summary: as a member of the newly formed Avengers, you can't stand the vigilante from Queens. But before long, you realize you have far more in common with him than you'd ever care to admit.
masterlist
Reader was Team Cap during CW. Forgive me if you are Team Iron Man (me), it was for the plot's sake. And also, Sam is a GREAT Captain America, in case it is implied otherwise during the narration.
If someone were to ask you when it all started, you would probably answer with the wrong date. You would say it was the day Captain America involved you in a conflict you weren't even old enough to understand; or the first time you had to use a gun. Maybe you would mention the day you reunited with Bucky, years later.
Everything had started much earlier, in a house where conversations about missions were as normal as talking about the weather, and where you learned that observing would always be more important than reacting.
Your parents were always proud to belong to S.H.I.E.L.D. They believed that, with their knowledge and skills, they were contributing to making the world a better place. Because, in theory, that was how it was.
But when the agency fractured under the weight of corruption and HYDRA's infiltration, your parents' work ceased to make sense. Three years later, that same spirit to find answers and do the right thing ended up costing them their lives.
You were left adrift, under the care of the State until you reached adulthood. Then the blip happened. And now, six years later, you worked the same way they had, clinging to the hope that, maybe, the world could still be a little less fucked up.
The problem was your teammates; who had lost that hope long ago and, furthermore, had actively contributed to making the world the fucked up place it was now.
They were a rather peculiar collection of people. You knew that, of all of them, perhaps the least terrifying was Bob. Although, from the stories the others told, if you had known his other side you probably wouldn't think the same.
You were a strategist, so you always believed your place was behind the scenes. However, you soon discovered that, for a plan to succeed, you needed more than just giving instructions through a communicator. Especially considering the team you were working with.
One way or another, everyone had something to teach you. Little by little you learned to shoot, to fight, and, only when strictly necessary, to kill. That last one was always your last option.
A priority that seemed unshakeable, until Spiderman started crossing your path.
You had met him during a mission with John. You had spent weeks tracking a small criminal group that Yelena considered "small potatoes." However, you insisted that, if they didn't stop them right then, sooner or later they would end up becoming a bigger problem.
The operation consisted of intercepting a weapons transaction before the merchandise left the building. While Walker guarded the only escape route, you had to disable the security cameras, block communications, and give the signal to enter when all the buyers were gathered. No gunshots, no chases, and, if everything went well, no casualties.
What you didn't expect that night was for a red and blue blur to burst through the building's window, ruining any attempt to follow the plan.
You had seen him countless times on the news and knew the city adored him. No headline questioned his work as a hero —something that did happen constantly with your teammates and, by extension, with you—. He was always recognized for his bravery, his ingenuity, and his ability to save the day.
The problem was that, at that precise moment, you didn't need the friendly neighborhood guy. You needed him to stop ruining a perfectly planned operation.
In the end, the target was captured and the mission was a success. The credit, of course, went to Spiderman.
On the way to the tower, Walker asked you why it bothered you so much, if in the end they had gotten exactly what they wanted.
What Walker didn't understand was that the problem had never been the outcome. What was truly unbearable was knowing that the masked kid had ruined what would have been an impeccable operation. He was chaotic. And chaos was not tolerable to you.
When you told Bucky what happened, he made sure to remind you that that hadn't been your first encounter with the arachnid; or, at least, the first time your paths had crossed. Spiderman had fought on Tony Stark's side during the events related to the Sokovia Accords, the same time Steve had turned to you for help. After all, he knew your parents and —it went without saying— held a special affection for them. He confessed to you that he hoped you possessed the same brilliance they did.
While you had provided him with the strategy to advance their mission without being detected by the government, that kid had fought against him on the battlefield. What for you had been nothing more than a consultation, for him had become an experience that would mark his life. You couldn't help but feel a pang of jealousy. And, as if that weren't enough, your rejection of Spiderman only increased.
Soon, it turned out that the arachnid wished to maintain communication with the team of self-proclaimed "new Avengers." Yelena was in charge of doing so, luckily, because if it had been up to you, you wouldn't have accepted a single one of his meetings.
Sometimes you were forced to work with him, although you had never openly mentioned that you didn't completely like him. Some suspected it, because of the expression you made every time someone mentioned him or your refusals to ask him for help with anything minor.
Almost a month after your first encounter with him, another case appeared on your desk.
It didn't come from a mission assigned by Valentina nor was it among the team's priorities. It was a police report that someone had filed as a simple attempted robbery: a group of armed men had broken into a small convenience store in southern Brooklyn, taking a safe and disappearing before the authorities arrived.
Nobody seemed interested in investigating it. Yelena barely gave the file a glance.
“Not worth it. We have more important things,” she had said.
Maybe for her, but you had been studying criminal organizations long enough to recognize a pattern when you saw one. Those men had acted with too much precision to be improvised criminals. Furthermore, one of the faces captured by a security camera matched that of a buyer who had managed to escape during the operation Spiderman had ruined days ago.
It wasn't an isolated case. And you were convinced it was your duty to do something about it.
You didn't need the rest of the team, checking an address was enough to make it real.
The next forty-eight hours were spent discreetly following one of the suspects to an old commercial building. They entered and exited carrying unmarked boxes, always at different hours, always taking different routes.
To you, it looked more like a distribution point than a warehouse.
You waited until nightfall to approach, and getting inside turned out to be ridiculously simple. The lock gave way after a few seconds, with an alarm system so old that disabling it barely took you a minute.
The ease of it should have warned you, made you back off. Instead, you moved forward.
The interior was practically empty. Just a few stacked boxes and metal shelves covered in dust. You navigated the place cautiously, photographing documents and noting down serial numbers printed on several containers.
You found exactly what you were looking for. And you also understood too late why it had been so simple to get in.
When a metallic click echoed behind you, the lights came on and a voice resonated saying:
“I knew you'd come back.”
Looking up, you discovered the man who had escaped. Around him several armed figures appeared, occupying the upper walkway while as many others emerged from between the shelves.
They had used that warehouse as bait and you, stupidly, had fallen right into the trap. You sighed just a moment before reaching for your weapon, trying to hide your nerves from the men.
The first shot came even before you could say anything.
You threw yourself behind a concrete column as several bullets shattered the boxes you had just inspected. You took advantage of the brief silence to return fire, forcing two men to take cover.
You only hit one, as he uttered a scream upon taking a hit to the side.
You changed position before they could surround you and you knew your training was paying off. You knew where to position yourself, when to shoot, and when to move. You closed distances, forced the enemy to make mistakes, and made the most of every second of cover.
But there were too many of them.
You didn't realize when one had already come up from behind, and you turned just in time to dodge a blow from the butt of a rifle, responding with an elbow that made your attacker stagger. You managed to disarm him, but another man hit you in the ribs before you could recover your balance.
The air escaped your lungs, but even so you managed to fight your way to an emergency door and pushed the metal bar with all your strength.
It didn't budge at all.
Understanding that they had blocked it from the outside, you looked for another exit. However, a second later you took an impact to your vest, forcing you back several steps as pain spread through your entire chest. Once there, another shot grazed your shoulder.
It didn't take long for them to surround you –and of course they were going to, it was just you out there in the middle– until panic took hold of you. You had never thought it was reckless to go alone and now you feared it was going to cost you your life.
One pointed at you and you had no time to react.
A web attached itself to the barrel of the rifle, deflecting it toward the ceiling just as the shot echoed through the warehouse.
The gun flew out of the man's hands, while a red and blue figure descended swinging between the ceiling beams, landing with the lightness of someone who seemed to have rehearsed that movement hundreds of times.
“You know?” he commented while another web immobilized two more men “There are much healthier ways to receive visitors.”
You felt something tighten in your jaw.
No.
It couldn't be him.
Spiderman dodged a burst of gunfire with an almost insulting ease. He jumped between the shelves, used webs to disarm some, knock down others, and leave those trying to escape immobilized.
Chaotic. Unpredictable. But ridiculously efficient.
You took advantage of the distraction to get up and return to the fight. Between the two of you, you quickly reduced the rest of the group, until the warehouse was plunged into a silence interrupted only by the groans of the criminals stuck to the floor.
You were breathing heavily when he approached.
“Are you okay?”
The question sounded so natural that it almost managed to irritate you more. You looked at him for a few seconds before answering.
“I had it under control.”
Spiderman tilted his head slightly, observing the vest marked by the bullet impact and the blood slowly trickling down your arm.
“Sure.”
He paused.
“If it helps, from the outside it didn't give that impression.”
You clenched your jaw.
“Who called you?”
“Nobody.”
He answered as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
“I heard gunshots while I was patrolling.”
He wasn't following that investigation. He didn't know your operation, he didn't even know who those men were. He had simply heard that someone needed help.
And he had shown up.
You wished you were upset with him, but you couldn't be. Especially not after he had probably saved your life.
He remained there until you obtained all the information you needed. Afterward, he even offered to take you back to the tower, which you immediately refused. Still, a part of you knew, even before crossing the main door, that he had stayed close enough to make sure you arrived safe and sound. He was absurdly gentlemanly. And you hated him for that.
The days kept passing. From time to time, his figure appeared on the news or flooded social media: saving a child trapped under the rubble of a building, thwarting a robbery on the subway, helping an old man cross an avenue after an evacuation. He was always there. He always arrived on time.
You kept doing your job, but you couldn't get him out of your head.
You weren't thinking about the boy hiding his face under the mask. You were thinking about Spiderman.
Since Tony Stark's death and Captain America's disappearance, the world had ceased to have figures who seemed to belong to something larger than themselves. Sam Wilson was doing what he could to fill that void, trying to assemble a new team under Steve Rogers' legacy. However, Valentina had built hers first, and you were already part of it.
That was supposed to be the right path.
Wasn't it?
Bucky had known Steve better than anyone. If anyone understood what it meant to continue his legacy, it had to be him. So why did you keep feeling like something didn't fit?
It was enough to remember the past of each of your teammates for the contradiction to appear again. Murderers, mercenaries, spies... people trying to do good while carrying decades of mistakes. You yourself were no exception.
It was frustrating.
And then you went back to Spiderman.
He didn't need to belong to any team. He didn't answer to anyone, he didn't wait for orders or permission. He simply saw someone in danger and acted. While the rest argued over governments, jurisdictions, or who had the right to call themselves an Avenger, he kept roaming New York, saving one life after another without asking for recognition.
That was what hurt you the most to admit. Because he was exactly the kind of hero you had always wanted to be. And, instead, the last time you tried to do something on your own, you had ended up needing Spiderman to rescue you.
You hadn't even been capable of completing a simple reconnaissance mission without turning into someone who needed to be saved.
The feeling was unbearable.
You felt... small. Pathetic.
That night, unable to fall asleep, you ended up wandering around the tower. The balcony was one of the few places where silence still existed. You liked to imagine that, years ago, Captain America had also stopped there, observing the city with the same weight on his shoulders. Maybe wondering, just like you now, if wanting to do the right thing would ever be enough.
It was then that a noise alerted you. It had been barely noticeable, but for a trained —and sharp— ear like yours, it was enough. The first thing you thought of was Bob.
Maybe he had another nightmare. Maybe something had gone wrong.
However, you discarded the idea almost instantly. Bob was incapable of moving discreetly. He tried to, yes, but he ended up tripping over anything or announcing his presence before even entering a room. Getting scared easily had that effect on him.
Then, who?
You frowned.
The tower was practically empty. The rest of the team had left hours ago and you had stayed behind as support in case Bob needed anything. There was no one else who should be there.
That only left one possibility. An intruder.
Out of pure instinct you reached a hand to your waist, searching for a weapon that you knew perfectly well wasn't there. You had gone out to the balcony convinced it would only be a few minutes; you hadn't considered it necessary to carry one. You were at home, why the hell would you walk around with a gun in your own building?
You took a deep breath and advanced slowly, making sure not to make noise. If whoever had entered didn't expect to run into anyone, you still held the element of surprise. And if they also didn't know how to fight...
Well, you would have a chance.
As soon as you turned the corner, two familiar colors appeared in front of you: red and blue.
You closed your eyes for a second and let out your breath in a sigh heavy with annoyance.
Of course it was him.
“What are you doing here?”
Spiderman gave a small start upon hearing your voice.
“Oh! I'm sorry, I...” he raised both hands immediately, as if he had just been caught doing something wrong “I didn't expect to find anyone.”
He pointed inside the tower with his thumb.
“I was looking for Agent Belova.”
“Yelena?”
He nodded.
“She's not here,” you explained, regaining your composure “In fact, nobody is. They went out on a mission.”
Wishing that he wouldn't underestimate you or believe, for a moment, that they hadn't wanted to bring you along, you added:
“I stayed behind to keep Bob company.”
For a moment, Spiderman remained completely motionless.
Although the mask hid his expression, there was something in the way he slightly lowered his shoulders and averted his gaze that conveyed a silent apology. It was evident that he hadn't wanted to barge in that way, much less startle you.
“It's just… I need help with something and I thought she could help me.”
“Well, she's not here. Call her when she gets back.”
He let out a brief laugh, more out of nerves than amusement.
“Yeah... that's what I was planning to do.”
He kept quiet for a moment, as if he were deciding whether to say something else or simply leave.
He ended up doing the former.
“It's just... I've been following a group for a couple of days that has been stealing tech equipment. Nothing especially eye-catching separately, but when you put all the robberies together... they start to look too specific.”
He reached a hand into one of the compartments on his belt and pulled out a small metallic device, the size of a USB drive.
He held it between two fingers.
“This dropped during the chase of one of them. I thought it might tell me something, but I haven't been able to figure out what it is.”
You observed it for barely a second. You didn't recognize the device.
“And what does that have to do with us?”
He scratched the back of his neck over the mask.
“Well, I thought that… Yelena would know how to identify weapons, military tech, and stuff like that. Or that there would be something in the databases.”
You couldn't argue with that logic.
“Besides,” he continued “I was told that before forming this team she did a lot of intelligence work. I thought maybe she could help me figure out who is behind it.”
He slowly lowered his hand.
“But if she's not here, I'll find another way.”
He took half a step toward the edge of the balcony, ready to leave. You noticed by the way he slightly flexed his legs, preparing to shoot a web.
You could have let him leave without any problem because, at the end of the day, you didn't even care about helping him. But a part of you felt that it wasn't the right thing to do.
One always had to do the right thing.
“Wait,” you murmured, before he left “Let me see that.”
In barely two strides he came back to you and placed the device on your hand.
You turned it over a couple of times between your fingers. It had no visible markings, no serial number, no inscription.
“I don't know what it is.”
Spiderman nodded with barely perceptible disappointment.
“But we can investigate it.”
“Really?”
“Inside. We have analysis labs, databases, and reconnaissance equipment that are considerably more advanced than any home computer… or whatever it is you use.”
There was a brief silence.
“Come.”
You led him into the building. The balcony doors closed automatically behind you both, and the silence of the night was replaced by the constant hum of the electrical systems.
Spiderman walked a few steps behind you, discreetly looking at every corner.
The lobby was immense. Glass panels lined the walls; several screens remained on displaying maps, satellite readings, and real-time reports. Even at those hours, the tower seemed to keep functioning as if it never slept.
“Wow...”
His voice came out almost as a whisper, genuinely impressed by how imposing the inside of the tower was. You wondered if he had ever been inside during its prime, that of the original Avengers, but you doubted it.
You led him to an analysis room located several hallways further ahead, where the doors opened upon recognizing your ID.
The lab was practically empty.
In the center rested a huge interactive glass table. Several holographic screens remained suspended above it, while different analysis modules surrounded the room.
Spiderman stood motionless as soon as he crossed the door. He slowly turned his head from one station to another.
“All of this is… next level, right?”
You smiled faintly to yourself. It was impossible not to notice the genuine awe with which he observed every piece of equipment.
There was no ambition in his voice, nor greed. Just curiosity.
You approached the main console and activated the interface, making the room come alive immediately.
You asked him to put the device in one of the slots and a few seconds later, the scanner began to slowly move across the surface of the object.
As the system initiated the analysis, you crossed your arms.
“Don't get used to it. I'm only helping you this time.”
His white lenses narrowed slightly, as if trying to interpret the reason.
“Why?”
You looked at him directly.
“Because you helped me last time.”
You paused briefly.
“Consider it a settled debt.”
Spiderman remained silent for a few seconds. Then he tilted his head slightly.
“I don't… think we were in debt. I didn't do it for that, really.”
“I know,” you admitted.
Silence settled between the two of you again. He didn't press.
He simply watched as the screens began to display the first results, understanding that, behind that distant attitude, there was a person incapable of ignoring someone in need of help. Even if she wasn't ready to admit it yet.
When it was all over, you told him you hoped the information would be useful to him and he thanked you before leaving.
A few days later he returned to the tower, but this time, he wasn't looking for Yelena, but for you. He told you that thanks to the information he had managed to discover the origin of the robberies; it was an altered weapons trafficking network. He managed to dismantle it thanks to the lead he had.
It surprised you that he had decided to tell you about it, as if the trouble of using the machines ought to be rewarded with good news. You accompanied him to the balcony and as you watched him swinging through the city, you promised yourself it would be the only time you were going to do him a favor.
Unfortunately, that wasn't the case.
He appeared more often than you wished on the tower balcony to ask you endless questions and request that you investigate something for him. It was almost always minor things, something that would only help him take the necessary step or find an adequate starting point for his investigation.
The news was right about something: New York was safer thanks to him.
When you got fed up with being surprised at the window of your room in the complex or having to go to the balcony to meet him, you told him he could have your number. Only in case of emergencies.
Thus, you ended up getting calls at least once a week from the vigilante from Queens.
“But it makes no sense,” you heard him say, on the other end of the line.
You were leaning against the kitchen island resting, after having handled off-the-record matters assigned by Valentina.
His voice came through broken up by the wind. You didn't need to ask him where he was to imagine him swinging between buildings with the phone held between his shoulder and his mask.
“What makes no sense?”
“Last week we dismantled a substance trafficking network. Today I found another one. Two days ago I stopped a robbery in Queens and, while I was taking the guy to the police, I received three more alerts. It's like the city always finds a way to fill the gaps.”
You remained silent for a few seconds before answering.
“That's crime for you,” you admitted bitterly.
If he had been in front of you, he would have seen you press your lips together and shrug. You heard a sigh on the other end of the line.
“I guess I hoped that, over time, things would get better.”
“Do you think they haven't gotten better?” you asked, almost offended.
It took him a moment to answer.
“I don't know.”
“Well then you're dumber than I thought.”
“Do you think I'm dumb?”
“Naive would be a better adjective.”
The silence that followed was brief, but different. It wasn't uncomfortable; it sounded more like someone thinking while traversing the city.
“The city is safer,” you assured him “Even if you don't believe it.”
“And how are you so sure?”
“Because the numbers say so. The news too. I thought you watched it... especially since lately they won't stop talking about you.”
The kid let out a low laugh.
“I try not to read much of what they say about Spiderman.”
“Why?”
“Because one day I'm the neighborhood hero and the next, responsible for all of Manhattan's problems.”
The conversation seemed to remain suspended after that. You stood looking at an indefinite point in front of you, with the phone pressed against your ear, while the distant noise of the city formed an indistinguishable murmur.
On the other end of the line, he waited. First one second. Then two. He didn't push; he thought you were simply thinking of a response. But the silence stretched long enough for it to stop seeming like a natural pause.
The only thing he could hear was your breathing.
“Are you okay?”
You frowned slightly.
“Why?”
“You sound weird.”
You let out a nasal laugh.
“Great. Now you can tell how I am by the way I talk?”
“And how do you know I'm not spying on you through the window?”
By reflex you turned your head toward the huge kitchen window. The city was still there, immense, illuminated, and completely empty.
Then you heard his laugh.
“You turned around, didn't you?”
You rolled your eyes.
“You're a dummy.”
“But you did turn around.”
You shook your head, surprised to have let yourself be fooled so easily. Why had he made you smile?
“But seriously, is something wrong?”
The smile faded bit by bit. You rested a hand on the kitchen counter, debating whether you should tell him what was bothering you or not.
“Today I was in a meeting,” you began.
A part of you expected him to interrupt you, but since he didn't, you continued.
“There were people arguing for hours over who had the authority to intervene in a situation that's been getting worse for weeks. In the end they resolved nothing. They only agreed to meet again.”
He kept silent.
“And while they talk about jurisdictions, permits, and diplomatic consequences… someone else ends up doing the job.”
You weren't going to admit it out loud, but both of you knew exactly who you were referring to. Silence returned. You paid attention, almost out of habit, and noticed how the wind disappeared on the other side of the call.
“I'm starting to think the world spends more time discussing problems than solving them.”
Spiderman's breathing became more steady, closer. He had stopped moving. You imagined he had just landed on the roof of his building and that, for the first time since you had started talking, all his attention was on you.
“Sometimes I don't know if it's worth it.”
This time his response came almost immediately.
“You don't want to be in the new Avengers?”
“What? No! I didn't mean that. Of course I want to be there. But...” you let the air out slowly, searching for the right words “sometimes it's frustrating to want to do something and discover that, no matter how hard you try, you simply can't.”
He remained quiet for a few seconds. This time he didn't try to contradict you or offer an immediate solution.
Silence settled back in, although it no longer felt so heavy.
“Well… there's always space on my team.”
You smiled involuntarily.
“Spiderman works in a team?”
“I could start doing so.”
You raised an eyebrow, even though he couldn't see it.
“What a terrible way to recruit people.”
“I don't have much experience.”
A laugh escaped from both of you, small, genuine.
For the first time since you had answered the call, the conversation no longer revolved around a case or an investigation. You were simply talking and, honestly, neither of you seemed to be in a hurry to hang up.
“Did you get home?”
“Just now. Honestly, I hope no emergency pulls me out of bed. I'm exhausted.”
You smiled faintly.
“Crime doesn't rest. But you should.”
“I'll try.”
Thinking that there was nothing left to discuss, you sighed:
“Good night, Spiderman.”
“Good night.”
He made a brief pause before adding:
“I hope you feel better tomorrow.”
You frowned slightly.
“Thank you.”
The call ended a few seconds later.
You would have never thought you'd end up swinging through the city in Spiderman's arms. In fact, if someone had told you a few weeks ago —a few months, actually— you probably would have thought it was one of the most absurd ideas you had ever heard.
And yet, there you were.
Your arms were around his shoulders while the lights of New York passed beneath your feet, trying to ignore how un-normal the situation was.
Spiderman always called you when he needed a favor. A clue, a location, an answer that only you could find. That night had been different: this time it was you who had called him.
You had hesitated before dialing his number. Not because you didn't trust him, but because asking for help had never been easy for you. You were used to solving things alone.
A tracking device had disappeared during an operation and the last signal located it inside an abandoned building in an industrial zone. It wasn't something that justified mobilizing an entire team, but you couldn't simply go in either without knowing what you would find. There were too many variables and very little information.
