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Summary: you and Peter were together for years – at least until Strange cast the spell. He ceased to exist as Peter Parker, yet the two of you kept working side by side as Tony Stark’s daughter and Spider-Man. That is, until something shifts in you.
Warnings: fluff, angst, strangers to friends to lovers to enemies to lovers again, memory loss trope, spoilers from Spider-Man: Brand New Day, a little of dark Peter/OOC Peter because of the mutation, jealous Peter, sexual tension, banters
Word count: 6K
A/N: hi! At first, I wanted to write something along the lines of the memory loss trope as if you were MJ, but then I read somebody asking for something different and the idea was slowly forming itself in my head while I was listening to Ariana Grande’s new album, “Petal”. Buckle up, because this is a long ride! Are you ready? Feedback is always appreciated by a writer! Hope y’all like it. Enjoy! X
Main Masterlist
Peter Parker's Masterlist
Tom Holland's Masterlist
“I can’t find my earrings anymore! Have you seen them lying around anywhere, Justin?” you ask, hurrying around the room. You’re running late for work—something your father would never have allowed. But then again, there are a lot of things your father wouldn’t have allowed if he was still alive, right?
“No, sweetheart, I’m sorry. Don’t worry though, you look beautiful anyway,” Justin says, before planting a kiss on your lips. You give him an uncertain smile, then shake your head.
“You’re right. You always know how to calm me down,” you reply. “I’ll see you later at the pastry shop, right?”
“Of course.”
His presence reassures you, as always. According to your therapist, stability and balance have been your two favorite anchors since your father died, though you’re pretty sure you were like that back in high school, too. Control intoxicates your senses, as if it alone could give you power, but it also makes you feel safe. You like predictability. You like things clear, precise and simple. For instance, your life is planned down to the last detail: you’ll marry Justin after graduating from MIT, take over as head of Stark Industries from your mother and lead the Avengers from the compound whenever you can. That’s the plan. Justin is moving in with you soon, though it’s almost as if you’re already living together, since he often crashes at your place. Everything is perfect.
As you think about all this, you take a deep breath and smile at yourself in the mirror. The elevator whisks you up to the fortieth floor—a quick ride, yet long enough for you to notice your own tired eyes. Maybe you need a vacation. Ned is always saying you’re a workaholic because you don’t go out with him on Saturday nights anymore, but you have too much work to do—no time for parties, dancing, or building Lego sets (something you used to do only because he had no one else to share it with).
Sometimes you think that in a parallel reality, you must be an Avenger who reads minds like Wanda—only with purple powers instead of red—,because you’re feeling a sharp pang in your chest again today. The doctor said it might just be stress, but you never really bought that. You love working here so much that you even stay overnight. If you enjoy your job, you aren’t really working, right? So that means everything is fine. Oddly enough, these moments always coincide with the arrival of a guest you’d rather not see—someone who is currently running down the hallway toward you. Could any kid from Queens be more annoying than him? No, definitely not.
You huff, the sound of your heels clicking against the floor as you head toward your office—the one with the glass doors overlooking the New York skyline. Normally, you’d be drinking your coffee while gazing at this breathtaking view, but this morning, it seems Spider-Man has other plans for you. Perhaps you simply dislike him because he’s unpredictable and you’ve never been one to color outside the lines.
“Good morning, sunshine!” he exclaims, and you raise an eyebrow as you settle into the comfortable chair behind your desk, the door closing silently behind him.
“What do you want this early in the morning, Spider-Man?”
“Ms. Y/N Stark, did you wake up on the wrong side of the bed this morning, too? Because usually, you’re ruder than this.”
An almost amused huff escapes your lips, but he doesn’t seem to notice.
“Then just walk away and forget it.”
“Aiming to be even ruder?” he asks, but you don’t laugh at his dry joke. “Anyway, I can’t: New York needs us.”
“What a shame… What happened this time?”
“Remember that mission you assigned me? Well, bad news: Scorpion got away from me… again.”
You cover your face with your hands in anger, but you don’t let it show. Your therapist says this gesture is also a response to the trauma of your father’s death: you avoid conflict, trying to be kind and appear easygoing. In reality, you do it for the sake of others; if you let it all out—if you allowed your anger to surface—you would hurt people. Bruce has the same problem—in fact, you talk about it often—but even with him, you can’t quite get a handle on it. The venom that would spill from your lips would be terrible for others to bear, but partly for you, too: you would feel guilty. Unfortunately, your empathy won’t allow it.
“I read the police report… but what the detective told me was more interesting: you’re tired, Spider-Man. You need a vacation. You can’t react like that again,” you tell him.
You can’t see his eyes from this distance, but you can sense him holding his breath: perhaps he fears you might kick him out of the Avengers or exile him, but the truth is, he’s already punishing himself. You don’t think he cares about your judgment, given the relationship you’ve built over time—one that has become somewhat distant now. It didn’t use to be that way. Sure, you don’t remember who is behind the mask or what his name is, but you know he was your rock for years—that he was your best friend and your boyfriend. That is, until you broke up—before Strange’s spell, according to Spider-Man. Bruce told you that you used to be much more cheerful, selfless, and generous. Something painful and unexpected must have happened with that guy behind the mask to cause such a drastic change. At that point, he remained Just Spider-Man. Or at least, what’s left of him—because aside from missions with the Avengers, none of you ever sees him anymore. At first, that bothered you, so you tried to talk to him about it, but he was adamant: you couldn't know the truth. So you let it go and moved on. And yet, there’s always that pang in your chest when you see him…
“Like you, you mean?” he asks, and you blink a couple of times.
“What?”
“You just told me to take a break. Maybe you should do the same.”
“I run a company, Underoos.”
“Not yet, as far as I know.”
“And I’m planning a wedding.”
“Oh, really? Whose?”
“Mine,” you reply, and it almost feels like you imagined the smile fading from his face.
Spider-Man stays silent for a few seconds. Through the suit, you can see his Adam’s Apple bobbing up and down as he tries to swallow. Sure, he’s your ex-boyfriend, but four years have passed, and he never showed any interest in you, so you were certain he’d moved on.
“Did Justin propose?” he asks, his throat dry.
“Yes, yesterday—and I said yes, obviously.”
“Obviously,” he repeats.
“Are you okay?” you ask, standing up, but he immediately moves away from the desk before you can reach him.
“Of course. Anyway, I don’t need time off, I’m fine. I’ll sort out my own troubles—don’t worry about it.”
“Spidey, listen…”
“No, it’s fine. You have every right to be happy. Congratulations,” he says, then walks out the door and leaves the office quickly.
You can’t sleep at night. You should be overjoyed, yet you just can’t manage it. You get out of bed, trying not to wake Justin, then head to the kitchen for a glass of water. It’s summer, and the heat in New York is brutal. You’ve decided to get married in June—exactly a year from now—after your graduation in November. You tried cake samples with Justin, but you didn’t like a single one because, like a fool, you were busy wondering who was hiding behind the Spider-Man mask. After all, he always said keeping his identity secret would protect you, but the truth is, you face risks every day even without being engaged to him. That’s where your punishment theory comes from. Maybe you got hurt because of him in the past, and he regrets it? You couldn't say for sure, but now you want to know the truth again. Justin doesn't know this, but at Ned’s place, there’s a board—one you helped work on—covered in your theories about who might be under the mask. Knowing his name might bring your memory back... and maybe even help you reclaim the person you used to be. You wish you could be as carefree as you were when you were younger, even though you know it’s impossible. And maybe, a small part of you is curious about the person hiding beneath the suit, even if you never really tried hard to get to know him after what he told you.
Your fingers are already typing on your phone before you even realize it.
To: Yelena
I know you saw Spider-Man today.
Of course, she’s still awake.
To: Y/N
Yeah. He wanted info on Jean Grey. Small Potatoes. Nice muscles.
You smile.
To: Yelena
I need you to do something for me.
To: Y/N
Do I have to kill Spider-Man? Or do you want to have a spa day with me?
To: Yelena
Tempting offers, but no, thanks. You need to investigate Spider-Man. I want his full name on my desk by tomorrow.
To: Yelena
I like it when you give me orders. Consider it done.
You wake up tired the next day. You seriously consider taking the day off, but then you change your mind. You straighten your hair, put on a blouse, a long skirt, and heels, then grab your bag and head to the compound. Then your eyes land on the earrings you had lost right under the bed—emerald-shaped ones. You put them on, happy. They’re a gift from Justin, and you don’t want to lose them for anything in the world. Suddenly, a crazy idea crosses your mind: Justin will be away all day, and you can get away with taking a day off since your mother is at the office—so you decide to go to Spider-Man’s place. Yelena has already texted you his address and it’s a terrible spot in the slums, but that makes sense, given he doesn’t have much money saved up and preferred living far away from the other Avengers. Far away from you.
You knock on what is supposed to be his door—at least according to the blonde girl you met at the laundromat. Apparently, he stole her clothes, and you wonder why. I mean, he could easily just ask you to help him shop, if he needed it...
He opens the door a couple of minutes later, wearing his mask, a black tank top, and long sweatpants. Up close, you can catch a glimpse of his eyes behind the mask—hazel, and so big you could lose yourself in them.
“Hey,” he says, and you give him a shy smile.
“Hi. Can I come in?”
“S-sure!”
You look around and see multiple screens, a workbench, and clothes scattered across the apartment. You feel a tingling sensation in your head, but quickly shake it off.
“I still don’t get why you didn’t prefer staying with the others at the compound.”
“For the same reason as always, I guess,” he says, and you feel the answer hanging in the air: you.
“Look, I’m still your boss, so if you need clothes or food—really—don’t be afraid to ask.”
He nods, sitting down on the bed.
“Thanks for the offer, but I’m all set.”
You notice a bouquet of flowers on the table as you wander around the apartment. Spider-Man seems nervous, as if he expects you to suddenly go for his throat.
“Who are those flowers for?” you ask.
He gives you a smirk.
“What, are you jealous now?”
“No, I just want to know if one of my employees is getting distracted from work.”
Spider-Man laughs.
“You’re the one who told me to take some time off.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“Why are you so interested in my love life?” he asks, rising from the bed. He closes the distance between you in just two strides, and your heart begins to hammer against your ribs. What is happening? You’ve never experienced anything like this before. “Is your predictable life boring you now? What is it? Does Justin not satisfy you enough?”
Your heart is pounding in your throat. Is the temperature in the room rising, or is it just your imagination? Spider-Man is standing right in front of you, but you back away until your spine hits the wall. He reaches out, placing his palm against the wall to your left. His other hand moves slowly toward your chin—barely grazing it—but before he can actually touch you, you close your eyes, as if afraid of him. When you open them again, he is on the other side of the room, his hands clasped behind his head.
“I think you should leave,” he says, though his voice is trembling now.
“What?” you ask, your throat dry.
“I’m sorry. But you really need to go now.”
“You’re hiding something from me, and I’m going to find out what it is!” You exclaim before storming out.
You leave the building in a fury. Back at your office, you sit at your desk with your hands in your hair, which is pulled up in a messy bun. You let it down, weary from the throbbing headache. You don’t like the feelings Spider-Man stirred up in you—especially since you’re about to marry a wonderful guy. Yet, a part of you was ready to crumble, to give in to the darkness, the unknown and the gentleness of those calloused, gloved hands... You shake your head, trying to banish the thoughts. He chose to be Spider-Man, and being a superhero leaves no room for love. It’s his decision and you have to respect it.
You go to turn on the computer, but notice an envelope underneath it.
From: Yelena
Inside the envelope there are the details you asked me for. Open it only when you’re ready.
You dial Ned’s number and hurry over to his house, the envelope in your hands and your heart pounding in your chest.
When Ned opens the door, he stares at you wide-eyed, as if he’s seen a ghost.
“Y/N, are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m holding Spider-Man’s real name right here,” you tell him in a hushed voice, sounding feverish. “Are you going to let me in or not?”
After you’ve told him everything, Ned stares at you as if you’d just revealed that you were Spider-Man. Exhausted, you lie back on the floor where you’re both sitting, closing your eyes.
“Have you closed your mouth yet, or is it still hanging wide open?”
“Sorry, but it’s a lot to process. I mean, I’d figured out that Spider-Man liked you, but not that he was your ex. It all makes so much more sense now.”
You sit up immediately.
“How did you figure that out, exactly?”
“Oh, well, the way he looks at you. It was easy. Every time you walk into a room, he stares at you like you hung the moon and the stars.”
“But you can’t even see his eyes!”
“Yeah, but he always gets all flustered when he sees you and he clenches his jaw every time Justin kisses you. He’s insanely jealous, I’m telling you.”
“You never told me that,” you say, sounding almost wistful.
“Why would I? You’re happy with Justin, and he made his choice—apparently. Even if you did remember him—which seems impossible to me now—you still wouldn’t be able to feel what you felt before. His name won’t bring back the person you used to be, Y/N. And maybe you miss her even more than you miss Spider-Man.”
You look at him, tears stinging your eyes. You hold them back, forcing a smile.
“Do you remember what I was like in high school?”
“You were smart and beautiful, definitely out of our league,” he says, and you burst out laughing. “I remember at your father’s funeral, you hugged me like it was the last time you’d see me. And I remember you telling me one day that you flew across rooftops with Spider-Man, even though you’re afraid of heights, but that you felt safe with him.”
You moisten your lips before speaking.
“What if I’m not that person anymore?”
“Oh, I think that, deep down, very deep down,” Ned jokes, and you giggle, “you still are. And that he knows it. That’s why he can’t let you go.”
You look at him as if he’s just revealed the most important secret in the world. You take the letter in your hands again. You look at Yelena’s handwriting, cursive and full of doodles, then you hold the letter out to Ned.
“You keep it. I want him to tell me.”
Ned nods.
“Oh, I see you finally found your earrings!”
“Yes. I feel incomplete without them. And besides, I think Justin would be really upset if I lost them.”
Ned frowns.
“Justin? I thought your dad gave them to you in high school.”
Your heart drops.
“Did I wear them in high school?”
“Yes.”
You go home with more questions than answers. When you go to bed, Justin says goodnight, but you don't reply. Maybe you feel guilty, as if you've hidden something from him, but you haven't omitted anything or lied. You've just been trying to find out more about yourself.
The next day, you go to the office with your hair down. You're so late, you're wearing Converse and an old band T-shirt with a jacket and some pair of jeans. You rub your eyes while waiting for your coffee to arrive.
Suddenly, Spider-Man bursts in through the window, breathless and agitated.
“What are you doing here?”
“Come with me. You’re taking a break today,” he says.
He takes you to the beach. Surprisingly, the journey in his arms, swinging between the skyscrapers, doesn’t scare you anymore. You sit on the sand, slip off your shoes, and savor the scent of the waves lapping at the shoreline. You don’t protest, you don’t scream. You look around, but there’s no one there. Spider-Man probably picked the spot furthest from the city—or maybe it’s just that people are at work on a Wednesday.
“You’re too quiet, and I don’t like it,” he says.
“You practically kidnapped me, yet that’s what you’re worried about? Interesting,” you retort sarcastically, though you aren’t truly as angry as you make out.
“I just wanted to talk to you.”
“About what?”
“About what’s happening to me,” he replies, then sits down beside you. Grains of sand will probably get stuck in the seams of his suit, but he doesn’t seem to care.
“And that would be?”
“A mutation, or something like that, apparently. That’s why I went too far with you the other day—I’m sorry about that. I designed an inhibitor to keep that side of me in check, the way Dr. Banner does with the Hulk.”
“Oh, good. That might come in handy with Jean Grey.”
“Yeah, well, that’s not the point, though,” he counters, then takes a deep breath. “Look, I’ve thought about it a lot, and I think I owe you a real explanation this time. When Doctor Strange cast that spell, he made everyone forget about me—the person behind the mask. You were hurt during the final battle, so I touched the scar you have on your temple and told you I’d find you to tell you everything, but you knew I wouldn’t do it. So I came to the compound to tell you that you were wrong—for once—but they told me you were in the office, and there you were… shining. God, you were the light illuminating that whole damn room. You were incredible. It was like seeing Mr. Stark all over again,” he says, and you feel tears stinging the corners of your eyes. He is slowly giving you back your memories—the person you were when you knew him—but Ned was right… you don’t feel a thing. “You were… amazing. We used to laugh together, we never fought, and even though your dad didn’t want us together, he eventually realized that I loved you. I loved you, and I just wanted to be with you forever.”
“No, please, don’t say that…”
“Be with me. Marry me, not him,” he says, and you swallow hard. You can see his eyes through the mask now, and they’re pleading with you to listen. “I know you can’t feel what I feel, but I beg you—give me another chance. I don’t deserve you, but I hope you’ll be kind enough to hear me out. Just give me one day, and I’ll show you what it’s like to have me by your side. Please.”
You think about it for a moment—a handful of agonizingly long minutes while he holds his breath.
“You’ve got twenty-four hours, Spidey. Show me who you really are,” you tell him, smiling.
“I promise I won’t let you down.”
“Oh, I hope so,” you say, then you undress—taking off your jacket, shirt, jeans, shoes, and socks—until you’re left in just your underwear.
“What are you doing?” He asks you, sounding panicked, his eyes languidly tracing the length of your body, but you just smile at him, shivers running down your spine.
“I’m done being predictable. Take off your suit and come into the water with me.”
He’s left wearing nothing but his mask, and you can see his muscles flexing in the water. You feel his gaze on you the whole time—even when you don’t catch him staring—because your cheeks keep flushing hot. You splash water at him and he splashes back, just like two children or old friends. Perhaps that’s how it really used to be with that person—someone who now feels like a stranger to you. You have memories with Spider-Man—like when he wrote that he loved you on the Brooklyn Bridge using his webs—but not that guy. Are they really the same person? Even now, after all these years?
As you step out of the water, you feel your wet hair curling against the back of your neck. Later that evening, after chatting a while longer, your hair is dry and you’re starving. Spider-Man offers to grab a couple of pizzas, and you agree. You put on your jacket to cover up, while he wears your T-shirt, even though it’s a bit tight across his muscles.
“Did we really go to that concert together? I wish I could remember you,” you say with a sigh.
“I know. I’m sorry,” he replies, holding a slice of pizza.
A distant song drifts toward you. He sets his slice back in the box, wipes his fingers, and holds out a hand to you.
“I’m not dancing with you right now.”
“Come on—didn’t you say you wanted to be unpredictable?”
You accept hesitantly, but as you stand up, the music seems to spark something inside you; you start moving quickly, laughing, your hands in his. You feel carefree again at last, and it’s all thanks to him.
“After all these years, you still can’t dance,” he says, and you playfully shove him away, laughing.
“Sorry my Dad never gave me dance lessons. At least he taught me quantum physics, though,” you retort, and Spider-Man clutches his chest as if struck by an arrow.
“Ouch,” he says, and you burst out laughing.
“I wish it could always be like this—even at work.”
“In general or between us?” Spider-Man asks, and for a moment, you fall silent. The second song is slower and you feel tired, so you rest your head on his chest and he holds you tight, as if you might run off at any moment—or worse, vanish like a ghost. You wrap your arms around his neck.
You use your hands to search for his eyes, but it’s too dark to see anything. So, you hug him instead.
The warmth radiating from his body reminds you of how your father used to tell you he loved you "three thousand" before bed. It brings back memories of your mother’s bedtime stories when you had nightmares after she died. It reminds you of the scent of Christmas cookies and humming along while baking them. It feels like kissing him without actually touching lips. You feel like you’ve known him forever—as if he had always been there, right beside you, through all those moments.
Your muscle memory remembers him better than your mind does. It all comes flooding back: the earrings he gave you for your birthday, the hug at your father’s funeral, the day he told you he loved you—before you forgot him.
May… Parker’s funeral.
You snap your eyes open and pull away from him, a tear rolling down your cheek.
“What’s wrong?”
“Who is May Parker?” you ask, and something in his eyes seems to shatter; you can almost see your own reflection in his tears.
“What?” Spider-Man asks, caught off guard. “You remember?” he asks, incredulous.
“Were those flowers for her? Was she your mother? I thought she was just my neighbor, but she wasn’t.”
“She was my aunt. My name is Peter… Parker.”
“Peter…” His name slips from your lips.
A sob escapes him. He probably never believed you’d say his name again and after four years, this must have felt like a miracle.
“Yeah, baby, it’s me,” he says, reaching out to embrace you, his voice choked with emotion—but you take a step back. “Take off your mask.”
He swallows, stumbling over his own words.
“But the anonymity…”
“There’s no one here. You’re safe.”
Slowly, Peter does as you told him. He slips off his mask, and now you can finally see his face. He has dark, curly hair, brown eyes, a nose that’s been broken more than once, full lips, a sharp jawline, and bruises on his neck as well as his body. You move slowly toward him. You graze his face with your fingers. He closes his eyes, and you run your hands over them as if you were blind and trying to understand his features—trying to recall every imperfection, every scar or mole. You linger on his lips, as if you could remember their taste, and your heart is pounding hard in your chest now. You feel that strange sensation again—like someone pulling a cord—but it hurts less now, because you are close to the part of yourself that’s been missing.
“Your exile was your way of punishing yourself, Peter. I was the cause of it, wasn’t I? You were afraid they might hurt me again because of my scar. You let me grow up—grow old, actually—without knowing the truth. Now I’m different because of that, and I don’t remember you. You didn’t do it to protect me, but to atone. That makes you selfish,” you say, your anger rising.
He grabs your hands before you can pull them away.
“Y/N, listen to me—I couldn’t risk losing you or having you suffer because of me. You’d already lost your father… Please, try to understand.”
“No, I don’t understand. You made the decision for me and let me become this person—let me regress to who I was before I met you.”
“You can’t blame me for that. You used to be fun. You used to be kind. Now you’re just cruel,” he says, and his words seem to burrow into you like poison. Then his tone softens. “I miss the person you were when you were with me—when we were together.”
“Well, the way I see it, you have only yourself to blame for that now. I’m sorry I didn’t live up to your expectations.”
Peter doesn’t step back, but it’s as if I’d slapped him anyway. A long minute passes before he retorts.
“And who should I blame for still being in love with you, huh? God, maybe? Or you?”
You pull away from his grasp and pick up your jeans from the floor.
“You had your twenty-four hours, Parker. Now take me home. Your time is up.”
The next day, you call in sick from work. It hasn't happened since your father died, but now you really need it. You lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, while Justin continues to text you. You turn off your phone and bury yourself under the sheets. Stupid Peter Parker and stupid memories. You should never have given in to curiosity. You were funnier before, huh? Well, sure, you were fifteen! Now you're the head of a company and the Avengers, you have responsibilities. What do you expect a boy who's finally lost everyone he loves to know?
You huff, sitting up. Indeed. He should know better than you, and you were a fool for thinking that. You pick up your phone, turn it on, and call Ned.
An hour later, Ned is eating ice-cream with you in the living room.
"I have to tell you... you stink," he says, and you laugh.
"You're right, but I don't even feel like taking a shower right now."
“So the situation is really serious. Okay, listen: I read the letter and I know his real name.”
“Yes, me too, he told me.”
“Ah… Okay, anyway, with or without our memories, he was an important part of our lives and I think he deserves a second chance.”
“I tried, Ned, but we just argued.”
“I think you're just afraid, Y/N.”
“And of what?”
“The person you are when you're with him,” he replies. The spoon with the ice cream inside remains in mid-air. “You have your whole life planned out between now and when you turn thirty. I understand it's hard even to think about taking a different path and turning your plans upside down—but tell me the truth: did you enjoy going to the beach with him yesterday? And did you enjoy going for a swim half-naked, knowing you might be seen? And touching his biceps under the moonlight?”
You burst out laughing.
“You pervert!”
“Okay, I only said that last part to make you smile, but it’s true—I know you: you just want him to prove that you can trust him. So, put him to the test.”
You leave your spoon in the glass bowl. You sigh, because Ned is right—yet again.
“Justin is such a good guy... he doesn’t deserve this.”
“So is Peter, and he’s a thousand times less boring than Justin.”
“How do you know that?”
“Hello? He’s Spider-Man!”
