer—”

“What’s the time, Static?” he repeats with a wet cough.

You suck in a sharp breath. “Four minutes and twenty-three seconds. Now save your breath and stop talking!”

“Peter,” he croaks, coughing up more blood.

“W-what?” you stammer through tears. The sound makes his chest hurt more than the slab of concrete resting heavy on his ribs. “You’re breaking out.”

“Our little game—remember? Every successful mission, we exchange a fun fact,” he wheezes, fighting for air. “My name is Peter Parker.”

A broken, sobbing gasp escapes you. He glances down at the radio, watching the little light that indicates his microphone is working flicker in and out.

“Static? Are you still there?”

“I can’t hear you, Spiderman.”

The blue glow of your television screen is the only source of light in your dim apartment. Outside your window, New York City keeps moving, but inside, time feels like it has been frozen for seven agonizing days.

On the screen, a news anchor stands outside Queens Hospital Center, her face grave under the studio-lit broadcast.

“…we return to our top story tonight regarding Spiderman,” the reporter’s voice echoes through your quiet room. “It has been one week since the explosive incident at Grand Central Terminal that left the vigilante in critical condition. Authorities and medical staff at Queens Hospital Center have kept tight-lipped about his recovery.”

You pull your knees tighter into your chest, your fingers trembling as they wrap around a lukewarm mug of tea you haven’t touched.

“In a shocking turn of events earlier this morning, hospital administrators confirmed that Spiderman is no longer in their care,” the reporter continues. “According to sources, when attending nurses entered his private room to adjust his IVs and monitor his severe injuries, they found the hospital bed empty. There is no security footage explaining how or when the injured hero managed to slip past guards, leaving NYPD officials baffled—and deeply concerned given the extent of his internal trauma.”

Your eyes widen, and you press a hand over your mouth as a shaky exhale spills past your lips.

He woke up.

He survived.

You keep watching, waiting to see if the reporter will expose his identity. A part of you is already annoyed that these attention-hungry journalists would stoop so low now that he’s been admitted to a hospital. But another part of you desperately wants to know—because you felt like that might’ve been what he was trying to tell you over the radio right before the line cut out.

A heavy breath escapes you when the reporter doesn’t mention a name, and the broadcast switches to a story about local stray animals. You’re not even sure if the sigh you let out is one of relief or frustration.

You glance over at the radio resting on the couch beside you.

Your receiver light blinks green—it has been on this entire time.

For the past seven days, you’ve been sleeping with the radio clutched in your hands in hopes that you’ll hear his voice one more time. Even as you walk through the hallways of your university, moving from lecture to lecture, you keep an earpiece tucked in your ear so you won’t miss him if he calls.

A few more days pass, and you’re sitting at your desk with heavy eyes. A lamp at the corner of your desk emits a warm glow over the pages of your notebook. You feel like you’ve been awake for days, running on far too little sleep and not nearly enough caffeine to keep you going.

Your head rests heavily in your palm. A quick glance at the clock tells you it’s 3:41 in the morning.

With a tired sigh, you start to push your chair back—but the sudden sound of familiar static stops you in your tracks.

A sound that is usually so grating to your ears suddenly sounds like heaven.

You quickly scramble back to your desk, your hand swiping up the radio and lifting it to your ear.

“Hello?” you say, your heart racing. “Hello? Is someone there?”

The static cuts out for a second, and you pull the radio back to check the lights. Both indicator lights are glowing green, showing that you—and whoever is on the other line—are connected. The static crackles through again, and you press the receiver tight against your ear, holding your breath as you wait for them to speak first.

“—atic?”

That voice—so familiar, so gentle—rings out. You feel your heart leap straight into your throat. You’ve been waiting for days to hear him again, but you aren't prepared for what to say now that he's actually here.

“Sta—t—ic,” Peter’s voice cuts in and out before suddenly coming through crystal clear—clearer than the very first time you ever connected with him. “This is Spiderman. Are you there?”

Your heart swells with a profound wave of relief. Tears prick at your eyes, spilling down your cheeks before you can even stop them.