Spiderman had agreed to help you without thinking twice about it.
You had spent the last hour following the signal, checking the place, and making sure no one else was using the building as a meeting point. In the end, it turned out to be less complicated than expected: the device was hidden among abandoned equipment in one of the upper rooms and it had only been impossible to retrieve because the structure was unstable.
When you finished, the tension of the mission vanished almost at once.
That was when you mentioned that you were dying for a burger. It hadn't been a request or an invitation, just a comment after a day that was far too long. But Spiderman seemed to have taken it as a new task.
“Is it much further? I feel like you're going to drop me any second.”
“I would never,” he assured you, letting out a laugh.
In reality, his grip was quite strong. You had never noticed how muscular he was. Of course you knew Spiderman possessed extraordinary strength; you had seen him stop blows capable of knocking down walls and carry objects no normal person could move. But there was a difference between observing him from a distance and feeling the security with which he held you while crossing the city.
After a few more minutes of swinging between buildings, he finally slowed down. The city lights stopped moving so fast around you until you landed on the roof of a building.
Although Spiderman tried to go unnoticed, it wasn't exactly easy to ignore someone in a brightly colored suit coming in to eat a burger. So he had bought takeout from a nearby place and had decided a rooftop was the best alternative.
Apparently, after so many years traversing the city that way, he also knew which ones had the best views.
“Before being Spiderman, were you afraid of heights?” you asked with apparent indifference.
As you spoke, you walked along the narrow edge of the roof with your arms slightly spread from your body to keep your balance. Every step was deliberate, almost playful, as if you enjoyed testing your stability. Spiderman, on the other hand, didn't take his eyes off you for a second.
“No... but now you're making me nervous. Do you want to get down from there?”
You smiled sideways, amused by the change in his tone.
“Seriously? Would you let me fall?”
“No,” he answered immediately.
You didn't even notice when he had closed the distance between you. You only realized it when his hand found your arm and held it with a delicacy that contrasted with the urgency of his movement.
“But I don't want that to happen either.”
You couldn't see his eyes behind the mask. Even so, there was something in the way he stood in front of you, with a firm hand on your arm and his body prepared to support you if necessary, that made you lose part of that carefree confidence.
Without saying anything else, you stepped down from the edge of the roof. He didn't loosen his grip until both of you had your feet on solid ground.
“So then?”
“So then what?”
“Were you afraid of heights?”
“No,” he confessed “But I was of spiders.”
“You're kidding.”
“I'm serious,” he laughed. He was already moving some boxes so you could sit down “Great irony, right?”
“That's a lie. You're saying it to annoy me,” you murmured, still incredulous.
He made a polite gesture to you, as if giving you passage to a chair of honor, and you took a seat. He did the same and then handed you the food bag, where there were two plain burgers and an order of french fries.
As soon as you had it, you took a bite of yours. The silence that settled between both of you was comfortable; it was only accompanied by the distant rumor of traffic and the occasional sound of paper wrapping the food.
After a few seconds, he turned his head slightly toward you.
“Where did you learn everything you know?”
“About what?”
“Well, about everything. You know, your… agent skills.”
The gesture he made brought a laugh out of you. He seemed to point at all of you with his hand.
“From my parents. They were S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, before the organization was dismantled.”
He let out a whistle of surprise.
“Really? How cool.”
You pulled the other burger out of the bag and offered it to him. He took it with a gesture of gratitude.
“What about yours? What did they do?”
“They died when I was a kid. Almost my whole life I lived with my aunt and uncle.”
You lowered your gaze.
“Oh... I'm sorry.”
He brushed it off with a small movement of his shoulders.
“It's okay. It wasn't your fault.”
You took another bite of the burger before speaking again.
“You know? It's really strange...”
He waited for you to finish the thought.
“There's so little I know about you.”
“That's supposed to be the idea of having a secret identity.”
You smiled.
“Fair enough. Then I'll ask normal questions.”
Spiderman tilted his head slightly, amused.
“What's your favorite movie?”
He thought for a few seconds.
“I don't have just one. I like the ones about space.”
You raised an eyebrow.
“Have you been there?”
“Yeah. A while ago.”
He said it so naturally that it took you a second to process it.
Of course. The Avengers. The originals.
“What food can't you stand?”
“Avocado. I hate the texture. And I don't like jello either.”
You smiled before throwing out the next question.
“Who did you vote for in the last election?”
He let out a laugh.
“I wasn't old enough to vote.”
You frowned.
“What do you mean you weren't old enough?”
“Yeah. It was four years ago.”
You froze for a few seconds.
Something didn't add up.
You turned your body to look at him better.
“Wait... how old are you?”
“Twenty-two.”
He made a brief pause before adding:
“Well... I'd be a few years older, but you know... the blip thing.”
You stared at him intently. The information took an instant to settle in your head.
Twenty-two.
Spiderman was twenty-two years old.
You had never thought about it. He had always seemed... older. Not because of his appearance —you didn't even know his face—, but because of the way he spoke, because of the responsibility he carried on his shoulders, because of the way he faced every situation as if he had been doing it for years.
He tilted his head.
“What?”
You blinked.
“It's just... I never imagined you were my age.”
He burst out laughing.
“And how old did you think I was?”
You thought about it for a moment.
“I don't know... thirty?”
“Thirty?!”
He let out a loud laugh.
“Of course not! Why would you think that?”
You shrugged, unable to justify it.
“I don't know... you just... give off that impression.”
Since you had started talking, he hadn't touched his food. When he unwrapped the burger you saw him lift his mask just a little bit to take a bite.
“You never take it off, do you?”
“Hm-hm,” he hummed.
You took a moment to observe him or, at least, what little he was revealing. He was Caucasian and, apparently, had brown hair.
“Did your curiosity run out?”
“What's your favorite color?”
“Red.”
“Yeah, well, that one wasn't that hard.”
You kept quiet, thinking of another question.
“Hmm, what do you love most in life?”
“Helping others. A person very important to me used to say that: when you help someone, you help everyone. And I think that's what makes me get up every day. Thinking that… maybe I can help make the world a better place.”
You stayed quiet for a second. You had never stopped to think that, just maybe, Spiderman and you weren't so different. You both wanted to do something good in life and, somehow, you were doing it. He had never done anything to you, all that rejection you had felt at the beginning stemmed from a childish spat that he wasn't even aware of.
He was a good person.
“That's the answer expected of a superhero.”
“I also have other passions, I must confess. I really like science, I like technology, legos…”
“Legos? Spiderman, you're a total nerd.”
You couldn't help letting out a soft laugh while turning your face slightly to look at him. He also tilted his head toward you.
“What about you? Did you always dream of being part of the Avengers?”
You felt the title was too big for you. In reality, you were nothing like the idea you had of what an Avenger should be. And yet, Spiderman recognized you as one.
“I just wanted to be like my parents. I wanted… to do something good for the world. Maybe not fix it, but help.”
His mask was still lifted to the level of his nose and, for the first time, you saw his smile.
“One would think that's everyone's dream, right? Though it turns out it's not always like that. That's why we have work.”
You two shared a soft laugh. Not as agents, but as friends.
You searched his eyes and going down toward his lips, you realized he had a stain of ketchup. Without thinking too much about it, you stretched out a bit to wipe it off him.
Upon feeling your hand touching his skin he flinched, but as soon as he understood your intentions, his shoulders relaxed.
“Is Spiderman afraid of being touched?”
“Of course not,” he huffed, clearly nervous.
Or uncomfortable, you couldn't figure it out.
“It's just… I didn't expect it.”
“That someone would wipe a stain off your face?”
“That someone would invade my personal space with so much confidence.”
You observed him for a few seconds, pretending to analyze him.
“I thought a New York hero would be more used to attention.”
“It depends on who it comes from.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“There are people who make me more nervous than stopping a robbery.”
A mischievous smile appeared on your lips.
“And which category do I fall into?”
He took a second longer than necessary to answer.
“I'm not going to answer that.”
“How convenient.”
“It's self-preservation.”
“So I do make you nervous.”
“That's not what I said.”
“But you didn't deny it either.”
He let out a laugh, shaking his head.
“You're impossible.”
Having annoyed him made you laugh and, for a second, you forgot who he was. You weren't with the hero of New York, he was just a twenty-two-year-old guy whose name you didn't even know, but with whom you shared a moral mission.
You two finished eating and he swung to take you home. Soon the already familiar goodbye scene unfolded on the balcony.
“Thanks for today,” you murmured, once your feet touched the ground.
“It was nothing.”
His voice sounded sincere. He stayed on the edge, waiting for you to go through the door.
But instead of walking backward, you took a step forward.
Your feet moved on their own and when you reached him, you gave him a kiss on the cheek over the mask. You were close enough to see the blur of his eyes behind the white visors.
He looked at himself for a second, surprised by what you had just done. Then, on an impulse that not even you managed to question, you raised your hands to the edge of his mask.
He instantly tensed up.
“Wait...”
His fingers moved by reflex, as if they were going to stop you, but they remained suspended halfway.
“Relax,” you murmured right away, without taking your eyes off him.
He remained completely motionless, watching you in silence, trusting you, even though evident nervousness ran through his whole body. With extreme slowness, you lifted the fabric just enough to reveal his lips.
Your eyes searched for his through the mask, expecting to find a refusal, a gesture of discomfort, or any sign that would make you stop, but there was nothing. Only his Adam's apple moving up and down in a clear sign of anticipation.
You closed the minimal distance that still separated you both and brushed his lips with yours. It wasn't a long or passionate kiss. Barely a brief, soft contact, almost a question. But he responded.
With his lips still revealed, you stayed watching him for a few more seconds.
“What color are your eyes?”
It took him an instant to answer.
“Brown.”
“Mmm...”
You hummed with a small smile, as if you had just discovered a fascinating piece of information.
“But a… sweet brown, right? With amber touches.”
“I guess, yeah.”
“I imagined them like that.”
He let out a low laugh, unable to understand why that simple question seemed to have left you so satisfied.
You took a step back and smiled at him.
“Good night, Spiderman.”
You gave him one last smile and began to walk away toward the door leading inside the building. You were a couple of steps from crossing it when something softly wrapped around your wrist.
With a precise tug, the web tightened and your body was pulled backward. You let out a small muffled gasp as the distance between you disappeared in an instant.
Spiderman caught you by the waist before you could collide with him.
You would have liked to have the wit to fire back anything, but you were left speechless. And he didn't say anything either. He simply leaned toward you and kissed you.
His kiss was long enough to make you forget the cold wind blowing on the roof and the distant noise of the city. When he finally pulled away, you knew you were completely blushing.
“Good night…” he said with a small smile “And, please, don't try to take off my mask again without warning.”
He covered his face again and, before you could say another word, shot a web toward the building across the street.
With a push he disappeared among the lights of New York.
You stood motionless for a few seconds, watching the place where he had gone, until an inevitable smile formed on your face. Then you went inside the building, still with the tingling of that last kiss on your lips.
warnings: spoilerss, mention of body insecurity (this is really self-indulgent, okay?), written in third person. It’s a really short one I wrote after watching the movie. I’ll write something better over the next few days, but I think it’s worth sharing
Peter felt strange at the thought of what he was about to do.
Many things had happened in his life lately.
Reluctantly, he had listened to DeWolff and taken her advice about taking a break. To say he was exhausted was an understatement and, besides, after almost dying, he felt like even breathing hurt.
He was trying new things. He wanted to reclaim his life as Peter and stop letting Spider-Man take over everything.
Talking to MJ had given him that last push he needed to move forward. Not because he had stopped loving her, but because now he was certain that she no longer loved him.
He thought that four years away from her would be enough to get over her, though evidently that wasn’t the case. However, he had to try. One day at a time.
Among all the things he hoped to change was, of course, leaving his solitude behind and finding his way back into the world.
Having to turn to Frank for help had also made him think quite a bit. There really were very few people he could trust. Not as Spider-Man, but as Peter.
And it’s not that he had been looking to fill that void with someone else, but rather… for the first time since the spell, he realized it might be nice to have a friend again.
Or, rather, he decided to do something about it.
That’s why, when the girl from the apartment downstairs greeted him in the hallway again, he responded with more than a monosyllable.
She never gave up. She always asked him how he was doing, smiled at him whenever they crossed paths, and found some excuse to start a conversation, even though he rarely gave her more than a polite gesture in return.
The change came a few days later.
“Are you a Star Wars fan?” Peter asked.
They were both in the elevator when he noticed a small pin on her backpack. He didn’t even know how long it had been there. He simply had never stopped to pay that kind of attention.
“Yes! A little, yeah. Truth is, I only recently started watching the movies. I know they came out a long time ago, but… it’s a recent obsession.”
Since moving into the building, almost a year after Peter, she had never seen him start a conversation. Much less smile at her. That’s why the expression he gave her caught her completely off guard.
Afraid the silence would settle between them again, she continued:
“Do you like them?”
Peter nodded.
He told her he had been a fan since he was a kid and, before he knew it, they were talking about the movies she had already seen, which ones came next, and the order in which he thought she should watch them. The conversation ended only when the elevator’s ding announced they had reached the lobby.
But it wasn’t the last one.
Casual encounters in the hallways became more frequent. Star Wars gave way to conversations about books, music, and work.
Peter discovered that he liked running into her whenever he came home because there always seemed to be something new to talk about.
She, like many people in New York, deeply admired Spider-Man.
She even told him that he had once saved her during an accident, though she had never gotten a good look at him.
Peter had never realized that incident could have put her in so much danger. Knowing he had managed to help her brought him a quiet sense of satisfaction that he kept to himself.
Before he realized it, he was coming up with little excuses to see her.
He started using the laundry room more often than necessary, taking out the trash right when he knew she was getting home from work, or lingering a few extra minutes in the building’s lobby.
At first, they were carefully orchestrated coincidences.
Eventually, they stopped pretending they were coincidences at all.
One afternoon, Peter asked if she wanted to go grocery shopping with him. He wanted to learn how to cook again and admitted, a little embarrassed, that he didn’t know any good places to buy fresh vegetables.
She accepted right away.
During the shopping trip, they ended up talking more than either of them expected and, before saying goodbye, she offered to teach him a few simple recipes. Laughing, she admitted she wasn’t exactly an expert herself.
A few days later, Peter made one of those recipes on his own.
He invited her over for dinner.
And, without either of them being able to point to the exact moment it happened, they stopped needing an excuse to see each other.
“You know I don’t invite you over just so you can swap out the water jugs, right?”
The afternoon had settled in peacefully. The windows were open, letting the warm summer breeze drift through the kitchen and gently stir the curtains. She was wearing an old T-shirt and a pair of pants, the kind of clothes people only wore when they knew they had no one to impress. Peter didn’t look much different: a gray hoodie with the sleeves pushed up and a pair of dark sweatpants. Neither of them looked as though they had been expecting company.
“But if I don’t do it, who will?”
“I was doing it before I met you,” she said with a shrug.
“Yeah, but I already told you that you could hurt yourself. Besides, when I come over, you cook for me, so we’re even.”
“It surprises me to think you used to have such a terrible diet. Little Caesars, Takis, protein shakes… And look at you! Not even a hint of a belly. I try to live a healthy lifestyle, and I look like I’m pregnant.”
“You are fine,” he murmured for what had to be the thousandth time. “I already told you you’re not fat. People’s bodies change. You can’t expect to look the same way you did in high school.”
“I wish I could.”
Peter had already stepped over to her side and, knowing she wouldn’t accept a lecture about her insecurities, decided not to push it. Before he could say anything else, she scooped up a spoonful from the pot and held it out for him to taste. Peter leaned in and took a bite, smiling as he did. The sight of it made her smile too.
“It tastes really good.”
“I added more salt this time. And a few seasonings. Who would’ve thought they’d make such a difference?”
Peter let out a laugh at the obvious sarcasm and started carrying the plates to the table.
They ended up spending more time at her apartment than at his. His neighbor still wasn’t convinced that all the asbestos had been removed from the building after the last repair, and Peter never found a good enough reason to argue with her about it.
As the weeks went by, he also discovered that she had battles of her own to fight.
One afternoon, while they were putting away the groceries, she told him about her history with mental health and how hard she worked to stay stable. She wasn’t looking for pity. She just wanted him to understand why there were days when getting out of bed felt impossible.
Peter realized he wasn’t the only one trying to rebuild his life.
From then on, they both had someone to think about when things went wrong.
And when something finally went right, they had someone they couldn’t wait to tell.
“Who are you talking to so much, kid?”
Frank had been noticing the change for weeks.
Peter smiled more. Whenever he came to visit, he was in a better mood. He took every free moment he had to reply to messages and, every now and then, he even found himself laughing at his phone.
He looked up to answer.
“A friend.”
The words came out so naturally that they caught him off guard.
summary: you and Bob train side by side, testing each other’s limits—and slowly, trust turns into desire.
masterlist
Hey! This was the reader that won the poll, so I hope you like it. Witch!reader came in second. Would you like to read something like this? Let me know in the comments, and if you have any ideas, they'll be welcome.
warnings: +16, mentions of sexual acts, implied smut, mentions of prison, Bob and the reader don't get along that well at first, lol
The training room smelled of a mix of sweat, unresolved tension, and a bit of the smoothie Bob had spilled earlier that day.
It had been about a year since you’d joined the newly formed New Avengers team, a title that sounded far more optimistic than it felt. You’d never expected to return to the ranks of heroes. Before that, you’d been part of the original team, though your name rarely made it into the headlines. The heroes who shone on the covers were always others, while you were left to the discreet missions, the shadows, and sometimes even the dirty work.
Valentina Allegra de Fontaine had tried to recruit you the moment Mel suggested it. Her calculated smile made it clear that she saw you as an asset, a perfect addition to her board. After all, you fit the profile she looked for in her agents: competent enough to be effective, and with just enough of a criminal record to have no better options. After all, the Sokovia Accords had hit you just like many of your former teammates.
However, Valentina hadn’t counted on Bucky Barnes stepping in. He was the one who negotiated your place on the team: not to use you as a weapon, but to give you a second chance. That gesture had surprised everyone, even you, as you still couldn’t quite figure out what he’d seen in someone like you. It was probably the shared trauma, and the fact that you had once fought on the same side, that motivated him to mediate your joining the team.
The first time around, prison had been the price for your mistakes. But your relapse had been fueled entirely by frustration after disappearing in the Blip and coming back to a world that hadn’t waited for you. You’d returned with no family waiting, no home to go back to, barely a handful of friends, and a bitterness that had grown from being frozen in time while everyone else moved on.
That’s why, even after all the time that had passed, you were still learning to breathe in this new environment. To trust, even just a little, the people you trained and went on missions with. Even if, at first, you hadn’t connected with all of them.
Bob had been the first to get under your skin. With his imposing presence and that strange air of eternal exhaustion, he always seemed moments away from breaking something… or breaking himself. You never knew what to expect from him. And he never knew what to expect from you.
Being equally guarded, it was no surprise that you didn’t bond immediately. The chill between you was so obvious that the rest of the team had learned not to comment on it. His silence contrasted with your strong personality, making every clash between you two feel like a battle no one else could understand.
What no one expected was that, amidst all the restrained fights and warning glances, something else was quietly forming.
It wasn’t a lightning strike or a dramatic revelation; it was a slow, almost imperceptible process that started with one simple fact: no matter how chaotic things got, you two always had each other’s backs.
By the time you realized it, Bob had become a fixed point in your life. The man you’d sworn never to get close to had inevitably become the one place you began to feel safe. And it was because he understood you. It wasn’t pity or condescension; he genuinely knew how cruel the world could be for the unlucky ones.
Legally, you were older than Bob. But in terms of life experience, you were about the same age, courtesy of the years you’d lost, and he hadn’t.
Eventually, it became normal to see the two of you sitting on the couch. You barely spoke, Bob was usually reading while you scrolled through your phone, but even though you could’ve been anywhere else in the tower, you both chose to be there. Together.
The interactions, though brief at first, started within weeks. It was only a matter of time before one sleepless night you ran into each other in the hallway and, with a mutual understanding, ended up making love in your room.
Bob had trained with several members of the team before, but after your little fling—which repeated itself more times than you could count—you’d suggested that you two train together. After all, if there was a thing between you now, you wanted to make sure he wouldn’t get hurt, or worse, in an emergency.
“You’re doing it wrong…” you murmured suddenly, pointing at his hands as he frowned in confusion. It was a bad habit he still hadn’t shaken. “Your hands… not like that.”
You stepped closer, gently taking his wrist between your fingers.
“Watch,” you said, positioning your own hand so he could feel the motion. “If you want to control someone without hurting them, grab the wrist first. Hold your stance, use your weight, not your arms.”
You guided his arm through a precise twist, and he hesitated as his balance faltered slightly.
“Like this,” you continued, stepping forward firmly with your opposite leg. “See? It all comes from how you anchor your body, not brute strength. If you learn to move like this, you can take down someone much bigger than you. Or more skilled, I should say.”
Bob didn’t say anything; he just watched you, trying to mimic the movement as you gently corrected his wrist. The brief brush of hands, the inevitable closeness, the shared breath… all of it made him more aware of you.
When he finally balanced himself correctly, you let go of his wrist and smiled in satisfaction.
“There you go. Much better.”
He returned your smile, a little shy, and seemed more at ease. In small gestures like this, in that contact and shared patience, the two of you discovered how to depend on each other.
“Alright,” you said, stepping back and adopting the stance you’d shown him. “Now… attack me.”
Bob gave you a focused look, brows furrowed, and nodded. At first, he’d hated the idea of attacking you—he thought it wasn’t right. Until the day you started taking him down repeatedly, forcing him to defend himself. Never cruelly, but firmly.
He advanced cautiously, measuring each movement, his steps echoing softly on the training room floor. His attacks weren’t violent, but they were fast enough that neither of you could stop. You blocked strike after strike, deflecting with precision, feeling every vibration travel through your limbs as you held your ground.
At one point, a harder blow connected with your side. You let out a small gasp, staggering back, exaggerating just enough to alarm him. Bob froze instantly, eyes wide, breath quick, stepping toward you with worry written all over his face.
“Are you okay? Did I hurt you?!” he asked, his voice full of alarm as he reached for you.
You smiled faintly, amused by how easily distracted he was, and seized the moment. With a quick motion, you shoved him back and gently pinned him to the ground, straddling him. You grabbed his wrists and held them down by his head, controlling every possible movement, and felt his breathing quicken as he realized how quickly he’d lost control.
Beneath you, his eyes clearly revealed how betrayed he felt.
“That’s cheating.”
“No, Bob. It’s strategy,” you said seriously, though a mischievous glint sparkled in your eyes. “You should never let yourself get distracted. You never know who might take advantage of that. In a real fight, a second of hesitation can be fatal.”