You smile at him.
“Right. I don’t want to run away anymore, Ned, but I can’t just throw away four years of my life like this.”
“No one is asking you to do that, Y/N, but if you want my humble opinion: I wouldn’t throw away the time you spent with Peter, either. It only took him two days to turn your world upside down like this. That has to mean something, right?”
It’s eight o’clock in the evening when you knock on Peter’s door. You’ve finally showered and changed, and now you’re waiting anxiously for him to open up. You’re drumming your fingers against the doorframe when Peter appears in the doorway. He’s wearing a white T-shirt that highlights his shoulder muscles and a pair of jeans. He looks at you with genuine curiosity, but also a hint of annoyance, as if he’s still angry about yesterday.
“Hi,” you begin.
“Hey,” he says. Great—he’s still angry.
“Can I come in?”
“Did you come here to bark orders at me in my own home, too?”
“Your maturity is embarrassing, Parker.”
“And your charm is as biting as ever, Stark,” he retorts, making room for you to enter. The door clicks shut behind you, and you feel almost trapped—caught in a spider’s web. Ironic. “I heard you weren’t at work today. How come? Were you trying on garters?” He asks, though the last question seems to hurt him more than it does you.
Out of the corner of your eye, you notice the inhibitor sitting strangely on the table. Now you understand why he’s acting this way.
“Put on the inhibitor so we can talk like two normal adults.”
“I have nothing to say to you.”
“Oh, really? It didn’t seem that way yesterday.”
“Yesterday I wanted to tear your clothes off, now I just want to kick you out,” he replies.
You swallow hard, and he must like it, because a smirk escapes him.
“I spoke to Ned… he made me think about a lot of things.”
“Like what?” he asks, ruffling his hair as he sits on the bed. His biceps bulge beneath his t-shirt sleeves with every movement, making it hard to focus on the words you wanted to say. Stupid Ned and his stupid advice.
“Come on, put on the inhibitor. We can’t have a conversation right now—you’re too angry.”
“Angry? No, I’m furious,” Peter retorts, a strange, unfamiliar smile on his face, his knuckles white with rage. “I’m losing my mind, because the thought of you marrying that idiot has been eating me up inside ever since you told me. And I’m going crazy because this damn inhibitor isn’t working!”
“Can I help you?” You ask, and he nods, huffing.
“Sure, knock yourself out. You can use anything on the desk,” he says. Then he glances at you sideways and must notice you’re feeling rather awkward, because he quietly approaches from behind, his lips brushing against your ear as he speaks. He adds these words—deliberately meant to fluster you further—in a low, husky voice, just to see your reaction: “You can use me, too, if you want.”
You swallow hard, and he walks away with a satisfied smirk.
You move to the desk, and after about ten minutes, you hand the device back to him. “Try it now.”
Peter puts it on and for a moment, you see a pair of dark eyes staring back at you, then they vanish, and Peter looks at you as if you’ve just performed a miracle.
“You did it!” he exclaims, hugging you. You stand frozen, breathing in his scent—a smell that must have been imprinted on your brain all these years, because it feels like home, and the warmth radiating from his body makes you feel safe. When he pulls away, he looks embarrassed. “I’m sorry—sorry about earlier.”
“It’s fine. Now I understand why you and Bruce have so much in common. In the end, it’s much easier to bottle everything up than to let it out, isn’t it?”
“Careful, I might start to think you’re speaking from experience,” Peter laughs.
“Maybe I am,” you reply. Peter gives you a sidelong glance.
“What do you mean?”
“I hid my feelings so well all these years... yet you can still see right through me. You know I spent sleepless nights thinking my father’s death was my fault, don’t you?” you ask, and he nods, looking pained. “And you know I’m stressed at work, even if I don’t show it, right?” Again, Peter nods. “And I bet you also know that my heart aches every time I see you come running into my office, because I’m afraid you might be hurt—right?”
“Yes, I know, and I hate that you worry about me, but what does all this mean?”
“It means I don’t want to wear a mask anymore, Peter. I’ve stopped pretending I’m indifferent to you. I’ve stopped pretending I don’t like you,”
“Because it’s not true. I like teasing you and I like it when you come cheerfully down the hallway in that stupid suit of yours. I like bantering with you, and I like dancing under the moon with you. I don’t feel any of this when I’m with Justin—he never even once urged me to take a break,” you say. “I like the person I am when I’m with you, and I want to find out who we are when we’re together.”
Peter smiles at you, and you take a deep breath—a breath of relief. You remember it clearly: the day your father sat down with you in the kitchen and told you how Peter had excitedly asked for your hand in marriage—even though you were too young—because he needed to know that Tony approved. But your father had asked you, he had asked for your opinion. You had laughed, but for him, that was already an answer.
You don’t have to run away from love anymore: Peter has found you.
Summary: you and Peter were together for years – at least until Strange cast the spell. He ceased to exist as Peter Parker, yet the two of you kept working side by side as Tony Stark’s daughter and Spider-Man. That is, until something shifts in you.
Warnings: fluff, angst, strangers to friends to lovers to enemies to lovers again, memory loss trope, spoilers from Spider-Man: Brand New Day, a little of dark Peter/OOC Peter because of the mutation, jealous Peter, sexual tension, banters
Word count: 6K
A/N: hi! At first, I wanted to write something along the lines of the memory loss trope as if you were MJ, but then I read somebody asking for something different and the idea was slowly forming itself in my head while I was listening to Ariana Grande’s new album, “Petal”. Buckle up, because this is a long ride! Are you ready? Feedback is always appreciated by a writer! Hope y’all like it. Enjoy! X
Main Masterlist
Peter Parker's Masterlist
Tom Holland's Masterlist
“I can’t find my earrings anymore! Have you seen them lying around anywhere, Justin?” you ask, hurrying around the room. You’re running late for work—something your father would never have allowed. But then again, there are a lot of things your father wouldn’t have allowed if he was still alive, right?
“No, sweetheart, I’m sorry. Don’t worry though, you look beautiful anyway,” Justin says, before planting a kiss on your lips. You give him an uncertain smile, then shake your head.
“You’re right. You always know how to calm me down,” you reply. “I’ll see you later at the pastry shop, right?”
“Of course.”
His presence reassures you, as always. According to your therapist, stability and balance have been your two favorite anchors since your father died, though you’re pretty sure you were like that back in high school, too. Control intoxicates your senses, as if it alone could give you power, but it also makes you feel safe. You like predictability. You like things clear, precise and simple. For instance, your life is planned down to the last detail: you’ll marry Justin after graduating from MIT, take over as head of Stark Industries from your mother and lead the Avengers from the compound whenever you can. That’s the plan. Justin is moving in with you soon, though it’s almost as if you’re already living together, since he often crashes at your place. Everything is perfect.
As you think about all this, you take a deep breath and smile at yourself in the mirror. The elevator whisks you up to the fortieth floor—a quick ride, yet long enough for you to notice your own tired eyes. Maybe you need a vacation. Ned is always saying you’re a workaholic because you don’t go out with him on Saturday nights anymore, but you have too much work to do—no time for parties, dancing, or building Lego sets (something you used to do only because he had no one else to share it with).
Sometimes you think that in a parallel reality, you must be an Avenger who reads minds like Wanda—only with purple powers instead of red—,because you’re feeling a sharp pang in your chest again today. The doctor said it might just be stress, but you never really bought that. You love working here so much that you even stay overnight. If you enjoy your job, you aren’t really working, right? So that means everything is fine. Oddly enough, these moments always coincide with the arrival of a guest you’d rather not see—someone who is currently running down the hallway toward you. Could any kid from Queens be more annoying than him? No, definitely not.
You huff, the sound of your heels clicking against the floor as you head toward your office—the one with the glass doors overlooking the New York skyline. Normally, you’d be drinking your coffee while gazing at this breathtaking view, but this morning, it seems Spider-Man has other plans for you. Perhaps you simply dislike him because he’s unpredictable and you’ve never been one to color outside the lines.
“Good morning, sunshine!” he exclaims, and you raise an eyebrow as you settle into the comfortable chair behind your desk, the door closing silently behind him.
“What do you want this early in the morning, Spider-Man?”
“Ms. Y/N Stark, did you wake up on the wrong side of the bed this morning, too? Because usually, you’re ruder than this.”
An almost amused huff escapes your lips, but he doesn’t seem to notice.
“Then just walk away and forget it.”
“Aiming to be even ruder?” he asks, but you don’t laugh at his dry joke. “Anyway, I can’t: New York needs us.”
“What a shame… What happened this time?”
“Remember that mission you assigned me? Well, bad news: Scorpion got away from me… again.”
You cover your face with your hands in anger, but you don’t let it show. Your therapist says this gesture is also a response to the trauma of your father’s death: you avoid conflict, trying to be kind and appear easygoing. In reality, you do it for the sake of others; if you let it all out—if you allowed your anger to surface—you would hurt people. Bruce has the same problem—in fact, you talk about it often—but even with him, you can’t quite get a handle on it. The venom that would spill from your lips would be terrible for others to bear, but partly for you, too: you would feel guilty. Unfortunately, your empathy won’t allow it.
“I read the police report… but what the detective told me was more interesting: you’re tired, Spider-Man. You need a vacation. You can’t react like that again,” you tell him.
You can’t see his eyes from this distance, but you can sense him holding his breath: perhaps he fears you might kick him out of the Avengers or exile him, but the truth is, he’s already punishing himself. You don’t think he cares about your judgment, given the relationship you’ve built over time—one that has become somewhat distant now. It didn’t use to be that way. Sure, you don’t remember who is behind the mask or what his name is, but you know he was your rock for years—that he was your best friend and your boyfriend. That is, until you broke up—before Strange’s spell, according to Spider-Man. Bruce told you that you used to be much more cheerful, selfless, and generous. Something painful and unexpected must have happened with that guy behind the mask to cause such a drastic change. At that point, he remained Just Spider-Man. Or at least, what’s left of him—because aside from missions with the Avengers, none of you ever sees him anymore. At first, that bothered you, so you tried to talk to him about it, but he was adamant: you couldn't know the truth. So you let it go and moved on. And yet, there’s always that pang in your chest when you see him…
“Like you, you mean?” he asks, and you blink a couple of times.
“What?”
“You just told me to take a break. Maybe you should do the same.”
“I run a company, Underoos.”
“Not yet, as far as I know.”
“And I’m planning a wedding.”
“Oh, really? Whose?”
“Mine,” you reply, and it almost feels like you imagined the smile fading from his face.
Spider-Man stays silent for a few seconds. Through the suit, you can see his Adam’s Apple bobbing up and down as he tries to swallow. Sure, he’s your ex-boyfriend, but four years have passed, and he never showed any interest in you, so you were certain he’d moved on.
“Did Justin propose?” he asks, his throat dry.
“Yes, yesterday—and I said yes, obviously.”
“Obviously,” he repeats.
“Are you okay?” you ask, standing up, but he immediately moves away from the desk before you can reach him.
“Of course. Anyway, I don’t need time off, I’m fine. I’ll sort out my own troubles—don’t worry about it.”
“Spidey, listen…”
“No, it’s fine. You have every right to be happy. Congratulations,” he says, then walks out the door and leaves the office quickly.
You can’t sleep at night. You should be overjoyed, yet you just can’t manage it. You get out of bed, trying not to wake Justin, then head to the kitchen for a glass of water. It’s summer, and the heat in New York is brutal. You’ve decided to get married in June—exactly a year from now—after your graduation in November. You tried cake samples with Justin, but you didn’t like a single one because, like a fool, you were busy wondering who was hiding behind the Spider-Man mask. After all, he always said keeping his identity secret would protect you, but the truth is, you face risks every day even without being engaged to him. That’s where your punishment theory comes from. Maybe you got hurt because of him in the past, and he regrets it? You couldn't say for sure, but now you want to know the truth again. Justin doesn't know this, but at Ned’s place, there’s a board—one you helped work on—covered in your theories about who might be under the mask. Knowing his name might bring your memory back... and maybe even help you reclaim the person you used to be. You wish you could be as carefree as you were when you were younger, even though you know it’s impossible. And maybe, a small part of you is curious about the person hiding beneath the suit, even if you never really tried hard to get to know him after what he told you.
Your fingers are already typing on your phone before you even realize it.
To: Yelena
I know you saw Spider-Man today.
Of course, she’s still awake.
To: Y/N
Yeah. He wanted info on Jean Grey. Small Potatoes. Nice muscles.
You smile.
To: Yelena
I need you to do something for me.
To: Y/N
Do I have to kill Spider-Man? Or do you want to have a spa day with me?
To: Yelena
Tempting offers, but no, thanks. You need to investigate Spider-Man. I want his full name on my desk by tomorrow.
To: Yelena
I like it when you give me orders. Consider it done.
You wake up tired the next day. You seriously consider taking the day off, but then you change your mind. You straighten your hair, put on a blouse, a long skirt, and heels, then grab your bag and head to the compound. Then your eyes land on the earrings you had lost right under the bed—emerald-shaped ones. You put them on, happy. They’re a gift from Justin, and you don’t want to lose them for anything in the world. Suddenly, a crazy idea crosses your mind: Justin will be away all day, and you can get away with taking a day off since your mother is at the office—so you decide to go to Spider-Man’s place. Yelena has already texted you his address and it’s a terrible spot in the slums, but that makes sense, given he doesn’t have much money saved up and preferred living far away from the other Avengers. Far away from you.
You knock on what is supposed to be his door—at least according to the blonde girl you met at the laundromat. Apparently, he stole her clothes, and you wonder why. I mean, he could easily just ask you to help him shop, if he needed it...
He opens the door a couple of minutes later, wearing his mask, a black tank top, and long sweatpants. Up close, you can catch a glimpse of his eyes behind the mask—hazel, and so big you could lose yourself in them.
“Hey,” he says, and you give him a shy smile.
“Hi. Can I come in?”
“S-sure!”
You look around and see multiple screens, a workbench, and clothes scattered across the apartment. You feel a tingling sensation in your head, but quickly shake it off.
“I still don’t get why you didn’t prefer staying with the others at the compound.”
“For the same reason as always, I guess,” he says, and you feel the answer hanging in the air: you.
“Look, I’m still your boss, so if you need clothes or food—really—don’t be afraid to ask.”
He nods, sitting down on the bed.
“Thanks for the offer, but I’m all set.”
You notice a bouquet of flowers on the table as you wander around the apartment. Spider-Man seems nervous, as if he expects you to suddenly go for his throat.
“Who are those flowers for?” you ask.
He gives you a smirk.
“What, are you jealous now?”
“No, I just want to know if one of my employees is getting distracted from work.”
Spider-Man laughs.
“You’re the one who told me to take some time off.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“Why are you so interested in my love life?” he asks, rising from the bed. He closes the distance between you in just two strides, and your heart begins to hammer against your ribs. What is happening? You’ve never experienced anything like this before. “Is your predictable life boring you now? What is it? Does Justin not satisfy you enough?”
Your heart is pounding in your throat. Is the temperature in the room rising, or is it just your imagination? Spider-Man is standing right in front of you, but you back away until your spine hits the wall. He reaches out, placing his palm against the wall to your left. His other hand moves slowly toward your chin—barely grazing it—but before he can actually touch you, you close your eyes, as if afraid of him. When you open them again, he is on the other side of the room, his hands clasped behind his head.
“I think you should leave,” he says, though his voice is trembling now.
“What?” you ask, your throat dry.
“I’m sorry. But you really need to go now.”
“You’re hiding something from me, and I’m going to find out what it is!” You exclaim before storming out.
You leave the building in a fury. Back at your office, you sit at your desk with your hands in your hair, which is pulled up in a messy bun. You let it down, weary from the throbbing headache. You don’t like the feelings Spider-Man stirred up in you—especially since you’re about to marry a wonderful guy. Yet, a part of you was ready to crumble, to give in to the darkness, the unknown and the gentleness of those calloused, gloved hands... You shake your head, trying to banish the thoughts. He chose to be Spider-Man, and being a superhero leaves no room for love. It’s his decision and you have to respect it.
You go to turn on the computer, but notice an envelope underneath it.
From: Yelena
Inside the envelope there are the details you asked me for. Open it only when you’re ready.
You dial Ned’s number and hurry over to his house, the envelope in your hands and your heart pounding in your chest.
When Ned opens the door, he stares at you wide-eyed, as if he’s seen a ghost.
“Y/N, are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m holding Spider-Man’s real name right here,” you tell him in a hushed voice, sounding feverish. “Are you going to let me in or not?”
After you’ve told him everything, Ned stares at you as if you’d just revealed that you were Spider-Man. Exhausted, you lie back on the floor where you’re both sitting, closing your eyes.
“Have you closed your mouth yet, or is it still hanging wide open?”
“Sorry, but it’s a lot to process. I mean, I’d figured out that Spider-Man liked you, but not that he was your ex. It all makes so much more sense now.”
You sit up immediately.
“How did you figure that out, exactly?”
“Oh, well, the way he looks at you. It was easy. Every time you walk into a room, he stares at you like you hung the moon and the stars.”
“But you can’t even see his eyes!”
“Yeah, but he always gets all flustered when he sees you and he clenches his jaw every time Justin kisses you. He’s insanely jealous, I’m telling you.”
“You never told me that,” you say, sounding almost wistful.
“Why would I? You’re happy with Justin, and he made his choice—apparently. Even if you did remember him—which seems impossible to me now—you still wouldn’t be able to feel what you felt before. His name won’t bring back the person you used to be, Y/N. And maybe you miss her even more than you miss Spider-Man.”
You look at him, tears stinging your eyes. You hold them back, forcing a smile.
“Do you remember what I was like in high school?”
“You were smart and beautiful, definitely out of our league,” he says, and you burst out laughing. “I remember at your father’s funeral, you hugged me like it was the last time you’d see me. And I remember you telling me one day that you flew across rooftops with Spider-Man, even though you’re afraid of heights, but that you felt safe with him.”
You moisten your lips before speaking.
“What if I’m not that person anymore?”
“Oh, I think that, deep down, very deep down,” Ned jokes, and you giggle, “you still are. And that he knows it. That’s why he can’t let you go.”
You look at him as if he’s just revealed the most important secret in the world. You take the letter in your hands again. You look at Yelena’s handwriting, cursive and full of doodles, then you hold the letter out to Ned.
“You keep it. I want him to tell me.”
Ned nods.
“Oh, I see you finally found your earrings!”
“Yes. I feel incomplete without them. And besides, I think Justin would be really upset if I lost them.”
Ned frowns.
“Justin? I thought your dad gave them to you in high school.”
Your heart drops.
“Did I wear them in high school?”
“Yes.”
You go home with more questions than answers. When you go to bed, Justin says goodnight, but you don't reply. Maybe you feel guilty, as if you've hidden something from him, but you haven't omitted anything or lied. You've just been trying to find out more about yourself.
The next day, you go to the office with your hair down. You're so late, you're wearing Converse and an old band T-shirt with a jacket and some pair of jeans. You rub your eyes while waiting for your coffee to arrive.
Suddenly, Spider-Man bursts in through the window, breathless and agitated.
“What are you doing here?”
“Come with me. You’re taking a break today,” he says.
He takes you to the beach. Surprisingly, the journey in his arms, swinging between the skyscrapers, doesn’t scare you anymore. You sit on the sand, slip off your shoes, and savor the scent of the waves lapping at the shoreline. You don’t protest, you don’t scream. You look around, but there’s no one there. Spider-Man probably picked the spot furthest from the city—or maybe it’s just that people are at work on a Wednesday.
“You’re too quiet, and I don’t like it,” he says.
“You practically kidnapped me, yet that’s what you’re worried about? Interesting,” you retort sarcastically, though you aren’t truly as angry as you make out.
“I just wanted to talk to you.”
“About what?”
“About what’s happening to me,” he replies, then sits down beside you. Grains of sand will probably get stuck in the seams of his suit, but he doesn’t seem to care.
“And that would be?”
“A mutation, or something like that, apparently. That’s why I went too far with you the other day—I’m sorry about that. I designed an inhibitor to keep that side of me in check, the way Dr. Banner does with the Hulk.”
“Oh, good. That might come in handy with Jean Grey.”
“Yeah, well, that’s not the point, though,” he counters, then takes a deep breath. “Look, I’ve thought about it a lot, and I think I owe you a real explanation this time. When Doctor Strange cast that spell, he made everyone forget about me—the person behind the mask. You were hurt during the final battle, so I touched the scar you have on your temple and told you I’d find you to tell you everything, but you knew I wouldn’t do it. So I came to the compound to tell you that you were wrong—for once—but they told me you were in the office, and there you were… shining. God, you were the light illuminating that whole damn room. You were incredible. It was like seeing Mr. Stark all over again,” he says, and you feel tears stinging the corners of your eyes. He is slowly giving you back your memories—the person you were when you knew him—but Ned was right… you don’t feel a thing. “You were… amazing. We used to laugh together, we never fought, and even though your dad didn’t want us together, he eventually realized that I loved you. I loved you, and I just wanted to be with you forever.”
“No, please, don’t say that…”
“Be with me. Marry me, not him,” he says, and you swallow hard. You can see his eyes through the mask now, and they’re pleading with you to listen. “I know you can’t feel what I feel, but I beg you—give me another chance. I don’t deserve you, but I hope you’ll be kind enough to hear me out. Just give me one day, and I’ll show you what it’s like to have me by your side. Please.”
You think about it for a moment—a handful of agonizingly long minutes while he holds his breath.
“You’ve got twenty-four hours, Spidey. Show me who you really are,” you tell him, smiling.
“I promise I won’t let you down.”
“Oh, I hope so,” you say, then you undress—taking off your jacket, shirt, jeans, shoes, and socks—until you’re left in just your underwear.
“What are you doing?” He asks you, sounding panicked, his eyes languidly tracing the length of your body, but you just smile at him, shivers running down your spine.
“I’m done being predictable. Take off your suit and come into the water with me.”
He’s left wearing nothing but his mask, and you can see his muscles flexing in the water. You feel his gaze on you the whole time—even when you don’t catch him staring—because your cheeks keep flushing hot. You splash water at him and he splashes back, just like two children or old friends. Perhaps that’s how it really used to be with that person—someone who now feels like a stranger to you. You have memories with Spider-Man—like when he wrote that he loved you on the Brooklyn Bridge using his webs—but not that guy. Are they really the same person? Even now, after all these years?
As you step out of the water, you feel your wet hair curling against the back of your neck. Later that evening, after chatting a while longer, your hair is dry and you’re starving. Spider-Man offers to grab a couple of pizzas, and you agree. You put on your jacket to cover up, while he wears your T-shirt, even though it’s a bit tight across his muscles.
“Did we really go to that concert together? I wish I could remember you,” you say with a sigh.
“I know. I’m sorry,” he replies, holding a slice of pizza.
A distant song drifts toward you. He sets his slice back in the box, wipes his fingers, and holds out a hand to you.
“I’m not dancing with you right now.”
“Come on—didn’t you say you wanted to be unpredictable?”
You accept hesitantly, but as you stand up, the music seems to spark something inside you; you start moving quickly, laughing, your hands in his. You feel carefree again at last, and it’s all thanks to him.
“After all these years, you still can’t dance,” he says, and you playfully shove him away, laughing.
“Sorry my Dad never gave me dance lessons. At least he taught me quantum physics, though,” you retort, and Spider-Man clutches his chest as if struck by an arrow.
“Ouch,” he says, and you burst out laughing.
“I wish it could always be like this—even at work.”
“In general or between us?” Spider-Man asks, and for a moment, you fall silent. The second song is slower and you feel tired, so you rest your head on his chest and he holds you tight, as if you might run off at any moment—or worse, vanish like a ghost. You wrap your arms around his neck.
You use your hands to search for his eyes, but it’s too dark to see anything. So, you hug him instead.
The warmth radiating from his body reminds you of how your father used to tell you he loved you "three thousand" before bed. It brings back memories of your mother’s bedtime stories when you had nightmares after she died. It reminds you of the scent of Christmas cookies and humming along while baking them. It feels like kissing him without actually touching lips. You feel like you’ve known him forever—as if he had always been there, right beside you, through all those moments.