“Oh my God,” you breathe, your hand trembling as you press the radio against your forehead. “You’re okay. You’re here. Thank God. I—I thought I lost you. I was keeping up with the news, and when they said you fled the hospital—I hoped you were okay. I’ve been waiting for your call all week. I—”

“Hey, hey,” Peter coos softly on the other end. “It’s okay. I’m here. I’ve been here the whole time. I’m not going anywhere.”

You hear him rustling around on the other line, the soft friction of sheets sounding like he’s lying in bed. The thought of him resting comfortably in his own room rather than trapped in a sterile hospital bed makes your heart melt.

“Where have you been?” you ask, your voice cracking as you wipe a stray tear from your cheek. “Why didn’t you call sooner?”

“I know, I know… I’m sorry,” Peter says softly, his breath catching in a faint, painful wince that he tries to cover up with a dry laugh. “My suit was pretty much trashed, and the radio got crushed in the blast. It took everything in me just to crawl over to my workbench, and a few more days to rebuild the transmitter from scratch.”

A shaky breath leaves his lips. “With the radio broken, I was terrified I wouldn’t be able to find you again. I spent all this time rebuilding it—I even fixed the signal integration so both our voices would come through clearer.”

You let out a wet, teary laugh. “So that’s why you sound like that.”

You can picture him grinning on the other end. “A lot better, huh?”

That familiar, teasing tilt in his voice sends a wave of butterflies straight to your stomach. A soft laugh escapes you, and he chuckles in return. Then, as if savoring the sound of your joy, he breathes out softly.

“I missed hearing your voice.”

Your feet carry you over to the comfort of your mattress, and before you even realize it, you’re collapsing onto your bed, kicking your feet like a giddy, hopeless romantic.

“I missed hearing you, too. You’d better not let that happen again. If I can barely handle losing you for a week, I definitely can’t bear losing you forever,” you say, trying to pass it off as a joke, but the tremble in your voice betrays you.

Peter’s grin widens where he lies in bed, staring up at the ceiling. “I’ll make sure to be extra careful from here on out, just so you don’t lose me.”

You smile into your pillow. “Good.”

A comfortable silence settles between you two—not the awkward kind from when you first met, but a warm one, wrapping around you both like a blanket despite the distance. You set the radio down on the empty space beside your pillow, and he does the same. With the microphone improvements, you can hear his steady breathing on your end, and he can hear yours.

“Were you able to hear anything I said... the last time we spoke?” Peter asks softly.

You shake your head, the friction against your pillow rustling over the mic. “You were cutting out too much.”

He pauses, the soft sound of sheets shifting as he pulls his blanket up over his shoulders.

“It was about our game—the fun facts one,” he says, his voice careful, like he’s walking on eggshells.

You couldn’t catch much before the line broke down completely. Pet... That was all you had managed to hear. But a deep feeling in your gut tells you that whatever he said was a precious piece of himself—a piece he wanted you to have in case he didn’t make it.

You hold your breath, waiting to see if he’ll offer it up again.

“And since I completed a successful mission,” he continues, swallowing hard. “I thought I’d continue with that trade.”

You brace yourself, your heart clawing in your chest as you wait for the confession—for him to finally drop his guard and lay his identity on the line, just like you plan to do with yours.

Peter draws a slow, quiet breath.

“Do you… have a boyfriend?”

You blink.

The silence stretches for a long second, the sudden change in direction catching you so off guard that your mind does a hard reset. Of all the things you expected him to say—a big secret, a superhero revelation, a tender confession about his life—that was not on your bingo card.

“What?” you squeeze out, your voice squeaking slightly.

Over the line, Peter clears his throat awkwardly, a sudden rustle of sheets betraying how fast he just sat up to bury his face in his hands.

“O-or girlfriend! Sorry—I shouldn’t have assumed! I mean, you don’t have to answer! It’s just—it’s a fun fact! A personal fact! That’s how the game works, right? You tell me something, I tell you something… or—”

A helpless, snickering laugh bubbles up from your chest, breaking off his ramble.