He blinked at you, breathing hard, still processing both the lesson and your speed. There was something about the way you moved—so confident and sure—that made him feel vulnerable, and at the same time, unexpectedly connected to you.
“But… it’s you. What was I supposed to do? Keep hitting you?”
“At least don’t get so close. You made it too easy,” you teased, raising an eyebrow.
Bob stayed silent, just staring at you, a little surprised, a little captivated. Your closeness, the feel of his wrists restrained by your hands, the warmth of your body over his… suddenly it felt like the sexiest sparring match in the world.
“By the way, I won.”
“That depends on how you look at it,” Bob shot back with a playful grin. “You’re on top of me, so…”
His words, spoken on a breath, made you laugh, and just to mess with him, you shifted on his lap, pressing against his crotch, barely covered by sweatpants.
Over the months, you’d learned that Bob had an insatiable sex drive. Fucking you was almost like an emotional outlet for him: if he was sad, the warmth of your body helped him forget his troubles. If he was frustrated, your pretty mouth on his cock would milk him until his brain chemistry evened out.
And on days when he was in high spirits, it was even worse—his good humor always came with an urge to touch you constantly; he’d corner you against the counter while you cooked, kissing every inch of your skin he could reach, until you turned off the stove and dragged him to the bedroom. On good days, between thrusts, he’d whisper against your lips how much he loved you, and other times he’d eat you out until your legs trembled uncontrollably.
You didn’t mind him being like that. You didn’t mind him being intense, unpredictable, or pushing your limits. Even the mix of his constant exhaustion with those bursts of energy and passion felt like part of what made him unique.
“You’re incorrigible…”
“Come closer, won’t you?” his voice came out low, deep, and laced with that dangerous softness that always disarmed you. He tilted his head slightly, his lips grazing the air between you.
Your laugh was soft, brief, before you leaned in just enough to kiss him. Bob accepted it gladly, letting the kiss deepen until he drew a gasp from you as he bit your lower lip. Seizing your distraction, he slipped his wrists from your hold and easily broke free. You didn’t mind; you were too busy savoring the warmth of his kisses, the scratch of his stubble against your skin, and the familiar scent of soap and sweat that clung to him.
He felt your body relax against his, and while you were busy kissing him breathless, he took the opportunity to grab your hips. In one swift move, he flipped you over, making you yelp in surprise. His knees pinned your legs, while one of his hands moved to grip both of your wrists.
“You should never let yourself get distracted,” he repeated, and you burst out laughing.
“Quick learner, huh?” you teased. You tried to move, but he didn’t let you. “Just hope you don’t improve so much that you start kissing everyone who crosses your path to win a fight.”
“Only pretty girls,” he joked.
You glared at him, your desire to strangle him thwarted only by your unfortunate position.
“Girls? Plural?”
“Only you,” he corrected with a low whisper, staring at your lips like they were the most tempting thing on earth before leaning down to kiss you again.
He slowly released your wrists, and the second he did, your hands went straight to his hair, fingers tangling with desperate need. Bob growled softly against your lips, the low sound vibrating against your chest, and one of his hands trailed down your side, tracing your figure as if he wanted to memorize it.
Training had been forgotten long ago. Between muffled laughter and hungry kisses, your legs wrapped around his hips, pulling him closer. He pulled back just long enough to look at you, breathing heavily, his pupils blown wide, reflecting the desire you both felt.
“We’re in the training room,” you murmured between breaths, aware of how inappropriate the scene was.
“I know,” he replied with a crooked smile.
“Bob…” you tried to warn him, though your voice sounded more like a plea.
“There are no cameras,” he assured, leaning down to kiss the curve of your jaw, moving slowly down your neck. “No one’s watching. Just you and me.”
Your nervous laugh vanished when he captured your lips again, and everything that followed made it clear that training wasn’t over… but the fight had changed into a different kind—one neither of you was willing to lose first.
summary: after losing each other for so long, two lovers begin to discover that normalcy exists in their embrace.
masterlist
Part one Part two Part three
Take this as a bonus, since I only planned to write three parts.
But I really loved this idea, so if you'd like to see different scenarios with the same reader, send me your ideas in my inbox! Thank you so much for all the love and support. Stay tuned for more Peter content after watching bnd<3
The subway was always dirty. Not just because of the worn-out cars or the permanent smell of metal, but because of the incessant murmur of other people’s thoughts that mixed with the hum of the air conditioning and the grinding of the tracks. It was a noise that never quite disappeared.
You had your headphones on and, for several minutes, you had been watching a man who, by your calculations, barely had a centimeter of skin left without tattoos. You couldn’t help but wonder how much pain he must have endured to cover almost his entire body in ink. Which one had been the first? How many had real meaning? Was there one he regretted?
In reality, you didn’t need to know. Imagining the answers was enough. A few months ago you had decided to stop searching for all the certainties that were within reach of your mutation. There was something pleasant about keeping certain mysteries. You discovered that not all questions needed an answer and that living with doubt was, at times, a way to feel a little more normal.
When the train arrived at the station, you got off along with the stream of passengers, trying to brush past as few people as possible. It was an almost impossible task at that hour, but you managed to make your way through the crowd without too many stumbles.
Upon reaching the platform, you looked up and scanned the area for someone you recognized. You kept walking a few meters, distracted among the people, until someone grabbed you by the arm.
Your body reacted before your mind. You were on the verge of shoving them away, but the tension vanished as soon as you recognized those brown eyes.
Even though the music was still dampening the bustle of the station, you managed to read his lips.
“Are you going somewhere?”
You took off one earbud and smiled.
“I was looking for my boyfriend,” you replied with amusement, “but I think it’s no longer necessary.”
Peter’s smile widened immediately. He wrapped an arm around your waist and left a light kiss on your cheek before intertwining his fingers with yours.
Without letting you go, he began to lead you along the platform with the ease of someone who knew that route by heart. You, on the other hand, had lost part of that habit after so many years away from the city. New York was still the same, but you no longer moved through it with the natural ease of before.
When you finally made it out onto the street, you were grateful to discover that thick grey clouds covered the sky. The sun barely managed to break through them, and the humid air announced approaching rain. It was much better than the suffocating heat you hated so much.
Peter led you to a less crowded sidewalk. Only when you were far from the constant flow of people did he turn to you with a calm expression.
“How was the trip?”
“A lot of people. But quiet.”
Peter set off walking without letting go of your hand, and you followed him without asking where you were going. Spending a day with him rarely meant following an itinerary; rather, it consisted of letting the city decide the next destination.
During the walk, you talked to him about your week at the mansion. About the practice sessions Scott had organized for the younger students and the late-night movie marathon you had done with Maximoff. You also mentioned that Hank had spent days shut in the lab trying to perfect one of his projects and that Charles had taken advantage of the good weather to teach some classes in the gardens.
Peter listened attentively, asking questions now and then or laughing. In return, he told you about his own weeks. Classes and assignment turn-ins were lighter due to the term—the start of the module—and fortunately work was more manageable. He had sold several photos that week, mostly of Spider-Man.
The streets began to fill up little by little as you both moved forward without rushing. You stopped in front of an antique book display window solely because one of the covers caught your attention. Further ahead, you bought two to-go coffees and kept walking, sharing small sips from each other’s cup without even thinking about it.
There was nothing extraordinary about that morning. And, precisely for that reason, it turned out to be perfect.
After everything you had experienced, being able to waste time walking through Queens, talking about anything at all and without looking at the clock, was a luxury you were just beginning to appreciate.
“Do you remember we came to this park once?” you asked suddenly.
It was a quiet place. Some kids were running behind a ball while several teenagers occupied the benches under the shade of the trees. Peter scanned the area with his eyes, looking for any detail that would spark a memory. He remained silent for a few seconds before shaking his head.
“Come on, make an effort. We were about thirteen. I had run away from home because my parents made me angry. I had seen a One Direction backpack that I loved and, when we went to buy it, we discovered there was only one left and...”
“They gave it to your sister,” he finished with a smile.
You looked at him, surprised.
“You remembered!”
You couldn’t help but laugh.
Those small moments kept bringing you a joy that was difficult to describe. It made sense that, over the years, some memories would fade; no one kept an entire childhood intact. But in Peter’s case, it was different. For so long you had believed that everything you shared had disappeared forever. Seeing how those memories were returning little by little, almost of their own accord, still felt like a small miracle to you.
“You cried so much that day,” he added.
You pointed a finger at him, feigning indignation.
“The one who cried was my sister. That’s precisely why they bought her the backpack.”
Peter let out a laugh.
You kept walking along the paths until stopping near the lake. The bustle of the park felt distant. You remained still for a few moments contemplating the water, comfortable in a silence that neither felt the need to break.
It was Peter who spoke first.
“Do you miss them?”
You turned your head slightly.
“My parents?”
He nodded.
You took a deep breath before answering.
“Sometimes. But... I think it’s not really them I miss.”
Peter waited without interrupting you.
“I miss the idea of having a family. We were never very close and... they always preferred my sister. I don’t say it with resentment. I left that phase behind a long time ago. I just think that, in a way, they always knew I was... different. Maybe they never understood exactly why, but they sensed it. And that meant they never truly got close to me.”
The hand holding yours tightened with a bit more strength. You smiled at him warmly and stepped in front of him.
“Don’t look at me like that. I don’t need you to feel sorry for me.”
You shook your head softly.
“I have incredible friends at the mansion. Charles gave me a home when I needed it most, and the others... ended up becoming the family I always wanted.”
Your free hand reached up to caress his cheek.
“And now I have you, too.”
Peter rested his face against your palm, without taking his eyes off yours.
“A bit late, but I came back.”
“You made it just in time.”
You smiled. He mimicked you.
“You should meet them someday,” you continued. “My friends.”
“Do you really think they’d like me?”
“Why wouldn’t they?” you replied with total naturalness. “You’re a good person. And besides, you have powers, like us.”
A laugh escaped his lips.
“That’s a secret. You know that, right?”
You rolled your eyes with a smile.
“I know. I don’t plan on going around revealing the identity of our local hero.”
Peter let out an exaggerated sigh of relief.
“Though, if you think about it... in a way you’re also a mutant.”
He frowned.
“Aren’t you guys supposed to be born that way?”
“Some manifest their gene from very young. Others develop their abilities during adolescence, usually after a high-stress situation. Omega-level mutants, like Charles, tend to awaken their powers very early, but not all of us follow the same pattern.”
Peter listened attentively, though you discovered that, occasionally, his eyes would leave yours to briefly land on your lips.
You noticed it.
And he noticed that you noticed it, too.
A shy smile appeared on his face.
“What?” he asked.
You let out a low laugh.
“I was thinking that, in the end, we’re much more alike than we imagined.”
He tilted his head slightly.
“Yeah?”
You nodded.
“A pair of weirdos who ended up finding each other again.”
Peter smiled without looking away from you. You took him by the hand and pulled him gently to close the distance. He didn’t offer any resistance; on the contrary, he draped an arm over your shoulders and pulled you against his body. You wrapped your arms around his waist and rested your head on his chest, letting yourself be enveloped by the warmth of his embrace.
After following the path, you found an old picnic table hidden among the trees, where the trail ended, and the forest seemed to swallow the rest of the park. Scarcely a distant murmur of people reached there. Only the wind, the brushing of leaves, and the two of you existed there.
You climbed onto the wooden table and sat on the edge, letting your legs dangle.
“I think we finally found a place to be alone.”
Peter looked up at you with a half-smile.
“You shouldn’t say things like that.”
“Why?”
Instead of answering, he took a step forward.
Then another.
Until he was standing between your legs.
He didn’t do anything for a few seconds. He just observed you. As if, even after having recovered all his memories, he still needed to convince himself that you were really there.
“What?” you asked again, unable to hold that gaze without smiling.
He shook his head slowly.
“Nothing. It’s just... I find it hard to believe.”
Your expression softened.
“Find what hard to believe?”
“That you’re my girlfriend again.”
You felt a pleasant warmth rise to your cheeks. You lowered your gaze for just a moment and met his eyes again with a mischievous smile.
“Technically, I’m not your girlfriend yet. You never asked me.”
Peter let out a laugh.
“I thought it was implied.”
You shook your head with a smile.
“No. You had other girlfriends. You couldn't have had them if I had kept being yours.”
Peter tilted his head slightly, as if analyzing the argument.
“That’s a good point.”
He paused before smiling.
“But you weren’t with anyone else.”
You looked at him without understanding where he was going with this.
“So... I’m still yours.”
“You’re not convincing me,” you laughed.
He smiled to himself and took a step toward you. The distance between you shrank again until you could barely feel the warmth of his breath.
“Alright. We’ll do the following.”
“I’m listening.”
“I’ll buy you flowers.”
You looked at him, amused.
“Yeah?”
“I’ll take you out to dinner. Somewhere nice, of your choice. I’ll wear a suit... no, do you want me to wear a suit?” he rambled.
You let out a giggle.
“I’m going to pamper you; I’m going to do all those things people do to make someone fall in love.”
He made a brief pause, without taking his eyes off you.
“And when I do all that... what would you say to me?”
The smile that appeared on your lips was immediate.
“That I love you.”
Peter let out a barely audible laugh. He hadn’t expected such a simple, yet definitive answer.
His eyes descended slowly to your lips. Yours did the exact same thing.
Neither of you said another word.
His lips met yours with an almost agonizing slowness. It was an unhurried kiss, as if now that he had you in his arms he was determined to take all the time he needed.
Your fingers slid up to the nape of his neck while he rested his hands on either side of your body on the table, leaning in slightly to bring you closer to him. When the kiss ended, he barely pulled away a few centimeters. You could feel his breath mixing with yours.
You looked into his eyes.
“Hello.”
A soft laugh escaped his lips.
“Hello.”
You leaned in this time on your own initiative.
The second kiss was different. Peter responded immediately. One of his hands ended up gently wrapping around your waist, drawing you toward the edge of the table to eliminate the little distance that still remained between you two.
You could feel both of your racing heartbeats.
He kissed you again and again, as if discovering something new every time. Your hands got lost in his hair; his traced your back with a delicacy that slowly gave way to a confidence neither tried to hide.
The air seemed to have grown heavier.
When his lips left yours for an instant to barely brush your cheek and jawline, you closed your eyes without realizing it.
“Peter...” you whispered, almost voiceless.
He sought your gaze again. For a second neither said anything, because both knew exactly what was happening. He rested his forehead against yours and let out his breath slowly, trying to regain control.
“If we keep kissing...”
The sentence hung suspended.
You smiled slightly, your breathing still rapid.
“I know.”
Peter let out a nervous laugh.
“It’s not that I want to stop,” you clarified right away, fearing he might interpret your reaction as a rejection.
“Me neither.”
His eyes returned to your lips out of sheer momentum, and yours mimicked them. For a moment it seemed like both were going to ignore any attempt at prudence. But Peter closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and rested his forehead against yours once more.
“We need to calm down.”
It didn’t sound frustrated. You nodded gently.
“Otherwise, they might take us in for public indecency.”
He sounded proud of having been able to say it, and you let out a burst of laughter. Peter smiled with that expression that always appeared whenever it was you who managed to completely disarm him.
Even so, he leaned in again to steal one last kiss, short and sweet, before resting his head on your shoulder.
You let out a sigh and rested your cheek against his, closing your eyes for an instant.
The rustle of leaves swayed by the wind, the distant singing of a few birds, and the occasional crunch of branches arrived with unusual clarity. It was the only thing filling the silence. There were no foreign voices, nor thoughts intersecting with yours.
The absence caught you by surprise.
It had been so long since you experienced a silence like that that, for an instant, you didn’t know how to interpret it. Your mind searched, out of pure habit, for the incessant rumor of other people’s thoughts; but it found nothing. Just the whisper of the wind through the trees and the steady rhythm of nature breathing around you.
You raised a hand to the nape of his neck and began to stroke his hair with an almost distracted slowness. Peter remained leaning against you, completely relaxed. For several minutes neither spoke. Time seemed to have stopped between the murmur of the trees and the warmth of the embrace.
“It’s so weird...”
“What is?”
He barely raised his head to look at you. There was a calmness in his expression that suggested if he had stayed a few more minutes like that, he would have ended up falling asleep in your arms.
“Not being able to hear you. Before I could do it, but now... there’s nothing. It even makes me forget my mutation.”
Peter formed a faint smile.
“Do you think you’ll ever be able to read my mind?”
You shook your head softly.
“Every time I try, it feels like needles poking through my head. So I don’t plan on trying again.”
You made a small pause before smiling.
“Besides... I like it this way. With you, I can feel like a completely normal person.”
Peter’s smile widened. He had changed over the years; his features were more mature, but his eyes retained the same warmth you remembered from childhood.
The wind tousled a few strands of your hair again. You slid both arms over his shoulders and brought him just a little bit closer. He held your gaze with that absolute attention he always dedicated to you.
“What are you thinking about?”
Peter took a few seconds to answer.
“Guess.”
“I can’t.”
A low laugh escaped his lips.
“About you.”
And, from the way he kept looking at you, you understood it wasn’t a witty answer. It was the truth.
You smiled and kissed him again, convinced that, for the first time in a long time, both of you were exactly where you wanted to be.
summary: after losing each other for so long, two lovers begin to discover that normalcy exists in their embrace.
masterlist
Part one Part two Part three
Take this as a bonus, since I only planned to write three parts.
But I really loved this idea, so if you'd like to see different scenarios with the same reader, send me your ideas in my inbox! Thank you so much for all the love and support. Stay tuned for more Peter content after watching bnd<3
The subway was always dirty. Not just because of the worn-out cars or the permanent smell of metal, but because of the incessant murmur of other people’s thoughts that mixed with the hum of the air conditioning and the grinding of the tracks. It was a noise that never quite disappeared.
You had your headphones on and, for several minutes, you had been watching a man who, by your calculations, barely had a centimeter of skin left without tattoos. You couldn’t help but wonder how much pain he must have endured to cover almost his entire body in ink. Which one had been the first? How many had real meaning? Was there one he regretted?
In reality, you didn’t need to know. Imagining the answers was enough. A few months ago you had decided to stop searching for all the certainties that were within reach of your mutation. There was something pleasant about keeping certain mysteries. You discovered that not all questions needed an answer and that living with doubt was, at times, a way to feel a little more normal.
When the train arrived at the station, you got off along with the stream of passengers, trying to brush past as few people as possible. It was an almost impossible task at that hour, but you managed to make your way through the crowd without too many stumbles.
Upon reaching the platform, you looked up and scanned the area for someone you recognized. You kept walking a few meters, distracted among the people, until someone grabbed you by the arm.
Your body reacted before your mind. You were on the verge of shoving them away, but the tension vanished as soon as you recognized those brown eyes.
Even though the music was still dampening the bustle of the station, you managed to read his lips.
“Are you going somewhere?”
You took off one earbud and smiled.
“I was looking for my boyfriend,” you replied with amusement, “but I think it’s no longer necessary.”
Peter’s smile widened immediately. He wrapped an arm around your waist and left a light kiss on your cheek before intertwining his fingers with yours.
Without letting you go, he began to lead you along the platform with the ease of someone who knew that route by heart. You, on the other hand, had lost part of that habit after so many years away from the city. New York was still the same, but you no longer moved through it with the natural ease of before.
When you finally made it out onto the street, you were grateful to discover that thick grey clouds covered the sky. The sun barely managed to break through them, and the humid air announced approaching rain. It was much better than the suffocating heat you hated so much.
Peter led you to a less crowded sidewalk. Only when you were far from the constant flow of people did he turn to you with a calm expression.
“How was the trip?”
“A lot of people. But quiet.”
Peter set off walking without letting go of your hand, and you followed him without asking where you were going. Spending a day with him rarely meant following an itinerary; rather, it consisted of letting the city decide the next destination.
During the walk, you talked to him about your week at the mansion. About the practice sessions Scott had organized for the younger students and the late-night movie marathon you had done with Maximoff. You also mentioned that Hank had spent days shut in the lab trying to perfect one of his projects and that Charles had taken advantage of the good weather to teach some classes in the gardens.
Peter listened attentively, asking questions now and then or laughing. In return, he told you about his own weeks. Classes and assignment turn-ins were lighter due to the term—the start of the module—and fortunately work was more manageable. He had sold several photos that week, mostly of Spider-Man.
The streets began to fill up little by little as you both moved forward without rushing. You stopped in front of an antique book display window solely because one of the covers caught your attention. Further ahead, you bought two to-go coffees and kept walking, sharing small sips from each other’s cup without even thinking about it.
There was nothing extraordinary about that morning. And, precisely for that reason, it turned out to be perfect.
After everything you had experienced, being able to waste time walking through Queens, talking about anything at all and without looking at the clock, was a luxury you were just beginning to appreciate.
“Do you remember we came to this park once?” you asked suddenly.
It was a quiet place. Some kids were running behind a ball while several teenagers occupied the benches under the shade of the trees. Peter scanned the area with his eyes, looking for any detail that would spark a memory. He remained silent for a few seconds before shaking his head.
“Come on, make an effort. We were about thirteen. I had run away from home because my parents made me angry. I had seen a One Direction backpack that I loved and, when we went to buy it, we discovered there was only one left and...”
“They gave it to your sister,” he finished with a smile.
You looked at him, surprised.
“You remembered!”
You couldn’t help but laugh.
Those small moments kept bringing you a joy that was difficult to describe. It made sense that, over the years, some memories would fade; no one kept an entire childhood intact. But in Peter’s case, it was different. For so long you had believed that everything you shared had disappeared forever. Seeing how those memories were returning little by little, almost of their own accord, still felt like a small miracle to you.
“You cried so much that day,” he added.
You pointed a finger at him, feigning indignation.
“The one who cried was my sister. That’s precisely why they bought her the backpack.”
Peter let out a laugh.
You kept walking along the paths until stopping near the lake. The bustle of the park felt distant. You remained still for a few moments contemplating the water, comfortable in a silence that neither felt the need to break.
It was Peter who spoke first.
“Do you miss them?”
You turned your head slightly.
“My parents?”
He nodded.
You took a deep breath before answering.
“Sometimes. But... I think it’s not really them I miss.”
Peter waited without interrupting you.
“I miss the idea of having a family. We were never very close and... they always preferred my sister. I don’t say it with resentment. I left that phase behind a long time ago. I just think that, in a way, they always knew I was... different. Maybe they never understood exactly why, but they sensed it. And that meant they never truly got close to me.”
The hand holding yours tightened with a bit more strength. You smiled at him warmly and stepped in front of him.
“Don’t look at me like that. I don’t need you to feel sorry for me.”
You shook your head softly.
“I have incredible friends at the mansion. Charles gave me a home when I needed it most, and the others... ended up becoming the family I always wanted.”
Your free hand reached up to caress his cheek.
“And now I have you, too.”