Your muscle memory remembers him better than your mind does. It all comes flooding back: the earrings he gave you for your birthday, the hug at your father’s funeral, the day he told you he loved you—before you forgot him.
May… Parker’s funeral.
You snap your eyes open and pull away from him, a tear rolling down your cheek.
“What’s wrong?”
“Who is May Parker?” you ask, and something in his eyes seems to shatter; you can almost see your own reflection in his tears.
“What?” Spider-Man asks, caught off guard. “You remember?” he asks, incredulous.
“Were those flowers for her? Was she your mother? I thought she was just my neighbor, but she wasn’t.”
“She was my aunt. My name is Peter… Parker.”
“Peter…” His name slips from your lips.
A sob escapes him. He probably never believed you’d say his name again and after four years, this must have felt like a miracle.
“Yeah, baby, it’s me,” he says, reaching out to embrace you, his voice choked with emotion—but you take a step back. “Take off your mask.”
He swallows, stumbling over his own words.
“But the anonymity…”
“There’s no one here. You’re safe.”
Slowly, Peter does as you told him. He slips off his mask, and now you can finally see his face. He has dark, curly hair, brown eyes, a nose that’s been broken more than once, full lips, a sharp jawline, and bruises on his neck as well as his body. You move slowly toward him. You graze his face with your fingers. He closes his eyes, and you run your hands over them as if you were blind and trying to understand his features—trying to recall every imperfection, every scar or mole. You linger on his lips, as if you could remember their taste, and your heart is pounding hard in your chest now. You feel that strange sensation again—like someone pulling a cord—but it hurts less now, because you are close to the part of yourself that’s been missing.
“Your exile was your way of punishing yourself, Peter. I was the cause of it, wasn’t I? You were afraid they might hurt me again because of my scar. You let me grow up—grow old, actually—without knowing the truth. Now I’m different because of that, and I don’t remember you. You didn’t do it to protect me, but to atone. That makes you selfish,” you say, your anger rising.
He grabs your hands before you can pull them away.
“Y/N, listen to me—I couldn’t risk losing you or having you suffer because of me. You’d already lost your father… Please, try to understand.”
“No, I don’t understand. You made the decision for me and let me become this person—let me regress to who I was before I met you.”
“You can’t blame me for that. You used to be fun. You used to be kind. Now you’re just cruel,” he says, and his words seem to burrow into you like poison. Then his tone softens. “I miss the person you were when you were with me—when we were together.”
“Well, the way I see it, you have only yourself to blame for that now. I’m sorry I didn’t live up to your expectations.”
Peter doesn’t step back, but it’s as if I’d slapped him anyway. A long minute passes before he retorts.
“And who should I blame for still being in love with you, huh? God, maybe? Or you?”
You pull away from his grasp and pick up your jeans from the floor.
“You had your twenty-four hours, Parker. Now take me home. Your time is up.”
The next day, you call in sick from work. It hasn't happened since your father died, but now you really need it. You lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, while Justin continues to text you. You turn off your phone and bury yourself under the sheets. Stupid Peter Parker and stupid memories. You should never have given in to curiosity. You were funnier before, huh? Well, sure, you were fifteen! Now you're the head of a company and the Avengers, you have responsibilities. What do you expect a boy who's finally lost everyone he loves to know?
You huff, sitting up. Indeed. He should know better than you, and you were a fool for thinking that. You pick up your phone, turn it on, and call Ned.
An hour later, Ned is eating ice-cream with you in the living room.
"I have to tell you... you stink," he says, and you laugh.
"You're right, but I don't even feel like taking a shower right now."
“So the situation is really serious. Okay, listen: I read the letter and I know his real name.”
“Yes, me too, he told me.”
“Ah… Okay, anyway, with or without our memories, he was an important part of our lives and I think he deserves a second chance.”
“I tried, Ned, but we just argued.”
“I think you're just afraid, Y/N.”
“And of what?”
“The person you are when you're with him,” he replies. The spoon with the ice cream inside remains in mid-air. “You have your whole life planned out between now and when you turn thirty. I understand it's hard even to think about taking a different path and turning your plans upside down—but tell me the truth: did you enjoy going to the beach with him yesterday? And did you enjoy going for a swim half-naked, knowing you might be seen? And touching his biceps under the moonlight?”
You burst out laughing.
“You pervert!”
“Okay, I only said that last part to make you smile, but it’s true—I know you: you just want him to prove that you can trust him. So, put him to the test.”
You leave your spoon in the glass bowl. You sigh, because Ned is right—yet again.
“Justin is such a good guy... he doesn’t deserve this.”
“So is Peter, and he’s a thousand times less boring than Justin.”
“How do you know that?”
“Hello? He’s Spider-Man!”
You smile at him.
“Right. I don’t want to run away anymore, Ned, but I can’t just throw away four years of my life like this.”
“No one is asking you to do that, Y/N, but if you want my humble opinion: I wouldn’t throw away the time you spent with Peter, either. It only took him two days to turn your world upside down like this. That has to mean something, right?”
It’s eight o’clock in the evening when you knock on Peter’s door. You’ve finally showered and changed, and now you’re waiting anxiously for him to open up. You’re drumming your fingers against the doorframe when Peter appears in the doorway. He’s wearing a white T-shirt that highlights his shoulder muscles and a pair of jeans. He looks at you with genuine curiosity, but also a hint of annoyance, as if he’s still angry about yesterday.
“Hi,” you begin.
“Hey,” he says. Great—he’s still angry.
“Can I come in?”
“Did you come here to bark orders at me in my own home, too?”
“Your maturity is embarrassing, Parker.”
“And your charm is as biting as ever, Stark,” he retorts, making room for you to enter. The door clicks shut behind you, and you feel almost trapped—caught in a spider’s web. Ironic. “I heard you weren’t at work today. How come? Were you trying on garters?” He asks, though the last question seems to hurt him more than it does you.
Out of the corner of your eye, you notice the inhibitor sitting strangely on the table. Now you understand why he’s acting this way.
“Put on the inhibitor so we can talk like two normal adults.”
“I have nothing to say to you.”
“Oh, really? It didn’t seem that way yesterday.”
“Yesterday I wanted to tear your clothes off, now I just want to kick you out,” he replies.
You swallow hard, and he must like it, because a smirk escapes him.
“I spoke to Ned… he made me think about a lot of things.”
“Like what?” he asks, ruffling his hair as he sits on the bed. His biceps bulge beneath his t-shirt sleeves with every movement, making it hard to focus on the words you wanted to say. Stupid Ned and his stupid advice.
“Come on, put on the inhibitor. We can’t have a conversation right now—you’re too angry.”
“Angry? No, I’m furious,” Peter retorts, a strange, unfamiliar smile on his face, his knuckles white with rage. “I’m losing my mind, because the thought of you marrying that idiot has been eating me up inside ever since you told me. And I’m going crazy because this damn inhibitor isn’t working!”
“Can I help you?” You ask, and he nods, huffing.
“Sure, knock yourself out. You can use anything on the desk,” he says. Then he glances at you sideways and must notice you’re feeling rather awkward, because he quietly approaches from behind, his lips brushing against your ear as he speaks. He adds these words—deliberately meant to fluster you further—in a low, husky voice, just to see your reaction: “You can use me, too, if you want.”
You swallow hard, and he walks away with a satisfied smirk.
You move to the desk, and after about ten minutes, you hand the device back to him. “Try it now.”
Peter puts it on and for a moment, you see a pair of dark eyes staring back at you, then they vanish, and Peter looks at you as if you’ve just performed a miracle.
“You did it!” he exclaims, hugging you. You stand frozen, breathing in his scent—a smell that must have been imprinted on your brain all these years, because it feels like home, and the warmth radiating from his body makes you feel safe. When he pulls away, he looks embarrassed. “I’m sorry—sorry about earlier.”
“It’s fine. Now I understand why you and Bruce have so much in common. In the end, it’s much easier to bottle everything up than to let it out, isn’t it?”
“Careful, I might start to think you’re speaking from experience,” Peter laughs.
“Maybe I am,” you reply. Peter gives you a sidelong glance.
“What do you mean?”
“I hid my feelings so well all these years... yet you can still see right through me. You know I spent sleepless nights thinking my father’s death was my fault, don’t you?” you ask, and he nods, looking pained. “And you know I’m stressed at work, even if I don’t show it, right?” Again, Peter nods. “And I bet you also know that my heart aches every time I see you come running into my office, because I’m afraid you might be hurt—right?”
“Yes, I know, and I hate that you worry about me, but what does all this mean?”
“It means I don’t want to wear a mask anymore, Peter. I’ve stopped pretending I’m indifferent to you. I’ve stopped pretending I don’t like you,”
“Because it’s not true. I like teasing you and I like it when you come cheerfully down the hallway in that stupid suit of yours. I like bantering with you, and I like dancing under the moon with you. I don’t feel any of this when I’m with Justin—he never even once urged me to take a break,” you say. “I like the person I am when I’m with you, and I want to find out who we are when we’re together.”
Peter smiles at you, and you take a deep breath—a breath of relief. You remember it clearly: the day your father sat down with you in the kitchen and told you how Peter had excitedly asked for your hand in marriage—even though you were too young—because he needed to know that Tony approved. But your father had asked you, he had asked for your opinion. You had laughed, but for him, that was already an answer.
You don’t have to run away from love anymore: Peter has found you.
SUMMARY: You’ve been seeing some mystery guy as of late so when he shows up to your apartment for a party, Ned and MJ are excited to meet him. To get away from the noise, he takes you back to his apartment where you make a horrific discovery. Not only is he Spider-Man, but you were allegedly in love with him.
WARNINGS: Mentions of Peter lightweight stalking the reader, suggestive dialogue, make out scene :) , angst, angst, more angst, happy ending!
WC: 4.7K
Main Masterlist!
He didn’t mean to make it weird, but he had made it so painfully weird.
While out, Peter found Ned and may or may not have followed him onto the subway and to his extremely crowded apartment. The bouquet of flowers crinkled in his hands as he pushed through the sea of bodies, music bumping so loud he felt the rhythm in his chest.
A red solo cup made its way from the kitchen to the crowd, all the way to his hand, being filled with the most putrid alcohol his tongue had ever tasted. He gagged, discarding the cup and searching for the guy who used to be his best friend.
Somehow, he ended up in a bedroom. The door was cracked open and his curiosity got the better of him. He opened it slowly and carefully made his way inside.
He glanced around the room and almost immediately realized whose room he was in.
It was yours.
You had met Peter a few months back after he ‘coincidentally’ bumped into you on the busy streets of Queens. Truth be told he was following you like a total creep because he had saved you just a few weeks ago from the Scorpion who didn’t care who got in his way. After that, he was on high alert for your safety, because clearly stalking you through Ned’s Instagram wasn’t enough.
But that wasn’t actually the first time you met.
The first time you met was way back in high school in your chemistry class. You were reeled into his dorky personality. He was the only guy whose intelligence was on par with that of your own and was the only one who made you laugh at the stupidest of jokes.
Peter glanced around your bedroom, intrigued by the layout that heavily resembled the one you had in high school, but something about it felt more mature, like your own furniture had grown with you.
While you had been seeing him for a while, grabbing coffee, heading to the movie theater, or even spending hours in the record store, you had yet to bring him to your own place and he had yet to bring you to his.
Your old place wasn’t the best given you lived on your own, but now with two roommates, you had truly stepped it up.
Peter’s eyes scanned around your room. Your desk was full of postgrad documents, monitor left on where you had a tab open looking to transfer to Empire State.
Above that, little polaroids clung to the wall.
Pictures of you, Ned, and MJ on your high school trip, the three of you at high school graduation, you and MJ in your freshman dorm, college graduation, and most importantly the newest edition.
The polaroid Peter took of you just a few weeks ago.
Peter’s expression softened with a soft smile. Even though he had been practically erased from your life, he still managed to make his way back into your heart again.
He was growing extremely conflicted.
Many years ago, he promised you that he’d come back and remind you of your relationship with him. When that fell through because of Aunt May’s death, he promised to leave you alone because he couldn’t bear the thought of being the reason he lost another person he held so close to his heart.
But then when Spider-Man swooped in to save you, things changed.
He told himself that he needed to look after you even closer. So, he started following you. Just to class to make sure you got there safely. Then it was to work. Then it was to hangout with friends. Then it was practically every time you left the house.
On one particular day, you were rushing for an internship interview. You tried to get some coffee, but it was taking forever. When you finally got it, you rushed out, walking as fast as you could.
That’s when Peter accidentally ended up in your way, bumping into you, spilling the drink all over your clothes.
He expected you to be angry, but you weren’t.
He recognized the look in your eyes.
You clearly thought he was attractive and that small gleam in your eyes boosted his ego.
He couldn’t restrain himself from staying uninvolved in your life anymore. Not when you flashed him a crooked smile. Not when you asked for his name. And definitely not when you told him he was lucky he was cute.
Naturally, you both exchanged numbers. The poor boy was apologizing profusely and somehow you still managed to be on time and land the internship.
Thank goodness your coat wasn’t soaked.
And thank goodness after Peter turned the corner, Spider-Man showed up and swung you to your interview.
Now, after having been seeing you for a few months, he didn’t know what to do. You were clearly falling back in love with him, and he was just falling even deeper to the point that it felt like drowning.
He didn’t know if he should tell you, or just act like none of it ever happened.
When would even be the right time to tell you? How would he tell you when he was supposed to years ago?
He didn’t want to ruin what you two were already building again.
Peter turned around and saw the stuffed animals you had scattered on your bed. Even in your early twenties, you couldn’t seem to get rid of them.
He smiled to himself and walked over, grabbing the one of your favorite animal he had given you back in high school. He wondered now if it had any sort of meaning to you because it definitely did years ago.
Suddenly, Peter was pulled from his thoughts when the bathroom door creaked open.
He jumped, eyes wide like he had been caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to.
You walked out of the bathroom, eyes glancing up at him in horror, until you realized it was only him.
“Peter?” you asked, caught off guard, completely unaware that he would be attending your house warming party.
Peter nodded, swallowing hard. “Yeah,” he said sheepishly. “I didn’t- I didn’t mean to intrude or anything, sorry,” he apologized.
You gave him a warm smile as you walked over to him, eyeing the flowers. “It’s no big deal,” you reassured him, catching his gaze. “Nice flowers.”
Peter shifted awkwardly. “Oh, yeah. They’re for you, actually,” he said, holding them out to you.
Your face flushed a shade of pink as you took them. “Thank you,” you said softly. “They’re beautiful.”
Peter smiled, eyeing you up and down briefly, which didn’t go unnoticed by you.
You looked gorgeous.
“You look really pretty,” he complimented you nervously, his own cheeks burning pink.
You tried to conceal your smile, but failed miserably. “Thank you. You clean up quite nicely, Parker.”
It was suddenly quiet between the two of you, the only sound being the music infiltrating your room.
Peter wondered if he should make a move, or better yet, maybe now he should tell you about the spell.
Wait, no! Now would be a terrible time!
Maybe he could make plans with you for another date and tell you then, or he could-
“I see you found my stuffed animals,” you said, trying to break the tension.
Peter snapped out of his thoughts and glanced down at the stuffed animal that he was still holding. “Oh, yeah, it’s cute,” he laughed to himself. “Where’d you get this one?” he asked, praying that a part of you would remember.
You scratched the back of your neck with your brows pressed together. “I don’t know, actually…” you trailed off, your mind filling with an intense fog. “It’s really weird,” you laughed awkwardly. “Sometimes I try to remember certain things and it’s like someone jumbled up my brain and I just can’t. My mom says it’s because of my phone, but I don’t know.”
Peter snorted at your last sentence, but then his heart started to ache because now due to him, you felt like you were losing your mind.
“Dude, there are so many people in our apartment right now,” a voice spoke, growing louder as it got closer and closer until the person speaking was in your room.
Ned halted at the center of your room, glancing between you and Peter. Then his eyes landed on the flowers and his lips parted, brows raising. “Oh my gosh, is this coffee guy?!”
You didn’t even get to respond because he turned on his heel and rushed out, yelling for MJ. “MJ! Coffee guy is here!”
You sighed and dropped your head into the palm of your hand.
Peter smirked at your embarrassment.
A few seconds later, MJ and Ned came rushing in, shocked expressions on their faces.
“Coffee guy?” MJ asked, staring at Peter.
“It’s actually Peter,” he corrected with a laugh.
“So coffee guy,” she said, turning to you.
You nodded. “Coffee guy.”
Ned walked up to Peter and stuck his hand out. “Well, nice to meet you coffee guy, aka Pater, I’m Ned and that’s our friend MJ.”
MJ saluted Peter as Ned shook his hand.
“Nice to meet you guys,” Peter said, as if he hadn’t known who they were. “She talks a lot about you,” he said, motioning to you.
“Good,” MJ said. “Because she won’t stop talking about you.”
Your face went hot. “MJ-”
“Yeah, it’s really bad,” Ned added. “It’s always ‘coffee guy this’ and ‘coffee guy that’,” he said, mocking you.
“With how often you claim I talk about him, you’d think you would know that his name is Peter by now and not coffee guy,” you said.
“I honestly stopped listening a long time ago,” MJ teased, making your lips part in shock.
“Okay fine, I’ll just never speak again.”
“We all know that’s not true,” MJ said.
Ned chuckled. “We all know you can’t stop talking about Peter even if your life depended on it.” You shifted awkwardly, avoiding Peter’s cocky gaze that was glued to you. Ned waved at Peter. “Well, it was nice meeting you coffee guy, I gotta check in on the party.”
Peter waved at Ned and MJ walked over to you. “Want me to put your flowers in a vase?” she offered.
You nodded and thanked her, handing them off. She waved at Peter as she walked backwards. “Nice meeting you coffee guy- or, what was it? Peter? Peter! Yeah.”
Both of your friends left, and Ned had the courtesy of closing the door, only after flashing Peter a wink.
You let out an embarrassed sigh, to which Peter took advantage of.
“So,” he said, drawing out the word. “You talk a lot about me?” he asked, taking slow, deliberate, steps towards you.
You rolled your eyes playfully. “No. That’s why they only know you as coffee guy.”
Peter hummed with an amused smirk on his face. His hands carefully made their way to your hips, which made your heart flutter. “Is that why you’re so nervous?”
You laughed awkwardly, arms snaking around his neck. “I’m not nervous.”
Peter glanced down at your lips, then back up at your eyes and you thought you’d pass out right there. His amplified senses were going haywire and he could feel how fast your heart was racing in anticipation. “No?”
“No.”
“Then why’s your heart beating so fast?”
You rolled your eyes. “Wanna stop talking and just kiss me already?”
Peter’s smile grew. “If you insist.”
Peter tilted his head slightly, dipping his head to kiss you.
His lips met yours in a soft kiss, almost to test the waters.
You sighed against his lips, kissing him back immediately. You thought you’d have to spend some time learning how he made out, but your lips moved together in perfect harmony, as if it was second nature to do so.
As if you had done it before.
Peter felt like his skin was on fire because for years, he dreamed about that moment.
The moment he’d finally get back with you. The moment he could kiss you again. The moment he could love you again.
“Okay, I- Oh, my God!”
You and Peter pulled apart, faces flushed, lips wet, and now at least six feet away from one another.
“MJ!” you yelled at her.
In one hand she was holding the vase of flowers, the other was covering her eyes.
“I didn’t see anything! I swear!” Her arm shot out, sticking the vase towards you. “Sorry! Here!”
You snatched the vase and put it on your desk and MJ used her other hand to cover her eyes some more.
“Sorry!” she apologized again. “I totally just cock blocked you!”
“What?!” you exclaimed. “Don’t say that!”
“It’s true!” she replied, already walking backwards to get out. “Remember to be safe! And update me tonight!”
“MJ!”
“I lied, I’m totally into your stories,” she admitted. “But I don’t want to be an aunt anytime soon so-”
“Get out!”
MJ flashed you a thumbs up before scrambling out and slamming the door shut.
You groaned and turned to Peter. “I’m so sorry about that.”
Peter was smiling like an idiot completely amused by the entire interaction. “We could go back to my place,” he suggested with a shrug.
⋆✴︎˚｡⋆
The night streets of New York were cool as you and Peter made your way to his apartment. When you left your own place, MJ apologized again and Ned simply winked at Peter once again.
You were never going to hear the end of it when you came back home…
But none of that mattered once you got to his apartment building.
As soon as the doors shut in the elevator, his hands were on you again and his lips followed.
You laughed against his lips as he pulled you in close, the intoxicating scent of his cologne clouding your senses.
The elevator dinged and the doors opened onto his floor. You almost tripped as he walked you backwards, lips never leaving your own.
Your arms wrapped around his for support as he led you down the empty hallway.
Normally, you would’ve been paranoid about someone walking out and seeing you two down one another’s throats, but you didn’t care.
Not when he was kissing you like a man starved for none other than your taste.
You both made it to his door, mouths still connected like your lives depended on it. Your back gently brushed against the door as his free hand unlocked the door with such ease.
As soon as it was unlocked, he pushed you inside, making you stagger back, his teeth grazing your bottom lip. He kicked the door shut behind him, hands finding your hips and moving your body, your back slamming against the door as a gasp escaped you.
Peter pulled away and buried his nose into your neck, kissing you just as passionately in the spot he knew drove you crazy.
“Peter,” you breathed out, your hand raking through his hair and pulling on it gently.
He groaned against your skin, the vibration sending shivers down your spine.
“Fuck, I missed you,” he said softly.
Your brows pressed together slightly, not knowing exactly why he’d miss you when he just saw you a couple of days ago.
You didn’t have much time to dwell on the matter because he nipped your skin, a soft moan escaping you.
Peter picked you up with such insane ease as if you weighed nothing, your legs wrapping around him.
His lips found yours again and he walked you over to his bed, laying you down gently and climbing on top of you, one hand holding his weight up beside your head and the other grabbing your phone that slipped out of your pocket onto the sheets. He set your phone down on the nightstand beside an empty cup of coffee, lips never leaving yours, and moved his hand to cup your face.
You hummed against him, only spurring him on even more.
One of your hands found their way to the hem of his shirt. Your fingers snaked their way up, trailing along the prominent outline of his abs. He sighed in content, melting in your touch.
Peter shifted his weight and you moaned into his mouth feeling him against you.
Your arms wrapped around him, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss.
Peter wasn’t sure what it was, maybe it was the way your tongue entered his mouth, maybe it was the way you kept pulling his hair, maybe it was the way your nails started to dig into his back. Whatever it was, something snapped inside of him.
A wave of immense guilt washed over him.
The kiss grew sloppy, less needy on his side and replaced by regret.
The moment of his lips slowed, he took his hand away from your skin, and now you felt completely empty.
You whined, kissing him deeper, arching your back. “Peter, please.”
His senses were going crazy again, feeling just how much you wanted him and he wanted nothing more but to give it to you.
However, his heart suddenly sank.
What the hell was he doing?
How could he bring you back to his place and make out with you without having told you the truth?
He felt so incredibly guilty. His chest tightened as he pulled away, nerves coursing through his veins.
“I- I’m sorry,” he apologized quickly, climbing off of you.
You immediately sat up, a pit forming in your stomach. “Did I do something?” you asked, already panicking.
“No,” Peter reassured you as soon as the words left your lips. “I just-” he said, cutting himself off, scrambling to get off of the bed, almost tripping over his feet. “Sorry, just- just give me a sec. I’m sorry, one second, okay?”
Peter rushed off into the bathroom, slamming the door shut and leaving you on his bed extremely confused and feeling sick to your stomach.
You kicked your legs off of the bed, sitting on the edge and biting your lower lip. Your eyes darted around the room as your mind started to worry, convincing yourself that you had just ruined everything.
Everything from that night replayed in your mind and you tried to figure out where your actions could’ve made everything go wrong.
You sighed and reached for your phone on the nightstand, accidentally knocking the empty coffee cup onto the ground. It landed with a soft thud and a piece of folded paper fell out.