“Spiderman,” you giggle, burying your blushing face deeper into your mattress.

“Yeah?” he yelps, sounding like a man standing on trial.

“No,” you answer, a wide grin spreading across your face. “No boyfriend. No girlfriend.”

A long, almost dramatic exhale breezes through the speaker, followed by the soft thud of Peter flopping back down onto his mattress.

“Oh, thank God,” he mutters, trying to keep it quiet enough so the microphone doesn’t catch it—but you hear it anyway. “I mean… cool. That’s cool.”

You snort. “Okay. You know how the game goes. Now it’s my turn to ask.”

“Do I have a girlfriend?” he prompts.

You shrug, taking the opportunity to tease him. “Or boyfriend. I don’t judge.”

A playful scoff leaves his lips, and you can already imagine him rolling his eyes. He’s quiet for a few seconds, making you think he’s just too flustered to answer. But when his voice comes through shaky, almost hesitant, you feel an unfamiliar tug at your heart.

“I—um… I used to have this girl,” he murmurs. “We were dating for a while—but it didn’t work out.”

The tone of his voice sends a shiver down your spine. He speaks like a man who’s been broken again and again, carrying a profound heartache you couldn’t even begin to measure. A small, selfish twinge of jealousy tugs at you, but you know it’s not your place.

“What happened?” The words spill out before you can stop them.

Peter sucks in a sharp breath, and you wince with regret for pushing too far.

“Well, that’s something you’re gonna have to ask the next time I complete a successful mission,” he says, trying to ease the tension with a playful tone, and you’re more than happy to fall right back into it.

You roll onto your back, looking up at your bedroom ceiling. Across the city, Peter does the exact same thing.

“Deal. But let’s not jump back into all that too soon, okay? Whatever crime happens out there, let the police handle it,” you say, pulling your blanket up to your chin. “I just want to keep you all to myself tonight.”

You want to slap yourself for how ridiculous you sound. He just opened up about a painful past relationship, and you immediately turn around and sound like a clingy girlfriend.

But Peter laughs—a full, rich sound that doesn't sound at all like he just survived a traumatic experience a week ago. It’s a laugh that never fails to make you smile.

“Usually, I’d oppose the idea of ignoring crime,” he says softly. “But for you? I’ll stay. For as long as you want me to.”

You smile, nuzzling your nose into the soft fabric of your blanket. “Good. Goodnight, Spiderman.”

“Goodnight, Static.”

And for the remainder of the night, neither of you switches the radio off, letting the quiet and comforting sound of each other’s breathing lull you to sleep.

It’s a brand new day, and Peter is running around New York getting his errands done. Laundry run, check. Grocery run, check. The last thing on his list is to pick up some flowers for Aunt May.

Right next to the small bodega where he always buys his flowers sits a busy coffee shop.

The front window is large enough to see everything and everyone inside—which is exactly why he has to do a double take at the person standing near the cashier.

He stops dead in his tracks, causing a hurried pedestrian to bump into his shoulder.

“Sorry,” Peter mumbles, but the man just shoots him a dirty look and keeps walking.

Standing inside the coffee shop is a face that’s all too familiar—someone he hasn’t seen in a long, long time.

Ned.

Peter’s feet are moving before he even realizes it. He hovers near the entrance, stepping aside for a few exiting customers before pushing the door open. Slipping into an empty seat near the front, he watches Ned chat with the barista. But Ned isn’t alone.

He’s standing next to a girl—a pretty girl, at that. And one he doesn’t recognize.

Peter smiles to himself, a swell of pride washing over him seeing his best friend doing well, and scoring a pretty girlfriend to date.

“And for the missus?” The barista holds up a paper cup, pen hovering over the cardboard as she waits.

You glance up at the menu board, though you don’t really need to. You know your order like the back of your hand.

“Can I get an extra-hot almond milk latte with one pump of sugar-free vanilla—”

Peter’s heart stops.

“—one pump of regular hazelnut…”

That voice. That familiar, sing-song cadence he hears every night through a staticky radio. The last voice he listened to when he nearly died just a few weeks ago.