Peter rested his face against your palm, without taking his eyes off yours.
“A bit late, but I came back.”
“You made it just in time.”
You smiled. He mimicked you.
“You should meet them someday,” you continued. “My friends.”
“Do you really think they’d like me?”
“Why wouldn’t they?” you replied with total naturalness. “You’re a good person. And besides, you have powers, like us.”
A laugh escaped his lips.
“That’s a secret. You know that, right?”
You rolled your eyes with a smile.
“I know. I don’t plan on going around revealing the identity of our local hero.”
Peter let out an exaggerated sigh of relief.
“Though, if you think about it... in a way you’re also a mutant.”
He frowned.
“Aren’t you guys supposed to be born that way?”
“Some manifest their gene from very young. Others develop their abilities during adolescence, usually after a high-stress situation. Omega-level mutants, like Charles, tend to awaken their powers very early, but not all of us follow the same pattern.”
Peter listened attentively, though you discovered that, occasionally, his eyes would leave yours to briefly land on your lips.
You noticed it.
And he noticed that you noticed it, too.
A shy smile appeared on his face.
“What?” he asked.
You let out a low laugh.
“I was thinking that, in the end, we’re much more alike than we imagined.”
He tilted his head slightly.
“Yeah?”
You nodded.
“A pair of weirdos who ended up finding each other again.”
Peter smiled without looking away from you. You took him by the hand and pulled him gently to close the distance. He didn’t offer any resistance; on the contrary, he draped an arm over your shoulders and pulled you against his body. You wrapped your arms around his waist and rested your head on his chest, letting yourself be enveloped by the warmth of his embrace.
After following the path, you found an old picnic table hidden among the trees, where the trail ended, and the forest seemed to swallow the rest of the park. Scarcely a distant murmur of people reached there. Only the wind, the brushing of leaves, and the two of you existed there.
You climbed onto the wooden table and sat on the edge, letting your legs dangle.
“I think we finally found a place to be alone.”
Peter looked up at you with a half-smile.
“You shouldn’t say things like that.”
“Why?”
Instead of answering, he took a step forward.
Then another.
Until he was standing between your legs.
He didn’t do anything for a few seconds. He just observed you. As if, even after having recovered all his memories, he still needed to convince himself that you were really there.
“What?” you asked again, unable to hold that gaze without smiling.
He shook his head slowly.
“Nothing. It’s just... I find it hard to believe.”
Your expression softened.
“Find what hard to believe?”
“That you’re my girlfriend again.”
You felt a pleasant warmth rise to your cheeks. You lowered your gaze for just a moment and met his eyes again with a mischievous smile.
“Technically, I’m not your girlfriend yet. You never asked me.”
Peter let out a laugh.
“I thought it was implied.”
You shook your head with a smile.
“No. You had other girlfriends. You couldn't have had them if I had kept being yours.”
Peter tilted his head slightly, as if analyzing the argument.
“That’s a good point.”
He paused before smiling.
“But you weren’t with anyone else.”
You looked at him without understanding where he was going with this.
“So... I’m still yours.”
“You’re not convincing me,” you laughed.
He smiled to himself and took a step toward you. The distance between you shrank again until you could barely feel the warmth of his breath.
“Alright. We’ll do the following.”
“I’m listening.”
“I’ll buy you flowers.”
You looked at him, amused.
“Yeah?”
“I’ll take you out to dinner. Somewhere nice, of your choice. I’ll wear a suit... no, do you want me to wear a suit?” he rambled.
You let out a giggle.
“I’m going to pamper you; I’m going to do all those things people do to make someone fall in love.”
He made a brief pause, without taking his eyes off you.
“And when I do all that... what would you say to me?”
The smile that appeared on your lips was immediate.
“That I love you.”
Peter let out a barely audible laugh. He hadn’t expected such a simple, yet definitive answer.
His eyes descended slowly to your lips. Yours did the exact same thing.
Neither of you said another word.
His lips met yours with an almost agonizing slowness. It was an unhurried kiss, as if now that he had you in his arms he was determined to take all the time he needed.
Your fingers slid up to the nape of his neck while he rested his hands on either side of your body on the table, leaning in slightly to bring you closer to him. When the kiss ended, he barely pulled away a few centimeters. You could feel his breath mixing with yours.
You looked into his eyes.
“Hello.”
A soft laugh escaped his lips.
“Hello.”
You leaned in this time on your own initiative.
The second kiss was different. Peter responded immediately. One of his hands ended up gently wrapping around your waist, drawing you toward the edge of the table to eliminate the little distance that still remained between you two.
You could feel both of your racing heartbeats.
He kissed you again and again, as if discovering something new every time. Your hands got lost in his hair; his traced your back with a delicacy that slowly gave way to a confidence neither tried to hide.
The air seemed to have grown heavier.
When his lips left yours for an instant to barely brush your cheek and jawline, you closed your eyes without realizing it.
“Peter...” you whispered, almost voiceless.
He sought your gaze again. For a second neither said anything, because both knew exactly what was happening. He rested his forehead against yours and let out his breath slowly, trying to regain control.
“If we keep kissing...”
The sentence hung suspended.
You smiled slightly, your breathing still rapid.
“I know.”
Peter let out a nervous laugh.
“It’s not that I want to stop,” you clarified right away, fearing he might interpret your reaction as a rejection.
“Me neither.”
His eyes returned to your lips out of sheer momentum, and yours mimicked them. For a moment it seemed like both were going to ignore any attempt at prudence. But Peter closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and rested his forehead against yours once more.
“We need to calm down.”
It didn’t sound frustrated. You nodded gently.
“Otherwise, they might take us in for public indecency.”
He sounded proud of having been able to say it, and you let out a burst of laughter. Peter smiled with that expression that always appeared whenever it was you who managed to completely disarm him.
Even so, he leaned in again to steal one last kiss, short and sweet, before resting his head on your shoulder.
You let out a sigh and rested your cheek against his, closing your eyes for an instant.
The rustle of leaves swayed by the wind, the distant singing of a few birds, and the occasional crunch of branches arrived with unusual clarity. It was the only thing filling the silence. There were no foreign voices, nor thoughts intersecting with yours.
The absence caught you by surprise.
It had been so long since you experienced a silence like that that, for an instant, you didn’t know how to interpret it. Your mind searched, out of pure habit, for the incessant rumor of other people’s thoughts; but it found nothing. Just the whisper of the wind through the trees and the steady rhythm of nature breathing around you.
You raised a hand to the nape of his neck and began to stroke his hair with an almost distracted slowness. Peter remained leaning against you, completely relaxed. For several minutes neither spoke. Time seemed to have stopped between the murmur of the trees and the warmth of the embrace.
“It’s so weird...”
“What is?”
He barely raised his head to look at you. There was a calmness in his expression that suggested if he had stayed a few more minutes like that, he would have ended up falling asleep in your arms.
“Not being able to hear you. Before I could do it, but now... there’s nothing. It even makes me forget my mutation.”
Peter formed a faint smile.
“Do you think you’ll ever be able to read my mind?”
You shook your head softly.
“Every time I try, it feels like needles poking through my head. So I don’t plan on trying again.”
You made a small pause before smiling.
“Besides... I like it this way. With you, I can feel like a completely normal person.”
Peter’s smile widened. He had changed over the years; his features were more mature, but his eyes retained the same warmth you remembered from childhood.
The wind tousled a few strands of your hair again. You slid both arms over his shoulders and brought him just a little bit closer. He held your gaze with that absolute attention he always dedicated to you.
“What are you thinking about?”
Peter took a few seconds to answer.
“Guess.”
“I can’t.”
A low laugh escaped his lips.
“About you.”
And, from the way he kept looking at you, you understood it wasn’t a witty answer. It was the truth.
You smiled and kissed him again, convinced that, for the first time in a long time, both of you were exactly where you wanted to be.
Just so you know, I was listening to Coming Up Roses—that’s actually where the One Direction backpack idea came from—and pictured them the whole time. I know it’s technically a breakup song, but just imagine the instrumental with these two! It’s absolutely beautiful, if you ask me.
summary: after losing each other for so long, two lovers begin to discover that normalcy exists in their embrace.
masterlist
Part one Part two Part three
Take this as a bonus, since I only planned to write three parts.
But I really loved this idea, so if you'd like to see different scenarios with the same reader, send me your ideas in my inbox! Thank you so much for all the love and support. Stay tuned for more Peter content after watching bnd<3
The subway was always dirty. Not just because of the worn-out cars or the permanent smell of metal, but because of the incessant murmur of other people’s thoughts that mixed with the hum of the air conditioning and the grinding of the tracks. It was a noise that never quite disappeared.
You had your headphones on and, for several minutes, you had been watching a man who, by your calculations, barely had a centimeter of skin left without tattoos. You couldn’t help but wonder how much pain he must have endured to cover almost his entire body in ink. Which one had been the first? How many had real meaning? Was there one he regretted?
In reality, you didn’t need to know. Imagining the answers was enough. A few months ago you had decided to stop searching for all the certainties that were within reach of your mutation. There was something pleasant about keeping certain mysteries. You discovered that not all questions needed an answer and that living with doubt was, at times, a way to feel a little more normal.
When the train arrived at the station, you got off along with the stream of passengers, trying to brush past as few people as possible. It was an almost impossible task at that hour, but you managed to make your way through the crowd without too many stumbles.
Upon reaching the platform, you looked up and scanned the area for someone you recognized. You kept walking a few meters, distracted among the people, until someone grabbed you by the arm.
Your body reacted before your mind. You were on the verge of shoving them away, but the tension vanished as soon as you recognized those brown eyes.
Even though the music was still dampening the bustle of the station, you managed to read his lips.
“Are you going somewhere?”
You took off one earbud and smiled.
“I was looking for my boyfriend,” you replied with amusement, “but I think it’s no longer necessary.”
Peter’s smile widened immediately. He wrapped an arm around your waist and left a light kiss on your cheek before intertwining his fingers with yours.
Without letting you go, he began to lead you along the platform with the ease of someone who knew that route by heart. You, on the other hand, had lost part of that habit after so many years away from the city. New York was still the same, but you no longer moved through it with the natural ease of before.
When you finally made it out onto the street, you were grateful to discover that thick grey clouds covered the sky. The sun barely managed to break through them, and the humid air announced approaching rain. It was much better than the suffocating heat you hated so much.
Peter led you to a less crowded sidewalk. Only when you were far from the constant flow of people did he turn to you with a calm expression.
“How was the trip?”
“A lot of people. But quiet.”
Peter set off walking without letting go of your hand, and you followed him without asking where you were going. Spending a day with him rarely meant following an itinerary; rather, it consisted of letting the city decide the next destination.
During the walk, you talked to him about your week at the mansion. About the practice sessions Scott had organized for the younger students and the late-night movie marathon you had done with Maximoff. You also mentioned that Hank had spent days shut in the lab trying to perfect one of his projects and that Charles had taken advantage of the good weather to teach some classes in the gardens.
Peter listened attentively, asking questions now and then or laughing. In return, he told you about his own weeks. Classes and assignment turn-ins were lighter due to the term—the start of the module—and fortunately work was more manageable. He had sold several photos that week, mostly of Spider-Man.
The streets began to fill up little by little as you both moved forward without rushing. You stopped in front of an antique book display window solely because one of the covers caught your attention. Further ahead, you bought two to-go coffees and kept walking, sharing small sips from each other’s cup without even thinking about it.
There was nothing extraordinary about that morning. And, precisely for that reason, it turned out to be perfect.
After everything you had experienced, being able to waste time walking through Queens, talking about anything at all and without looking at the clock, was a luxury you were just beginning to appreciate.
“Do you remember we came to this park once?” you asked suddenly.
It was a quiet place. Some kids were running behind a ball while several teenagers occupied the benches under the shade of the trees. Peter scanned the area with his eyes, looking for any detail that would spark a memory. He remained silent for a few seconds before shaking his head.
“Come on, make an effort. We were about thirteen. I had run away from home because my parents made me angry. I had seen a One Direction backpack that I loved and, when we went to buy it, we discovered there was only one left and...”
“They gave it to your sister,” he finished with a smile.
You looked at him, surprised.
“You remembered!”
You couldn’t help but laugh.
Those small moments kept bringing you a joy that was difficult to describe. It made sense that, over the years, some memories would fade; no one kept an entire childhood intact. But in Peter’s case, it was different. For so long you had believed that everything you shared had disappeared forever. Seeing how those memories were returning little by little, almost of their own accord, still felt like a small miracle to you.
“You cried so much that day,” he added.
You pointed a finger at him, feigning indignation.
“The one who cried was my sister. That’s precisely why they bought her the backpack.”
Peter let out a laugh.
You kept walking along the paths until stopping near the lake. The bustle of the park felt distant. You remained still for a few moments contemplating the water, comfortable in a silence that neither felt the need to break.
It was Peter who spoke first.
“Do you miss them?”
You turned your head slightly.
“My parents?”
He nodded.
You took a deep breath before answering.
“Sometimes. But... I think it’s not really them I miss.”
Peter waited without interrupting you.
“I miss the idea of having a family. We were never very close and... they always preferred my sister. I don’t say it with resentment. I left that phase behind a long time ago. I just think that, in a way, they always knew I was... different. Maybe they never understood exactly why, but they sensed it. And that meant they never truly got close to me.”
The hand holding yours tightened with a bit more strength. You smiled at him warmly and stepped in front of him.
“Don’t look at me like that. I don’t need you to feel sorry for me.”
You shook your head softly.
“I have incredible friends at the mansion. Charles gave me a home when I needed it most, and the others... ended up becoming the family I always wanted.”
Your free hand reached up to caress his cheek.
“And now I have you, too.”
Peter rested his face against your palm, without taking his eyes off yours.
“A bit late, but I came back.”
“You made it just in time.”
You smiled. He mimicked you.
“You should meet them someday,” you continued. “My friends.”
“Do you really think they’d like me?”
“Why wouldn’t they?” you replied with total naturalness. “You’re a good person. And besides, you have powers, like us.”
A laugh escaped his lips.
“That’s a secret. You know that, right?”
You rolled your eyes with a smile.
“I know. I don’t plan on going around revealing the identity of our local hero.”
Peter let out an exaggerated sigh of relief.
“Though, if you think about it... in a way you’re also a mutant.”
He frowned.
“Aren’t you guys supposed to be born that way?”
“Some manifest their gene from very young. Others develop their abilities during adolescence, usually after a high-stress situation. Omega-level mutants, like Charles, tend to awaken their powers very early, but not all of us follow the same pattern.”
Peter listened attentively, though you discovered that, occasionally, his eyes would leave yours to briefly land on your lips.
You noticed it.
And he noticed that you noticed it, too.
A shy smile appeared on his face.
“What?” he asked.
You let out a low laugh.
“I was thinking that, in the end, we’re much more alike than we imagined.”
He tilted his head slightly.
“Yeah?”
You nodded.
“A pair of weirdos who ended up finding each other again.”
Peter smiled without looking away from you. You took him by the hand and pulled him gently to close the distance. He didn’t offer any resistance; on the contrary, he draped an arm over your shoulders and pulled you against his body. You wrapped your arms around his waist and rested your head on his chest, letting yourself be enveloped by the warmth of his embrace.
After following the path, you found an old picnic table hidden among the trees, where the trail ended, and the forest seemed to swallow the rest of the park. Scarcely a distant murmur of people reached there. Only the wind, the brushing of leaves, and the two of you existed there.
You climbed onto the wooden table and sat on the edge, letting your legs dangle.
“I think we finally found a place to be alone.”
Peter looked up at you with a half-smile.
“You shouldn’t say things like that.”
“Why?”
Instead of answering, he took a step forward.
Then another.
Until he was standing between your legs.
He didn’t do anything for a few seconds. He just observed you. As if, even after having recovered all his memories, he still needed to convince himself that you were really there.
“What?” you asked again, unable to hold that gaze without smiling.
He shook his head slowly.
“Nothing. It’s just... I find it hard to believe.”
Your expression softened.
“Find what hard to believe?”
“That you’re my girlfriend again.”
You felt a pleasant warmth rise to your cheeks. You lowered your gaze for just a moment and met his eyes again with a mischievous smile.
“Technically, I’m not your girlfriend yet. You never asked me.”
Peter let out a laugh.
“I thought it was implied.”
You shook your head with a smile.
“No. You had other girlfriends. You couldn't have had them if I had kept being yours.”
Peter tilted his head slightly, as if analyzing the argument.
“That’s a good point.”
He paused before smiling.
“But you weren’t with anyone else.”
You looked at him without understanding where he was going with this.
“So... I’m still yours.”
“You’re not convincing me,” you laughed.
He smiled to himself and took a step toward you. The distance between you shrank again until you could barely feel the warmth of his breath.
“Alright. We’ll do the following.”
“I’m listening.”
“I’ll buy you flowers.”
You looked at him, amused.
“Yeah?”
“I’ll take you out to dinner. Somewhere nice, of your choice. I’ll wear a suit... no, do you want me to wear a suit?” he rambled.
You let out a giggle.
“I’m going to pamper you; I’m going to do all those things people do to make someone fall in love.”
He made a brief pause, without taking his eyes off you.
“And when I do all that... what would you say to me?”
The smile that appeared on your lips was immediate.
“That I love you.”
Peter let out a barely audible laugh. He hadn’t expected such a simple, yet definitive answer.
His eyes descended slowly to your lips. Yours did the exact same thing.
Neither of you said another word.
His lips met yours with an almost agonizing slowness. It was an unhurried kiss, as if now that he had you in his arms he was determined to take all the time he needed.
Your fingers slid up to the nape of his neck while he rested his hands on either side of your body on the table, leaning in slightly to bring you closer to him. When the kiss ended, he barely pulled away a few centimeters. You could feel his breath mixing with yours.
You looked into his eyes.
“Hi”
A soft laugh escaped his lips.
“Hello”
You leaned in this time on your own initiative.
The second kiss was different. Peter responded immediately. One of his hands ended up gently wrapping around your waist, drawing you toward the edge of the table to eliminate the little distance that still remained between you two.
You could feel both of your racing heartbeats.
He kissed you again and again, as if discovering something new every time. Your hands got lost in his hair; his traced your back with a delicacy that slowly gave way to a confidence neither tried to hide.
The air seemed to have grown heavier.
When his lips left yours for an instant to barely brush your cheek and jawline, you closed your eyes without realizing it.
“Peter...” you whispered, almost voiceless.
He sought your gaze again. For a second neither said anything, because both knew exactly what was happening. He rested his forehead against yours and let out his breath slowly, trying to regain control.
“If we keep kissing...”
The sentence hung suspended.
You smiled slightly, your breathing still rapid.
“I know.”
Peter let out a nervous laugh.
“It’s not that I want to stop,” you clarified right away, fearing he might interpret your reaction as a rejection.
“Me neither.”
His eyes returned to your lips out of sheer momentum, and yours mimicked them. For a moment it seemed like both were going to ignore any attempt at prudence. But Peter closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and rested his forehead against yours once more.
“We need to calm down.”
It didn’t sound frustrated. You nodded gently.
“Otherwise, they might take us in for public indecency.”
He sounded proud of having been able to say it, and you let out a burst of laughter. Peter smiled with that expression that always appeared whenever it was you who managed to completely disarm him.
Even so, he leaned in again to steal one last kiss, short and sweet, before resting his head on your shoulder.
You let out a sigh and rested your cheek against his, closing your eyes for an instant.
The rustle of leaves swayed by the wind, the distant singing of a few birds, and the occasional crunch of branches arrived with unusual clarity. It was the only thing filling the silence. There were no foreign voices, nor thoughts intersecting with yours.
The absence caught you by surprise.
It had been so long since you experienced a silence like that that, for an instant, you didn’t know how to interpret it. Your mind searched, out of pure habit, for the incessant rumor of other people’s thoughts; but it found nothing. Just the whisper of the wind through the trees and the steady rhythm of nature breathing around you.
You raised a hand to the nape of his neck and began to stroke his hair with an almost distracted slowness. Peter remained leaning against you, completely relaxed. For several minutes neither spoke. Time seemed to have stopped between the murmur of the trees and the warmth of the embrace.
“It’s so weird...”
“What is?”
He barely raised his head to look at you. There was a calmness in his expression that suggested if he had stayed a few more minutes like that, he would have ended up falling asleep in your arms.
“Not being able to hear you. Before I could do it, but now... there’s nothing. It even makes me forget my mutation.”
Peter formed a faint smile.
“Do you think you’ll ever be able to read my mind?”
You shook your head softly.
“Every time I try, it feels like needles poking through my head. So I don’t plan on trying again.”
You made a small pause before smiling.
“Besides... I like it this way. With you, I can feel like a completely normal person.”
Peter’s smile widened. He had changed over the years; his features were more mature, but his eyes retained the same warmth you remembered from childhood.
The wind tousled a few strands of your hair again. You slid both arms over his shoulders and brought him just a little bit closer. He held your gaze with that absolute attention he always dedicated to you.
“What are you thinking about?”
Peter took a few seconds to answer.
“Guess.”
“I can’t.”
A low laugh escaped his lips.
“About you.”
And, from the way he kept looking at you, you understood it wasn’t a witty answer. It was the truth.
You smiled and kissed him again, convinced that, for the first time in a long time, both of you were exactly where you wanted to be.
summary: the mind is more fragile than anyone could imagine. And yet, love proves to be the most powerful force of all.
masterlist
Part one Part two bonus
During sleep, the mind lowers its guard in a way it would never allow while awake. Thoughts cease to obey a precise order, memory reorganizes fragments of the past, and emotions travel paths that consciousness keeps closed while we are awake. Perhaps that is why there are memories that can only be found with closed eyes.
That night, exhaustion finally overcame you with unusual ease. As soon as your breathing found a constant rhythm, you felt how the silence of your own mind began to expand. It was a deceptive calm, because beneath it there was something else, a presence you already knew all too well. It was the familiar sensation of another consciousness brushing against yours from somewhere impossible to point out.
Little by little, that presence stopped feeling distant. The connection with Peter strengthened as if sleep had eliminated the last barrier that still separated them. You stopped perceiving where your own thoughts ended and where his began. There was no resistance, nor time to prepare yourself. It simply happened. An invisible force finished pulling you toward his memory, and before you could cling to your own consciousness, everything disappeared.
The images began to rush over you in no apparent order, as if an old film reel had been cut into hundreds of fragments and someone was projecting them at random. There was no transition between one scene and the next; only flashes of a life that did not belong to you and that, even so, you felt with an unbearable intensity.