“Oops,” you mumbled to yourself, sitting on the edge of the bed and picking up the cup and paper.
You went to put the paper back into the cup when something caught your eye.
Your own name.
Your brows furrowed as you unfolded it completely, seeing a letter directly addressed to you.
Scrappy writing in black pen filled the lined paper. It was handwritten from none other than Peter.
The further you read, the more tears began to fill your eyes to the point that you couldn’t even read it, your vision going completely blurry.
At first, you read the part where he admitted to being Spider-Man, and suddenly certain things started to click, like his strength, his seemingly sixth sense, and the way he’d disappear and the masked hero would show up.
But then he admitted to loving you, because at some point you had loved him too.
Not recently.
A long time ago.
He voiced all the things you experienced together. All your firsts and all your lasts. The lasts you didn’t know were the final ones.
Peter poured his heart out to you in nothing but writing. Writing on a crumbled, folded, sheet of lined paper cast away in a plastic, empty coffee cup.
The bathroom door creaked open and when Peter returned to the room that now carried such intensity, his heart sank.
You were sitting on the edge of the bed, the coffee cup on the floor, lid a few inches away from it, the letter in your hand, tears in your eyes.
Peter said your name softly, taking a step towards you.
You slowly lifted your gaze onto him. His heart shattered seeing the hurt in your glossy eyes.
“So, you just weren’t ever going to tell me?” you asked, voice just barely above a whisper.
Peter shifted, swallowing hard. “No, I…” his voice trailed off, nothing else coming out.
You rose to your feet, holding up the letter and walking up to Peter. “My whole life, I’ve felt like my mind was a mess, like something was missing, and it was you,” you said.
Peter’s expression softened, thinking you were about to say something along the lines of how you loved him.
But that couldn’t have been further from the truth.
You shook your head, grip tightening around the paper. “You were the reason nothing ever made sense and then you don’t even tell me,” you said, hurt and anger in your tone. “You just find me again years later and drag me back to your apartment.”
“It’s not like that,” Peter said almost immediately, hating that your words were insinuating that he was using you, because that wasn’t the case. He loved you and he’d never do anything to hurt you.
Unless of course it was shielding the truth from you because he thought it would protect you.
“Were you ever going to tell me?” you asked. “Because I think I deserved to know the truth,” you said, voice breaking with every word.
Peter’s eyes filled with tears. “I don’t know,” he whispered.
You scoffed, nodding your head. “You don’t know.”
Peter’s bottom lip twitched as he blinked by his tears. “I was going to tell you, that’s why I wrote the note, but…I don’t know. After I lost Aunt May because of that mask, I thought you’d be better off without me in your life. I thought everyone would be so that’s why I never told anyone else either. But then a few months ago when you were in the line of fire of Scorpion and I saw you again, I realized that I didn’t want to live the rest of my life without you in it. I couldn’t live my life without you in it.”
Your expression softened, heart aching. You were angry that he kept something like that from you, because had he told you all those years ago, maybe things would be different today. But your chest tightened at the thought of him being completely alone because of his fear of losing anyone else. “Just because you wear the mask doesn’t mean you have to be alone,” you said quietly.
Peter swallowed, looking down. He didn’t want to be alone, and he sure as hell didn’t want to be without you. “I’m sorry for not telling you.”
“It’s okay,” you said softly. “But…Peter.”
Peter glanced up at you, worry creeping up on his skin at what you’d say next. “Yeah?”
You handed him the letter, his fingers grazing yours as he took it. “All this stuff that you’re saying in here, about what we were…” you trailed off. “The spell worked. I don’t have those memories anymore.”
Peter stiffened, jaw tightening, the paper crumpling in his hands.
“I…” you began, trying to find the right words. “You’ve been in love with someone for years, someone who just now started falling for you. I don’t-” you cut yourself off, adjusting your tone to something softer to cushion the inevitable harshness of your words. “I don’t love you. I barely know you, Peter.”
Peter’s heart shattered, the paper tightly clenched in his hand.
You took a step closer to him, closing the space between you two. You cupped his face and he shut his eyes, a quiet sob escaping him as tears fell down his face.
All he ever wanted was you and now you were telling him that you didn’t love him.
It was like a knife to the chest.
You wiped away his tears with your thumbs. “Please don’t cry,” you said, voice cracking.
Your heart ached watching the boy you used to love unconditionally. You just now started to know him, just now started falling for him.
You didn’t love him.
You were interested in him, liked his smile, his curls, the sweetness of everything he did.
You didn’t love him.
It was hard to love someone you had known and saw every so often for almost three months.
“Peter, look at me please,” you said.
He let out a shaky breath, eyes fluttering open as he looked at you through his tears.
“I like you,” you admitted, hands still cupping his face. “I like you a lot and I’d love more than anything to create new memories with you. You’re the sweetest boy I’ve ever known and I’m willing to try to make this work if you are.”
The situation was nothing anyone could ever relate to and it was rather unfortunate.
It wasn’t ideal, but you wanted to try.
Peter nodded, hand holding onto one of yours that were cupping his face. “I’d like that,” he whispered.
You gave him a soft smile, pecking his lips, resting your forehead on his afterwards.
You wished you could know what you and Peter were like before the spell stripped you of your love for him. You could only imagine what it was like and just the thought of it made you sick, because you wanted to know.
You wanted the memories back.
You wanted to love him again.
“I bet we were fun,” you said.
“Like, you wouldn’t believe it.”
⋆✴︎˚｡⋆
And so, Peter spent the rest of the night, telling you stories all about you and him.
His window was cracked open, the cool breeze hitting your exposed skin.
You were lying on your stomach in his bed as he sat beside you, leaning against the headboard with his legs crossed.
Your shirt was lifted slightly, exposing the small of your back. Peter’s gentle fingers grazed against your skin, filling it with goosebumps.
“And then after that, we got ice cream,” he said, mid story. “You had this weird funfetti flavor with a bunch of rainbow sprinkles,” he laughed to himself.
“Rainbow sprinkles?” you asked, not believing him.
“Yeah,” he nodded. “But then you dropped it and that was the last five bucks you spent and I had also spent the last of my money so you shared with me.”
You hummed. “And then what?”
“I swung you to my place and when we got into my room, you screamed because Mr. Stark was sitting on my bed.”
You blinked. “What?”
“Yup. He was making fun of me for weeks for ‘sneaking some girl around’,” he said, smiling at the memory. “It was terrible. “And then when he found out we weren’t dating yet he was giving me all kinds of advice and kept trying to set us up.”
You giggled. “Must’ve worked, huh?”
“Yeah. Imagine my shock when we were coming come from school and the goddamn clouds spelled out your name, followed by, ‘will you be my girlfriend?’”
Your jaw dropped. “No freaking way! What?!”
“Yes,” Peter laughed. “I was so embarrassed, but you liked it and kissed me on the busiest street ever. Everyone was watching and the whole school wouldn’t shut up about it for weeks.”
You laughed again. “Okay, well, please don’t do that this time, that’s incredibly corny.”
“For us now, yeah, it’s extremely corny,” Peter agreed. “But your little high school freshman self liked it.”
You rolled your eyes, a small smile on your lips. It slowly fell away a few seconds later because you realized he was telling you things you had no memory of.
You had no idea what he was talking about.
You weren’t reminiscing with your boyfriend on your relationship.
He was reminding you of a love you’d never remember.
Peter glanced down at you. “What’s wrong?”
You pulled your lips into a tight line, trying to avoid his gaze. “Just kinda wish I would remember all this stuff you’re talking about.”
Peter’s lips tugged downward. “Yeah, me too…”
It was quiet for a long beat, the buzz of the city filling your ears as you zoned out.
“Maybe one day they’ll come back,” Peter said optimistically. “But for now, let’s make new ones, yeah?”
You smiled, looking up at him. “Sounds like a plan to me.”
“And…” he trailed off, leaning down and brushing his nose against yours. “Let me make you fall in love with me again,” he murmured.
You smirked, titling your head slightly. “I’d like that."
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Reporting Live From…Avengers Tower | Peter Parker x Fem!Stark!Reader | Masterlist!
SUMMARY: Daughter of Tony Stark, Wanda’s powers but purple, dating the new intern, living with a group of heroes. What could possibly go wrong?
PAIRING: Peter Parker x Fem!Stark!Reader
A/N: Finally making an Avengers tower series, I’m so excited! Feel free to send in requests for this fic, I’ve already got a few more ideas lined up that I’m actively working on! Just be sure to specify that it’s for this series as I have separate stand alone Peter one shot requests :)
Find the Avengers tower playlist here!
Ⓐ Ⓐ Ⓐ
⚛︎ Dirty Little Secret
Summary: Tony Starks daughter, Wanda’s powers (but purple), dating the new intern in secret. What could possibly go wrong when Clint falls through the vents right after you sneak in your secret boyfriend?
⚛︎ Operation: Hangout In Peace
Summary: When you start dating the intern, Peter Parker, your dad enforces a list of rules for when he comes over. In order to ensure the rules are followed, you two must be babysat at all times, meaning the team circles in and out of who’s on monitoring duties. When you sneak out to hangout with your boyfriend without your father’s permission, the entire group of the world’s mightiest heroes are sent out on one major mission. Finding you…until they find out you’re building legos…? Tony begins to question his parenting. Perhaps a heart to heart conversation will help (it won't).
⚛︎ Game Night (Coming soon…)
Summary: Peter thinks the team could use some team bonding. What better way to bond than a family game night?
⚛︎ Peter’s Missing! (Coming soon…)
Summary: Your boyfriend can’t be found anywhere…maybe look to Sam and Bucky for some answers.
⚛︎ A Day In My Life (Coming soon…)
Summary: Peter vlogs a day in his life which entails going to school, hanging out with his girlfriend, saving the city, and being terrorized by half of the tower.
⚛︎ Date Night (Coming soon…)
Summary: Peter plans a date night with you that doesn’t exactly go to plan.
Taglist! (lmk if you want to be added for removed, if you’re on my regular Peter taglist I also added you!)
SUMMARY - Spider-man needs Ex-Avenger!Reader’s help in investigating..
CONTENTS - taking care of each other, soft , humor and… unspoken thing? Mentioned a situationship?
WORD COUNT - 3.1k
AUTHOR’S NOTE - I actually had some of this written before BND so I just kept writing and added some tweaks. I don’t know what this is. Also I am not a professional writer at all so expect that going into this.
You sat cross-legged on your pink rug, your back resting against the painted cedar chest at the foot of your bed. Books lay scattered around your open notebook, and you absentmindedly gnawed at the end of your pen as you reread the same sentence.
The windows beside you were wide open, the sheer curtains blowing gently with the night breeze. You’d long since tuned out the city’s noise. People always imagined New York as something glamorous, but after living there long enough, it became nothing more than blaring horns, distant arguments, sirens and the constant rumble of construction repairing whatever had been destroyed that week.
The main light stayed off, leaving your bedside lamp to cast a warm amber glow across the room. A few candles flickered nearby, making the pages of your notebook dance with shifting shadows.
You stopped reading when your mind became aware of another.
You side-glanced towards the open window.
“You know I can sense you, right?” you called out looking back at your notebook.
Silence.
You pulled the pen from between your lips and when you looked up again, there he was.
Spider-Man stood awkwardly in your window, still dressed head to toe in the familiar red-and-blue spandex. Lately, it felt like that was all he’d ever worn.
One hand rested against the frame while the other was propped in his hip.
He was forcing himself to act casual like he hadn’t just been outside your window for five minutes. Like he hadn’t been admiring you trying to focus on whatever you were reading. Your hair over your shoulders, the pen between your lips that you kept biting down on and apart of him wished it was him-
“I was gonna knock,” he blurted, louder than intended.
“But you didn’t.”
“You… didn’t exactly give me the chance.”
“At my window?”, Your tone was dry but held teasing.
He had never been more grateful to be wearing the mask. He was certain his face was as pink as the night-gown you were wearing.
“…It was open?” He looked back at the window and back to you.
A smile tugged at your lips.
“Hey, last time I tried your front door,” he continued, pointing an accusing finger, “that cat declared war on me.”
“He’s harmless.”
“‘Harmless’-“ He used his fingers to make quotation marks “-doesn’t usually involve attempted murder.”
“You showed up dressed as Spider-Man.” Because it’s not like the cat knew who he was.
“I was working.”
“You scared him.”
He scoffed in disbelief “He scared me.”
“He-“ You emphasized, “-doesn’t like spiders.”
He paused to say something but then muttered under his breath. “Well I don’t like cats but you don’t see me biting him.”
A giggle escaped you. He was ridiculously easy to wind him up.
Peter let out a defeated groan before stepping inside, carefully closing the window so that it wouldn’t slam in the breeze. He wandered over with the sort of tired shuffle that suggested he’d been on his feet for far too long before letting himself drop onto the rug opposite you, crossing his legs to mirror your own.
His mask tilted towards the candles.
“…Are we summoning something?”
You blinked.
“What?”
He gestured vaguely around the room.
“The candles… the circle of books…” He looked between you and your notebook. “I’m just saying, if a ghost appears, I’m leaving. I can’t deal with that today.”
You snorted with a laughter knowing he was half-serious.
“No, you idiot.” With a lift of your finger, the study books closed showing him the front covers. “I’m studying.”
“Oh.”
“You know… like normal people our age.”
He looked down at himself.
“I am currently sitting on your bedroom floor as Spider-Man.”
Touché.
“And you’ve got…” He motioned around the room again.
Then looked back up at you in your frilly gown, one sleeve hanging off your shoulder.
You raised your brow slightly with smile of amusement.
“I’ve got…?”
“…Super cool witchy powers?” He tilted his head which made you believe he was hiding that cheesy grin under there.
You shook your head with a small smile, “By New York’s standards, I’d say we’re probably the normal ones.”
Spider-man considered it for a second before sighing,“…That’s actually a little concerning.”
“It really is.”
He noticed you smiled a lot more with him. Maybe because you were laughing at him but he liked to think he was just hilarious. The way your eyes would twinkle or the way you’d laugh suddenly and place your hand over your mouth to downplay it. It warmed his heart every-time. Every-time he’d decide to keep a distance with you. He didn’t know whether it was a coincidence or a test for him.
You reached over, stacking a few textbooks together.
He picked one up.
“‘Introduction to Quantum Mechanics?’”
“Mhm.”
He opened it, pretending to read.
“I know… some of this.”
“Do you?”
“No.”
“I was gonna say.”
“I recognized ‘quantum’ and ‘mechanics’.”
“Well done, you’ve learnt it all now.” Your words dripped in sarcasm.
He half shrugged, “Well I understand you and that’s a reward in itself.”
You smiled, watching him carefully place the book back where he’d picked it up from.
“Besides, what do you need these for?” He asked, turning his attention back to you.
“Trying to learn abit about myself and what I can actually do or try to do.”
“That’s good. For you.”
He nodded slightly and managed to get his fingers on the hem of your dress. He took the lace frill between his gloved fingers and started playing with it like a child.
You looked at him with amusement.
“Speaking off, I had lunch with Kamala yesterday.” You suddenly remembered.
“Oh?” He said, now not really listening.
“At Dal’s.”
“…Delmar’s.” Or maybe he was.
You frowned, “I knew that.”
“You absolutely didn’t.” His tone was flat.
“I was close.”
“You were alphabetically close.”
You gave him a puzzled look.
“How did you even know that?”
He shrugged, “It’s on my patrol route.” Now tugging at the lace.
“So you’ve just happened to see me there?”
“…Maybe.”
You gave him a look,“Peter.”
He snapped his head up, “What?” His voice went high again.
He cleared his throat,“I’ve… happened to see you there a couple of times.” He said casually.
“A couple?” You questioned, believing it to be more than that.
“…Three.”
“You counted?”
“I didn’t count.”
“Right, you just remembered.” You lightly mocked him.
“I did!”
A smile tugged at your lips,“That’s oddly sweet.”
“Really?” He asked, almost hopeful.
Then you shrug, “Or a little creepy.”
He slouched down,“I was hoping that wouldn’t be it.”
You smiled playfully and nudged his knee with yours.
“Kamala’s been asking about you.”
“Oh no.”
“‘Oh no?’” You brows furrowed and you whacked his hand away.
“Ow-“ He pulled his hand to his chest.
You gasped, “You don’t like her?”
“No-no, I do-I do.”
“That doesn’t sound convincing.”
“It’s not that.” A quiet laugh escaped him. “Last time we talked she asked me, like… seventeen questions.”
“Seventeen?”
“I counted those.”
“Why do you keep counting everything?”
He ignored you, “And in the space of like 5 minutes.”
You extended your legs beside him, “What about?”
“‘Why are there so many rules in time-travel?’ ‘Do the Avengers know fanfiction about them exists?’ ‘And why am I not in the New Avengers?’ ‘Why didn’t Thanos just double the resources in the universe?’” He threw his hands up exasperated.
You grinned.
“Well?”
“I don’t know!” He threw his hands up animatedly.
“You were there.” You pointed
“So were you!” He nudged your finger and pointed back.
You drop the pen and cracked your knuckles, “Yeah I was a little busy trying not to y’know, die.”
“But I’ll tell her you’ll swing by if I see her.”
His hands lifted immediately, “Woah, don’t promise anything.”
“I didn’t.” You already did.
“You implied.”
“I suggested.”
He let out a dramatic sigh and propped his chin on fist.
You smiled fondly, watching him. You always did around him. A part of you wanted to peel the mask off him. But you knew this was ‘Spider-Man’. And technically on duty. Which means he was here for something.
“So,” you said, “you’re either avoiding patrol…”
“I’m not.”
“…or you need something.”
He let out a feigned insulted gasp, “I don’t always need something.”
“You climbed through my bedroom window.”
“I was in the neighborhood.”
“You live twenty blocks away.”
“Can I not just say hello?”
His voice turned smug and his fingers found your ankles, almost caressing it, “You know they do call me the friendly-“
You pulled your ankle back, “Don’t. Finish that.” You shook your head.
He sighed like a child who was just told no, “…Okay.”
“I need your help.” He piped up again.
I knew it.
Your gaze softened, “You know you can just ask.”
“I know.”
He rubbed the back of his neck again.
“I just… don’t want to drag you into things.” His tone shifted heavier and you could tell he was avoiding your gaze.
You extended your hand and placed it on his knee in assurance, “You’re not ‘dragging’ me to anything. It’s my choice.”
He then looked at you and down at your hand. For a moment, he just let himself embrace it.
He tilted his head up, “Have you ever heard of something called V-Max?”
Your eyebrows pinched together.
“Drugs?” You suggested.
“Not drugs.”
He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, “I keep hearing the name.”
“From who?”
“Different people.”
“Different how?”
“You know the attacks that have been happening recently?” He asked.
You nodded, “The thing jumping into different bodies?”
“Exactly that. Whoever is behind all this is looking for V-max”
You straightened up, “But nobody actually knows what it is?”
“Nope.” He shook his head.
“So you’ve looked into it?”
“I’ve looked everywhere.”
“Police records?” You questioned.
“Nothing.”
“Online?”
“Nothing.” He shook his head again.
A quiet huff escaped beneath his mask.
“But I did speak to Bill Metzger.”
You quickly recalled where you remembered that name, “The head of Damage Control?”
“Yep.”
“What’d he say?”
“That he’d never heard of it.” He said back almost immediately.
You frowned, picking up on the doubt in his tone,“You don’t believe him.”
Peter was quiet for a beat.
“…I don’t know.”
“I asked Yelena. She didn’t know either.”
“You asked Yelena before me?” You tilted your head slightly.
He paused and you’re certain his white lens widened.
“…No?”
“That’s not the point-“ he waved his hand, “I don’t have any proof.”
“So why ask me?”
“Because…” He shrugged. “I don’t know what I’m chasing.”
You thought about his words momentarily.
“You think Damage Control knows more than they’re saying.”
“I think…” He paused. “I think Metzger knows… something.” The frustration evident in his tone.
“But?”
“But the last thing I need is to start accusing the people who are supposed to be helping this city.”
You nodded slowly, “I get it.”
He let out a quiet breath, “I just… I can’t shake the feeling.”
“And if maybe that thing is a telepath then you could possible track it down - better than anyone else here?” He said quieter, like he didn’t really want to ask.
“You got a face or name?” You ask but you already knew what the answer would be.
“Not yet.”
You clasp your hands together, “If I start trying to go through the minds of everyone in New York, it’ll give me an aneurism.” You said straight and honest.
“I-I know, and I’m not asking that. I’ve seen what can happen when you do that. I just- If I find anything, could you possibly maybe try - when I narrow it down?”
You looked at him for a few moments and for a second you weren’t looking at the mask, you were looking at the eyes behind the lens.
“Yes, I’ll try.” You agreed on a softer tone.
Your hand leaves him and you pick up the pen again, tapping against your notebook.
“Well, I haven’t heard anything about V-Max.”
Spider-man sighed, knowing he wasn’t getting anywhere with this.
“But…”
His head lifted.
“I have heard some things. Not anything specific.”
“But?” He gestured to go on, more intrigued.
Anything would be better than nothing right now.
“I don’t know…” You frowned. “Call it a gut feeling.”
“Telepathy?”
“Gut feeling.”
“The powers?”
“Peter” You said flat.
“Sorry-sorry. It’s just-they’ve done a lot of good, y’know. They clean up after attacks and they keep dangerous tech out of the wrong hands.”
You understand where he’s coming from. Spider-man was working alongside the city right now and he’s already had the world turn against him before.
“I’m not saying they’re the bad guys but you have to remember the way the people believe , the others don’t always.” You advised him.
You gestured between the two of you, “They trust heroes until heroes start asking questions and I mean we’ve seen that first-hand.”
Peter didn’t interrupt.
“Sometimes I feel their fear and doubt.” You paused looking down at your hands.
“That doesn’t stop just because they’ve decided to work with us. Not for us, for themselves.”
Spider-man was quiet but he didn’t look away from you. He knew you had your own fears, mostly about yourself. About not knowing. And he was going through the same thing, not that he’d share it.
“If I were you,” you said quietly, “I’d keep looking into V-Max.”
You looked back up at him and he nodded once.
“But I’d keep an eye on Damage Control too.”
“You really think so?”
You gave a small shrug, “I just think it’s better to be safe than sorry. Hope can turn into fear very quickly, Pete.”
He let out a low exhale and was about to speak up.
Peter suddenly winced, groaning. His hand flew up to the side of his head.
You practically lunged over to him, “Peter?”
“I’m fine.” He said through gritted teeth.
“You’re not fine.” You said concerned, your hands holding him by his shoulders.
“I thought you weren’t getting them anymore.” You said quieter, examining him as he avoided looking at you.
“They’re… mostly gone.”
“Mostly?” You lowered your head.
He looked away.
“Once or twice.”
“They’re manageable.”
You knew that tone. And you knew it meant it definitely was not manageable.
You used one hand to turn his chin so he’d look at you, “Let me help.”
“It’s okay.” He raised his hands to stop you.
“It’ll take a minute.” You pushed, trying to get him to let you help.
“I-I’m fine, really-.”
You reached for the edge of his mask but stopped before you could lift it.
He paused when he felt you about to unravel him. He stiffened up, like he was bracing himself.
You felt his eyes on you but he didn’t stop you.
You peel the mask back enough to rest on the tip of his nose.
His lips pressed into a thin line like he was trying to hide any emotion. To protect you and himself.
Like he hadn’t used these very lips to kiss you some nights. To make you feel at peace when the world was too loud.
His jaw was clenched and tight, and for a second you both held your breath.
You lifted your hand, your fingers grazing his jaw.
You applied a light amount of pressure and the tension beneath your touch eased almost instantly.
He let out a sigh of relief and his mind and senses suddenly became clearer.
His shoulders relaxed.
He looked peaceful. Which for Peter Parker was a rare sight. Something you only ever saw when he’d rarely let his guard down and let you help him. You didn’t understand, you could ease his mind. Help him so much more. But he never wanted that to be your burden.
His head lulled forward and he placed his hand over yours, holding you against him. He laid his other hand on your thigh, feeling your skin through the thin fabric.