“And two scoops of vanilla bean powder,” Peter mumbles to himself like a mantra.

“…and two scoops of vanilla bean powder?” you finish, flashing the barista a harmless, innocent smile.

The barista gives you a disbelieving look, and you chuckle awkwardly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. The movement gives Peter a clear view of a small earpiece nestled right inside. Everything playing out before his eyes matches the picture he’d built in his head—except for you. You being this stunning was far beyond anything he could have imagined.

The barista finally finishes jotting your order down, and you and Ned turn to search for an open table. Peter holds his breath, watching your easy smile and the natural way you interact with his once best friend.

The pang in his chest is a feeling he wouldn’t wish on his worst enemy. Two people he cares about more than anything... so close, yet entirely out of reach.

His heightened spider-sense gives him the ability to hear almost anything, even from across the room. Yet right now, the ringing in his ears and the heavy thumping of his heart drown out every other sound. You and Ned approach an empty table with only a single chair, but you glance around and spot the unused chair across from Peter.

“Hey,” you smile politely—a soft, courteous tone reserved strictly for strangers, not your partner in crime. “Are you using this chair?”

This is it.

Finally, for the first time, he can introduce himself to you properly. He could bring both you and Ned back into his life with a single, simple greeting.

Hi, I’m Peter. Peter Parker. The guy you’ve been talking to over a flimsy radio these past few months.

Peter looks up at you, completely frozen where he sits. Your smile fades into a faint frown when he hesitates. Then, your eyes flicker briefly to the earpiece resting in his ear—identical to yours, worn for the exact same reason.

Just in case either of you calls in.

Before he loses you, Peter clears his throat. His hand subtly moves up to scratch his ear, hiding the earpiece with his knuckles before slipping it into his palm. When he finally speaks, he deliberately drops his voice a few pitches deeper—adding a slight rasp for good measure.

“No, go ahead.”

That polite smile returns, and you pull the chair away from his table. “Cool, thanks.”

You slide the chair up to the table you’re sharing with Ned, and just like that—unaware that you’ve completely flipped his world upside down and inside out—you fall right back into conversation with him.

The barista calls out your order with your name, and the sound of it is like music to his ears.

He repeats it quietly under his breath. It sounds natural, like a name that was always meant to be spoken in his voice.

Peter squeezes his eyes shut. He can’t reveal his identity to you. Telling you his real name that night—when he was trapped under rubble and bleeding out—was just a lapse in judgment brought on by desperation. But now that he’s here, looking at you and his best friend in broad daylight, he knows he can’t risk letting you into his world.

Anyone who knows Peter Parker is Spiderman is a person bound to be lost. And Peter can’t afford to lose you.

Yet as he watches you sit across from him, tossing your head back with a laugh that is painfully familiar, it feels like he’s already lost you anyway.

“So, tell me more about this party.”

“Well, it’s a housewarming party,” you explain, tucking your hands into your pockets as you walk through the night streets of Queens. “Two of my friends moved into an apartment recently—so we’re celebrating tonight.”

Peter hums, leaning back in his chair and staring mindlessly at his screens. He folds a piece of paper, fiddling with it as his mind wanders to who those friends could be. Ned? And if so, he wonders who else he could be moving in with—if not him.

“That’s… cool,” he finally answers in an indifferent tone.

You round the corner, the sounds of the bustling city nightlife picking up on your microphone. “Yeah. And since I’ll be busy socializing, I won’t have my receiver on all night. But I’ll try my best to check in with you.”

Peter huffs a laugh through his nose. “I’m a big boy. You don’t need to check up on me.” He glances at the window. “I’m more worried about you, though.”

You step aside for a pedestrian who’s rushing past. “What for?”

Peter pushes himself out of his chair with a grunt, stepping up to the small window and looking down at the city street below. “Well, you’re a woman walking all by yourself at night. I hope your friends at least know where you’re at.”

You chuckle, pulling open the door of the small corner grocery store and being welcomed by a soft bell jingle.