You saw him vanish, turning to dust in the arms of Tony Stark, unable to comprehend what was happening while the universe unraveled around him. An instant later, he returned five years later to fight the greatest battle of his life and watch, helpless, the sacrifice of someone who had been much more than a mentor to him. Next appeared the smiling face of a brown-haired woman, his Aunt May, and, almost without giving you time to recognize her, you saw her collapse in his arms while he tried to convince her that everything would be okay. You felt the weight of her body, the desperate trembling of his hands, and the unbearable emptiness left behind when he realized he would never hear her voice again.
The scenes changed again and again. You saw him swinging between the skyscrapers of New York with a freedom that only existed when he wore the mask. You saw him stopping robberies, rescuing strangers, and returning home completely exhausted, hiding wounds under his clothes so that no one would ask about them. You also saw entire nights without sleep, sitting in front of an improvised sewing machine while mending a suit that seemed to tear as fast as he managed to repair it.
Then other faces appeared. A girl with a warm gaze smiling from a coffee shop. A curly-haired boy who wouldn't stop talking. Dozens of classmates crowding the school hallways. It took only a second to understand how much they meant to him and another to feel the devastating blow when his identity was revealed to the entire world. You heard accusations, insults, and threats. You saw cameras chasing him through the streets, journalists invading his privacy, and everyone he loved paying the consequences of a truth they had never asked to know. Guilt consumed him with a violence you could barely endure.
Without warning, the New York sky began to tear open. Luminous cracks crossed the firmament while impossible creatures emerged from everywhere and the very fabric of reality seemed to crumble. You saw him fight to the limit of his strength, lose time and again, and, finally, decide that no boy his age should ever have been forced to make.
«Make everyone forget me»
The plea echoed with terrifying clarity.
You felt the spell spread like a silent wave wrapping around the entire world. Millions of memories disappeared at the same time. You saw how the faces of those who had shared his life emptied of recognition, how the bonds built over years unraveled in an instant, and how Peter stood motionless, watching the price of his own decision.
Then you understood something that made the air leave your lungs.
You had never forgotten him.
You had believed that the void inhabiting your memory was the consequence of your own actions, of the sacrifice you made years ago by erasing the memories Peter had of you. But that was different. The entire world had lost Peter Parker. Everyone had awakened convinced that that boy had never been a part of their lives.
Except you.
And, even so, he had moved forward completely alone.
Loneliness was the invisible thread connecting all those memories. It didn't matter if he was surrounded by people or swinging between the buildings of Manhattan. In every image there was an absence that weighed more than any enemy he had faced. It was the story of a young man who had saved the world again and again and who, in the end, had had to accept that no one would ever remember who he truly was.
You heard him call your name in your sleep. But it was no longer the young boy from early high school, but the present one. The sad, abandoned man he had become.
You opened your eyes startled, disoriented, unable for an instant to distinguish where memories ended and where reality began. Breath caught in your throat as you tried to focus your vision. In front of you was Peter. His hands held your shoulders firmly and he pronounced your name again and again, though the buzzing that still echoed in your head had swallowed his voice almost completely.
You blinked several times, trying to catch your breath.
It was then that you heard it.
A sharp thud shook the apartment, followed by another and another. Books, glasses, cushions, and even the small lamp in the living room fell to the floor almost at the same time, as if an invisible force had suddenly stopped holding them. The echo of the impacts bounced off the walls, and the silence that followed proved even more unsettling.
You turned your head slowly. Your heart stopped for an instant.
During your sleep, you had levitated a good portion of the room. Objects were still swaying slightly above the floor, silent witnesses to a power that had overflowed while you remained unconscious.
You looked back at Peter.
His expression wasn't exactly one of fear. Worry was still present in his eyes, but it had been displaced by something much harder to interpret: bewilderment. He observed you as if trying to reconcile the woman who had shared dinner with him just a few minutes ago with the impossible scene he had just witnessed.
His hands remained on your shoulders, motionless.
“What... what was all that?” he asked in a low voice.
Peter seemed unable to find any explanation for what he was witnessing. And you didn't know if you were capable of giving him one.
You whispered his name, trying to reassure him, as one of your hands slowly rose to the level of his injured arm. However, as soon as your fingers brushed his skin, the buzzing inside your mind returned with an intensity far greater than before.
Both of you pulled away immediately, as if the contact had been an electric shock. Peter lost his balance and nearly fell to the floor.
You couldn't see how his expression changed second by second; the pain shooting through your head was too intense to allow you to focus on anything else. But, if you had been able to, you would have understood that the connection between you had just triggered that which you had tried to avoid from the moment you arrived.
The memories didn't ask permission to be awakened. They burst into his mind with a familiar brutality, striking him with the same violence with which they had shattered you.
Your pain subsided a second later, and when you managed to look at him again, Peter was watching you from his spot in the same way you had observed him at the coffee shop.
You knew it immediately.
“Who are you?” he sobbed.
His voice barely managed to come out, broken by tears.
“What did you just do to me?”
“Peter…”
“Is it real?” he continued, shaking his head while trying to find an explanation that didn't exist. “All of this… is it true?”
You tried to sit up from the bed to get closer to him, to take him by the arm, to make him understand that you hadn't wanted to hurt him. But Peter pulled away before you could touch him.
The desperation invading him leaked into you without you being able to help it. Suddenly you were feeling everything he couldn't say out loud: the fear, the confusion, the disbelief, and, above all, the rage of having discovered a truth that had been stolen from him for years.
He was hurt. He was upset with you.
“Peter, if you would just let me explain…”
But he wasn't listening. Not because he didn't want to, but because his mind was still trying to process what had just happened. In front of him was not merely a person with powers who had broken into his memories; you were someone who had held a part of his life, a part of himself, and had decided to keep it to yourself.
And now you were giving it back to him all at once, forcing him to face everything he had never been prepared for. Or at least that was how it seemed.
“You abandoned me,” he finally stated.
Tears were already streaming down his cheeks, and without realizing it, you began to cry with him. The connection between the two of you made it impossible not to feel his pain.
“You… simply left,” he continued, his voice cracking. “You left me even when I told you not to!”
You found no response. Because any explanation sounded small in front of the wound that had just opened up.
He took a step backward. He looked at you as if he were still trying to recognize the person in front of him, as if the image he had of you and the one he had just discovered could not exist at the same time.
“I need to leave.”
“Peter…”
“No. I can't do this right now.”
He grabbed his jacket with clumsy movements, still trembling from the shock, and walked toward the door. For an instant you thought about stopping him, about explaining everything to him, about telling him that you never wanted to hurt him. But you knew that any word coming out of your mouth at that moment would only be another thing he would have to endure.
And it was he who left. Without looking back.
You didn't wait even a day to return to the mansion.
You were devastated.
In the morning you tried to talk to Peter, but all you received from inside his apartment was silence. He didn't show up for work either; he had called in sick. You needed no more signs to understand the message he was trying to give you.
For the sake of the people at the pizzeria, you made them forget your existence. After all, there were only a few days left before the cashier returned from his absence, and you didn't want to leave traces of your stay in that place or cause unnecessary questions. You packed your few belongings, abandoned the apartment without even notifying the landlord, and left.
All you wanted was to disappear.
Charles asked no questions when you returned. It wasn't necessary. It was enough to see your swollen eyes, the way you could barely hold yourself up, and the deep desolation that seemed to surround you to understand how things had ended.
Nor did he try to console you. Not because he didn't care, but because he knew there was a part of that which you had to face by yourself. He had warned you about the consequences of your decisions, and now you had to live with them.
Sadness, however, soon transformed into something easier to bear: rage.
You were furious with yourself for having believed that going to Queens could end any other way. Furious with Peter for having made you forget him. And furious because you hadn't chosen to hand over his memories; everything had been the product of an event beyond your control.
The human mind was something far too complex. Unique, fragile, and extraordinarily powerful. You knew it better than anyone. You knew that entering it always involved risks, that even the most noble intention could cause irreparable damage. And even so, you had decided to try.
But in the end, none of that had mattered.
The tension was evident every time you appeared around the mansion. Even your friends began to weigh their words, to avoid conversations with you when the opportunity arose. It was as if you wore the anger you felt toward the entire world written on your face, as if everyone could see it, even if they never mentioned it.
And then you felt like before again: rejected, set aside, reduced to the only thing that for years you had tried not to be.
A mutant.
For days you tried to convince yourself that time would eventually extinguish that rage. It didn't. If anything, it became quieter and harder to ignore. It remained with you upon waking, during meals, and in every hallway of the mansion, feeding on everything you couldn't change. There were too many unanswered questions and an unbearable sense of helplessness that wouldn't stop growing.
In the end you understood that staying still only made things worse. You couldn't force Peter to forgive you, nor undo what had happened, nor regain control over memories that had returned in the worst possible way. But there was something that was still in your hands: understanding what had happened to you. If that connection had been capable of breaking all the rules you thought you knew about telepathy, you needed to discover why. And to do so, there was only one place you could go.
The mansion housed spaces that had not been built to receive visitors, but to contain abilities that, on occasion, proved too dangerous even for those who had learned to master them.
One of those rooms was located in one of the most secluded areas of the building: a completely isolated training room, with reinforced walls and a huge panel of police-grade glass that allowed observation from the outside without interfering in the process. It was the place where telepaths practiced when they needed to explore their abilities without the risk of accidentally invading someone else's mind.
It was also one of the few places where you could allow yourself instability.
You had been inside for several minutes, focusing on keeping various objects suspended around you. At first it had been a simple exercise: controlling the movement, the speed, the precision. But your mind wasn't really there. It was still trapped in the city, in Peter's gaze, in his words, in the way he had walked out of your apartment as if you were someone completely unknown to him.
Frustration began to seep into every movement.
The objects stopped moving calmly. They began to tremble in the air. Your breathing became heavier, and the anger you had tried to contain for days grew inside you again until it occupied every corner of your mind.
You didn't want to feel this way. You didn't want to be angry. But you didn't know how to stop feeling hurt either.
And then something inside you gave way.
The first thud made the glass panes vibrate. Then came another. And another.
The objects floating around you shot off in all directions before shattering against the walls, reduced to fragments while a wave of energy swept through the room.
You stood motionless in the middle of the chaos, breathing with difficulty, observing the remains of everything that just seconds before you had been controlling.
Your name echoed in the room with Charles's characteristic calm, from the speakers around. You closed your eyes, exhausted. Of course, he had seen what happened. He had probably been observing your progress as he so often did during your training sessions.
“I know, I know,” you answered in desperation, running a hand over your face. “I lost control.”
You expected a correction, a warning, or for him to agree with you. But Charles said none of that.
“Someone wants to see you.”
You frowned.
“Who?”
You received no answer.
You stepped out of the room still confused, wiping your hands as you walked down the hallway. For a few seconds, your mind tried to find any possible explanation. A student, a visitor, some mansion business.
Until you looked up and felt your heart stop.
Peter was standing in front of you.
For an instant you forgot how to breathe.
You didn't understand what he was doing there. You didn't understand how he had arrived. After all, he barely knew anything about you; he didn't know the mansion, he didn't know where to find you, he had no reason to have made it there.
His gaze was fixed on you, heavy with too many things that neither of you seemed to know how to say.
Next to him was the professor.
“This young man says he knows you. And he wants to speak with you.”
Before you could ask him anything else, Charles simply offered them an understanding look and walked away down the hallway, leaving the two of you alone.
You knew that a mutant of his level could probably have crossed that barrier that had been impossible for you. Therefore, he was aware of the situation and knew exactly what Peter had come to tell you.
He took a step forward, and you stepped back out of inertia.
“What are you doing here?”
“You left,” he whispered, ignoring your question. “At the pizzeria, they don't have a single memory of you.”
“I'm very good at doing that,” you replied defensively.
Why were you answering him like that? When a week ago the only thing you wished for was for him to be able to remember you. And now that he did, you were scared.
That was it. Not fury, but fear taking control.
You looked him up and down, and something in his face told you he hadn't slept very well. To be honest, neither had you.
Peter took another step toward you, but this time you didn't step back. Not because you were calm, but because your body seemed not to know whether it wanted to get closer to him or protect itself from whatever he might say.
You had imagined this moment too many times. You had thought about what it would be like when he finally knew the truth, when you could stop carrying the weight of what happened alone, when you no longer had to pretend you didn't know him.
But you never imagined that, when it finally happened, you would feel so much fear.
“Why?” he asked.
His voice was much lower than last time. There was no longer rage in it, only tiredness. As if he had spent the whole night trying to find an answer that refused to fit.
You looked down.
“I need to understand it,” he continued. His jaw tightened slightly. “I need to know what happened.”
You took a breath before answering. Not because you didn't know what to say, but because you knew that no explanation would change what he had felt.
“I didn't know anything.”
Peter frowned.
“What?”
“I didn't know it was you.”
Your voice came out lower than you expected. You were terrified.
“I didn't know the boy from the coffee shop was you. I didn't know you still lived in New York, nor did I know that you had lost your memories. I didn't know anything about what had happened after I left.”
Peter remained silent, processing every word.
“I couldn't enter your mind. You seem to be immune to me. And I don't know if I'm wrong, but that day I even felt like you knew what I was trying to do. I wanted to go talk to you or probe a little to find out why you were blocking me, but then we bumped into each other. And when you touched me… when you took my hand, everything came back to me.”
You paused, trying to find the right words.
“It wasn't that I was looking for you. I didn't know where you were, I didn't know what had happened to you after all this time. You simply appeared in front of me and then the memories surfaced.”
Peter stood motionless, listening to you attentively.
“I heard you, Peter, in my mind. In my dreams. It wasn't even my intention, you just… it was as if you were screaming. Every time.”
Your lower lip had begun to tremble, as if you were about to cry.
“Before seeing each other again that day, I could feel your pain. I… I listened to your worries and suffered the double life you lead, but I didn't know it was about you.”
You looked down.
“I couldn't understand it.”
Your voice grew lower.
“And when I found you, I only had more questions than answers. That's why I went back to Queens. I wanted to understand what had happened with you and also know who you were after everything you had lived through. I just… wanted to get to know you as you were now.”
Peter swallowed hard, but didn't look away.
“It was never my intention for you to remember. It just happened.”
He seemed to be trying to order each piece of the story, fitting the memories he now had with the person standing in front of him. Then he looked up and finally uttered words:
“So it's true…”
His voice came out more fragile than he would have liked.
“Everything we were?” he continued. “Everything we had?”
He paused.
“Is it true that we loved each other?”
You couldn't answer immediately. That was the question you had feared hearing the most, for you knew it would always be asked in the past tense.
You nodded slowly.
His eyes filled with an emotion you couldn't identify. Pain, relief, sadness. Perhaps all at the same time.
“It was real.”
For an instant he seemed trapped in those words. As if a part of him had needed to hear them from you to finally believe it hadn't been an illusion.
But then the expression on his face changed.
“Why did you do it?” he asked.
His voice was no longer fragile, but sounded wounded.
“Why did you take something from me that you had no right to take?”
You said nothing.
“You took a part of my life from me,” he took another step toward you. “You took my memories. You took away my ability to decide what I wanted to do with them.”
His eyes met yours.
“Why did you make me forget you?”
You felt the guilt return, but this time you didn't let it crush you. Because you had spent days punishing yourself for the very same thing. You knew you had been wrong, but now you also knew you weren't the only one who had made decisions.
“And did you have the right to do it?” you asked.
Peter frowned.
“What?”
“Did you have the right to make everyone forget who you were?”
Silence fell between you both.
“No,” your voice remained firm. “You didn't either.”
Peter looked away, and his expression hardened.
“It's not the same.”
“Why?”
“Because I was trying to prevent a collapse of universes.”
You nodded slowly, accepting the difference.
“Yes. You held the fate of millions of people in your hands.”
You took a step toward him.
“But, Peter… I didn't hold the challenge of protecting the world in my hands.”
You looked at him directly.
“I only wanted to protect my world.”
His features shifted slightly. The confession hung suspended between the two of you.
“I know I hurt you. But at that moment… all I could see was someone I loved suffering, and I thought that if I could take that pain away from you, even at my own expense, I had to do it.”
You took another step toward him, as if there were a magnetism pulling you. He himself was what was pulling you in his direction.
But it wasn't the telepathic connection. It was him. It had always been him.
“Can you blame me?” you whispered, barely a thread of a voice.
“Can you really?” you continued, searching his eyes. “Didn't you do the same for Michelle?”
The mention of her name seemed to pause him for an instant.
“When you decided to have everyone forget who you were, you didn't do it because you didn't love them. You did it because you loved them too much. Because you believed that carrying the loss was better than watching them suffer.”
You looked down for a second.
“I did the same thing.”
Peter remained silent, trapped between the need to contradict you and the inability to deny that he understood that kind of sacrifice.
“The difference,” you said softly, “is that you were trying to save everyone.”
You looked at him again.
“I was just trying to save you.”
“I missed you.”
The confession came out of him suddenly, interrupting you before you could continue.
For an instant he seemed surprised by his own words, as if he had spent too much time trying to deny something he could no longer hide. He looked down and took a deep breath, searching for the right way to explain something that even he hadn't known how to comprehend during all that time.
“Even if I didn't know who you were…” he whispered. “Even if I couldn't remember you, I tried to find you everywhere.”
His fingers closed slightly at his sides, as if he could still feel that absence that had accompanied him for so long.
“I looked for you in people, in places, in experiences. There were moments when something made me feel like I had already lived through something similar, that there was someone who was supposed to be there with me, but I could never understand what it was.”
His eyes met yours again.
“There was always a part of me that felt like I was missing something.”
Guilt shot through you again, but this time mixed with something harder to bear: realizing that, even without his memories, a part of him had kept searching for you.
“Did you never think about that?” he asked softly, though his voice still carried the wound of everything that had happened. “Did you never think that it was impossible to make someone forget you completely?”
He took a small step toward you. The distance between you disappeared until the tip of his nose brushed yours softly. You were so close that you could see every emotion reflected in his eyes, the tears pooling slowly on his eyelashes before slipping down his cheekbones.
“That maybe memories aren't the only thing left of a person? But that love stays carved in a way that no one can erase?”
You didn't know what to answer. You limited yourself to observing him from below, completely trapped between everything you wanted to say and the inability to find the right words. Your eyes traveled over his face with an almost desperate attention, as if you needed to memorize every detail of him again: the way his features had changed over the years, the tiredness accumulated in his gaze, the vulnerability he tried to hide and that was now completely exposed before you.
It was him. After all that time, after trying to convince yourself that you had to let him go, Peter was still there, in front of you, real and tangible, as if a part of you had always known you would end up finding each other again.
He didn't seem capable of pulling away either. His hands remained still, fearing that touching you would mean losing you again.
The rage was still there. The guilt was still there. The wounds hadn't vanished completely. But suddenly they seemed much smaller in front of the reality of having him close once more.
Because through all those years, you had missed his presence above any memory. You had missed his voice, his way of looking at you, the safety you felt when you were by his side. And now that he was in front of you, that you could feel his proximity and confirm he was real, it was impossible to keep pretending that the only thing existing between you was pain.
His hand moved slowly up to your face. His fingers slid softly across your cheek, holding it with a delicacy uncharacteristic of the moment. The contact was small, almost imperceptible, but enough to break the last barrier between you.
Peter tilted his face slightly toward you, and you did the same. Neither of the two had to think about it, driven by a need that had survived even when memories had vanished.
The kiss began with caution, but that fragility lasted barely a few seconds. Soon his hands found your waist, and he pulled you closer with an urgency that needed no explanation. You held him with the same strength, clinging to the fabric of his clothes while he seemed unable to keep any space between you. It was a desperate, deep kiss, as if both of you were trying to recover in that instant all the time you had lost.
Peter made you step back until your back met the wall, without letting go of you. His body remained close to yours, protecting you in an almost instinctive way, while his hands traced your face gently.
There was something almost reverent in the way he touched you, as if after spending so much time without you, now there was only one thing he wanted to do: take care of you. His fingers paused on your cheek, wiping away a stray tear without either of you knowing at what exact moment you had begun to cry.
“I'm so sorry,” you whispered against his lips. You could barely pronounce it before he kissed you again, as if he didn't want to hear any more apologies.
“Forgive me, Peter.”
He closed his eyes for an instant and rested his forehead against yours. His breath trembled slightly before the words left him.
“I was so lonely…” he admitted softly. “All this time I felt like I was missing something and I didn't understand what it was. I tried to move on, but there was a part of me that kept looking for you, even when I didn't even know who I was looking for.”
His fingers remained on your face, tracing your cheek with care, as if he needed to convince himself that you weren't another memory that was going to vanish.
“And now you're here.”
The way he looked at you finished breaking you. You had expected to find pain turned into anger, unanswered questions, the same wound you had carried with you all that time. But there was none of that in his eyes.
There was only Peter. The same one you had lost. The same one who, despite everything, had never stopped looking for you.
His thumb wiped the last tear remaining on your skin, and for an instant, everything seemed to stand in silence. There were no reproaches between you, only the sadness of the years taken from you and the relief of having finally arrived at the same place.
He looked at you as if he still couldn't believe it.
summary: by chance, she crosses paths with Peter again, and memories she thought were lost begin to reemerge. Determined to uncover the truth, she moves to Queens to find answers, unaware that recovering them will come at too high a price.
Thank you so much for the INCREDIBLE response to the first part. I decided to write a second and a third. I hope you enjoy it; I can't wait until Wednesday to see Peter back on the big screen.
masterlist
Part one Part three bonus
As the days went by, memories began to resurface. The encounter with Peter had unearthed everything that your mind still held, without you really knowing it.
You and Peter had been friends for as long as you could remember. You were there when his parents died, both of you still too young to understand what it implied. You went through different stages of school and the first months of high school together.
Before the day you forgot him –the reason for which was still an enigma– you thought about him daily. You understood, then, that there was more of him in your life than you would have expected. Especially, considering it was someone you had pushed away so long ago.
The dedication in your favorite book made sense. You realized that all those songs you seemed to "just know" hid shared moments, and that sunset was your favorite time of day because you had watched it by his side thousands of times.
In the same way, the grief regained its strength. You assumed you had gotten over it, that you only thought of him with longing and wished he was doing well. But now that you had seen him again, you couldn't help but feel the pain of loss.
It was as if you had recovered him, in a certain sense. Maybe not him, but a series of memories tattooed on your heart. The most painful part was the harsh reality that, for almost a year, you had forgotten that Peter Parker was everything to you.
You hesitated over whether you should tell anyone. The professor might have known, if he wanted to, but you had learned long ago that he didn't meddle in other people's business; or at least he tried not to. If you told him, maybe he could help you.
But, what were you going to do?
Did you want to be part of his life again? Should you deal with the distance as you had done for so many years? What were you going to say to him to win him back?
You couldn't simply walk up to him and try to explain all the visions you had upon holding his hand, it would have sounded ridiculous. Above all, because of your inability to read his mind.
If you couldn't even hear his thoughts, how were you going to make your way into his mind to try to recover something that, in all probability, had been lost so many years ago?