You let your eyes close.
His forehead rested against you and then the hand over yours slid down to wrap around your wrist. You turned slightly, nose bumping into his as you let him lean on you.
His fingers tightened around your wrist, and you continued to relieve his mind and body at peace.
You didn’t look into his mind, you never did.
Not unless someone gave permission but even then, a part of you dreaded it. Because whatever emotions they’d felt, it stayed within you. You knew you’d do it for him. But ever since four years ago, this was the closest he would let you come.
BEEP. BEEP..
“Armed robbery in progress. Helll’s Kitchen. Officers requesting immediate assistance.”
The police scanner built into his suit crackled to life.
Peter opened his eyes.
“Close your eyes.” You gently commanded.
“The city’s got great timing.” He forced a light tone and the corner of his lips lifted as an attempted smile.
He wished he could stay. He so desperately wished he would.
Your eyes open and you looked at him in longing and something else… not disappointment, just wistful.
He turned his head, his lips press against your inner palm, lingering for a few moments before he pulled the mask back down.
Your gaze softened and your hand catches his wrist.
“Peter-“
“I have to.” He doesn’t let you finish. Because he knows it’s easier this way. He doesn’t let you ask because when you do it makes him want to just be Peter Parker. But that’s not him anymore.
You let out a heavy sigh and you know what the inevitable is between you two but every night you hope for a different outcome.
“I know.”
He climbed to his feet and crossed towards the window.
You followed behind.
He rested a hand against the frame and turned to you.
“Swing by later?” You offered.
“You’ll still take me in?” His voice was softer and tired.
“Kept you so far, haven’t I?” You attempted to ease the tension.
You felt the more genuine smile on his face this time.
“I’ll hold you to that.” He opened the window again, wide. He climbed over the ledge, one leg still dangling in.
“Be careful,” you murmured.
His head dipped in a small nod.
“Always.”
Then he was gone.
You stood there for another moment before looking down. You used your other hand to trace your fingers over your palm. Where his kiss lingered.
You heard a jingle and snapped your head up to see the familiar black cat perched on your window.
Synopsis: Spider-Man comes crashing into your apartment, unconscious and covered in blood. He acts like he knows you…and why does it feel like you know him?
Tags: Mature Content 18+, oral (fem receiving), unprotected sex. Takes place some time after NWH, pre-BND, no MJ, extreme liberties taken with the timeline and the memory spell
Words: 3k
Notes: My first ever fic!! I've been an avid reader on Tumblr for years now. I've always loved writing but in recent years I lost the motivation and time and I really miss it and I want to improve my skills again. This is my first time writing in literal years so please excuse any errors, I may need some time to properly craft again. Also please ignore any medical and/or American inaccuracies, I am not a nurse or a New Yorker 😭
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Here's the thing. You had your whole evening all planned out. It was your first proper day-off in a while, and you wanted to make it feel like one of those self-care days in the movies.
A wildly expensive face mask made from questionable ingredients, a white fluffy bath robe, champagne, fancy chocolate truffles even though deep down you prefer the cheap stuff from the store across the street, bubble baths and classical music softly playing in the background …the whole shebang, cucumbers on your eyes and all.
So the first emotion you feel when Spider-Man (of all people, Spider-Man) comes crashing through your window, sending shards of glass everywhere and wrecking your evening plans was not a particularly pleasant one.
“Oh shit, are you alright?” You shriek, jumping up from where you were lazing on the couch. You can feel your heart trying to worm its way out of your chest, and the sticky feeling of champagne dripping down your legs from where you dropped your glass at the loud noise of oh yes, Spider-Man crashing through your window.
The only response you got to your concern was a series of groans and grunts (which sent blood rushing straight to your cheeks, the filthy pervert that you are), so you made your way over to the red and blue cladded figure lying on the ground.
Your bare feet thuds as you rush to his side, feeling the panic melt away and the controlled focus that came with being a nurse take its place.
Help first, freak out later.
“Spidey? Can you hear me?” You gently tap his cheek, assessing his level of awareness. His eyes flutter slightly and he slightly leans into your touch, but he doesn't speak or try to push you away. His body is warm and solid beneath the suit, and you feel sparks across your hands as you assess him for any life threatening injuries.
Focus. Now is not the time to let your silly crush on New York's favorite hero stop you from being professional.
Satisfied with your initial assessment, you rush to your bathroom where you stock your emergency kit.
You always have it fully stocked, with bandages, disinfectant, gauze, even a needle and thread. You could run a mini clinic with all the supplies you have. Strange, for someone who rarely gets injured, but some part of you always felt that it was necessary, that it was absolutely vital because you use it frequently, someone you love gets hurt quite often, someone you love someone…
You stop with the kit in hand, head suddenly pounding. What were you thinking about? Probably doesn't matter. Focus on the task at hand.
You kneel next to Spider-Man, putting on your gloves, pulling out the medical scissors and gently cutting away at his suit. You leave his mask alone. The guy deserves his privacy, since he works so damn hard to keep it.
You work gently and methodically, cleaning, wiping, stitching, occasionally pausing when Spider-man lets out a groan. You slow down around his hips. He's always been particularly ticklish around that area, the ol’ softie.
He doesn't wake, and you assume that whatever he was up against tonight did a number on him.
With the last scrape cleaned and disinfected, you remove your gloves and pack up the kit, moving everything to the kitchen counter. Spidey looks fast asleep. You debate moving him to the couch for a moment before snorting at yourself. Not happening. A blanket and a pillow under his head should suffice.
You work fast, cleaning the glass around him, placing your softest pillow under his head and a fluffy warm blanket over him, since the breeze from the broken window is coming in strong.
You place it around his waist. He doesn't like having the blanket all the way up– it makes him feel stuffy. You take one final look at him before sitting down at the kitchen counter, hand clutching the warm cup of tea you made yourself.
Right. You thought you were handling this new development remarkably well, all things considered, but now the questions were coming at lighting speed.
Why was he here? Was he swinging home and crash landed in your apartment by coincidence, or did he come to you specifically? What the hell was happening?
Sure, given the fact that you have lived in Queens your whole life and there seems to be a world-ending threat every other Tuesday, Spider-man has saved your life before. More than a few times, actually.
But that was in high school, years ago, and you haven’t interacted with him since, your crush on him aside. And Spider-man saves loads of people– you aren’t exactly special. So why you? Why now?
You glance down at yourself and let out a massive sigh. Motherfucker. There's blood all over your fluffy white robe.
★*☆♪.。o○>゜))))彡
Mmm. The sun was shining. The birds were chirping. You are warm and content, with strong arms wrapped around you as you lay face down next to him and bask in the summer air.
The comforting tone of his voice rises and falls above you, his fingers lazily tracing circles on your back. He was telling you about some sort of project he was working on, but you were too sleepy to properly take his words in.
“Hey, are you even listening to me?” He teases, his hand gently tapping your lower back.
“Of course I am. You were talking about some very important stuff. Circuits, voltage, which wire goes where…” You trail off, giggling as you turn to face him and tease him some more when you jerk back in shock.
Oh God his face where was his face? Where there should be lips and eyes and a mouth and hair there was nothing, who is this man and why cant you remember him who is this man its someone you love someone you love- and was that? was someone calling your name who was calling your name?
You gasp awake, startling up and out of the chair you fell asleep in after changing into your pyjamas. Wide-eyed, you glance around until you notice a figure looking at you, holding a placating hand outward.
“Easy, easy. You’re good. You were having a nightmare and I–”, he hesitates, wrapping the blanket tighter around his shoulders, “I didn’t like seeing you so scared. I’ll leave now, sorry for disturbing you, ma’am. And the window. Sorry about the window.” He chuckles awkwardly, before dropping the blanket and turning around to leave.
"Wait,” you blurt out, feeling frazzled after your dream, but regaining enough of your senses to know him leaving now wasn’t a good idea. “Wait a second. Are you planning on leaving in your underwear with nothing but your mask on? Give everyone in the city a real show?”
He stops and looks down at himself, seemingly just realising he was almost bare, before turning around and snatching the blanket back up. “Heh, didn’t think of that,” he mumbles, tucking the blanket around him.
Well. Now that the adrenaline has faded, that’s all you could think about. When you were patching him up you were too focused to admire him, but now you can’t stop thinking about his strongly defined stomach, his veiny arms holding the blanket up, hell, even his mask contrasting with the rest of his toned body creating a picture that you won't be forgetting anytime soon.
“Just stay here a sec, I have some sweatpants that I think will fit you,” you mutter, pushing past him to go to your bedroom. You grab a pair of sweatpants and toss it at him.
He mutters a quick thanks and puts them on. Fuck. The sweatpants + mask + no shirt combo is making you all hot and bothered.
But there’s something else bothering you. Something that made you snap your head towards Spider-Man and narrow your eyes at him where he finished tying the drawstring.
“How do you know my name?”
He goes still, his body suddenly tense. The white lenses of his mask turn towards you.
“What?”
“My name,” you repeat, crossing your arms. “I heard you saying it when you woke me up. How do you know my name?”
He stares at you, hands tightening in balls at his side. Your mind is going a mile a minute, and you start connecting dots you're not sure you should be connecting.
“Why are you even in my apartment? Did you know that I'm a nurse?” You march up to him, getting up close and personal. You want answers. And you want them now.
“Why– why does it feel like I know you?” You say, feeling frustration itself seep into your bones. “I know how you prefer your blankets. I know where you're ticklish. I know you take your sandwiches with pickles squashed down real flat. How do I know all of this?”
He's standing very still. The only movement you see is his chest rising and falling before he carefully, so very carefully, reaches up and removes his mask. He glances up to you, with big brown eyes, his curls framing his face and a look of desperate hope. It's the most beautiful face you've seen in your life.
“You're not…you're not supposed to remember any of that,” he says, voice low. Like if he talks any louder he might break the strange spell that has fallen over the two of you. “You're not supposed to remember…me.”
You give a shaky exhale and before you can stop yourself you place a hand on his bare chest.
“I think I see you in my dreams," you tell him quietly. “There's this hole in my life. These last few years…something's missing. I think it's you. I think it's always been you.”
His mouth slackens, as if your words pierced his heart. Before you can blink, he grabs the hand on your chest and pulls you closer until his lips are on yours and suddenly you can't think of anything else but him, his slightly chapped lips and the way he smells and the coppery taste from his cut lip flooding your mouth and the way he holds you.
Like you're something precious. Like you're the air he's been craving; like he can't fathom ever letting go. It makes something in your belly tighten and your toes curl.
He pulls away, panting against your open mouth. His hands are fiddling with your shirt. “I've missed you. That's why I came to your apartment tonight. I was hurting and tired and I couldn't keep myself away anymore. Not after tonight. I'm weak," he admits, ashamed. Yet his hands are travelling up your shirt, greedily feeling every exposed inch of skin.
You aren’t wearing a bra. It crosses your mind a second before you feel his hands on your breasts, cupping and caressing. You gasp, but the sound is covered up by his groan. As if he's the happiest man alive at that exact moment.
You decide to take initiative and lead him over to your bedroom. He follows, tugging your shirt up and over your head. You've barely laid down on the bed before he hovers over you. Within seconds his mouth is on you, taking a nipple in his mouth. You moan at the warm wet feeling, raking your nails across his back.
Fuck. Things are moving along fast. Somewhere in the haze of lust you think you ought to be talking right now. What did he mean you shouldn't remember him? Why is he the faceless man from your dreams? But thinking feels exceptionally hard. Grinding up against him you can feel that isn't the only thing that's hard right now.
“You feel so good,” he whimpers, kissing a trail down your tummy. He shimmies down your pants until you are left in nothing but your panties. You slightly regret putting on your comfy granny panties instead of a sexy lacy pair, but it doesn't look like Spider-Man particularly minds. If anything, his eyes darken at the sight of you. He takes both corners of your panties and slowly pulls down.
He stops and stares at you. Long enough that you start to feel uncomfortable and move your hands to try and cover yourself but he swiftly grabs both your wrists with one hand, pulling them above your head.
“Beautiful. You're absolutely beautiful,” he whispers. He glances up at you, smirking slightly. “Keep your hands there.”
You nod shakily, your heart beating out of your chest. You're so turned on right now you think you would jump off a building if he asked nicely. He starts at your breasts again, kissing, licking and sucking. The action shoots heat straight down your core, and you buck your hips up in search of friction. Blearily you realise he's still wearing his sweatpants.
“You're a bit overdressed right now,” you mumble, continuing to grind up against him. He stops his ministrations and glances down, smiling.
“I guess I am,” he murmurs, kissing down in between your breasts. He stops just above your navel, before glancing up toward you.
“Give me a second. I just want to take care of something first,” he says, giving you a smirk that spells trouble.
And then his mouth is between your legs. You cry out, twisting your hips up, but he brings a strong arm down on your hips, locking you in place. You don't think you've ever felt this good in your life. His tongue is circling your clit, dipping down and around in just the right way to drive you crazy. It's like he knows your body better than you do.
“Shit, don't stop,” you whine, grabbing his curly locks and pulling slightly. He groans, and the vibrations make the peak inside you that's been steadily building rise higher and higher. The wet sound of him eating you like his last meal is driving you crazy, and your moans are getting louder and louder. Your poor neighbors.
He takes his tongue in broad stripes up and down and nudges his nose against your clit just so and suddenly you're gone, the high washes over you and you come with a shout, hands gripping his hair and legs locking him in place. He continues licking through it, trying to drive your orgasm longer. It's only when you try to push him away, legs trembling from the aftershocks that he pulls away, kissing your inner thigh.
“Still tastes so good. I dream about you too. Dream about this,” he murmurs, pulling off his pants. You blink up at him, shamelessly staring at him now that he is naked. He's beautiful. Every inch of him, and you can't bear another second without him inside you. This feels familiar. Like a song and dance both of you have completed hundreds of times.
He gently tilts your chin up and kisses you, the taste of yourself bitter-sweet on your tongue. You moan into his mouth, hands trailing down his body.
He breaks off the kiss and looks deep into your eyes. So much love is reflected in his pupils that it makes you glance away for a second, overwhelmed. You feel warm and satiated, like here, with him, is where you were always meant to be.
You feel him line himself up with your entrance before pausing.
“You ready, baby?”
You nod, whining slightly and arching your back, the petname making you feel some type of way. He chuckles, mouthing at that spot behind your ear that always drives you crazy before pushing forward.
Holy shit. It's been a while since you've gone to fourth base, but even then, none of your casual one night stands held a candle to this.
He's hitting that spot inside you, the one that makes your face heat up with pleasure and your body tingle with every nerve lighting up.
You hear a keening sound and realise it's you, unable to control yourself with the pleasure you're experiencing.
He's driving into you with deep, slow thrusts. And all the while he's talking, whispering right into your ear.
“Fuck, so good baby. You're so good to me. I've missed you, missed this. Better than my dreams,” he groans, speeding up. He's close, and so are you.
“That's it, sweet girl. Let go for me. I got you,” he croons, reaching a hand down to thumb small tight circles on your clit.
And that's it. You're gone. The band that was building inside you snaps, sending you up into the sky, waves of pleasure rolling over you. Distantly, as if through a filter, you hear him grunt and you feel a warm sensation spread inside you as he finds his release.
He collapses on top of you, careful to keep most of his weight off you. You run a shaky hand through his hair, down his back and up again. You feel a smile tug at your lips. You haven’t felt this happy in ages.
The silence between the two of you is comfortable. It could have been minutes or hours, but it feels so deeply right you don't dare to break it.
There's something niggling at the back of your mind. You frown as you feel a headache coming, turning your nose into his hair. This is important, you think. You need to remember something important.
His hands are caressing your sides, lazily tracing circles against your hips when it hits you, all of a sudden you can't believe you didn't know, how could you not know that this is–
“Peter.”
His head snaps up, hands frozen on your hips.
“What did you say?” He asks, looking at you with that same desperate hope from before. You laugh, tears building at the corner of your eyes.
“Peter. Your name is Peter.” You say, clutching him closer, and all of a sudden he's laughing with you, kissing your cheek, your forehead, your hair. Peter murmurs something, too softly for you to catch but it sounds like a good thing.
You kiss him back, drinking Peter in. In a moment, you'll have to pull back and tell him you don't remember much else. His name came to you in a flash, and there are some things returning to you, but it's distant, as if you're wading through muddy water.
It makes your head hurt to try and remember more, but it's a start. You remember him in all the ways that matter, you remember Peter. It can only go up from here.
You grin, and he grins back.
Maybe your evening plans turned out like a night from the movies after all.
he’s complicated, he’s irrational… but i hope someday he’ll take me away and save the day!
summary: you couldn’t exactly put a label on whatever you and spiderman had together. since he had never taken his mask off around you, it was capped at merely acquaintances. after spiderman agrees to let you interview him for an article, you try to gain an understanding of the man underneath the spandex. but is it worth exhausting yourself falling for a man you’ve never seen? and who seems hellbent on protecting himself from his past mistakes?
warnings: (loosely inspired by the clark x lois interview scene in superman) angst to fluff, happy ending, brief mention of injury, kissing, journalist!reader, mentions of peter being a photographer bc we deserved that with tom's spidey, links to insomniac!spiderman, reader doesn’t know spider-man’s identity / didn't know him pre-bnd, post-no way home, takes place during spiderman bnd (no direct spoilers but it’s recommended that u watch the film before reading this in case i missed anything!) (and stream superman by taylor swift :))
word count: 5.9K
main masterlist / peter parker x fem!reader
𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐇𝐀𝐃 mentioned to your friends that you were considering finding a roommate for your apartment in New York, they thought you were referring to one of your classmates or someone on the internet that had been searching high and low for a reasonably priced room within the city.
They would have never guessed that Spiderman, the friendly neighbourhood hero, would be the person to have his own room in your flat. There was no lease in place, Spiderman had his own apartment, no doubt. He just preferred to spend his time outside of crime fighting with you. Not that you ever objected to this, you appreciated the company.
When you had first met the man in the red spandex, how he came tumbling into your window with a limp and disturbing the silence you found yourself resting in. You assumed it was a one time thing, that he wouldn’t remember your face in the thousands of civilians he saved everyday; then he appeared at your window again, claiming he needed help stitching a wound on his chest and this was the first place he stumbled, or swung across.
Coming to your flat twice was a coincidence, but then he perched on your fire escaped for a third time. Three times became five. Then five times became every day for an entire week. Five months after meeting you, he had become part of your routine. A routine that consisted of Spiderman currently being lounged back on your couch, his foot nudging your own as he pestered you with questions about your upcoming article.
If you didn’t find it so endearing you would’ve kicked him out by now. But something about Spiderman made you feel seen, like he’d known you his whole life. Of course, you couldn’t say the same.
You had no idea who Spiderman was beneath his mask. You only knew what he wanted you to know about him and what the rest of New York knew about him; that he saves the city and the neighbourhood loves him. And you despised yourself for falling for a man you’ve never truly met.
FIVE MONTHS AGO
You were nose deep into an article that was due to be published the next day. Your back was aching from being hunched over your laptop and your eyes were burning from reading word after word, flickering through countless sources and making sure your work had zero to no flaws.
Being so preoccupied with your writing, you failed to notice the superhero slumped on your fire escape. His suit was torn at the torso, drops of blood staining the skin that peeked out. He reached the hand that wasn’t clutched to his side towards your closed window and pried it open, grunting as his body protested against the movement.
You flinched as his hand connected with the glass, the sudden arrival causing you to jolt to your feet. “What the—” You yelped as Spiderman shuffled his body through the window, landing harshly against the wooden flooring.
“Oh, God.” He wheezed out, rolling onto his back and coughing as he gripped his ribs. He looked around the room until his eyes landed on you standing beside the chair that had fallen when you stood, your brows furrowed and eyes blinking rapidly as if you were trying to battle with reality and your imagination as they comprehend that Spiderman was a bloody mess in the middle of your flat.
Peter’s eyes widened as he took in your shocked state, “I’m sorry! I’m not here to hurt you!” He stumbled over his words as he tried to comfort you while his body screamed the opposite, the blood seeping into the floorboards.
“I promise I’ll clean all this up,” He gestured to the faint red marks and pulled himself up into a sitting position, “Wouldn’t want you getting in trouble with your landlord because of my mess. I know mine charges me when I—“
“Why are you in my apartment?” You questioned, your feet rooted to the spot you stood up in. “Right, I’m sorry.” Spiderman nodded and braced a hand on the window sill, “I got into this huge fight with Scorpion."
Peter stood slowly, his voice strained as he continued, “It was like, big potato stuff.” He watched you squint your eyes, “It’s— whatever, nevermind. And I was swinging back and needed a place to crash for a second, that’s all.”
You nodded and loosened the tension in your shoulders, “That’s reasonable.” You could almost see a weak smile behind Spiderman’s mask, “Do you need some help?”
Peter’s body relaxed at your question. Your voice was hesitant and soft, like you were worried about crossing a boundary with a masked superhero even if it was necessary. He liked the consideration, he hadn’t experienced it for a while.
“I’m fine. I heal quicker than…” His voice trailed off as his eyes focused on your open laptop behind you. He honed in on the names written in bold, titling your piece before his crash landing had disturbed you.
“Are you a journalist?” Peter titled his head, his voice quirking in interest. You turned to look at the article with its deadline rapidly approaching, “Yeah.” You responded.
“Writing a piece on the New Avengers?” His voice was almost teasing and for the first time that night, Peter saw a smile creep up on your face and ignored the surge he felt in his chest as a result.
“Something like that. My boss asked me to do it but it’s practically impossible to find an image to go with it,” You repositioned your chair and sat in it, pulling up a tab that showed Yelena flipping off the cameras that spotted her own her way to her ‘office’, “Any that are appropriate at least.”
Peter laughed as he looked at the photo, “I could help you with that, if you want. To compensate for me crashing in like this." You turned to look at him and gestured towards his mask, “What? Are you a photographer under there?”
Spiderman shrugged, instantly regretting the movement as he winced in pain, “One with connections,” He watched you raise your eyebrows in interest, “Look, I’ll talk to Yelena and organise a photo with her.”
“I want two pictures.” You challenged, watching how the red mask disguised the grin that was gracing Peter’s face. “I’ll give you three.” He chuckled.
You pursed your lips and pretended to dwell on the offer, “Okay. You’ve got yourself a deal, Spiderman.” You nodded turned sideways in your seat to face him completely. “And you’re pretty lenient, maybe I should let you crash in my place more often.” You joked.
Peter, failing to pick up on your sarcasm, tilted his head in questioning, “Really?” You nodded, “Totally, I’ve been looking for a roommate.”
You laughed to yourself and turned back to your open laptop, fingers itching closer to the keyboard as your mind switched back to its journalistic state.
Across from you, Peter (or who you knew strictly as Spiderman) glanced around the apartment before his eyes landed back on you. He hadn’t been inside someone else’s home since everyone forgot who he was, no one knew him well enough to entrust him to do so.
For the first time in years, Peter didn’t feel like he was talking to someone through Spiderman. He was existing in the moment as Peter Parker, just behind a mask that was practically glued at the seams with past guilt.
You treated him normally. Well, as normally as someone could do when a masked hero stumbles into their apartment when they’re in the middle of an article with a deadline glaring straight at them.
Peter liked normality. He didn’t experience it much. He liked existing outside of the mask, to have someone talk to him and not see him the same way everyone else in New York City does, as Spiderman. To have a conversation, although brief, that didn’t revolve around himself and how he took down Tombstone with ease, or perhaps the time he was gifted with the key to the city; it was almost refreshing for Peter to dote on someone else this time, rather than receiving.
So, he took up your offer of crashing in your place more often. Whether you were serious or not (you definitely weren’t but you appreciate his company nonetheless), Peter liked having someone in his unpredictable world.
He enjoyed having a reason to go out on patrol every night, swinging past your window to check if you were safe or hovering on the fire escape until he built up the courage to tap gently on the glass. Because seeing your face smiling up at him after a long day of glaring into eyes that wanted him dead, ensured him that everything he has ever done was worth it.
PRESENT DAY
"What if I interviewed you?"