“Don’t worry your head, Spiderman. If I constantly worry about my well-being just because I’m a woman, then I’ll never get anything done in this city.”

You’re greeted by a frail, older lady behind the counter, and you offer her a polite smile as you walk past. Making your way to the coolers in the back, you weigh your options between beer and seltzers.

“Do you think two cases of Budweiser is enough?” You ask Peter.

The bell chimes again, and a large man with a dark hoodie pulled over his face enters. You glance at him, and he holds your stare. You look back down.

Peter’s cackle draws you back in. “And you’re drinking?”

You can’t help but grin at the worry in his voice. Grabbing two cases—one in each hand—and shutting the refrigerator door, you head to the front counter. “Yes, because I’m an adult and should be enjoying myself. And you should be, too, Spiderman. It’s Friday night.”

A bitter smile dances on his lips. He should be enjoying himself—a night out with you, instead of being cooped up in his apartment, worrying about you getting wasted at a house party surrounded by men your age with grimy hands and bad intentions.

You set the cases on the counter, and the lady begins to ring you up. The man in the dark hoodie falls in line right behind you, holding just a pack of gum in his hand.

“Okay, I gotta head out. I’ll check in with you later tonight—”

The lady at the front counter has her attention locked on the man behind you, and she sharply gasps, ducking down immediately. Your head whips around, and you find yourself face to face with the black metal of a handgun.

“You know Spiderman?” the man before you asks in a deep gravelly voice, finger poised right above the trigger.

A pathetic, broken sound escapes you. You still have Peter on the line, and you hear the sudden panic in his voice the minute your microphone picks up your heavy breathing and whimper.

“Static? Who is that? What’s happening?”

“You must be mistaken,” you raise your hands in surrender, shoulders timid, as a bead of sweat rolls down your temple. “I—I don’t know Spiderman—”

“Bullshit!” the man shouts, backhanding you with the grip of the gun.

You cry out in pain, your body collapsing hard onto the floor as your hand flies to your cheek. Your earpiece falls out, Peter’s voice ringing out loudly in sheer panic. The man huffs an incredulous laugh as he crouches down to pick it up and lift it to his ear.

“Tell me your location—where are you? I’m coming—!”

“103rd Street,” the man answers with a grin. “That’s where your little lady is at—on the floor, bleeding outta her lip.”

The wind whips loudly through the earpiece, audible even from where you’re prone on the ground.

“Don’t lay a fucking hand on her,” Peter’s voice crackles through the wind and speaker. “What do you want from me?”

The man only chuckles, turning the small earpiece in his fingers, unfazed by the threat of a friendly neighborhood superhero.

“That’s the thing with people like you who try to play hero,” the man says, his tone dripping with bitter resentment. “You stop guys like us, but what you fail to realize is that we aren’t the bad guys at all, Spiderman. While you sit in your fancy little apartment, the rest of us are out here fighting for scraps just to survive—and it’s people like you who keep stopping us.”

He looks down at you, lying on the cold floor with a trembling hand pressed against your bleeding lip.

“We’re just trying to eat,” the man spits into the receiver. “So if a guy like me has to take a little collateral to get your attention, or to get a quick payday—that’s not evil. That’s just survival. There’s a lot of money on your head, Spiderman. Money that can help an average person like me tremendously.”

The sharp thwip of a web fires through the speaker, followed by the harsh gust of the open night sky.

If it were anyone else being held hostage, maybe Peter would extend the courtesy of hearing him out. But he’s not holding just any person. He’s holding you—the only person Peter has opened his heart to in years. The only voice he looks forward to, the one that gives him hope to push through to a brand-new day. Right now, there isn’t a single shred of restraint left in Peter’s mind—not when your life is on the line because of him.

“I don’t give a shit about your excuse,” Peter spits, whipping around a sharp corner as he flies onto 103rd Street. “If you hurt her again before I get there, I swear to God—”

“It’s too late, Spiderman.”

From high above, Peter spots the grocery store below. The white lenses of his mask widen as he peers through the large front windows, catching sight of you scrambling backward in fear, hands raised in surrender.