For days, you attended your classes as usual. Until keeping the secret finally became unbearable.
One night, when dinner time came, you slipped out of the dining room without saying another word. In moments like those, the mansion sank into a different kind of calm. The hallways remained almost deserted, and only the TV room retained some life, filled with those who, at the end of the day, sought a moment to relax and forget the incessant daily hustle and bustle.
When you finally finished the walk, you stood in front of the door and knocked three times. The professor's voice echoed from within with an invitation to come in.
You pushed the door open cautiously. Charles looked up from the book resting on the desk and offered a gentle smile upon seeing you.
“Good evening”
“Good evening, professor”
You stepped in and closed the door behind you. The office preserved the same quiet atmosphere as always: bookshelves packed with books, a warm lamp, and the faint aroma of tea resting on a side table.
Charles pointed to the armchair in front of him.
“Sit down”
You did, though it took you a few seconds to settle in. Your hands were clasped in your lap and your eyes fixed on them.
“How are you?”
The question was simple, but it caught you off guard.
You exhaled through your nose.
“Fine,” you said automatically.
“Well, what brings you here?”
You remained silent, as if by doing so you could bring order to your thoughts. Charles waited patiently.
“Professor, can I tell you something?”
He nodded calmly.
“Anything”
First you told him about the voice in your head. About that presence that had begun to appear during the nights, when everything was quiet, and there was nothing left to distract you. You told him about that mind reaching out to you from the dark, about the strange feeling of recognizing something in it without understanding what it was. About how, even without knowing his name, a part of you seemed to have been waiting to find him.
Then you confessed to him how fate had guided you through the city streets until finding the person responsible. How a series of coincidences led you to him without you even understanding why you felt you had to follow that path.
Then you spoke to him about the reunion. About the moment you saw him again after so long, about how his eyes passed over you without recognizing your face and, even so, something inside you knew exactly who he was. You explained how you took his hand and how, at that instant, all the memories came rushing back at once: the conversations, the promises, the love, and the loss. Everything you had believed forgotten returned to you in a single moment, while he remained in front of you without remembering the history you had shared.
Then you told him what had confused you the most: that you yourself had forgotten who Peter Parker was. A part of your life had vanished without a trace and, without realizing it, you had carried on believing it had never existed.
When you finished speaking, the office fell silent once more. Charles did not answer right away. He remained thoughtful for a few seconds, gaze lost, as if attempting to order not just your words, but everything they implied.
“I understand”
He didn't add anything else immediately. He was never in a rush to fill the silences.
“What is it that truly worries you?”
You looked at him.
“I can't stop thinking about him”
“Well, that is only natural”
“I was able to live for many years without looking for him. I thought I could leave things as they were, but... not anymore. I feel like I have to find him. He has the right to know what happened between us. To get his memories back”
“And why do you think that is the right thing to do?”
“Because they were never mine to keep. They are his”
Charles clasped his hands over his lap and remained silent for a few seconds.
“Perhaps they are. But before asking yourself what belongs to Peter, you should ask yourself what exactly you are trying to give back to him”
You frowned.
“I don't understand”
“Memories are not objects that one misplaces and simply recovers. They are part of a person's identity. When you alter a memory, you also alter the way someone understands who they are”
His words carried no harshness whatsoever, but they were not meant to soothe you either.
“Years ago you made a decision that changed the course of his life. No matter what your reasons were; that decision is already part of both of your histories”
You lowered your gaze.
“I know”
“Now you want to make another one”
You nodded in silence.
“And you must ask yourself if it stems from love... or from regret”
You felt a knot in your throat.
“Could it be both?”
Charles barely smiled.
“It could. But one of them always weighs more than the other”
The room fell silent once again.
“Professor... what would you do?”
He shook his head gently.
“I wouldn't answer that question, even if I could”
You observed him with confusion.
“Because it wouldn't be my decision to live with the consequences”
He let a few seconds pass before continuing.
“There is something I learned a long time ago about telepathy. Having the ability to enter someone's mind does not mean we always should. The greatest act of respect toward another person, at times, consists precisely of resisting the temptation to intervene”
You swallowed hard.
“But if I can give him back a part of his life...”
“Can you give it back to him?”
You blinked. Charles proceeded calmly.
“Or can you only give him back the memories?”
The difference hit you immediately.
“They are not the same thing”
He shook his head.
“No. Memories can return. Time cannot”
You remained motionless.
“If Peter were to recover everything you lived together, he would still be the man he is today. He would still carry the experiences he had after losing you. You wouldn't be meeting the young man you fell in love with again; you would be meeting someone different who, in addition, would remember having been that young man”
You hadn't thought about it that way.
Charles held your gaze.
“If one day you decide to give those memories back to him, do so solely because you believe he has the right to know the truth. Not because you expect to recover what existed between you”
Your lips parted slightly, but no words came out.
“Because, once he knows that truth, that decision will no longer belong to you. It will belong to him”
You felt a sting behind your eyes. You tried to hold it back, but it was useless.
“Besides, I miss him”
The words were barely a whisper, and Charles did not reply immediately. That's why you spoke again.
“I think I already missed him. Every day”
You lowered your eyes to your hands.
“I thought erasing his memories would be enough to move on. I repeated to myself so many times that it was best for him that I ended up convincing myself it would be best for me too”
You cracked a bitter smile.
“But it wasn't”
The office remained silent, giving you space to continue.
“And now that I saw him... it was as if time had never passed. Everything came back at once.” One of your fingers traveled to your temple. “Everything is here”
You took a deep breath.
“But I realized there are too many things about Peter that I no longer know”
Your fingers intertwined tightly.
“I don't know what his life has been like all these years. I don't know what he lived through after I vanished from his life. I don't know why he decided to forget me completely... or why he allowed that to happen. I don't even know if he ever tried to remember me”
Your voice cracked slightly.
“I know nothing about him”
You looked up, embarrassed, though you knew beforehand that he wasn't going to judge you.
“I can't even read his mind. I've tried to listen to his thoughts, as I do with any other person... and there's nothing. It's silence. As if there were a barrier between us that I can't break through.
You frowned. Charles mimicked you.
“It had never happened to me. With... a normal person, I mean”
You paused.
“And yet, every night I hear him. Somehow, I can feel his pain. And I don't even know why he suffers”
Charles tilted his head slightly. Silence settled in again, and you breathed with difficulty.
“I would like to go to the city” You waited a second. Your eyes remained fixed on him.
“I just want to understand what happened,” you confessed. Then you lowered your gaze. “And... I also want to see him again”
Charles remained thoughtful for a few moments before speaking. His voice preserved its usual serenity.
“Understanding someone is never a bad reason to get close to them. But make sure that desire to understand doesn't turn into the need to find immediate answers. Some people reveal their wounds through words. Others need time to do so.
You nodded in silence.
“If there is a barrier preventing you from entering his mind, don't force it. As a telepath, I know that can be frustrating. But I also know that not all knowledge should be obtained through that path”
He cracked a faint smile.
“Get to know him as you would get to know any other person. Listen to him when he wants to speak. Observe who he is now, not just who he was. If the answers exist, they will come when Peter decides to share them with you”
Then he paused briefly.
“And if there is something that must be discovered by other means, then you will have to allow time to do its part”
You took a deep breath.
“So you think I should go? Do you... do you allow me?”
Charles held your gaze.
“Do you think you are ready?”
You had lived for years in the mansion. You had pushed yourself, trained, studied. You hadn't had a single accident for a long time now. You were an adult.
And Charles trusted you. But he needed you to trust yourself too.
“I must try”
Charles had provided you with enough money to sustain yourself for a few weeks. It was not a lavish sum, but generous enough to live modestly and without major worries. Securing an apartment in the same building as Peter turned out to be surprisingly simple.
It was a hideous place.
You would have to watch your step, although you knew that, with your powers, it would be difficult for anyone to catch you off guard. You could knock a mugger unconscious or dodge a bullet without too much trouble. Catching their intentions a few seconds before they acted was enough to get ahead of any attack.
And, besides, Spider-Man was always roaming the neighborhood. You had nothing to worry about.
The problem was approaching Peter. You couldn't just pop up out of nowhere to tell him you wanted to get to know him, right?
An idea occurred to you then. You knew it was wrong: a crime, even. But you snuck into his apartment. It was just long enough to take a look around without altering a single thing.
You weren't aiming to invade a privacy you already felt you had violated too many years ago; you just needed a way to start a conversation that wouldn't sound rehearsed.
The small apartment said more about Peter than he probably realized. There was a professional camera resting on the desk, several printed photographs held with pegs, and an employee badge forgotten next to a cluster of keys. You had no background in journalism, so you discarded that option.
Digging a bit further, you found a work schedule and a pizzeria uniform. That was enough.
The next morning you went down to the lobby a few minutes before the time he usually left. You pretended to check your phone when you heard the unmistakable click of a lock turning.
You looked up.
Peter emerged from his apartment with a backpack slung over one shoulder and a cup of coffee in his hand. He closed the door distractedly and walked toward the elevator without noticing you until you were just a few steps apart.
Then he stopped.
His expression changed slightly, as if an image had just clicked into his memory.
“Wait...”
You watched him with a suppressed smile.
“Yes?”
He pointed at you with his coffee cup.
“I saw you a few days ago, didn't I?”
You nodded.
“At the coffee shop”
Peter let out a soft exhale, as if he had finally remembered.
“Yeah... yeah, of course”
He scratched the back of his neck in an awkward gesture.
“I... bumped into you. I'm sorry”
That movement pulled at your chest. He still did that when he felt embarrassed.
“You don't have to apologize,” you replied gently. “Actually, I think I'm the one who should”
The elevator doors opened with a soft chime, and you stepped in together. For a few seconds, only the hum of the mechanism descending between floors could be heard.
“I must have seemed pretty strange,” you continued, letting out a nervous laugh. “I kept staring at you several times and then ended up crying right in front of you. Not exactly a good first impression”
Peter gave a lopsided smile, and you pressed on before he could speak.
“I had just moved in that very day. I didn't know anyone at all and... I guess everything just overwhelmed me a bit”
He nodded understandingly.
“Moving here is never easy. Let alone to a building like this”
You kept quiet for a moment before adding:
“Anyway, I stared at you so much because... I mistook you for someone else”
Peter turned his head slightly toward you.
“Oh, yeah?”
Your words came out with a naturalness that surprised you.
“Yeah. I thought someone couldn't look so much like another person. I think that's why I couldn't stop looking at you,” you explained to him.
Feeling you ought to say something else, you added.
“You must have thought I was crazy”
He let out a low laugh.
“I wouldn't say crazy”
Then he paused briefly.
“You just looked a bit confused”
The elevator doors opened on the ground floor, and you walked together toward the building exit. Before he said goodbye, you took a deep breath. You had to do it right now, or you might not get another chance.
“Hey, I wanted to ask you something”
Peter turned his head back.
“Yeah?”
“I'm still settling in the city, and I'm looking for a part-time job. Yesterday I saw you leaving with a uniform, like food service or something. And I was wondering if where you work they might be hiring”
Peter remained thoughtful for a few seconds.
“I could ask”
He shrugged slightly.
“It's not up to me, but I know the manager. If they need someone, I can tell him to take your application”
A genuine smile appeared on your face.
“Would you really do that?”
He responded with the simplicity that had always characterized him.
“Sure. We all need someone to give us a hand when we arrive at a new place”
His smile, though tired, was genuine. You felt you could fall in love all over again.
Peter kept his promise and spoke with the pizzeria manager. The opportunity appeared sooner than anyone could have expected. The cashier had to step away for a few weeks to handle a family matter that, according to the owner, could not be delayed. Nobody asked too many questions; they simply needed someone to fill his spot until he returned.
You would never know if that decision had been born entirely from him. A carefully planted suggestion at the right moment was enough. After all, you didn't plan to leave him jobless; you just needed a few weeks. Enough time to get close to Peter without relying on chance.
You had never worked in a pizzeria, let alone behind a cash register. As the manager explained how the system worked and handed you a red apron with the shop's logo, you couldn't help but wonder how hard taking orders, collecting money for slices, and memorizing a menu could really be.
You hoped not too hard.
Peter arrived a few minutes before the shift started. He had his backpack slung over one shoulder and, upon seeing you behind the counter in the pizzeria uniform, a look of surprise crossed his face.
“They hired you”
You smiled at him.
“Yeah, the cashier had... something come up with his family. So I'll be covering for him for a few days”
He put his backpack in the small locker behind the counter and walked back to you.
“Bob's a cool guy; that's a shame,” he lamented. “But it's great they hired you. At least for a few days”
“Yeah, well. I also wanted to thank you”
Peter looked up.
“For what?”
“For recommending me. You didn't have to do that, you barely know me”
He shrugged slightly, as if the answer were obvious.
“It was no big deal. I just told him you seemed responsible and were looking for work”
He looked down for a second before adding:
“I know how tough it is to start from scratch”
Those words made you smile with a certain melancholy.
“Yeah... it's turning out to be harder than I imagined”
Peter rested a hand on the counter.
“But you end up finding your place. It just takes a little time”
You observed him for a few seconds.
He had always been like that. Even when things were going wrong for him, he found a way to convey peace to others.
The shift was busier than you expected, but still manageable. You saw little of Peter, as he spent his time delivering on the motorcycle –something you hadn't considered when applying for the job– but at the end of each shift there was half an hour where no more delivery orders were accepted, and he had to help out around the shop.
Those moments would have to be the right ones.
“And, huh... have you lived in Queens for long?”
“A few years, yeah,” he confessed. “And where did you live?”
“Westchester,” you whispered. It was a half-truth.
Peter seemed to think for a moment, as if he didn't recall the place. Though in reality his mind was wandering in another direction.
“I don't think I've ever been. Well, I just have no reason to go there”
You smiled, trying not to look affected by the fact that, indeed, he had never visited you at the mansion. If you won him back and asked him to, would he say yes to you now?
“It's pretty. Quiet. Nothing like here”
The boy smiled, not knowing what else to say. It wasn't that he was rude, he simply looked shy or worried. He was always worried, and you didn't know why.
Some customers who had just finished their meal left, thanking you, and both he and you responded, wishing them a good night.
“They left 2 dollars, can you get them?” you asked him kindly.
The problem was that the table was in a very inconvenient spot for sight and, besides, the tip was under the napkin holder. Peter was surprised to verify it.
“How did you do that?”
“Do what?”
“You guessed,” he exclaimed, incredulous. He put the bill in the glass jar and watched you with genuine interest.
“Oh, it's just that… common tips are of that amount. I could have been wrong”
He didn't give the matter any further thought, because he never imagined the reason behind it. He just assumed you had been lucky.
When the shift ended, Peter turned off the entrance lights and locked the door of the pizzeria while you finished putting away the last things behind the counter.
The motorcycle wasn't his; it belonged to the business and was part of his job as a delivery guy. He left it parked at the back of the place before starting the walk back to the building.
And as a logical conclusion to the night, you walked together to your building.
At first the conversation was simple. They talked about unimportant things: the weather, the absurd number of customers that had arrived that night, how hard it was to get used to the rhythm of New York. Peter was quieter than you remembered, but not because he didn't want to talk. He simply seemed like someone who had learned to measure his words.
“And why did you come to Queens?” he asked as they crossed the street.
You had anticipated him asking you a question of that nature, so you had thought of the answer.
“My life got a bit complicated where I was. I felt like I needed to get away from everything”
Peter nodded slowly, as if he understood more than what you were saying. He didn't press or try to uncover what you had decided to keep to yourself. He simply accepted the answer.
You looked at him out of the corner of your eye for a few seconds.
It was strange. You had spent years imagining what it would be like to talk to him again, but you had never thought it would have to be like this: starting from scratch, with small conversations and half-truths.
When you reached the building, you said goodbye at the entrance with a smile and a simple "see you tomorrow".
And the next day, indeed, you saw each other.
After that, it began to become a routine. You bumped into each other in the hallways before shifts. You walked together after closing the pizzeria. Some nights you stayed a few more minutes in front of the building talking about anything before going up to your respective apartments.
Peter also discovered that it was nice to have someone to talk to at the end of the day. Since the world had forgotten him, the people with whom he could share something of himself could be counted on the fingers of one hand. Most of the time, his conversations ended up being with himself, with the memories he kept in silence or with visits to the graves of May and Tony, the only places where he could feel like he was still talking to people who had been part of his life.
That's why, at first, he didn't know what to do with your presence. But little by little, he started thinking that you could become a friend.
“It's cold,” he told you one night, after leaving work.
There was barely a week left before the deadline you had given yourself to stay in New York expired, although you weren't so sure anymore about wanting to leave. What had initially been a mission had turned into a routine that was starting to feel all too familiar.
Peter rubbed his hands together as they walked toward the building.
“Do you want my jacket?”
You looked at him with a small smile.
“And then you would be cold”
He shrugged.
“I'm used to it”
You shook your head softly.
The reach of your powers was much greater than most people imagined. You could alter your own body temperature with ease, keeping yourself warm even on the coldest nights. Although you hadn't yet figured out how to do it with someone else.
“I'm fine,” you assured him. “But thank you”
Peter seemed unconvinced.
“Are you sure?”
You nodded.
“I'm always warm”
He frowned slightly, curious.
“Always?”
You smiled.
“Yes. Feel my hand”
Without thinking too much about it, you held your hand out to him. Peter hesitated for a second before taking it, and as soon as his fingers touched yours, his expression changed.
“Wow”
The surprise in his voice made you laugh.
“See?”
He held your hand in his just a few seconds longer than necessary, as if trying to understand how it was possible.
“That's strange”
“Strange bad?”
Peter shook his head.
“No. Just... strange”
His expression made you smile, and he seemed to like that sound. It was a small, almost imperceptible gesture, but you noticed it: the way his face relaxed for an instant, as if hearing your laughter made the night a little less heavy.
A question began to itch on your tongue.
“Peter... do you have a girlfriend?”
The reaction was immediate. He tensed slightly and looked at you with a surprised expression, almost as if the question had caught him completely off guard. You wanted to take it back, but instead, you added:
“I'm sorry, it was just a question”
You didn't want him to think there was an ulterior motive behind it.
“It's just that... well, you are very attentive. You're kind to everyone, you work hard, and you're always willing to help. I thought someone like you would have one”
Peter looked down, uncomfortable.
“I had one”
The response surprised you. Well, actually it surprised you that he hadn't avoided the question as he did with other personal topics.
“Years ago,” he added in a low voice “But it didn't end very well”
You didn't ask what had happened. There was something in the way he said it that made you understand it wasn't a story he wanted to tell yet. You assumed it was about the girl from the coffee shop: Michelle.
The silence lasted a few seconds before Peter seemed to remember something else.
“Oh. Although... at the start of high school there was another girl”
Your heart beat fast, holding onto a certain hope to hear the answer.
“Yeah?”
Peter nodded slowly.
“Yeah. Her name was Liz. We went to the school dance together, but that didn't go very well either”
You tried to maintain a calm expression, though you couldn't help but feel a certain disappointment. You hoped that, deep down, he would remember you at least a little.
That there would be a trace of you, even if he didn't remember your face or your name. Something that proved that, even if he had forgotten you, a part of what you had been was still there.
“And you?”
“Me what?”
“Do you have a boyfriend?”
You didn't expect him to ask you the same question, but now that he had, he seemed interested. You pondered your answer for a moment:
“There was a boy many years ago. I knew him my whole life and… well, eventually we fell in love.”
You looked down at the path as you kept walking.
“He was everything to me”
Peter said nothing, but his expression changed slightly. He seemed to listen with a different kind of attention.
“And what happened?” he asked gently.
“Things got complicated”
You paused.
“We lost contact. And after that... it was like what we had had disappeared”
Peter frowned a bit.
“Disappeared?”
You nodded slowly.
“Yes. It's hard to explain”
You couldn't tell him that it was you who had erased his memories, that you had made the most painful decision of your life believing it was the right thing to do.
Discovering that the person you loved now looked at you like a stranger.
“But the strange thing,” you admitted in a low voice “is that, even after so many years, I still feel like a part of me stayed there”
Peter remained quiet. You wished you knew how your words had affected him, but even with all the time together you hadn't been able to decipher the mystery of his mind.
“Do you think I'm crazy?”
“No. I understand you more than you think”
His words sounded sincere, and you wanted to understand the secrets the boy was keeping. You were about to say something else when, suddenly, a buzzing shot through your brain. It was a wave of alert, of fear, and of something akin to an anticipated pain that didn't come from you. The intensity was so sudden that you brought both hands to your ears, even though you knew it would do no good.
Hearing your groan of pain, Peter hurried to hold you to make sure you were okay. But as soon as his hands touched yours, he froze too. What had appeared was the constant warning of his body before danger arrived.
A man was walking directly toward you with his hands buried in his jacket pockets. To the naked eye, there was nothing special about him, but the spider-sense kept insisting. Every step he took made that invisible alarm grow more intense.
Peter barely had time to say:
“Get behind me”
You obeyed almost by instinct, your head still throbbing. The man quickened his pace when he was a few meters away and pulled a knife out of his pocket.
Everything happened in a matter of seconds.
Peter stepped forward and deflected the arm with which the man held the knife. The movement was so fast that you barely managed to follow it with your eyes. However, before he managed to completely immobilize him, the blade managed to graze the side of his forearm. Peter barely winced in pain.
With a movement of his shoulder, he finished off balancing the attacker and shoved him against the pavement. The knife flew several meters away, clattering on the concrete.
The man uttered a curse as he tried to get up. Seeing that Peter was still standing, practically unharmed and ready to face him again, he decided to abandon the weapon and run off without looking back.
The buzzing was beginning to fade, but you still felt your chest tight and your head groggy from that unbearable sense of alarm that had invaded your mind.
Peter turned to you immediately.
“Are you okay?”
You nodded out of reflex, though you could barely stay standing. He picked up his backpack from the ground and put an arm around your back to help you walk.
“It's okay. It's over”
You didn't argue.
As they hurried toward the building, Peter looked over his shoulder a couple of times to make sure the mugger wasn't coming back. You, on the other hand, were only trying to comprehend what you had just experienced.
You had felt it as if it had pierced the barrier protecting Peter's mind, not in the form of thoughts, but as a shock of pure anguish. An alarm so intense that for a moment it had become yours too.
It wasn't until you reached the building that you noticed the thin trickle of blood running down his forearm. Panic, this time entirely yours, took hold of you.
“Peter, you're bleeding”
“What? Uh, yeah… that”
“Let me check,” you begged him.
You felt guilty. If you hadn't been paralyzed by that strange feeling, maybe you could have done something. Instead, Peter had ended up hurt trying to protect you.
“Really, it's nothing serious”
“Please”
He observed you for a few seconds before giving in. Then you led him to your apartment.