Your words snapped Peter out of his thoughts, “What?” He laughed as you hastily removed your laptop from where it was perched in front of you and onto the coffee table, twisting your body to face the masked man lounging on your couch.
“What if I interviewed you? As Spiderman.” You repeated yourself. Although you couldn’t see his face, the squinted lenses and tilted head told you that the man sitting opposite you wasn’t understanding your proposition.
“Come on,” You groaned and shuffled closer to Spiderman, “I’ve been put on the Superhero column ever since my article about the New Avengers, but imagine if I got a personal interview with the friendly neighbourhood Spiderman.”
Peter opened his mouth to reply but you quickly continued, “I’ll make you sound good. I promise.”
“And,” You raised your eyebrows and lowered your pitch, trying to convince the arachnid who was silently deliberating, “People read my columns. The more people that like you, the more J. Jonah Jameson gets annoyed because people aren’t falling for his whole ‘Spiderman is the root of all evil’ bullshit.”
Peter scoffed, “I don’t care what Jameson thinks of me.” You hummed, “You definitely do, you listen to his podcast on my account, Spidey. Did you forget we share one?”
Spiderman groaned and let his head fall on the back of the couch, realising that he had been caught out and perhaps a little positive publicity would do him some good; especially after he’d grown to think the world hated him before they forgot him.
“Yeah. I’ll let you interview me.” He finally said. A wide smile grew on your face and Peter understood why a part of him wanted to agree to this in the first place.
“Really?” Your voice barely contained your excitement and Peter thanked everything that he had a bright red mask covering his face, although it told the same story as what colour his cheeks were painted as.
Peter nodded, “Sure. It'll be fun.” You practically leaped out of your seat and rounded the kitchen counter, grabbing the voice recorder from where it was tossed with your stacks of notepads and pens, fiddling with it before placing it on the coffee table in front of Peter.
“Let's do it right now.” You pressed the record button and lent back in your seat, watching as Spiderman’s head darted between the device and you.
“Are you serious? Like— Right now? Right now?” He choked out and you nodded with a barely suppressed grin.
Peter leaned up, straightening his posture and dusting off any crumbs he had resting on his suit. He reached a hand up to fix his hair before he realised it was flattened underneath his suit. He glanced over at you looking at him with a bewildered look, “What?”
“You know this isn’t filming you, right? Just your voice.” You gestured towards him and pressed your lips together to stop the smirk from etching across your face.
Peter scoffed and relaxed his body, attempting to be nonchalant about the movement but his awkwardness betrayed him, “Totally,” He stayed quiet for a moment before pointing at the voice recorder, “Can we start again?”
You chuckled, “That can just be off the record.” The lenses in Spiderman’s suit blinked twice, “Off the what now—”
“So, Spiderman.” You cut him off, your voice turning slightly professional but teetering on the edge of teasing.
Peter stared at you for a moment before leaning forwards and resting his elbows on his knees, he responded by saying your name in the same tone. You wished you could see the smile underneath his mask, but you doubted you would be able to source a good interview if the eyes you’ve never seen, but knew were beautiful, bored into your own.
“Let’s start with the obvious,” You started, “People have noticed you’ve ditched the web-shooters, have you developed an ability to swing without them?”
Peter turned his wrist and rubbed the spot the web-shooters used to occupy, “Well, apparently my body has become more arachnid over time.” You nodded, “Are you more human or more spider then?”
“I’m—” Peter chuckled, “I’m both. Somehow." You smiled at him and gave him a reassuring nod that his response was something the fans of your column would want to hear. “I just hope I don’t get a web block like... my old friend.”
You watched as Spiderman nodded at you, silently asking to move onto the next question. “It’s been a couple of years since the first and only appearance of the Night Monkey, so tell us right here and right now, Spiderman. Was that you?”
“Nope. Not me. Not at all.” You laughed as he nodded his head enthusiastically, his words completely contradicting his actions, “Never met the guy, he seems nice though.”
“Of course you’d say that,” You shook your head at him and tried to hide your smile, leaning down and picking up the voice recorder to hold close to your mouth, “Just for reader’s satisfaction and future me writing this that can’t see him, Spiderman has something to tell you.”
You leaned forwards and held the voice recorder to Spiderman’s face, the device catching his defeated sigh, “Yes. I was the Night Monkey.”
Peter nudged your foot with his own as you returned to your seat opposite him, a proud smile on your face and singing a teasing, “Thank you!” Before placing the device back to its spot on the table between coasters and miscellaneous trinkets.
“You know, you have a lot of young fans out there,” Peter looked over at you with a softened smile that you couldn’t see as you began your question, “If you had to give them one piece of advice, what would it be?”
Peter took a deep breath and tore his gaze off you, “Someone told me something once and it stuck with me,” He cleared his throat and felt his mind begin to wander to places that left an irreversible scar on him, “Someone that meant a lot to me.”
You didn’t say anything, you respected the silence Spiderman left as he fiddled with the fabric of his suit. “She told me once,” He swallowed the nausea that would always remain at the pit of his stomach, “With great power, there must also come great responsibility.”
Your eyes softened as you watched the man sit in a shell of someone he’d yet to introduce you to. “So… that would be my advice.” He nodded and scratched the back of his neck.
“That’s beautiful,” You smiled gently, “She sounds smart.” Peter looked at you, a grateful smile etching onto his face as you brought light onto a woman you’d never met.
“She would’ve loved you.” Peter wondered out loud, his eyes marking the way you breathed out and the tension in your face vanished, you truly looked moved by his words. May really would have loved you.
You’ve never seen Spiderman like this before. You never knew he could feel vulnerable or open up to you like this. This was the first thing he had ever told you about himself that didn’t involve what was already plastered across billboards around New York, that wasn’t centred around which crime faction he took down before he arrived, or didn’t start with ‘I beat Scorpion again tonight and it was awesome’; it was like the bottom of his mask had lifted and you saw a glimpse of the man you’d found yourself falling for.
When Spiderman first stumbled into your apartment, it was never in your intentions to fall in love with him. Because falling in love with a superhero was stupid and irrational, but it was a trap that was so easy to fall into.
The fact that over the course of five months, he’d never found the comfort you discovered in him to be reciprocated crushed you. You’d told him parts of your life you never uttered to another, and he told you the same story about himself that you’d heard from your co-workers. It wasn’t like you expected him to tell you his life story, but the absolute refusal to even hint at his true self behind the mask felt disheartening.
You thought you were being selfish in your mindset. And perhaps you were. But you can only push yourself so far until you’re exhausted in love with a man you’ve never known.
“I’ve never—” You wanted to say, you or we’ve never seen him like this before. But a part of you bit at the thought of it being too insensitive. So you gently moved around the statement.
“You seem like a good person, Spiderman.” His lenses blinked at you, “Really.” You reassured him.
You clasped your hands together, “That person under the mask. Who is he?”
Spiderman’s eyes widened and he leapt out of his seat, hands frantically reaching for the voice recorder, “What are you doing?” He borderline yelled, his voice panicked.
You flinched at his sudden movement and slapped his gloved hand away from the device, responding in the same tone, “What are you doing?” Spiderman stumbled over his words, alternating between scoffing and mumbling incoherent words before landing on, “You can’t ask me that!”
You squinted your eyes at him and he waved his hands about exasperated, “You don’t even know my identity! I’m not gonna answer it in some stupid superhero column!”
“First of all, what’s with the hostility towards the superhero column?” You started and watched Spiderman pace down the length of your living room, “And secondly, that’s not what I was asking you!”
Peter whipped his head around and froze, “That was your exact words!” You rolled your eyes and stood up with him, “I wasn’t. I was just trying to make it sound all cool and interesting.” You heard the hero whisper, ‘Journalists and their twisted words’ under his breath.
“I was just asking what you’re like under… you know.” You sighed and gestured towards his red and blue suit. Spiderman looked down at himself and shook his head in question, “You know?” He repeated your words.
You scratched the back of your head as you thought of unprompted questions on the spot, “Like… What's the first thing Spiderman thinks about when he wakes up?” You smiled, thinking your question was reasonable and a gentle start.
“That’s— no, it’s too deep.” He immediately shut down your question and ignored how the smile instantly dropped from your face. “Are you serious?” Your voice sounded unconvinced, as if he was about to turn around laughing and answer a question with the sound of a smile in his tone.
“Yeah!” Peter yelped, “Anything I say can be incriminating! You know I have a fan club of people trying to figure out my identity and one little slip…” His voice trailed off as he mumbled the times he’d open the internet and find people drawing what they thought his face looked like.
You stood awkwardly across from him, contradicting his stressed state as you attempted to tone down the questions brewing in your mind. “Okay,” You hummed, “What’s Spiderman’s favourite take out?”
The question was stupid. It meant nothing in terms of journalism, you were just weighing out the boundary between Spiderman’s identity and his definition of ‘incriminating evidence’. He stayed silent, you could only see his jaw tighten under the mask.
You gave him another grace period of quiet as he thought of some lie he could say, something like stating his least favourite take out just so the question could be off his back.
When he stayed silent, you furrowed your brows, “You won’t even answer that?” Spiderman shook his head and leaned back against the wall near the window, “You know I can’t.”
You looked at him in disbelief before snatching the voice recorder off the table, pressing the button to pause your audio, “Okay. Off the record, what is it?” Spiderman crossed his arms over his chest, “Which question?”
“You pick.” You pressed your lips together as embarrassment flooded your veins, “You won’t even tell me?” You muttered as he refused to answer your question, let alone look your way.
Peter sighed, “I… Can we just continue with the interview? Let’s go back to the big slash small potato stuff, please?” He pointed to the recorder balanced between your fingers.
You stared at him, humiliated at the prospect of you telling him about your life every time he stopped by and him unwilling to tell you the bare minimum about himself; he didn’t like you enough to tell you what his favourite meal was. You felt like you were standing in the middle of a public humiliation ritual.
You took a deep breath, feeling annoyance brewing inside you, “Fine,” You pressed the record button and tossed the voice recorder back on the table, “Tell me, Spiderman. Why do you keep your cards so close to your chest?”
Peter’s arms dropped to his side, “Are we—” He felt guilt swarming in his chest, “Are we really doing this right now?”
You shrugged and sat yourself back down, “Just asking a question. You know, doing my job.”
“Do you hide everything about yourself to everyone?” You asked him, raising your eyebrows when his body language shifted slightly, his shoulders hunching in on himself.
When he refused to give you a verbal reaction, you pressed into the bruise that was forming, “Or just the woman you’ve practically lived with for months?”
“Don’t.” Peter mumbled. He knew you were right and you had every reason to feel angry in this moment but every time he tried to let someone in, his mind replayed the events that changed his life and the people that were no longer in it.
He’d kept you for this long. He should be thankful for the little time you had together, but every selfish part of him wanted more.
You scoffed, “Why do you keep her at arms length and refuse to give her a reason to trust you?” Your voice remained calm but the fury etched into your face told Peter all he needed to know.
You slowly stood up and walked towards him, pointing to the window where civilians swarmed the streets. Peter followed your finger and looked down at them, walking around unbeknownst to the hero perched in the apartment above them, seconds away from losing another person he loved.
When Peter turned his head back to look at you, your eyes were slightly watery, “Or do you just see her the same way you see the rest of them?”
Peter wanted to respond. He really did. But he couldn’t fathom the thought of you, the person he’d grown to love, seeing yourself through what you thought were his eyes. And he despised himself for letting you think that way.
“This isn’t going well, is it?” Peter murmured, his heart pounding as you turned away from him and picked up the voice recorder, turning it off and saying a barely audible, “No.”
He sighed and traced his fingers against the window sill, “I should leave. You know, the city needs me.” He tried to joke but you had already rounded into the kitchen, taking his heart with you.
Peter pulled the window open and was about to crawl out before he heard your voice echo from the other room, “It’s probably for the best.” You sounded defeated. He backed away from the window and followed in your footsteps, watching as you gathered the dirty utensils and placed them in the sink.
“This wasn’t working anyway.” You sighed and turned the tap on, drawing out the sound of Spiderman’s heart dropping into his stomach.
“What do you mean?” Peter swallowed. You turned around and gestured between the two of you, “This. It’s better it ends now.”
The lenses in Spiderman’s suit blinked twice and he shook his head, “I don’t want this to end—” “You don’t get to decide that.” You interrupted him.
“Yes, I do.” Peter walked towards you, “I know that you’re the only thing I think about when I’m on patrol. Knowing that I get to come back here after is the only reason I do it—”
“I don’t even know you!” You shouted, turning the tap off and facing him completely. You’ve never seen Spiderman so still, like one wrong movement and the floor would cave underneath him. If you looked close enough, you could just about see a frown painted into his masked face.
“What?” His voice was borderlining on timid, his hand wound together like he was trying to ground himself back to the shattering reality he found the two of you in.
You sighed sadly, “I don’t even know your name. I have no idea what you look like. You don’t let me know anything about you; what you’re interests are, the life you’ve lived this entire time, who exists underneath this mask,” Your fingers gently grazed against the fabric of his masked, tracing the cheekbones you’d never see, “You’re saying all this but I only get to see the same parts of you that the rest of the world does too.”
Peter leant into your palm, closing his eyes at the contact that was blocked by the barrier that felt molded into his skin. After losing everything many years ago, Peter didn’t know how to exist as Peter Parker. He felt like Spiderman was a necessary part of him now, something he couldn’t live without.
“I’m doing this to protect you. I need you to trust me…” Peter’s hands wrapped around your wrists, keeping your hands pressed against his face just so he could savour the moment, knowing it wouldn’t last much longer.
You shook your head, “I don’t think I can give that to you.” Peter pulled back slightly so he could see your face, furrowing his brows as he whispered, “You don’t trust me anymore? Is that what this is?”
“You never gave me a reason to,” You closed your eyes and rested your forehead against his own, “And how can I trust someone I’ve never met?"
Peter closed his eyes and tightened his grip against you, trying to press you further into his embrace before he lost you for good. Maybe this was for the best. Spiderman would be far enough away to keep you from danger, protecting you just as he promised himself to do so the second he laid eyes on you.
But Peter Parker would miss you. He didn’t know if his unmasked self could handle living without you.
Peter had lost so many people in his life, and you were another to add onto the tally. If he let you go, that was.
He slowly let go of you and detached his body and heart from you. He backed out of the kitchen, his eyes never leaving your own as you stood still. Spiderman walked towards the open window and placed a hand on it.
You watched him hover, wondering if you should try to reach him one more time. But you protested against it.
Spiderman spared you one last glance before ducking out of the window, swinging into nearby sirens as New York called his name. It was the right decision, Peter told himself. He had to let you go, even if a selfish part of him yearned to stay.
𝐏𝐄𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐊𝐄𝐑 𝐖𝐀𝐒 selfish. He was the most selfish man he knew.
Because after a day of trying to forget you and move on, Peter found himself perched on your fire escape with his knuckles tapping against the glass of your window.
The one night Peter didn’t visit you in your apartment was pure hell. He’d swung there on instinct and almost squeezed his way in before he remembered the reason his mask felt suffocating the entire day.
He felt physically sick to see you hadn’t left the living room light on for him to welcome himself in, with your coffee machine fully restocked in the kitchen for his free use. You weren’t even in your usual spot when he passed. You’d usually be tucked under a blanket on the couch, waiting up for him as seeing him was your favourite part of the day, or it used to be.
He should’ve stayed away, it would be protecting you. But Peter was hurting you and him in doing so.
His knuckles connected with the glass twice, his heart pounding in his chest as he watched the living room light flick on. You froze as you saw the masked hero crouched on your fire escape, a pair of flowers tight in his shaking grip.
You slowly walked towards the window, not breaking eye contact with Spiderman as you lifted the window, the chill air of New York brushing against your bare skin.
Neither of you spoke for a moment. Your eyes flickered between the flowers and him, a dreadful sense of hope accompanying your romantic heart.
“I read your column.” Peter said. Your face remaining motionless, you hadn’t expected him to keep tabs on you especially after the short break you two had from each other.
“Why didn’t you publish my interview?” Peter whispered, his grip tightening on the flowers and ignoring his worried state that the stems would snap off before he could hand them to you.
You took a deep breath, “No offence, but it was kind of a shit interview.” Peter huffed out a laugh which made you smile. Peter’s chest felt tighter as he realised 24 hours without your grin made the world seem cold.
“And I knew it would hurt you if I published it. You were vulnerable and I like you too much to do that to you.” You finished and stepped back from the window slightly, offering him to move an inch closer.
Peter leaned closer and nudged the flowers to brush the tips of your fingers, “I promise everything I’m doing is to protect you. You not knowing me is for the better and it’s the responsible thing to do.”
“But I can’t do it. I can’t get you out of my head. Everytime I try to swing home, I always find myself heading to your place first because you consume my every thought. It’s so unbelievably selfish of me but I don’t think I can live my life without you. I’m in love with you and it kills me knowing I was the only thing standing in our way.” Peter said, his voice wavering.
You furrowed your brows, “Was?” Peter nodded and handed you the flowers, his hands wound with your own.
“I want you to know me and see my face. But honestly, I think I’ll die the second your eyes meet my own.” You laughed as Peter swallowed his nerves, “Every punch I take, I think about the day you’ll see my face stitched up and bruised, that you’ll think this was a mistake. That I’m not the one you want to be with.”
You shook your head, “I like Spiderman a lot. I really do.” You removed your hands from his and let them trace up his neck and fiddle with the area that disconnected his mask from the rest of his suit, “But you… Whoever you are under there. I know that I love you more.”
“You love me?” Peter whispered as you gently lifted the bottom of his mask.
You smiled softly, “I do.” Spiderman placed his hands on top of your own, guiding you to expose the bottom half of his face.
Peter couldn’t find it in himself to wait any longer. With his mouth and jaw visible to you, he placed his hands on your cheeks and pressed your lips together.
You gasped into the kiss and Peter’s hand drifted from your cheek to the back of your head, intertwining with your hair and tugging you impossibly closer. His lips were soft and everything you had imagined them to be. You were gentle with the bruise that was forming on the right side of his jaw, your fingers grazing the skin around it as he lost himself in the kiss.
You were about to pull back from the kiss to check if your mind was playing tricks on you and if you were kissing Spiderman, but when his lips chased your own from the split second of losing contact, you knew you were finally kissing the man you loved.
Spiderman pulled back slowly, pressing quick kisses on your lips as he forced himself back for air. He looked between your flustered face and swollen lips, every part of him yearning to lean back in.
The top half of his face was still covered. You lifted your hands to pull the mask back completely but he caught your hands mid-air.
You tilted your head in confusion and he snatched the flowers from your hands, “I love you. I’ll be right back.” He pressed his lips to your in a chaste kiss before tugging his mask back down and swinging away from the fire escape.
You stood there dumbfounded, leaning through the open window where you once locked lips with the friendly neighbourhood Spiderman, the superhero that was in love with you.
Your thoughts were cut off immediately as you heard frantic knocking coming from your front door. You stepped away from the window and brushed your clothes, trying to look presentable to whoever showed up and trying not to look like you’d been making out with a man perched on your fire escape.
You pulled open your front door and stood face to face with the most attractive man you’ve ever seen. His brunette hair was curly, a slight mess on top of his head as if he’d appeared here in a rush. His clothes were crumpled and you were sure his jacket was thrown on inside out.
His face was adorning the most beautiful smile you’ve seen, pure unadulterated joy etched between the lines. His brown eyes stared directly into your own and you were sure you’ve seen them in some way before.
And in his hands were the flowers Spiderman had brought you.
The words got caught in the back of your throat as you looked back up at him, his eyes watering as he looked at you. He nodded at you, heart constraining in his chest as you breathed out a laugh in disbelief, the smile of the woman he loved staring straight back at him.
“I’m Peter, by the way.” He smiled and handed you the flowers. Again.
how i feel writing for peter for the first time in 5 years / hope u liked and this didn't suck lolllll
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Synopsis: “when Y/N moves into a new apartment in New York City, she expects ordinary things: unpacking boxes, meeting new neighbours, starting fresh. She doesn’t expect her awkward handsome next-door neighbour to smell like nothing she’s ever encountered, or for Spider-Man to smell exactly the same. But as the pheromones between them grow impossible to ignore, Peter begins to realize something terrifying: no normal human should affect him like this. And no normal human should be affected by him”
Genre and warnings: 18+ MDNI, suggestive language, sexual content, angst, awkward Peter Parker, confessions
Wc: 9.0k
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Finally, After four years of saying it, you actually did it.
You moved out of your mom's house.
It was both an emotional and exhilarating experience—you hadn't left your mother's side for the entirety of your twenty years on this earth, so this marked a new chapter for both of you. A chapter written in the ink of independence, with all its messy, beautiful uncertainty.
Your new apartment sat nestled in the heart of living, breathing New York City. The complex itself was unremarkable from the outside, just a brick facade, fire escape zigzagging up the side like metallic ivy, the endless hum of city life bleeding through every wall. But you got the top floor, and that made all the difference. The view from your window was nothing short of breathtaking. At night, the city sprawled beneath you like a glittering circuit board, each light a tiny pulse of life. Taxis filled the streets, their headlights painting temporary golden streaks. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed. You pressed your palm against the cool glass, watching your breath fog the surface, and felt impossibly small and impossibly large all at once.
Your floor housed three other neighbors. Two apartments on each side, yours sandwiched in the middle. The space was clearly designed for one person, you thought as you surveyed the modest living area. Maybe two, the thought crept in unbidden, if you were okay with the other person being a little clingy.
Your mother had helped you move in that morning, her presence a familiar comfort amidst the chaos of cardboard boxes and bubble wrap. She'd stood in your doorway, hands on her hips, surveying the half-unpacked chaos with that particular expression she reserved for moments of maternal wisdom.
"Promise me something, sweetheart," she'd said, her voice carrying that weight of tradition that you'd learned to recognize over two decades.
You'd raised an eyebrow, already knowing what was coming.
"You have to bake a pie and greet your neighbors. We always do it. It's the right thing to do."
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And now, at 10 PM, you stood in your tiny kitchen, staring at the raspberry pie she'd insisted on making just in case. The familiar lattice crust, the deep crimson filling peeking through. it was always the first thing to disappear every year at Christmas, a childhood favorite that tasted like warmth and home and everything safe. Her words echoed in your mind like a persistent melody. You could just tell her you've done it. Save yourself the awkwardness of knocking on stranger’s' doors at this hour. But what was the point of pointless lying? Besides, your mother had taken the time to bake this pie with her own hands, and if nobody answered, you could always eat it yourself.
Win-win situation.
Deep down, a small, selfish part of you hoped nobody would open their door. Just so you could have the pie all to yourself.
Here goes.
You stepped out into the hallway, the pie warm in your hands, the scent of raspberries and sugar trailing behind you like a fragrant ghost. Your apartment door clicked shut, and suddenly you were standing in the harsh fluorescent light of the corridor, feeling very exposed and very foolish.
Your nerves kicked in as you walked across to your first neighbor's door. An elderly woman lived there, you'd glimpsed her in the hallway earlier. Mildred, you thought her name was. You knocked twice to be polite, not demanding.
You waited, rocking back and forth on your heels, the pie cradled in both hands like an offering. A warm smile fixed itself onto your face, the kind of smile you hoped said friendly new neighbor, not at all a serial killer.
Nothing.
Not even a creak of floorboards from the other side.
Maybe nobody's home? You shifted your weight, the pie suddenly feeling heavier. Onto the next door.
Knock. Knock.
Again, you were met with the same fate. Silence. The kind of silence that felt almost accusatory, like the walls themselves were judging your attempt at neighborly goodwill. It was past 10 PM anyway. They were probably asleep. Or pretending to be asleep because who actually opens their door to strangers at this hour? You sighed, a thread of disappointment weaving through your chest. You turned back toward your own apartment, but hesitated when your eyes landed on the last door—the one right next to yours.
One more try.
You prepared yourself one more time. Smile in place. Pie in hand. The warmth of the ceramic dish seeping into your palms, grounding you.
Knock. Knock.
Nothing.