The man above you stands straight and lifts the gun. Peter’s eyes lock onto the finger resting against the trigger. With one launch off the side of a building, he catapults himself straight through the glass windows.

The explosion of glass shatters in time with the gunshot. As the bullet travels through the barrel of the gun, Peter collides into the man, sending him flying sideways and the gun tilting upwards. The bullet hits the ceiling, the fluorescent lights exploding with electricity as the roof panel falls. You quickly scramble away so it doesn’t hit you.

Peter sends the man flying from one window to another, rolling around on the pavement outside until he lands on top. There is no amount of webs he can use to convey his anger—so he settles with his fists.

One punch after another, one hit after brutal hit. Blood flies out of the man’s face, tainting Peter’s suit with red. It splatters across his knuckles, and he delivers a hit so violent that it sprays right over the white lenses of his mask.

“Spiderman, stop!”

You shout, but the ringing in his ears is louder.

Tears prick at his eyes behind the mask as he continues raining down punches. The man lost consciousness long ago, but Peter isn’t done. He can’t rest knowing anyone who threatens to hurt you is free to walk these streets.

He can’t rest until he knows, for certain, that you’re safe from danger.

He cocks his fist back one last time, with every intention of putting this guy down for good—until your body crashes into his, your arms wrapping tightly around his shoulders. His arm freezes mid-air, suddenly weighing a ton.

“Stop! It’s over—it’s done,” you try to reassure him but your voice comes in a panicked and rushed tone. Sirens sound in the distance. “The police are coming.”

Peter looks around, his chest heaving.

Several bystanders have stopped to stare, hands covering their mouths after witnessing such a brutal act by a man who was supposed to be a savior to all.

He curses under his breath, one arm wrapping tightly around your body.

“Hold on,” he says, before slinging a web to the highest point of the building next to you and launching you both into the night sky.

You bury your face in his chest, legs wrapped tightly around his waist as you hold on to him for dear life. You’re too terrified to look down. So instead, you glance up at the man holding you—the very man you’ve dedicated your life to assisting these past few months.

He doesn’t look like the friendly Spiderman you see on television or in the newspapers.

Blood lays over his mask like a veil, and you can feel his heart racing against yours from how tightly you’re holding him.

He doesn’t say a word until he finds a discreet alleyway. Then, finally, he sets you down gently.

Your eyes don’t leave his face even as you release your grip on him. You stand in front of him, eyes wide and lips parted as you stare at the man you’ve been dying to meet for what feels like years. But while this is your first time seeing him, it isn’t his first time seeing you.

There are so many things you wanted to say, but none of them come out. You never expected your first meeting to be like this—under circumstances where he tarnishes his reputation and your face bloodied and bruised.

“I…” your voice wavers, desperate to say anything, terrified he might swing away at any second.

Peter swipes his bloodied hand against his thigh to clean it before stepping forward, gently cupping your face in both hands. The lenses of his mask are so expressive, shifting with every furrow of his brow. Even behind it, his expression is wrecked.

“Look at what he did to you,” his voice cracks, sounding so broken, like it’s all his fault.

You huff a soft laugh, resting your palm over his knuckles as you lean into his touch. “If I’d known I was going to see you tonight, I probably would’ve worn more makeup.”

You try to joke, but he doesn’t laugh. His thumb gently brushes over the torn skin at your cheekbone, then down to your busted lip.

“I can’t believe you’re right here,” he breathes. “And I’m holding you.”

Peter should get your injuries fixed up, take you somewhere safe, or even take you home, but doing that means he’ll have to say goodbye—and he doesn’t know when he’ll give himself the chance to be this selfish again.

For the first time in years, it feels like he’s found salvation. After everything, he tries to convince himself he deserves this—even if it's just for a few minutes.

“You know what I look like,” you smile painfully. “Yet, I still don’t know a single thing about you.”

Peter bites the inside of his cheek to keep from breaking down. “I’m sorry.”