It was a modest place. You had barely brought the bare necessities: a small table next to the kitchen and a surprisingly comfortable gray sofa that took up almost the entire living room. After all, you didn't plan on staying there. Everything had been a loan from Charles, though Maximoff was the one who ended up carrying it to the fourth floor amidst complaints.
Peter took a seat while you looked for something that could serve. In the mirror drawer, in the bathroom, you found a simple bottle of hydrogen peroxide and a half-used bandage, along with some Band-Aids that wouldn't really be of any use.
You cleaned the wound carefully. It wasn't deep, but long enough to need a bandage. Peter barely winced when the antiseptic touched the cut.
You worked in silence, and when you finished placing the bandage. The pressure in your chest was still there. Peter flexed his arm carefully, as if wanting to prove to you that he was fine.
“Hey... you really don't have to worry so much”
You didn't answer.
You kept dwelling on what had happened. On that unbearable pain that had appeared out of nowhere and the way everything disappeared when the danger did too.
Peter noticed that you were completely spaced out.
“Are you sure you're okay?”
It took you a moment to answer.
“Sorry. I think the scare affected me more than I thought”
Peter nodded in understanding.
“It's normal”
Silence settled between the two of you again. He had been through many similar situations throughout his history as the neighborhood vigilante and knew in advance that by morning the cut would barely be noticeable. However, that night he feared for what could have happened to you.
He kept watching you. You were pretty; anyone could notice, and for a second he wondered why you had appeared that way in his life. It had been a long time since he had felt the closeness of a… friend? He didn't even know if he could call you that.
He wanted to believe that you could be a sincere bond, built after everything that had happened. He had his coworkers, sure, but it wasn't the same. In you he might have at least an occasional companion. Someone to chat with who would respond to his words.
You, however, didn't understand what was happening to you when you were near Peter. Every day seemed to reveal something new, and none of those discoveries made sense. Besides, in your whole stay at the building you hadn't even heard him in dreams as you usually did. It was as if the closer you were, the less you could understand.
You took a breath before speaking.
“Would... would you mind staying for a while?”
The words escaped your lips with such timidness that, as soon as you heard them out loud, you wished you could take them back before they reached him. That request had been born out of impulse and, now that it existed between you, it seemed disproportionate to you.
Peter had already done enough for you that night. He had stopped an armed man, he had been injured protecting you, and still, he remained sitting on your apartment's sofa trying to convince you that the cut on his arm was no big deal. Asking him to also stay with you was too much.
He kept quiet. He limited himself to observing you for a few seconds, with his bandaged arm resting on his thigh and his face slightly tilted to one side, as if trying to understand that which you yourself weren't capable of explaining.
“Because you're scared?”
The question was simple. So simple that a lie would have been enough to answer it.
You could nod, pretend that the attempted robbery had left you too shaken up to stay alone that night and let him believe exactly that. It would have been the most logical explanation. After all, anyone would have needed a little company after experiencing something like that.
However, the truth was much harder to name. It hadn't been the man, nor the weapon that had affected you. What had truly terrified you was that which had occurred inside your own mind.
You breathed slowly before barely lifting your head.
“Yes... I suppose so”
Peter let out his breath slowly, as if that answer confirmed a suspicion he already had.
“Alright”
You blinked.
“What?”
He smiled with that naturalness that characterized him.
“I'll stay for a bit”
You felt the tension leave your shoulders almost immediately and murmured a soft thank you.
You had lived training among mutants capable of bringing down buildings. You had learned to defend yourself long before reaching adulthood and, objectively, few people represented a real threat to you.
But you longed for his company. You wished to have him close.
You two remained silent for a few moments, listening only to the distant rumor of traffic seeping through the window. The apartment felt small again, though not uncomfortable.
You then remembered that Peter had barely eaten a bite since leaving the pizzeria. The adrenaline of the assault had ended up erasing any other concern, but now that everything seemed to have regained a certain calm, you were starting to notice the tiredness drawn on his face.
“Are you hungry?” you asked cautiously.
Peter looked up at you and let out a tired laugh.
“To be honest... a little”
You smiled discreetly.
“I can make you something”
He made a gesture with his hand, brushing it off.
“You don't have to bother”
“It's no bother”
You walked to the small kitchen while opening the refrigerator. You had only bought the bare essentials since arriving in the city: a couple of vegetables, eggs, cheese, some butter, and a loaf of bread that was starting to go stale. It wasn't exactly a plentiful pantry, but it would be enough to improvise a simple dinner.
You stood for a few seconds looking inside the refrigerator, wondering what you could make with so little, when an image shot through your mind with absolute clarity.
A melted cheese sandwich.
You barely frowned, and the vision vanished almost immediately.
It wasn't a thought proper. Nor a voice. Barely a warm, domestic feeling, the craving of someone who just wanted to eat something simple before going to sleep.
You turned your gaze back to Peter.
He was still sitting on the sofa, distracted, examining the bandage on his arm with a blank expression. He hadn't said a single word.
You swallowed hard.
You couldn't enter his mind. You had tried since the day you reunited without getting anything more than absolute silence. However, for some reason that defied all logic, certain fragments managed to make their way to you.
It was as if you didn't hear his thoughts, but rather that which remained closer to the body than to consciousness.
You looked away before he noticed you were watching him.
“How does a grilled cheese sandwich sound?” you asked as you pulled out a small skillet.
Peter raised his head and smiled widely.
“Yeah, sounds… great, actually. I was just thinking about that”
“I read your mind, huh?” you joked.
If only he knew you meant it.
He offered to help you, but really, you just asked him to stay sitting in the dining area so you could chat a bit more. You weren't really skilled in the kitchen, you rarely practiced it at the mansion, but you managed at that moment.
Peter's expression upon taking the first bite made you wonder if he loved it or was hating it.
“Did you like it?”
“It's delicious,” he confessed. “It's been a long time since I ate something like this”
He looked down at the plate for a few seconds. A faint, barely perceptible smile formed on his lips.
“When I lived with my aunt, we had this for dinner very often. It's one of those simple but tasty meals, don't you think?”
You couldn't help but smile.
You remembered May perfectly. It was impossible not to. She always found an excuse to serve you something to eat when you went to look for Peter and, even though you barely knew her for a few years, a few memories were enough to associate her with a warmth that seemed to fill any room she was in.
“Yes,” you replied with a smile. “And how is she? Do you visit her often?”
Peter remained motionless.
The smile faded bit by bit from his face, and his eyes returned to the plate in front of him. For a moment he seemed to search for the right words, as if that answer was still hard for him even after so much time.
“Yes...” he whispered at last, almost to himself, “I go to see her... at her grave now and then”
You felt your heart stop, and the smile vanished from your face immediately.
“Her... grave?”
He raised his eyes just for a moment and nodded with a serenity that failed to hide the weight of that loss.
“She died a while ago”
You didn't know what to say.
An unbearable pressure settled in your throat as you tried to comprehend what you had just heard. It had never occurred to you to ask about May. You had simply assumed that Peter had moved out on his own as he grew older, like anyone else. You never imagined that the woman who had raised him was no longer around.
The image of May welcoming you with a smile, insisting that you both take something to eat before heading out and calling you by your name with that familiarity so uniquely hers flashed through your memory with painful clarity.
You looked down, unable to hold his gaze any longer.
“I'm so sorry”
He mustered a tired smile, the kind that tried to reassure the other person even when one was the one needing comfort most.
“It's okay. It was a while ago”
You felt the pain seeping through his voice. You didn't need to hear his thoughts to understand the weight he was still carrying. The way he looked down and the brief silence that followed his words were enough.
You averted your eyes to the plate, trying to regain control before he noticed the glint starting to pool in your eyes. Even so, a tear ended up slipping silently down your cheek.
Peter pretended not to see it.
The rest of dinner passed in a peaceful silence. Once you two cleared the table, he took his backpack from the back of the chair and slung it over his shoulder.
“Well...” he said with a tired smile, “I'd better head back to my apartment”
“Yeah”
“Thanks for dinner”
“Don't worry,” you expressed.
But you weren't saying goodbye, and he felt that you didn't want to. He saw a silent plea in your eyes, which convinced him immediately to make a decision.
“Are you still feeling nervous?” he whispered kindly.
Desperate for a few more moments, you nodded. “Would you feel more at ease if I stayed the night here? Not like… in your bed or anything. On the couch.”
You observed him for a few seconds, unable to hide your surprise.
“Would you do that for me?”
Peter let out a soft laugh.
“Sure,” he smiled warmly. “I sleep better when I'm in the company of someone else anyway”
The confession escaped his lips so naturally that he seemed to realize what he had said barely a second later. He looked down, somewhat embarrassed, while a discreet smile drew across his face.
You didn’t comment. Simply nodded.
“Thank you, Peter”
He responded with a light nod of his head before dropping the backpack on the floor again.
You handed him a pillow and a thick blanket you had brought from the mansion. You remembered perfectly that Hank had insisted that the sofa was excessively comfortable for such a small apartment, and for the first time you were grateful for having ignored his jokes. At least, for that night, Peter would be able to rest without too much discomfort.
The apartment was so small that there was no real separation between the living room and the bedroom. From the bed, you could clearly make out Peter's silhouette as he adjusted the pillow and lay down on the sofa. He, for his part, could see you on the other side of the room, lit only by the silver glow that the moon cast through the window.
For a few moments neither of you spoke.
The distant murmur of traffic and the occasional hum of the pipes were the only sounds breaking the silence.
Peter was the first to smile.
“Good night”
You returned the smile with a warmth you hadn't felt in a long time.
“Rest, Peter”
He closed his eyes almost immediately.
You, on the other hand, remained awake for a few more minutes, watching the quiet cadence of his breathing. Knowing that he was still there, a few meters away, produced in your chest a calm as unexpected as it was hard to explain.
Without realizing when it happened, fatigue finally won you over, and your eyelids began to grow heavier and heavier, until sleep completely enveloped you.
summary: after erasing herself from his memories to save him, she spends years silently yearning for his love, unaware that fate would also ensure Peter was forgotten by the rest of the world. But no spell can break a bond that always finds its way back.
masterlist
Part two Part three bonus
Most of the time, Professor Xavier underestimated the true power of a pair of headphones. Maximoff had given them to you a few months ago, right after seeing you on the verge of a breakdown and hearing your confession: how unbearable it was to get used to the incessant tide of other people's minds, the torture of listening to everyone, all the time.
“They help me when I don't want to think about anything,” he told you at the time, shrugging with that effortless lightness so typical of him.
Peter was older, a mutant who had been adapting to the institute's rhythm for much longer, so you decided to take his word for it. From then on, the headphones became indispensable; a tool you couldn't go anywhere without.
Charles's teachings helped, of course. They taught you to adjust your mind as if turning the knob of an old radio, isolating frequencies and tuning into white noise. But there were days when fatigue soaked into your bones and you didn't have the strength to be your own filter. You just wanted the murmur of humanity to turn off.
The Professor never stopped you from crossing the mansion's gates. After all, Westchester wasn't a prison and you weren't a captive; you were free to leave whenever you desired. That was why, upon communicating your wish to travel to the city, you only received an understanding look and a serene nod.
The truth was that not even you knew what you were looking for in Manhattan. Perhaps you harbored the childish hope that the rattling of the train would gift you a few minutes of sleep. You had been dragging heavy insomnia for weeks. At first, when your powers awakened, the nights were a nightmare of invisible screams drilling into your ears in the dark. But this time was different.
This time, the interference had an implicit name. A voice.
You couldn't stop listening to his thoughts: they were a tangle of crushing responsibilities, recent losses, and a pain so deep it bordered on devotion. Among the millions of minds fluctuating through the metropolis, his possessed a unique frequency that found its way to you, piercing through your defenses without asking for permission. It wasn't the loudest mind nor the most imposing. It simply... claimed you.
As the days went by, you stopped perceiving it as background noise. There was a painful familiarity in its echo. You felt like you had known him all your life, even if you had never seen his face. It was an inexplicable telepathic connection, an invisible thread completely escaping Charles's manuals and theories about the human mind.
Sometimes, with your forehead pressed against the pillow, you wondered if he felt that same pull on the other side of nothingness. If he sensed that, on his darkest nights, there was an unknown mind keeping him company in the silence. That doubt floated in the air until exhaustion overcame you, leaving you with the eternal question about who that stranger was inhabiting your sleepless nights.
You liked the city. It didn't have the peace of Westchester, but it possessed a brutal honesty. You thought about dropping by to see your parents, but dismissed the idea immediately. You didn't want to face their forced smiles nor the contained panic in their eyes every time you made a sudden movement. Your presence was an uncomfortable reminder of imperfection. It was better to leave them in peace; after all, they had your sister. She wasn't a mutant. She was the future they could boast about without whispering.
At the mansion, life was relatively peaceful. You got along well with most, though the relationship with the other telepaths was distant. They knew the history of your past breakdown and treated you like glass about to shatter, fearing a flaw in your mind would trigger a domino effect. Curiously, you found more comfort in the older ones: Maximoff's hyperactivity, Logan's protective cynicism, or the quiet conversations with Beast.
And then there was the Professor. Charles frequently sought you out after classes ended to evaluate your progress. There was no fear in his gaze... in fact, there was nothing. His mind was the only place in the universe where absolute silence reigned. Trying to peek into Xavier's thoughts was like trying to crack a safe using a cooked noodle: an absurd thing.
Inside your backpack traveled an object of personal cult: a worn copy of The Secret Garden. Even though it was a children's read, the story of that hidden, healing corner brought you an almost physical comfort. You understood all too well the imperious need to find a refuge where no one could reach you.
The book's origin was a haze. Maybe you had bought it for a couple of dollars at a street market, or perhaps it belonged to your family before everything broke. The pages wore that yellowish tone that nostalgics sigh for, and the corners of the cover were so worn that any bibliophile would have suffered seeing it. For you, however, it was irreplaceable.
On the first page, written in slightly faded ink but elegant calligraphy, you read a dedication:
For whenever you need a quiet place
— P.P
None of your relatives or acquaintances matched those initials. You always assumed the book had belonged to a stranger who forgot to claim his love note before selling it. After all, the world was full of lost memories.
You adjusted your back against the train seat and buried your nose in the pages, letting the smell of old paper dry your thoughts while your eyes scanned lines you knew by heart. Outside, the landscape transformed. The greenness of tall trees and gravel paths gradually gave way to the brutal architecture of civilization: small brick neighborhoods, clotheslines crisscrossing between windows, rusted rails, and graffiti shouting names on concrete walls.
Bit by bit, Manhattan's skyscrapers emerged on the horizon like glass giants claiming the sky. The train crossed the last metallic bridges and ventured into the guts of a city that never slept.
Stepping off, you began walking without a clear destination. The city was the antithesis of the isolation you usually sought: a hotbed of fragmented thoughts, financial anxieties, and absurd hurries clashing with one another. However, there was something liberating in that chaos. Among millions of voices screaming at the same time, your own cracks went unnoticed. Nobody looked at you. Nobody feared you.
To cross the streets you didn't need to look at the traffic lights; a light mental pulse was enough to switch the lights at your convenience, opening a path for yourself in a manufactured bubble of calm. Playing in your ears was the playlist Maximoff had built for you on Spotify. Although the concept of streaming seemed like an unnecessary modernity to him, he had taken the trouble to compile hours of classic and alternative rock.
You walked for hours until your steps came to a dead halt before the facade of a building.
Your old high school.
There was no logical reason to have ended up there, but the red brick walls triggered a pang in your stomach. You stood on the sidewalk, watching students pour out in flocks amid laughter, shoves, and innocence; that kind of carefreeness that only exists before reality crushes you.
You wondered what it would feel like to be one of them. What your life would have been like if your mutation had never awakened. If your only battles had been physics grades, prom, or deciding which college to apply to, instead of learning to contain an ability that threatened to destroy you from within.
You would have been an normal girl. Ordinary.
The word felt bitter in your mouth. Distant. Like a suit that belonged to someone else.
You searched your memory for a face, a name, anything to justify the nostalgia tightening your chest, but only found blanks. You vaguely remembered belonging to the debate club and the science club, but the faces of your classmates were unrecognizable. Time had taken care of that.
You thought about crossing the entrance, but immediately lost heart. It made no sense. A stranger lurking in the hallways would only draw suspicious looks.
You turned around and let your feet carry you aimlessly. It was then that intuition returned, this time with a magnetic clarity. It wasn't an external thought or a telepathic intrusion; it was a pull in the center of your chest, as if an invisible thread tied to your ribs were being tugged from somewhere in the city.
You boarded a city bus without looking at the route sign. The need to move forward flattened any doubt. You watched through the window as blocks of buildings succeeded one another, trying to convince yourself that it was just a neurotic impulse, a side effect of fatigue. But the pull didn't yield.
You got off a few stops later and started walking by inertia, turning corners almost instinctively, as if navigating a map engraved in your genes.
Until the thread slacked.
In front of you stood a small, humble café, almost invisible among the grandiosity of the main avenues. You remained on the sidewalk contemplating the reflection in the glass, overcome by the mathematical certainty that this was exactly where you needed to arrive.
In your headphones, the final chords of MGMT were playing. Oracular Spectacular was an album that seemed to evoke memories of a life you weren't sure you had lived, a mixture of psychedelia and melancholy that fit the moment perfectly.
Pushing the door open, the chime of a bell announced your entrance. The place was practically empty, an oasis of silence you were deeply grateful for. You took a deep breath, gathering the courage needed to slide the headphones down to your neck and prepare for the inevitable impact of mental noise.
“Hi, what can I get for you?”
Behind the counter, a girl with dark skin offered you a warm smile. Her nametag read Michelle, though your mind had already caught her name a second prior. However, when trying to go deeper, you bumped into a subtle wall; her mind was complex, dense, hard to decipher at first glance. Some people were just that unreadable.
You ordered a latte out of obligation. You hated coffee—caffeine usually triggered unbearable migraines—but needing to buy something was the price to pay to stay there.
That was when you noticed the boy on the other side of the counter: Ned Leeds, Michelle's friend. Ned's mind, unlike hers, was an open book. Both shared a vibe of contained nervousness, a low tension floating between them. It felt like something... work-related? No, academic.
“I'll bring it to your table in a moment.”
You nodded mechanically and settled at a small table next to the window. On the opposite wall, a turned-on television silently broadcast amateur video footage: Spider-Man swinging between skyscrapers. You remembered the events of last year, the cracks in the sky, and the multiversal threat everyone talked about. You also remembered Charles's blunt response when you asked why you all hadn't intervened: “It's not our fight.”
You looked at the screen with bitterness. And even if you had wanted to help... what on earth could you have done against the collapse of the universe?
You wondered if at any point the world would be ready for mutants. It was an open secret: the beloved figure Charles had lost years ago, a mutant so unstable he had been the worst calling card to society. Many of the mansion's residents had seen him on television as children; a few others knew him personally. You could only rely on rumors.
You stared at the street through the café's glass for a long while, wondering where all those people were heading, even though you knew the answer beforehand. You saw a girl walking hurriedly down the sidewalk, struggling to adjust the strap of a heavy bag slung over her shoulder. You wanted to believe in a gentle story: you imagined inside were a bunch of purchases she could finally, after a long time, afford. A birthday gift for someone special, some expensive creams, or maybe those shoes she had liked so much in some display window.
You entered her mind a second later.
Reality was much grayer. There were no gifts or new shoes. In the bag she only carried a change of clothes and the medical studies of her grandmother, whom she was going to nurse at the hospital during the night shift after working all day. In her head there was no excitement, but an accumulated fatigue of weeks, the worry of not knowing how to pay for the month's medications, and the faint hope that the old woman would recognize her for at least a couple of minutes before falling asleep.
You gently looked away, with a pang of bitterness in your chest.
Why was reality so sad? Was any of those passersby actually having a good day?
You moved your eyes across the sidewalk, almost desperately searching for a flash of light amid the tide of tired faces. And then you saw it. A little boy, no older than five, hopping along next to his mother. He held a green plastic dinosaur in his hands, and brushing his mind for an instant, you found no sorrow. Only a gigantic happiness because his mother had bought him the toy he had been waiting weeks for. In his universe, in that precise second, nothing bad existed.
You smiled to yourself and exhaled a breath you didn't even know you were holding. Somehow, that tiny thought comforted you; it was like a crack of sunlight amid a cloudy sky. Reality could be heavy, yes, but at least it wasn't entirely lost.
You heard the chime at the entrance, and your body responded before your mind did, turning you around to observe the newly arrived customer. A slender boy, with brown hair somewhat messy from the street wind and a sweet, incredibly expressive gaze, but with a distinct shadow of fatigue under his eyes. He wore a worn jacket that was a bit too big for him and had his hands buried in his pockets. He had that kind of noble, empathetic face that instantly conveys trust.
However, what left you dumbfounded was the fact that you heard absolutely nothing.
Not a single thought. Not the slightest murmur. His mind was in complete, inexplicable silence. It wasn't Professor Xavier's impenetrable and calculated barrier; it was something different, an absolute void, yet strangely warm. After spending the day submerged in the city's chaotic bustle, encountering such calm in a stranger left you breathless.
He didn't notice your presence; instead, his eyes were fixed on the waitress carrying your coffee.
“Enjoy,” she exclaimed kindly.
He didn't take his eyes off her, and you didn't take your eyes off him.
You stammered a thanks to the girl, and she returned to her position behind the counter. He, seeing her return, lowered his gaze and hurried to take a seat at one of the tables.
From your spot, you couldn't help but observe him. There was something subtle yet clear in his posture: the way his eyes sought the girl at the counter, the contained hesitation in his gestures... It was obvious he had gone to that café just to see her.
Upon reaching the counter, Michelle and Ned began chatting in a casual tone. After a few moments of fluid conversation, she leaned against the bar, looked at the boy waiting at the table, and asked what he was ordering.
He looked up and answered.
It was barely a short phrase, a simple response, but the timbre of his voice pierced the café's space with an overwhelming clarity.
Your heart took a violent leap. You froze in your seat, paralyzed mid-movement, while an icy shiver ran down your spine. That cadence, the exact intonation, the soft and worn nuance... You didn't need to read his thoughts to know. His spoken voice was enough.
It was the same voice that had been sneaking into your hardest nights for weeks. The lonely mind that found yours in the dark was just a few steps away from you.
That was why you had gone there. To find him.
Once again, you tried to venture into his mind. You launched your telepathy searching for that crack through which you used to hear him, but it was like running into an impenetrable wall; his mind remained in absolute silence. However, at the exact instant you brushed against his barrier, the boy flinched in his chair and went stiff all of a sudden, as if an electric shock had run up the back of his neck.
He turned his head instinctively until his eyes met yours head-on. He held your gaze for an eternal second, charged with a strange, alert tension. He hadn't just blocked you effortlessly; impossibly, that boy seemed to have felt that you were trying to enter his head.