Just as you were about to surrender, to retreat into the safety of your own apartment with your untouched pie and your wounded pride, a loud bang erupted from inside.
You froze.
Knock. Knock. "Hello? Are you okay in there?"
"Gimme a min— *CRASH* ~ah shi~I'll be right—"
It was a male voice. Young, from the sound of it. And he sounded... distressed? Your mind immediately jumped to the worst-case scenarios. Burglars. Murderers. Someone hurt, bleeding out on the floor while you stood helplessly in the hallway with a raspberry pie.
"I can come back tomorrow if you'd like!" you shouted through the door, already planning your escape route back to your apartment.
"No, no... it's okay, I just—"
The door swung open.
And your brain promptly short-circuited.
He was handsome. Not in a polished, magazine-cover way, but in a way that felt almost accidental. Like someone had thrown together a collection of features and accidentally created something stunning. Brown hair, damp and curling slightly at the ends, falling across his forehead. His eyes were wide, brown and disarmingly warm, the kind of eyes that seemed to hold an entire universe of kindness. But he was heavily out of breath. His chest rose and fell in quick, labored movements, and he stumbled slightly as he leaned against the doorframe, trying and failing to look casual.
You stood there, momentarily stunned into silence.
"Ah—uh, hey," you finally managed, your voice coming out slightly higher than intended. "My name is Y/N. I'm your new next-door neighbor." You thrust the pie forward like a shield. "This is a peace offering pie. It's okay if you don't want it because I could totally—"
"Ouu, I love pie!" His face lit up with such genuine excitement that you almost laughed.
"Oh!" You blinked, caught off guard by his enthusiasm.
"Oh, sorry, my name is Peter," he added, rubbing the back of his neck. "That was rude of me." You both laughed, the tension dissolving into something lighter. Easier. His laugh was infectious, a warm sound that seemed to fill the hallway. "It's okay. I know the whole moment was pretty sudden anyway." You gestured with your eyes for him to take the pie, and he accepted it without hesitation, cradling it like it was made of gold. As he adjusted his grip on the dish, his damp hair shifted, revealing a fresh wound just above his eyebrow. A bruise was already forming, the skin purpling at the edges. "Oh my god, are you okay?" The words tumbled out before you could stop them. "You look like you got in a fight."
His eyes tracked yours, his fingers slowly finding the wound. He winced slightly as he touched it.
"Ah~, this thing? It's nothing." A nervous chuckle escaped him. "It's not like I fell from a skyscraper and hit my face on a billboard on my way in here or anything." He delivered the line with such obviously sarcastic theatricality that you couldn't help but squint at him. "Right," you said slowly, your tone dripping with skepticism. "Right." He adjusted his posture, suddenly awkward and stiff. "Sorry, I—it had a funnier delivery in my head." You laughed. You couldn't help it. He was so awkward, so weird, so... endearing. It was honestly kind of adorable. "Okay, that was funny," you admitted, and the way his face lit up at your approval made something warm bloom in your chest.
He smiled at you, and there was something almost admiring in the way he looked at you. Like he was memorizing your features, cataloging them for later. Then his gaze dropped, traveling down and then back up, and—
“Holy shit, is he checking me out right now?”
Your brain quite literally malfunctioned. A full system crash. Error messages flashing behind your eyes.
“Act cool. Act cool. Act cool.”
You were muttering it under your breath, a desperate mantra, and you could feel the heat creeping up your neck.
He chuckled. You snapped your head up. "Did you hear that?" He started looking around like the walls had suddenly become the most interesting things in existence. "Me? Hear something? Pfft, did you say something?" He was so painfully obvious that you knew immediately. He'd heard every word. "You're so bad at lying," you teased, a grin spreading across your face. "Hey! You think I'm a liar?" He grinned back, and something about the playful challenge in his voice made you feel light.
Everything felt... okay. Easy. Like you'd known him for years instead of minutes.
Then it hit you.
And when it did, you couldn't ignore it.
His scent or whatever it was he gave off was like nothing you'd ever smelled before. It was complex, layered, and intoxicating. Sweet and woody, musky and earthy all at once. Like a forest after rain mixed with something warm and distinctly him. It was a chemical that felt almost addicting, and you found yourself leaning closer without conscious thought, drawn to him like a moth to a flame.
What are you doing? Your rational mind screamed. He's going to think you're a total creep. "What perfume is that?" you heard yourself ask, your voice slightly breathless. "It smells so good." "Perfume?" He genuinely seemed confused, his brow furrowing in that adorable way of his. "Oh, scents irritate my skin, so I stick to non-scented stuff." He was telling the truth. You could tell from the way he said it, the genuine bewilderment in his eyes. "Sorry then," you apologized, forcing yourself to step back. Creating distance. Breathing in air that wasn't saturated with him. "I guess my nose is a little too sensitive tonight." You didn't want to make things any more awkward. The tension had shifted into something you couldn't quite name, and it made you nervous in a way that had nothing to do with fear.
"Goodnight, Peter."
"Oh, well, goodnight to you too, Y/N?" He seemed almost disappointed by your sudden departure. "The talk was fun!" You were already halfway to your door, your heart pounding in a way that felt entirely too dramatic for a simple neighborly interaction. He slowly closed his door, and you could hear his voice drifting through the wood, muffled but still audible as he rambled to himself.
"Scent? Do I smell bad?"
A pause.
"Nobody told me about my smell before..."
You slipped into your apartment, closed the door, and leaned against it, pressing your palms against the cool wood. Your nose was still tingling with the memory of his scent, and you couldn't seem to shake the feeling that you'd just stumbled onto something you didn't fully understand. Why did it affect YOU of all people?
You didn't think about it.
You tried not to think about it.
For three days, you successfully avoided thoughts of your ridiculously handsome, awkward, strangely-scented neighbor. You focused on unpacking. On arranging your furniture. On figuring out which subway line would get you to work fastest. But sometimes, late at night, when the city lights paint patterns across your ceiling, you'd find yourself lying in bed, eyes closed, trying to conjure that scent again. It was madness.
You were going crazy.
Then, on the fourth day, it happened.
The evening had been peaceful.
You were clocking off from your shift at the local café, the familiar weight of your work apron folded in your bag, the comforting jingle of the shop door still echoing in your ears. The streets of New York buzzed with their usual symphony distant horns, overlapping conversations, the rhythmic thump of music spilling from open windows above storefronts. You walked absentmindedly, one earbud in, the other dangling loose. Your playlist hummed softly in your ear, a gentle soundtrack to the city's chaos. The air was warm, carrying the mingled scents of street food and exhaust fumes. You were thinking about nothing in particular. About whether you should pick up milk on the way home. About that customer who'd asked for a latte with oat milk and then complained it didn't taste like dairy. About—
The world erupted into chaos.
A man sprinted past you, clutching a purse, his sneakers pounding against the pavement in a frantic rhythm. Before you could even process what was happening, a high-pitched scream pierced the air behind you.
"THIEF! SOMEONE STOP HIM!"
Your instincts kicked in before your brain could catch up. You've always been the type to help, even if it meant putting yourself in danger. It was a curse, really, this overwhelming need to do something when you saw injustice unfolding. You yanked your earbud out, the music dying abruptly, and took off after him. Your sneakers slapped
against the pavement, your bag bouncing against your hip, your lungs already beginning to burn.
"Stupid!" a voice screamed in your head. "This is so stupid!"
But you kept running. The thief bent into an alley, a narrow gap between two buildings that looked more like a wound in the city's flesh than an actual passage. You followed without thinking, the adrenaline drowning out every rational thought. Your heart was racing. Your legs were burning. The thief was gaining distance, That's when you heard it.
The unmistakable *thwip* of webbing, followed by a grunt and the sound of someone hitting the ground. You skidded to a halt at the entrance of the alley, your eyes wide, your chest heaving. There, in the dim light of the narrow space, stood Spider-Man. He had the thief webbed to the wall like a very angry, very confused butterfly, his arms pinned above his head, legs stuck together, the purse dangling uselessly from one webbed hand. Spider-Man was casually dusting off his palms, his posture radiating a kind of practiced nonchalance. "You know," he said, his voice carrying that familiar, teasing tone, "for a guy who steals purses, you sure do run slow."
The thief sputtered incoherently, a string of curses and threats that you barely registered. Because Spider-Man had turned, and he was looking at you. He looked up quickly toward something above him and then back down at you. You followed his gaze, your brain still lagging behind the events unfolding around you.
The iron pole.
It was swinging down from somewhere above like a loose construction beam, probably, or some forgotten piece of scaffolding and it was falling directly toward you. You didn't even have time to process it. One moment you were standing there, watching it descend, your body frozen in that terrible space between recognition and reaction. The next, Spider-Man had webbed his way to you, his movements a blur of red and blue. He swept you from your feet. Your arms curled around his neck instinctively, your body
pressed against his as he launched upward, swinging you both to a higher platform just as the pole crashed into the ground below with a deafening BANG. You clung to him, your heart hammering so hard you could hear it in your ears.
"I gotcha," he said, his voice softer now. Concerned.
You looked at his face, the white lenses of his mask, the way they seemed to hold an entire galaxy of emotion and felt something shift in your chest. "I almost died," you breathed. "Oh my god, I almost died!!!!." "Thank you, Spider-Man," you added, your eyes genuine, your voice barely above a whisper.
Behind that mask, he melted. You could see it in the way his shoulders relaxed slightly, the way his head tilted just a fraction.
And then it hit you.
The same scent.
It was everywhere. Wrapped around you like a second skin, seeping into your lungs, flooding your senses. That sweet, woody, musky, earthy fragrance, the one that had been driving you insane for four days, the one you'd been trying and failing to forget.
Your breath caught in your throat.
"No—no way?!"
Spider-Man tilted his head, and you could have sworn he was studying you with more intensity than a casual rescue warranted. His grip on you tightened slightly, almost protectively.
"Are—are you okay there, citizen?" he asked, his voice suddenly softer. Uncertain. You opened your mouth to respond, but the words wouldn't come. Your brain was too busy short-circuiting, piecing together impossible connections. The scent. The damp hair. The wound on his eyebrow that he'd so poorly explained.
"It's not like I fell from a skyscraper and hit my face on a billboard." his voice echoed in your mind.
Oh my god.
Oh my god.
"You—" you started, your voice barely a whisper. "This might sound crazy, but you smell like..."
Spider-Man stiffened. Immediately, he placed you down on the platform, creating distance between you that felt almost wrong. For a split second, you saw something flash behind his mask. Recognition. Panic. Something wild and animalistic that made your stomach flip violently. "It's probably the pizza from earlier," he said quickly, his voice strained. "I had pizza. Lots of pizza. Very... pizzay pizza."
You stared at him.
For a moment, you just stood there, the air between you thick with unspoken things. He looked like he was about to leave. His weight shifted, his body angling toward the edge of the platform.
"Wait—"
He paused.
"How am I supposed to get down from here?"
The words tumbled out before you could stop them, and you weren't entirely sure why you'd said them. Was it because you didn't want him to leave just yet? Or because you wanted to take in his scent for as long as you could because it was so addictive? Maybe both. Maybe something else entirely. Spider-Man rubbed the back of his neck, a gesture so achingly familiar that your heart clenched. "Sorry about that. I can take you home if you'd like." He got closer, offering his hand, and the scent became stronger again. Overwhelming actually. It was driving you absolutely insane, this chemical pull that seemed to bypass every rational thought and go straight to something primal. The air grew thick between you both. His eyes,those white lenses, dropped to his own hand, then back to you. "It's getting pretty late after all."
You grabbed his hand.
He pulled you closer, and suddenly you were pressed against him again, your body flush against his as he webbed through the alleys and between tall buildings. The wind whipped past you, cold and exhilarating, and you couldn't help the laugh that escaped you, a sound of pure, unfiltered joy. And he enjoyed every bit of your excitement.
It was terrifying. It was wonderful. It was absolutely insane. Then he landed on the balcony of your apartment with practiced ease, his feet touching down silently despite the force of the swing. You stumbled back, your hands pressed against your chest, trying to slow your racing heart. Tonight was weird. Everything about tonight was weird.
And then the thought hit you.
"How'd you know I live here?" you asked, your brow furrowing. "I never told you my address." His body language shifted into something painfully nervous. His hands fidgeted at his sides. He couldn't seem to look directly at you. "uhh….My spidey senses directed me here," he laughed off, the sound too high, too forced.
You couldn't help but giggle too. "Of course you can do that too!"
Liar, your mind whispered. He's such a terrible liar.
"Well... thank you for saving me and getting me home safely, Spider-Man."
He stood in front of you, looking down. Even with the mask, you could feel the weight of his gaze.
"It's my pleasure."
And before you knew it, your pheromones hit him.
Finally, after days of feeling like you were the only one affected, the only one losing your mind over a scent you couldn't explain, it hit him like a freight train. His body moved oddly for a moment like a slight sway, a stumble that he caught himself from. His breathing changed, becoming faster, more labored. It was intoxicating. Hypnotic. Why was it so strong? Why was it pulling him in with such irresistible force? It was like he was glued right there in that moment, unable to move, unable to think, unable to do anything but breathe you in.
"Spider-Man?" you asked, concern creeping into your voice.
His breathing was speeding up. His chest rose and fell in rapid, uneven movements.
"Are you okay?"
He backed up.
You stepped closer.
He backed up again, and you followed, drawn by something you couldn't name. "I need to get away from here," he thought, the words frantic in his mind. "I need to get away from here FAST." A blur of red and blue. A rush of displaced air. And he was gone. You stood alone on your balcony, the cool night air brushing against your skin, your hands pressed against your chest.
Your heart was racing. Your mind was spinning.
Tonight was weird. Maybe it was just a coincidence, you thought. Maybe you were reading too much into things.But Spider-Man sure did smell like your neighbor.
Like Peter.
The scent lingered in the air, clinging to your clothes, your hair, your skin. It was haunting you. You stumbled backwards into your apartment, closing the balcony door with trembling hands, and leaned against the glass.
What just happened?
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You didn't sleep that night.
You lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, your mind running in circles like a hamster on a wheel. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw those white lenses. Every time you breathed, you smelled him. The same scent. The same intoxicating, impossible scent.
It could be a coincidence, you told yourself. It has to be a coincidence.
But that was impossible. Peter was just a normal guy. A cute, awkward, slightly clumsy normal guy who lived next door and made terrible jokes and brought you pie. Wasn't he?
Your phone buzzed, jolting you out of your thoughts. You fumbled for it, your fingers clumsy.
A text from an unknown number.
"Hey, it's Peter from next door! got your number from the building directory hope that's okay. just wanted to say thanks again for the pie. It was AMAZING. seriously best pie i've ever had. Also, if you ever need anything, im literally right next door. like. RIGHT next door. anyway. sorry if this is weird. im making it weird arent i. ok bye."
You stared at the screen.
And then you laughed. It was breathless, disbelieving sound that seemed to push some of the tension from your body. Your thumb hovered over the keyboard.
"hey peter! thanks for the text. not weird at all. I actually had a weird night. got saved by spider-man. he smelled exactly like you. weird right?"
You deleted it.
"hey! thanks for the text. i was actually just considering knocking on your door. crazy coincidence. also weird question but do you have a secret identity by any chance?"
You deleted that too.
"hey peter! crazy night. got saved by spider-man. he smelled just like you. any thoughts?"
You stared at the message.
That's too forward. Too suspicious. He'll think you're crazy.
You deleted it.
Finally, you settled on:
"Hey Peter!! thanks for the text!! and trust me it's not weird at all, i'm glad you liked the pie :)"
You hit send before you could overthink it.
The three dots appeared immediately. Disappeared. Appeared again. Disappeared.
Then:
" greatttt!! Okay so i know i just said i hope im not making it weird. but um... i just wanted to know if you'd like to hang out right now? or tomorrow obviously because it's super late and that would be weird and im sure you have work. okay im going to stop texting now bye"
You couldn't help the smile that spread across your face.
He was so awkward. So painfully, endearingly awkward.
You typed back quickly, before you could overthink it.
"give me a minute, i'll be outside"
You'd been pacing around your apartment for a hot minute, changing outfits three times, fixing your hair twice. The clock on your nightstand read 1:17 AM, and you were extremely aware that this was absolutely insane. You were going to knock on your neighbor's door at 1 AM. This is fine, you told yourself.
This is totally fine. You're just going to say hi and hang out for a bit with your neighbor. Your neighbor who definitely isn't Spider-Man. Definitely.
Soon after, there you were, standing outside his door.
You looked at it. The numbers on the door were slightly crooked, like someone had put them up in a hurry. The paint was chipped in places. It was such an ordinary door. But behind that door was Peter. And maybe just maybe behind that door was a secret you were only beginning to uncover. Just as you were about to knock, the door cracked open, just slightly.
Your heart was pounding.
You pushed the door open slowly.
"Peter?" you called out, stepping inside.
His apartment was small, cluttered, and absolutely him without a doubt. Books stacked on every surface,scientific journals mixed with worn paperbacks, dog-eared and well-loved. A half-eaten bowl of cereal sat on the coffee table, the milk long since gone soupy. A pile of laundry on the floor looked like it had been there for days.
And there, standing in the middle of the living room, was Peter.
He stood there, holding a slightly wilted bouquet of flowers in one hand. He was wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt that was slightly too small for him, the fabric pulling across his chest in a way that made your mouth go dry. His hair was a mess, his eyes wild and wide.
He looked... normal. Completely normal.
Except for the way he was looking at you.
Like you were the only thing in the room that mattered.
"Hey!" he said, his voice surprisingly lower than usual. Huskier. "Come in! Sorry about the mess, I wasn't expecting—I mean, I was, but I wasn't expecting—you know what, just ignore the mess."
He was rambling. He always rambled when he was nervous.
You couldn't help the smile that spread across your face. "Hi, Peter."
He smiled back, and something softened in your chest. "Hi."
He looked down at the bouquet in his hand, then back at you. "Oh, right! I brought flowers. For you. You know... flowers are nice." You smiled—a real, genuine smile that seemed to start in your chest and spread outward. "I'm surprised you were able to get flowers at 1 AM. I'm impressed." You stepped closer to accept the flowers, and of course, his scent immediately hit you. That familiar, intoxicating scent that made your knees feel weak. That had been driving you insane for days. But there was something else now. Something new. Because as you got closer, it seemed like he caught the faintest trace of whatever it was that had been driving you crazy. Like he could smell you just as intensely.
He paused, just for a moment, and you saw his nostrils flare almost imperceptibly. Like he was breathing you in, trying to get enough of whatever it was that lingered on your skin. The air between you both felt electric. You both sat on your tiny couch. Peter was hyperaware of every inch of space between you, and so were you. It was like his senses were heightened in that moment.
"Your heart's beating extremely fast," he said, his voice low. "Are you nervous?" Your eyes widened. "It had to be really loud for you to hear that." He seemed to catch himself, his cheeks flushing. "I—sorry, I didn't mean to—I just have good hearing. Very normal, not-at-all-super hearing."
You squinted at him.
He squinted back.
Trying to calm the atmosphere, you soon began to talk about nothing and everything. About work. About the city. About your mom's insistence on pie deliveries. About his terrible excuses for his injuries. But the tension was still there, simmering beneath the surface. "You know," you said casually, "I had a really interesting night."
Peter choked on the spit in his throat. "You—you did?"
"Mhmm." You stared at him, getting close enough to take in that addictive smell of his. "I was walking home from work, and this thief stole someone's purse. So I chased him."
"You chased a thief?" Peter's eyes widened. "That's—that's so dangerous! You could have gotten hurt!"
"I know. It was stupid." You shrugged. "But then Spider-Man showed up."
Peter's expression flickered. Just for a second. A flash of something that looked almost like recognition.
"Spider-Man?," he repeated.
"Yes! Spider-Man." You confirmed, watching him closely. "He saved me. A pole was falling, and he swept me off my feet and carried me to safety. It was very dramatic."
"Wow." Peter's voice was strained. "That sounds... amazing."
"It was." You leaned in closer to him, and it was like his brain chemicals went wild as he took you in. Your pheromones. He was trying his hardest to control himself, you could
see it in the way his jaw tightened, the way his hands clenched at his sides. "And you know what the weirdest part was?"
"What?"
"He smelled exactly like you."
The silence that followed was deafening.
Peter's face went through approximately seventeen different expressions in the span of three seconds. Confusion. Panic. Denial. More panic. Something that looked suspiciously like hope. "That's—that's crazy," he finally managed. "I mean, I shower with non-scented soap. I don't even wear cologne. It's probably just... New York. You know how it is. Everyone smells like New York."
"Everyone smells like you in New York?"
"Yes. No. I mean—" He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. "Why do I keep doing this?"
"Doing what?"
"Making everything weird." He looked at you, and there was something vulnerable in his eyes. Something open and honest. "I'm not very good at this. At being... normal. I've never been good at it. I always mess things up."
Your heart clenched. "Peter..."
"And what's not helping all of this is your scent is suddenly driving me crazy," he admitted, his voice dropping to something almost desperate. "It's like I can't even focus properly. This is so weird. Something like this hasn't happened to me before, so I'm not sure why I—"
"Peter." Your mouth ran ahead of your brain. "This whole time, I've been rambling about smells because it's been driving me crazy too."
"You've been—"
"And I can't explain it either, because I've never experienced this before. It's such a confusing feeling."
You both looked into each other's eyes for a moment.
Just silence.
Peter's eyes grew animalistic—dark, intense, almost predatory. And your eyes grew impatient, waiting for... what? You weren't sure. At that moment, his brain started clicking with a bunch of chemical signals. You could practically see him piecing it together. He caressed your face, his thumb tracing your cheekbone with a tenderness that seemed at odds with the wildness in his eyes.
"Pheromones," he started, his voice low and thoughtful. "They're chemical signals that animals and insects release outside their bodies to communicate with other members of the same species." He studied you for a moment, his eyes roaming over your face like he was memorizing every detail. "They trigger certain behavioral or physiological responses," he continued, his voice dropping even lower. "Such as attracting a mate, marking territory... alerting others." He looked away from you, studying everything, working through the puzzle in his mind.
"Peter..." you said, your voice barely a whisper. "Where are you going with this?"
Something broke behind his eyes.
With the mix of emotions in the air, the pheromones between you both only intensified. You couldn't stop yourself from getting closer to him, and he didn't want you to stop either. It was like something primal had taken over, something that bypassed all rational thought and went straight to instinct.
"Peter... look at me."
He finally did.
"Y/N," he said, his voice rough, "there is so much I have to explain to you. But right now I—"
He leaned closer to your lips.
And you knew it was coming.
You wanted it either way.
The kiss started off warm and passionate, a slow building of tension that made your head spin. His lips were soft against yours, but there was an intensity behind them, a barely contained hunger that made your stomach flip. He was still gentle with you,so achingly gentle, but there was something else beneath the surface. Something
animalistic and raw that he was fighting to control. You could feel it in the way his hand cupped the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair. In the way his other hand found your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. In the way his breath hitched when you pressed against him. The kiss deepened, and the world around you seemed to dissolve. You were very aware of everything. The way his heart was pounding against your chest. The way his scent enveloped you completely, intoxicating and addictive. The way his body responded to yours, every touch sending sparks of electricity through your veins.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and wild, his breathing ragged.
"This is insane," he breathed. "I can't—I don't know what's happening to me. I've never felt like this before. It's like I can't get enough of you. Like I need to—"
"Peter," you interrupted, your own voice breathless. "I feel it too. Whatever this is, I feel it too."
Something shifted in his expression. The animalistic hunger was still there, but underneath it was something softer. Something almost vulnerable. "I want to tell you everything," he said, his forehead pressed against yours. "I want to be honest with you. But I'm scared. I'm scared that if I tell you, you'll run away. And I don't think I could handle that." Your hand came up to cup his face, your thumb tracing his cheekbone just as he'd done to you.
"Peter," you said softly, "I'm not going anywhere. Whatever you have to tell me, I can handle it."
He was quiet for a long moment, his eyes searching yours.
"Promise me," he finally whispered. "Promise me you won't run."
"I promise."