You step closer, your hands slowly finding the hem of his mask resting around his neck. With trembling fingers, you slowly lift it up—giving him every opportunity to pull away if he wants to—holding your breath as you raise it over his nose. Brown curly hair decorates the nape of his neck.

As you try to tug it up higher, his hands find your wrists, gently stopping you. “I can’t.”

With a quiet nod, your hands fall back down to his cheeks, cupping them softly. Your thumb traces the curve of his cheekbone, his jawline, and the plump of his bottom lip.

The press of your thumb against his lower lip makes his breath hitch. He closes his eyes, leaning into your touch—the first grace of warmth he’s felt in forever.

His white lenses open again, and his gaze drops to your lips—bruised, bleeding, and parting softly. The tension between you two suffocates him, and without waiting another impatient second, Peter tilts his head down and kisses you.

His lips press against yours, gentle and soft. And when you return the kiss, he feels like he’s in heaven. He takes his time with you, his lips exploring yours and savoring the quiet sweetness of the moment. Your hands are warm against his cheeks, and his hand finds your waist, respectfully holding you close as his heart beats as one with yours.

You kiss until you both run out of breath, finally pulling away to rest your foreheads against each other.

Peter shuts his eyes, breathing in your scent. “I wanted to do that from the moment I first laid eyes on you.”

“I am detecting a sudden increase in heart-rate and body warmth—”

“Shut up, Evie.”

You chuckle, your teeth catching your bottom lip while heart beats wildly in your chest.

“A successful mission,” you smile up at him. “You know what that means.”

He chuckles at that, the sound sending butterflies to your stomach now that you’re hearing it up close for the first time.

“You’re right. You go first.” He prompts.

You tell him your name, but he doesn’t react the way you thought he would after hearing it for the first time. He smiles—almost boyish, with kiss-swollen lips. It feels as though he’s known your name all along.

Peter repeats it softly. “It’s beautiful,” he says.

Warmth fills you from head to toe. You were right. You loved hearing the sound of your name in his voice.

You tilt your head, leaning in until your nose grazes against his. “What’s yours—”

Frantic footsteps echo just outside the alleyway.

Peter’s senses tingle and reverberate through his entire frame. Everything in his body is screaming at him to do one thing: run.

Two people turn the corner, and he freezes at the sight.

“Oh my god, there you are!” Ned shouts frantically, catching his breath. “We were wondering why you weren’t answering our calls—then someone at the party said there was an accident happening on 103rd Street—which is where you were going—and wait, is that Spiderman?”

Standing right behind him is MJ.

“You scared us!” she yelps, running to you with a hug. You turn around with a weary smile and a relieved sigh.

“I’m okay, you guys shouldn’t have left to come find me. It was dangerous back there, and yes,” you motion behind you, “this is—”

Peter doesn’t even let you finish. He pulls his mask down and, without another word, zips up and out, moving through the dark like a ghost in the night. All the warmth vanishes like the gust of wind he leaves behind as he disappears into the air.

“God,” Ned breathes, the three of you standing dumbfounded in the alleyway as you watch him disappear around the corner. “See! It’s like I told you, MJ! He’s like Peter Pan—if you really believe in him, he’ll show up!”

“Okay—you know, your fanboying really freaks me out,” MJ says, making a face. She looks back at you. “Anyway, I’m glad you’re okay—”

A shudder passes through your body.

My name is Peter Parker.

“Peter,” you whisper with a sudden realization.

📝 first time writing for peter parker kinda nervous !! "all these things that i've done" by the killers was on repeat while writing this. for the first time in a while, i've had a lot of fun and passion writing a marvel fic again, and i hope you can feel it when you read this fic. if you've made it this far, as always thank you so much for taking the time to read my work. interactions are always appreciated, I love reading every bit of them! I do not have a tag list. to get notified for fic updates, please follow @notify-superbassbuck and turn on notifications.

← previous fic | marvel masterlist

[scre4mera]

absolute cinema i need at least 50 chapters

[buckygasm]

I just fucking moaned

[scre4mera]

i am actually unwell because i can’t have him