He blinked several times as if trying to discard the idea, sure it had only been an illusion. He focused on a menu hanging above the counter despite having already placed his order, projecting a contained tension that made him look out of place. Worried, perhaps.
You looked toward the window, though now the stories of the passersby lacked meaning. You closed your eyes for an instant, searching in the silence for an answer to the enigma a few feet away, but found nothing.
Determined to end the uncertainty once and for all, you snapped them open and stood up, ready to cross the small space separating you from him. The unexpected part was that the stranger had the exact same idea. Before you could react, the two of you collided head-on. The impact made you lose your balance, and you fell backward onto the floor, letting out a stifled murmur of surprise.
He apologized immediately, visibly embarrassed. Then he crouched to your height and quickly extended his hand to help you up. Confused, you accepted his help, and at the exact instant his fingers closed around your hand, an electric shock coursed through your veins.
A memory flashed into your mind.
The afternoon sun hit your face fully when you heard his voice calling you. You had decided to go to the park to rest, silently celebrating that you had finally survived finals week. You lay on the fresh grass, letting the early summer heat envelope you.
“Do you think I'll do badly in English?” he asked, breaking the silence while looking at the treetops.
“A little, yeah. But not enough to get an F,” you replied honestly, turning toward him.
“Thank goodness. May would kill me.”
“You've never failed a subject, not since we were in kindergarten.”
“No,” he admitted, glancing at you. “That's why I know she'd kill me.”
You let out a genuine laugh, contemplating the comical face he made whenever a truth disguised as a joke escaped him. There was a lightness to those days that now felt like a distant dream.
“If I get bad grades, my parents will probably blame you,” you teased.
“And why's that?” he asked, feigning outrage.
“They'll say you're a distraction.”
At that moment, a white butterfly fluttered between the two of you and lightly brushed your cheek before flying away. He smiled tenderly and reached out, brushing with his fingertips the exact spot where the insect's wings had tickled you.
“That's not true,” he murmured, leaving his hand suspended near your face.
“It kind of is,” you confessed, shrugging as you felt warmth rise to your cheeks. “You spend all day in my thoughts. But they don't have to find out about that.”
Blush instantly stained his cheeks. He tried to hide it by looking down and breaking into a clumsy smile, but it was in vain. You were fascinated watching him get nervous. It was as if he couldn't fully process that you loved him with that blind, boundless intensity that only exists in first love.
“I could help you study for retakes,” he offered, clearing his throat.
“Yeah, sure. Because you're a nerd and all that.”
“No,” he corrected softly, searching your eyes. “Because you're my girlfriend. And I want you to get good grades so we can go to college together.”
“Please! Are you already thinking about college?” you laughed, covering your face with your hands. “We're barely starting high school.”
“Yeah, but it doesn't hurt to plan, right?”
“You worry too much about the future.”
“And you don't?”
“I don't care what the future holds,” you said simply, intertwining your fingers with his as the afternoon wind tousled his hair. “I only care about enjoying the present. About being here. With you.”
The warmth of the hand you were holding grew hazy with the memory of that day. Suddenly, a new scene rushed in headlong.
The whole school knew. It was the only topic of conversation in the hallways: they knew that because of you, that boy was in the hospital. During your constant trips to the principal's office, you had managed to overhear that his parents wanted to sue you, though at your age you weren't sure if that was legally possible.
You just wanted to scream at them that you couldn't help it. That you never wanted to hurt him in the first place.
Now everything hurt, but not in your body; the pain was entrenched in your head. You were sitting outside the principal's office for the hundredth time that week. You had missed almost every class, and when you tried to show up at the debate club meeting, they simply slammed the door in your face.
You wondered how much longer you could endure in this limbo. By that point, your expulsion was practically a done deal.
And then there was the torment of the minds around you. You didn't know how to silence them; they entered your head unfiltered, all the time, drilling into your ears until becoming unbearable noise.
Why on earth was this happening to you?
“Hey,” you suddenly heard.
You didn't know if the murmur came from inside your head or from the hallway, until looking up brought you back to reality: he was standing in front of you.
“There you are,” he said softly.
“Hi,” you whispered, looking at him with guilt. “What are you doing here? There's a club meeting today.”
“Yeah, but I didn't really feel like going,” he replied, shrugging.
Lie. He was fascinated by the debate club. But the worry of finding you had been stronger.
He took a seat beside you. You immediately avoided his gaze, unable to meet his eyes.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“Yeah,” you lied, tightening your hands on your lap. “They just summoned me again. You know... because of everything that's happened lately.”
“Yeah...” he sighed, resting his elbows on his knees.
Even though he kept quiet, you didn't need him to speak to know exactly what was crossing his mind. His mental pulse was a tide of fatigue, deep sadness, and a touch of pity. He felt afraid, yes, but not toward you or what you could do—rather, for what the world was going to do to you.
An interminable few seconds passed in which the noise of the school threatened to crush you again, until he seemed to gather enough courage to organize his thoughts.
“It wasn't your fault,” he blurted out, searching your eyes. “You know that, right?”
“The guy is in the hospital,” you replied with a broken voice, feeling tears fill your eyes. “I don't even know what I did or how I did it. It just... happened. People are right to be afraid of me.”
“They don't understand anything,” he insisted, turning his body toward you. “I know you. I know who you are. This is an accident, not something you wanted. I... I don't understand how you did it. But you're not crazy, and you're not bad either.”
“I feel like I'm going crazy,” you confessed in a thread of a voice, bringing your hands to your temples as the din of other minds began drilling into you from within again. “There are too many voices. I can't turn them off. It's killing me.”
He didn't hesitate for another second. He moved closer and wrapped his arms around you, enveloping you in a firm, warm hug that seemed to freeze time.
You pressed your face against his shoulder, clinging to his jacket as if it were the only anchor amid the storm. Suddenly, the chaos in your head seemed to dim. The contact of his arms didn't silence the voices of the world, but the certainty of his affection turned everything else into a distant noise, an insignificant echo.
“I'm not leaving you alone in this,” he whispered in your ear, squeezing you a little tighter against him. “We're going to figure it out. I promise you.”
You had closed your eyes for an instant, and when you opened them, the setting had changed completely.
He was watching you from the edge of your bed, with a mix of resignation and worry in his gaze.
“A boarding school?” he asked in a low voice.
“Yeah... It's like a school for gifted youngsters or something like that,” you murmured without looking up, focused on folding clothes and packing them into suitcases.
Every now and then, he stretched out to hand you an item of clothing left on the bed, trying to keep himself useful so as not to break down.
“And for how long will it be?”
“I don't know. A few months, I guess... Until things cool down around here.”
In the end, the hospital boy's parents hadn't filed the lawsuit, but they had taken it upon themselves to spread the rumor to every corner of the high school. The stares, the harassment, and the social pressure ultimately proved you right: expulsion had been inevitable. Your parents, overwhelmed by the situation and not knowing how to handle what was happening to you, had found that special place as a last resort to rid themselves of a problem beyond their control.
“Yeah, well... makes sense,” he commented, though the lack of conviction in his voice was glaring.
His mind was sending clear signals: he was holding something back. And you knew perfectly well what it was.
“Hey, I'll come back to visit you every now and then, okay?” you said, trying to inject some enthusiasm into the room. “And if I talk to the principal... maybe he'll even let me invite you over for a weekend.”
You dropped what you were doing and sat beside him.
“If you want to go, of course.”
“Of course I want to,” he answered immediately. He was completely sincere. “It's just that... Westchester is pretty far.”
“It's not that big of a deal,” you tried to encourage him, though you knew his real concern wasn't the distance, but the fare money.
You sought his hand on the mattress, intertwining your fingers while looking at him with a silent plea reflected in your eyes.
“We can video call every night. Text each other all the time... You'll see I won't feel that far.”
He smiled that sweet way he did when he really wanted to believe things would turn out fine, and nodded silently.
“Yeah, you're right. It'll work.”
You leaned toward him and stole a soft kiss from his lips. It was a brief gesture, but loaded with all the fear, love, and uncertainty you both shared.
“It'll only be a few months to see how they teach over there. And then I'll come back. I promise.”
A final series of memories surfaced. Though when your mind shifted to them, you immediately felt a tightness in your chest.
It hadn't been just a few months. The semester was consuming its final days, and you were still trapped in Westchester.
You weren't going to lie to yourself: you were starting to get used to the place. To the bucolic peace of the mansion, the warmth of your new peers, and the institute's teaching. It was an idyllic refuge. Professor Xavier had personally taken care of manipulating the threads of collective memory at your old school; he didn't erase the incident, but he wiped your face from everyone's memories. To the school board, it had just been an unfortunate physical altercation between two students whose names were better off forgotten. Your name was clean, but your soul remained chained to Queens.
To him.
You had sworn to write to him daily, to keep the flame alive against all odds. But at first, messages flowed like an overflowing river; later, reality turned into a dam. Classes demanded an almost superhuman level of concentration if you wanted to control the chaotic mass of your powers. Guilt devoured your chest with every hour that passed without replying to him.
When you finally managed to scrape a free weekend to return to the city, reuniting with him was a dagger to the heart.
Even without wanting to, you heard the bitter tide of his thoughts. Weeks ago, he had begged you to go to the high school dance with him, excited like a child, but Charles forbade you from going so as not to expose yourself.
“It's okay, I understand,” he had told you at the time, swallowing his disappointment.
But telepathy didn't allow you to deceive yourself. It wasn't just the missed party. It was the cruel taunts in the school hallways when he said he had a girlfriend, an invisible girl whom no one ever saw. It was the contempt of his classmates, the pity condensed in the teachers' gazes, the silenced disappointment of a boy who had to defend the existence of a love that seemed like a ghost.
You couldn't hold his hand in the street, or invite him out for ice cream, or be a living presence in his everyday life.
Those invisible wounds accumulated until they became an unsustainable mountain. And though he never uttered a single reproach—though he swallowed his tears so as not to make you feel guilty—you felt how he was bleeding out from within. He felt deeply lonely, desperately clinging to the sporadic visits of the ghost of the girl who was once his world.
One night, while the moon bathed the roof in silver, the question pierced you like broken glass:
Did he deserve a half-life? Did he deserve to love a shadow?
No. Good heavens, no. He deserved the full light.
“You seem strange,” he said.
The two of you were sitting on the fire escape outside his window, with the cold night air sneaking through your clothes.
“Are you okay?”
“I am,” you murmured, clinging to the iron bars with white knuckles so your voice wouldn't shatter. “Hey... can I ask you something?”
“Anything.”
“Do you really think us... is meant to work?”
“Of course it is,” he answered immediately, searching your eyes with a blind faith that broke your soul. “We've made it this far, haven't we?”
But the words didn't matter. Your mind drowned in the tide of his true answer: a desperate inner plea not to lose you, crushed by the overwhelming fear that you were already leaving.
“Why do you ask that?” he added, his voice trembling slightly.
“Because I'm not the girl you deserve.”
“Are you breaking up with me?” He turned abruptly.
His hands had already moved to your shoulders, holding you with the same gentleness he had for so many years.
“I... I love you. I don't give a damn about the distance! I don't care what happened with your powers or any of this. I mean it. I love you.”
“And I love you,” you sobbed, feeling tears held back for months threatening to choke you. “I love you in a way you can't imagine. But...”
“No. There is no 'but'. Don't do this to me. Please.”
His hand gripped yours, the desperation palpable in the touch. The silence was dense, heavy, drowned out by the distant noise of city traffic. But the sentence was already passed in the deepest part of your being. Because you loved him too much to destroy him.
Even though you both changed the subject, the tension remained. Shortly after, you went back into the room. He lay on the bottom bunk, defeated, his chest heaving with silent panic. You leaned over him, stopping mere inches from his face, wrapped in the dim light.
“You know I would never hurt you, right?” you whispered, caressing his cheek with infinite tenderness.
“I know,” he replied in a thread of a voice.
“And you know I'm going to love you no matter what happens, right?”
“I know.”
He surged forward and kissed you. It was a desperate, almost voracious kiss, a trench against destiny. He held you by the waist and the nape of your neck with a strength bordering on agony, pressing you against his chest as if sensing you were turning into water slipping through his fingers.
Tears spilled uncontrollably from your eyes, wetting both your cheeks. He started upon feeling you cry and lowered his hands, alarmed, but you didn't give him time to speak. You kissed him again. You kissed him until breath escaped your lungs, mixing the bitter taste of your tears with the warm breath escaping his lips. It was the kiss of a lifetime condensed into a few seconds.
Trembling, you brought your fingers to your temple. A stifled, heart-wrenching sob escaped your chest.
Would you be capable? Was your love so boundless, so destructive, as to commit this cruel mercy?
Yes. Because loving him meant saving him from yourself.
With a silent scream that tore your mind apart from the inside, you deployed your telepathy and ventured into his memory.
You began erasing yourself.
You gradually dissolved the stolen kisses, the laughs in the debate club, and the college promises, but also the childhood afternoons in his living room, the scraped knees, and an entire life growing up together. You erased every conversation, every glance, and every shared heartbeat, transforming a colossal love into a hazy fog, into a mere nameless void.
You exterminated over a decade of memories piece by piece, watching the light in his eyes grow dull as the connections severed in his brain.
Your own mind wailed at the sacrilege of erasing the only pure thing you had left in the world.
Feeling the weight of his body relax under the telepathic sedation, you laid his head on the pillow with infinite sweetness. His eyes, now serene and empty of you, closed slowly.
You leaned down one last time, brushing your lips against his cool forehead.
“Goodbye, Peter.”
Peter. That was his name.
“A-Are you really okay? Did you get hurt?”
You were already on your feet. You hadn't realized tears were streaming down uncontrollably until you ran your fingers across your cheeks. Your hands were trembling.
An excruciating doubt seized you inevitably: what had made you forget him? How could such a piece of your soul disappear from your life?
“Do you need me to call someone?”
You hadn't articulated a single word since he helped you up. Your absolute silence only fueled the confusion and concern growing in his eyes with every passing second.
He was so different. He looked older, mature, undeniably handsome... but there was no doubt: it was him. It was your Peter.
From his perspective, you must have looked completely terrified. Your fixed stare and ragged breathing made you look as though you were seeing a dead man brought back to life.
“No,” you managed to reply.
Stumbling, you backed away from him. You grabbed your belongings immediately and walked to the counter, leaving a bill that doubled the value of what you had ordered.
Then you walked out. Without looking back.
Let me know if you want to be tagged in part two! ♡
You OBVIOUSLY have not read Crooked Kingdom, where Kaz's lips brush Inej's neck, he has a panic attack, leaves, starts a fight with his ENTIRE GANG and WINS
cw: (mdni +18), oral (f!receiving), praise, face humping, fluff fluff fluff, unplanned voyerism (cole watches them lol), dirty talk, hair pulling, sub!gwayne if you squint really hard, scent kink, pussy drunk gwayne, dry humping, (1.7kw).
synopsis: It is said Ser Gwayne knows not how to please a woman. Is it truth or lie?
Ser Criston taunts Gwayne about his supposed inexperience with women, even if he has a lady wife, betrothed to him for a few fortnights already.
Surely he doesn't know how to please you, right?
Too pious, too knightly to even know where to put his cock, most likely. Oldtown's teachings must've left him bereft of any talk about a lady's cunt or other erogenous places.
He's sure all those letters the knight keeps sending back to Oldtown are full of prayers and flowery words meant to soothe his lady, and nothing sort of salacious, like the other knights oftentimes scribble on the parchment meant for home.
A man like Gwayne has no knack for such things, Cole is sure of it.
"Your lady longs for you so much that you're sending a second letter this fortnight, Ser Gwayne?"
And the Hightower heir can sense the slight dissatisfaction beneath Ser Criston's tone, but he does not dwell upon it. Only smiles, nodding. "Yes, Ser. My lady worries, for her heart is pure and sensible. I must do what I can to quell her doubt of any mishaps that might've befallen me."
"Ah, of course. A most dutiful husband you are, Ser."
It isn't until their troops inevitably need to fall back to Oldtown two moons later that Gwayne gets to see his sweet lady wife again.
You've been waiting for this moment for so long, your heart hammering into your chest like a bird's wings as you see your husband's horse trot through the gates.
No one and nothing matters when you finally are cradled in Gwayne's arms, pressed to his steel-clad chest, sweet nothings whispered against your temple as your man peppers your warm skin with kisses of tenderness and longing.
Ser Criston looks away from the sight, scoffing. He knew the acclaimed Hightower heir was good for nothing but sweet presses of lips and warm embraces. Not even a kiss on the lips when greeting his lady wife? He should be ashamed to not bestow such gifts upon a gorgeous creature such as you.
Later, when the crowd had thinned and most knights were off to their sleeping arrangements, the Commander had to do one last search of their horses and supplies before calling it a night as well.
What Cole didn't think to find in the stables was Gwayne, on his knees, head squeezed between your thighs as he feasted on your cunt, moaning like a man starved, the sound muffled by the folds of your pussy.
The sight stopped Ser Criston dead in his tracks.
Ser Gwayne. Pious, dutiful, ever devoted to the faith, now sitting in the same position one would for prayer, but using his mouth not to plead to the Gods, but to bring his lady pleasure.
And what immense pleasure he did bring, for your hands were fisted in his auburn hair, tugging with intent, the demand for more crystal clear. You wanted more, smushing the knight into your heat, hips grinding against his face with abandon as you whined, trying to quiet the volume of your wantonness with your hand pressed to your mouth, but it was in vain. Nothing felt as good as your husband's tongue between your legs, only second to the feeling of his cock splitting you open.
"Yes, yes, my love, yes," fell from your ruddy lips, eyes glistening with unshed tears from how good Gwayne was making you feel. "I missed your mouth greatly," you lilted, fingers unrelenting as they weaved through your husband's hair, offering him respite from your rough insistence, petting him as you would an obedient hound as he continued to circle his tongue against your hole, the tip of his nose bumping against your clit. "Couldn't wait until we were together anew, husband."
All you got in return was another moan, unbashed and wet from the slick of your cunt against Gwayne's mouth, your words spurring him on, broad palms smoothing up your thighs to lift your skirts higher, bunching them at the waist, held in his fists. "My sweet wife," he babbled, flattening his tongue from hole to clit, parting your folds on the ascent. "The moons without your cunt have been dreadful," your knight says, words woven around a whine, lapping at the peeking nub between every word, kindling the heat in your lower belly. "Not being able to taste you each morrow left me wanting, even in times of battle and bloodshed."
Oh, what a debauched picture that was. Your dutiful husband, ever present when called to arms, thinking about worshipping between your legs as he swung his sword, falling enemies and stealing breath after breath from steel-clad men. The thought made you shiver, brushing auburn hair from Gwayne's temples to get a good look at those baby blues you so cherished, a dopey smile onto your lips as you whispered. "You must be cautious, my love," you chastised, albeit tenderly, running your fingers through his hair to soothe, hoping the ache for you had dwindled, if only a little. "Such thoughts might distract you, and then you might not come back to me."
Gwayne shook his head swiftly upon hearing your reprimand, leaning into your touch as a flower moves towards the sun, soaking up all its warmth down to the marrow. "Never," he protested, eyes widening, ever eager to prove his devotion to you. "I shall never fall to another man's sword, if it meant not seeing you again, sweetling," and he turns his face towards one of your palms, pressing a searing kiss upon the skin as he whispers. "That is my solemn vow."
You feel like your heart is going to burst out of your chest and splatter at your husband's feet from the earnestness of his promise, weaving warmth along your body, from your head down to your toes, a full-body gratefulness at having such allegiance offered to you.
"A vow you had upheld valiantly, my love," you praise, your hand shifting to cradle his jaw, thumb brushing against the plump of his bottom lip as you slowly tug him down, back towards your cunt, to which he allows without resistance. "One for which you shall have the prize you so dreamt of, even in bloodshed."
Gwayne's tongue lolls out as you guide his head, eager to have you on his palate again, eyes fluttering shut as the sweet musk of your pussy becomes more potent. It coaxed him to dip his chin so he could press his nose in damp curls and inhale deeply, exhaling a punched-out groan, as if he had forgotten the smell of you in the mere moments that had passed since he'd been tongue deep between your thighs.
"This cunt is a gift from the Gods, sweetling," he praises, mouth open and panting against your folds, just breathing you in lungful by lungful. "I wish I could have it with me on campaign," Gwayne continues, white-knuckling the skirts bunched at your waist, as if the imagery of such a thing wounds him. "Feast on it from morrow to dawn. Allow you to have my tongue whenever you please, my love."
You cannot help but moan at such a confession, fingers returning to his auburn strands to grip and tug, eliciting a muffled whine from your husband, whose tongue dipped between your folds anew, flicking at your clit on the upstroke, knowing how much you favoured it. "You're so good to me, husband," you coo, lips curling into a loving smile, holding your knight still by his hair as your hips resume their grinding, humping against Gwayne's awaiting tongue, using him for your pleasure.
And he loves it. Gods, does he love it. Blue eyes half-lidded, heated with love and lust as he only gives you more of it, poking his tongue as far as it would go for you to rub your clit against, moaning with each movement of your hips, bringing you even closer by the grip on your skirts.
"Oh, my sweet husband," you moan, feeling the heat tingling up your spine and pooling low in your belly with each wet swipe against your clit. "I can't wait to have your cock as well." The words are the opposite of pious, not at all what a lady wife should offer her betrothed, but you are past caring. "For your mouth feels heavenly, and still, I cannot wait to feel you inside me again."
The words melt and light Gwayne in equal measure, feeling his cock strain even harder against his breeches, hips kicking, rubbing himself along the seam of his pants in anticipation of what's to come. He nods, the motion making his tongue rub in rapid succession along your clit, the stimulation so delicious it makes you cry out, wanton and unbashed. Words fail him, the only thing that matters now being making you cum so he can sheathe himself into your pussy and have you milk him for all he's worth, like a prized stallion made for breeding.
It doesn't take long for your back to arch off of the hay bale you are lounging upon, Gwayne's name on your lips, your juices flowing down his tongue and chin, which your husband laps greedily. He has to stop the grind of his hips to not cum into his breeches like an untrained squire, even if the friction of his hard cock against the material of his pants feels heavenly.
He knows your pussy surpasses that by the thousands, which is why he forces himself to still the pathetic humping of his hips. It's only moments now until he'll be inside you, letting you catch your breath, pressing sweet, open-mouthed kisses to your inner thighs and behind your knees as he massages the muscle there, willing you pliant and lax for what's to come. "Thank you, sweetling. Gods, so pretty for me," he whispers against warm skin, reverent and grateful, mouth still wet with your slick. "Missed you so much. Never want to be away from you again. Never, never—"
Perhaps it's safe to assume that Ser Criston Cole will not utter a word about Gwayne and his lack of prowess anytime soon, after what he witnessed tonight.