He kissed you again, and this time there was no hesitation. No holding back. The kiss was deeper, more desperate. His hands roamed your body like he was trying to memorize every curve, every dip, every place where you met and meshed together. You responded in kind, your fingers finding their way under his shirt, pressing against the warm skin of his back. He groaned against your lips, the sound vibrating through you.
"Y/N," he breathed, his voice torn. "You have no idea what you do to me. Every time I smell you, every time I see you, I—"
"Tell me," you whispered. "Tell me what you feel."
He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes burning with intensity.
"Like I'm losing control," he admitted. "Like everything I've ever known about myself is just... gone. Like the only thing that matters is you. Your smell. Your taste. Your—" He couldn't finish the sentence. Instead, he kissed you again, harder this time, his hands gripping your hips like you were the only thing anchoring him to reality. You matched his intensity, your own control slipping. The pheromones were intoxicating, overwhelming, making you feel things you'd never felt before. A desperate, almost primal need to be closer to him. To touch him. To taste him. You pushed him back against the couch, straddling his lap, and the sound he made was almost feral.
"Fuck," he breathed, his head falling back against the cushions. "You're going to kill me."
Your lips found his neck, and his hips bucked beneath you.
"Y/N," he gasped, his hands gripping your thighs. "I need to—I want to—"
"Then do it," you whispered against his skin. "I want this. I want you."
Something in him snapped.
His hands were everywhere, pulling at your clothes, desperate to feel your skin against his. You responded in kind, tugging at his shirt, and soon it was discarded on the floor. You both paused for a moment, breathing heavily, looking at each other. He was beautiful. All lean muscle and strength, his chest heaving with the effort of controlling himself. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, and there was a vulnerability beneath the intensity that made your heart ache. "Are you sure?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper. "Because if you're not sure, we can stop. I can control myself. I can—"
"Peter." You cupped his face in your hands, forcing him to meet your eyes. "I have never been more sure of anything in my entire life."
He kissed you again, and it was like a dam breaking.
The world outside ceased to exist. There was only Peter, his scent, his taste, his warmth. Every touch was electric, every kiss more desperate than the last. He laid you back against the couch, hovering over you, his eyes roaming your face like you were something precious. Something to be cherished.
"You're so beautiful," he breathed. "I've thought that since the first moment I saw you. With that damn pie in your hands and that smile on your face. I knew I was done for."
You smiled up at him, your fingers tracing the lines of his face. "You're pretty beautiful yourself, Spider-Man."
He froze.
The word hung in the air between you both.
"Spider-Man?" he repeated, his voice strained. "I—I don't—"
"Peter." You looked up at him, your eyes soft. "I don't know for sure. Not yet. But I have a pretty strong feeling. And I want you to know that when you're ready to tell me, I'll be here. I'm not going anywhere." He stared at you.
And then his eyes glistened with unshed tears.
"You're going to make me cry," he said, his voice cracking. "Again. Because apparently that's just what you do to me." "I'm not doing anything. You're just emotional."
"I am NOT—" A tear slipped down his cheek. "Okay, maybe a little."
You laughed, reaching up to wipe the tear away. "It's okay. I cry at commercials. We can be emotional together." He kissed you again, softer this time, and you could feel the emotion in every brush of his lips. "I'll tell you," he whispered against your mouth. "I'll tell you everything. Just... not tonight. Tonight I just want to be with you. No secrets. No lies. Just us."
"Just us," you agreed.
His mouth slowly trailed to your neck so suddenly, your breath hitched. He placed soft warm kisses against you, after your nose your neck was the most sensitive spot on your body and in the moment it’s like he knew. You felt his tongue lick along your pulse point, making you twist under the touch.
You both only in under clothes Peter didn’t completely remove your panties. He just pushed them to the side. For a moment he froze part of him fascinated by the view and part of him eager to feel you around him. “You’re beautiful,” he admitted. You blushed immediately, you turn to look away and he placed his hands on your face guiding his fingers on your chin to look at him.
“Let’s watch it go in together”
That once shy, awkward Peter was now so dominant but still so gentle and reassuring. You knew this was going to be a long night by that wild look in his eyes.
.
.
.
.
.
.
in the quiet hours of the early morning, tangled together on his tiny couch, you finally allowed yourself to let go, already feeling the soreness from earlier. The pheromones still burned between you, a constant, simmering heat, but it wasn't just the chemicals anymore. It was something deeper. Something real. When you finally fell asleep, wrapped in his arms, his scent surrounding you like a protective blanket, you both felt something you hadn't felt in a long time.
Safe.
You woke up to sunlight streaming through a window, and a warm weight pressed against your back. For a moment, you didn't remember where you were. Then the events of the night came flooding back, and a smile spread across your face. You turned in Peter's arms to face him. He was still asleep, his face relaxed, his messy hair falling across his forehead. He looked younger like this. More vulnerable. More human. Your fingers reached up to trace the lines of his face, and he stirred, a soft sound escaping his lips.
"Mm... morning," he mumbled, his eyes still closed.
"Morning," you whispered back.
His eyes fluttered open, and the moment he saw you, a smile spread across his face. A real, genuine smile that made your heart skip a beat.
"Hey," he said, his voice still rough with sleep.
"Hey."
"You're still here."
"I told you I wasn't going anywhere."
He pulled you closer, burying his face in your hair, and breathed deeply. "Good. Because I don't think I could let you go even if I wanted to." You laughed, the sound muffled against his chest. "That sounds a little intense for 8 AM." "Everything about this is intense," he admitted. "I've never felt anything like this before. It's terrifying and amazing and I don't know what I'm doing and I'm probably going to mess it all up somehow because that's what I do, but I—"
"Peter." You tilted his chin up, forcing him to meet your eyes. "Breathe."
He took a shaky breath. Then another.
"I really like you," he said, his voice vulnerable. "Like, a lot. And I know we barely know each other, and I know I have secrets, and I know this is all happening really fast, but I can't help it. You're... you're everything."
Your heart swelled. "I actually really like you too, Peter."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
He kissed you, slow and sweet, and the pheromones flared between you once again. But this time, there was something softer beneath the intensity. Something that felt a lot like falling in love.
.
.
.
.
.
Later that day, you were lying in Peter's bed, your legs tangled together, your phone buzzing with notifications that you were ignoring. Peter was playing with your hair, his fingers gentle against your scalp. "So," you said, breaking the comfortable silence, "are you going to tell me now?"
He tensed beneath you.
"Tell you what?"
You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling. "Peter. We've been lying here for hours. I've seen your apartment. I've seen the way you move. I've smelled you. I'm not stupid." He was quiet for a moment. Then, slowly, he spoke. "You're right. I... I'm not just Peter. I'm—"
"Spider-Man," you finished for him. "You're Spider-Man."
He stared at you.
"How did you—"
"You're a terrible liar," you said, laughing. "You told me you didn't fall from a skyscraper and hit your face on a billboard. You flinched when I mentioned Spider-Man's smell. You have super hearing. And you're always covered in mystery bruises." He groaned, dropping his head to your shoulder. "I'm so bad at this." "The worst," you agreed, stroking his hair. "But I like you anyway."
He lifted his head to look at you, his eyes searching yours.
"Does it bother you?" he asked softly. "The... the Spider-Man thing?"
"Peter." You cupped his face in your hands. "It makes you who you are. The good parts and the complicated parts. And I like all of you. Every single part. Even if I'm now starting to learn you" His eyes glistened with unshed tears again and you couldn't help but laugh. "Stop crying," you teased. "You're going to make me cry too."
"I'm not crying. I have allergies."
"You don't have allergies."
"I have... emotional allergies."
You snorted, and he laughed, and the sound was so warm and authentic that you felt your heart swell.
"Okay," he said, pulling you closer. "I'll tell you everything. About the spider bite. About Uncle Ben. About the responsibility. About the nights when I don't know if I'm going to make it home. All of it."
"Only if you're ready," you said softly.
"I'm ready." He pressed a kiss to your forehead. "I'm ready because I trust you. And because I don't want to have secrets from you anymore."
You smiled up at him. "I'm all ears."
And so he told you.
He told you about the spider bite that had changed everything. About Uncle Ben and the lesson he'd learned too late. About the weight of responsibility and the nights spent swinging through the city, trying to make a difference in a world that often seemed hell-bent on destroying itself.He told you about the fear. The loneliness. The moments when he felt like he was carrying the world on his shoulders and no one would ever understand. And through it all, you listened, holding his hand, offering silent support. When he finished, there was a long moment of silence.
"So," he said, his voice uncertain, "you're not going to run?"
You laughed, pulling him into a kiss.
"I told you," you said against his lips. "I'm not going anywhere."
And as the afternoon sun streamed through the window, painting the room in gold, you knew that this was only the beginning. The pheromones were still there, still burning beneath the surface, but they were no longer the only thing driving you. There was something deeper now. Something that felt a lot like love. And you couldn't wait to see where it would take you.
But something was bothering him.
A thought had been chewing at the edges of his mind since the moment he'd first caught your scent, that intoxicating, maddening fragrance that had been driving him crazy for a while. It was a thought that grew louder the more he tried to silence it, more persistent the more he tried to ignore it.
Why…you?
He sat up in bed, the sheets pooling around his waist, his brow furrowed in concentration. You watched him, concerned flickering in your eyes.
"Peter? What's wrong?"
He didn't answer at first. His mind was racing, piecing together fragments of information that didn't quite fit. The pheromones. They were supposed to affect members of the same species. That was basic biology. Chemical signals released to communicate with others of the same kind, triggering behavioural or physiological
responses. He'd been around hundreds of people since the spider bite. Thousands, probably. Humans, daily. He'd smelled their scents, the perfumes they wore, the sweat they produced, the natural musk of their skin. But never once had a person's pheromones affected him like this.
Never once.
His heart rate quickened. A cold knot formed in his stomach. He should only be affected by someone of the same species. But he'd been around humans constantly, and none of them had ever triggered this response. This primal, uncontrollable pull that made him feel like he was losing his mind.
So why do you?
Why did your pheromones drive him to the brink of insanity? Why did your scent make him feel like he was drowning and breathing for the first time all at once? Why did his body respond to yours like you were the only thing that mattered in the entire universe? Was it his human gene? Or his spider gene? And what was the case for you? He looked at you, really looked at you. You’re beautiful, yes. Kind, warm, impossibly patient with all his awkwardness and secrets. But there was something else. Something he couldn't quite put his finger on. A normal human shouldn't be affected by his pheromones. Not like this. Not after his biological mutation had rewired his entire physiology. And yet here you were, sitting in his bed, your cheeks flushed, your eyes dark with the same desperate need that was consuming him.
"Is there something you haven't told me?" Peter asked you, his voice barely above a whisper. "Something you don't know about yourself?"
you blinked, confusion washing over your features. "What do you mean?"
He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated with himself for not being able to articulate the thoughts swirling in his mind. His memories flashed back to the first day he'd met you the way you stood in his doorway with that pie in your hands, the way you had leaned in closer to him, your nose twitching slightly.
"Your nose," he said suddenly. "That first night. You said your nose was suddenly super sensitive. That has never happened to you before."
You nodded slowly. "I remember."
"And then, in the alley, when Spider-Man saved you... you smelled me again. You knew it was me, even though you couldn't see my face. You recognized my scent."
" YESS The same scent," you confirmed. "That's what made me suspicious."
Peter's eyes widened as the pieces began to fall into place. "Y/N," he said carefully, "there's something I need to explain. Something that's been bothering me since the moment I first smelled you." You shifted closer to him, your hand finding his. "I'm listening." "The pheromones, right.." he began. "They're supposed to be species-specific. Animals release them to communicate with other members of the same species. Mating signals, territory marking, that kind of thing."
You nodded at first, following his train of thought.
"But I've been around humans constantly since I was bitten," he continued. "Thousands of them. And not once has a person's pheromones ever affected me like this. Not once have I felt this... this pull. This need." A strange tension settled over the room.
"So why you?" Peter asked, his voice low. "Why you?"
you opened your mouth to respond, but no words came out. You were processing, thinking. He could practically see the gears turning behind your eyes. "You think I'm not... normal?" you finally asked, your voice a bit hesitant. "I think there's something about you that's different," he admitted. "Something that your body is doing that it shouldn't be doing. Because normal humans don't produce pheromones that affect me like this. And normal humans don't get affected by my pheromones either." He watched you process this, watched the confusion and dawning realization flicker across your face.
"You told me that night," he continued, "that your nose was suddenly sensitive. You said it had never happened before. But after that night, it kept happening. Every time you smelled me. Every time I get close to you."
Your brows furrowed. "I don't understand what you're saying."
"The spider bite," Peter said slowly, "it changed me. Mutated my DNA. Made me something... more than human. Something that shouldn't affect or be affected by normal human biology." He took a breath.
"But you do affect me. And I do affect you. It's mutual. It's... reciprocal. And that shouldn't be possible unless..."
"Unless what?"
He looked at you, really looked at you once more, and for the first time, he saw you through a different lens. "Unless there's something different about you too," he finished. "Something you might not even know about yourself yet." The weight of his words settled over you both like a blanket. Heavy and Unavoidable. You stayed silent for a long moment, processing his words. your fingers fidgeted with the edge of the sheet, and your gaze grew distant. "I don't... I've never..." you shook your head. "I've always been normal. Average. I've never had any special abilities or weird mutations or anything like that." "I'm not saying you're a superhero," Peter said gently. "I'm just saying there might be something in your biology. Something that makes your pheromones different. Something that makes you compatible with someone like me."
"Compatible?" you repeated the word like it was foreign.
"We're drawn to each other," he said softly. "Our bodies recognize something in each other that they've never recognized in anyone else. That's not normal, Y/N. He reached out, his hand cupping your cheek, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw.
"I'm not trying to scare you," he said. "I just... I need to know. I need to understand why this is happening. Because if there's something about you that makes you vulnerable, something that puts you in danger—" "Then you'd protect me," you interrupted, a small smile playing at your lips. "Isn't that what you do? Protect people?"
"You," he corrected, his voice fierce. "I will protect you. Above anyone else. Above everyone else." Your smile softened, and you leaned into his touch. "I don't know what I am now," you admitted. "I've never been anything special. I'm just... me."
"I need you to promise me something," he said, his voice turning serious again. "If you ever notice anything strange like anything at all you'll tell me. Okay? If your body starts doing things it shouldn't do, if you start feeling different, if you discover something about yourself that doesn't make sense... you'll come to me."
You searched his eyes. "You're worried about me."
"I'm always going to be worried about you now" He pressed a kiss to your palm. "It's my new default setting. The Peter Parker obtained worry mode."
"You're ridiculous."
"And you love it."
You were quiet for a moment, both just looking at each other. The weight of everything that had been said hung in the air, but it wasn't heavy. Not anymore.
.
.
.
.
.
Author note: everything you just read was actually a dream I had the night after watching the new spider-man movie, hope you enjoyed what goes on in my head 😭
— ✶ a collection of articles i’ve read and thoroughly enjoyed of the spider-man all in one spot! read each warning before swinging in and please give writers some appreciation for all their hard work by reblogging and/or commenting! ꨄ
call me if you get lost I @superbassbuck I F + H/C + A I You have been Spiderman’s communicator—his eyes for crime and the voice on the other end of a staticky little radio that took him less than an hour to build. He doesn’t know your name, or what you look like. And you don’t know a single thing about him. Peter tells himself it’s better this way, that keeping you at arm’s length is the only way he can keep you safe. But that promise slowly frays the longer he speaks to you.
mask on, fuck it, mask off I @dearwalker I S I You’re spider-man’s closest thing to a friend since the world forgot his name…all without him ever taking the mask off. His true identity has always been a barrier between you two, but what happens when he gets hit with the pollen, and not only him, but the creature lurking inside him fixates on the only person he gets to call home?
letters i can’t send I @fawnindawn I H/C I your cute upstairs neighbour holds many secrets. you're willing to close one eye to his secrecy or the way he looks at you as if you hung the stars, till you accidentally uncover letters upon letters nedpeter’s kept in his apartment—all addressed to you.
web me home I @/fawnindawn I F + C I peter’s new arachnid senses often leave him disoriented—hibernating and waking up in places he doesn’t recognise. it’s a small problem, one he's willing to deal with on his own, till he wakes in your apartment with his arms wrapped around you.
secrets for the sleepless I @moonstruckme I H/C + F I you’re an insomniac, and you can’t help but notice your new roommate's comings and goings at odd hours. Peter’s a not-very-good liar that gets worse as he falls in love
underneath the suit I @yasministration I F I peter isn't prepared to take his clothes off for a meeting with the white widow, and he's much less prepared to meet his best friend for the very first time since fate tore them apart in a cruel twist of memory.
love bites I @/yasministration I ~S + F I you're determined to leave love bites all over peter's neck, but unfortunately for you, his accelerated healing has other plans. peter has a couple of suggestions to lift your spirits.
spiderfire superduo I @/yasministration I H/C I many of your superhero memories are riddled with the presence of spider-man, so how come you can't recall a single thing about him? oddly enough, getting all your answers begins with a youtube video titled 'spider-man and starfire being best friends for 10 minutes'
heartbeat pt2 I @thought-you-knew I F I As a nurse, nothing really fazes you. You've seen it all, but seeing the Punisher carrying in an unconscious Spider-Man? Well, maybe you haven't seen everything. Or Peter thinks you're cute while you're concerned for his elevated heartbeat.
did you get your taste back? I @xreader1989 I C + F I will you, an ex widow, and Spiderman himself be able to get over your past traumas and let each other in?
the anchor I @fireinmoonshot I H/C I When Doctor Strange's spell made the whole world forget Peter Parker, something went wrong (or very right). Now, you're the only person who remembers him. But it doesn't stop the nightmares from invading Peter's mind about the day where he might wake up and you don't remember him.
swinging by! I @starkissedxav I F I peter swings you around the city for the first time!
the frequency of forgetting pt2 pt3 I @violetrainbow412-blog I H/C I 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.
someone new I @/violetrainbow412-blog I C I after all, Peter just needs a friend
nothing sweet about it I @strangelure I S I your ex-boyfriend peter sees a chance and he takes it
sensitive I @arachine I S I accidentally discovering one day that peter's wrists are (weirdly) sensitive after his enhancement, so you take it into consideration the next time you go down on him and his entire world shatters.
find my way to your tongue I @/arachine I A + F I it's been three years since dr. strange cast the spell—three years peter has spent thinking about you. his final promise to you was to keep you safe. let you go. but peter has never been good at making promises.
frat!peter I @webslingingslasher I H/C
lucky I @miserymorgue I F
the ways that you say my name I @kryptidfiles I S I The sound of being known after years being forgotten makes Peter lose every careful piece of himself
i’m not there yet I @hanasnx I A + S
the front door I @hearts4hughes I A + F
yandere!stalker peter I @/heart4hughes I ~A
brand new changes, same ol’ spidey I @heyaheyrinny I S I Peter’s body is changing and you take this as an opportunity to tease his overstimulated senses.
drabble I @vampyrsm I ~S + F
thank you, spiderman I @sluvaffair I S I Enhanced!Spidey has made a habit of visiting you. You don't know what he looks like, but you do know how he likes to be touched.
drabble I @starlord-s I A
in dreams, i meet you in a warm conversation pt2 I @everythingcollided I H/C I you're avoiding the party that mj and ned wanted to throw, but that doesn't stop you from being found by a stranger. why can't you shake the feeling that he's familiar?
affixing attachment I @kentcant I H/C I where peter didn’t come back to remind you what you’d lost, and you confront him for leaving you abandoned too (aka you’re MJ, and you end up remembering him… sorta)
no strings webs attached I @mypoisonedvine I S I you've been hooking up with peter for a few months, letting him use you and never asking for more. but after he goes through some... changes, you end up getting more after all; unfortunately, it might be more than you can handle.
a journalist’s (lack of) integrity I @80sfilmclub I F I desperate to make it ahead (and establish yourself as an actual journalist) at the daily bugle, you tell your boss that you scored an exclusive interview with spider-man when you definitely did not. while you scramble to make good on your lie, peter parker hears your plight.
the kindness of a stranger I @webslinger-holland I F I After a night of one too many drinks, the reader finds herself vulnerable and alone on a Brooklyn street corner. Her night takes an unexpected turn as New York's own Spider-Man swoops in to save her and get her home safely.
sue me, i wanna be wanted I @rosesaints I F + S I it's been a long time coming and you want nothing more than to jump peter parker's bones
neighborly I @filmjules I S
sensory overload I @anon-188 I A + S I peter’s senses are spiraling out of control, and after an especially rough night, he decides staying away from you is the safest thing he can do. you, however, disagree.
gif @/zendadya I paper dividers @/dividers4u I notebook spiral and color dividers @/me
— ✶ a collection of articles i’ve read and thoroughly enjoyed of the spider-man all in one spot! read each warning before swinging in and please give writers some appreciation for all their hard work by reblogging and/or commenting! ꨄ
call me if you get lost I @superbassbuck I F + H/C + A I You have been Spiderman’s communicator—his eyes for crime and the voice on the other end of a staticky little radio that took him less than an hour to build. He doesn’t know your name, or what you look like. And you don’t know a single thing about him. Peter tells himself it’s better this way, that keeping you at arm’s length is the only way he can keep you safe. But that promise slowly frays the longer he speaks to you.
mask on, fuck it, mask off I @dearwalker I S I You’re spider-man’s closest thing to a friend since the world forgot his name…all without him ever taking the mask off. His true identity has always been a barrier between you two, but what happens when he gets hit with the pollen, and not only him, but the creature lurking inside him fixates on the only person he gets to call home?
letters i can’t send I @fawnindawn I H/C I your cute upstairs neighbour holds many secrets. you're willing to close one eye to his secrecy or the way he looks at you as if you hung the stars, till you accidentally uncover letters upon letters nedpeter’s kept in his apartment—all addressed to you.
web me home I @/fawnindawn I F + C I peter’s new arachnid senses often leave him disoriented—hibernating and waking up in places he doesn’t recognise. it’s a small problem, one he's willing to deal with on his own, till he wakes in your apartment with his arms wrapped around you.
secrets for the sleepless I @moonstruckme I H/C + F I you’re an insomniac, and you can’t help but notice your new roommate's comings and goings at odd hours. Peter’s a not-very-good liar that gets worse as he falls in love
underneath the suit I @yasministration I F I peter isn't prepared to take his clothes off for a meeting with the white widow, and he's much less prepared to meet his best friend for the very first time since fate tore them apart in a cruel twist of memory.
love bites I @/yasministration I ~S + F I you're determined to leave love bites all over peter's neck, but unfortunately for you, his accelerated healing has other plans. peter has a couple of suggestions to lift your spirits.
spiderfire superduo I @/yasministration I H/C I many of your superhero memories are riddled with the presence of spider-man, so how come you can't recall a single thing about him? oddly enough, getting all your answers begins with a youtube video titled 'spider-man and starfire being best friends for 10 minutes'
heartbeat pt2 I @thought-you-knew I F I As a nurse, nothing really fazes you. You've seen it all, but seeing the Punisher carrying in an unconscious Spider-Man? Well, maybe you haven't seen everything. Or Peter thinks you're cute while you're concerned for his elevated heartbeat.
did you get your taste back? I @xreader1989 I C + F I will you, an ex widow, and Spiderman himself be able to get over your past traumas and let each other in?
the anchor I @fireinmoonshot I H/C I When Doctor Strange's spell made the whole world forget Peter Parker, something went wrong (or very right). Now, you're the only person who remembers him. But it doesn't stop the nightmares from invading Peter's mind about the day where he might wake up and you don't remember him.
swinging by! I @starkissedxav I F I peter swings you around the city for the first time!
the frequency of forgetting pt2 pt3 I @violetrainbow412-blog I H/C I 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.
someone new I @/violetrainbow412-blog I C I after all, Peter just needs a friend
nothing sweet about it I @strangelure I S I your ex-boyfriend peter sees a chance and he takes it
sensitive I @arachine I S I accidentally discovering one day that peter's wrists are (weirdly) sensitive after his enhancement, so you take it into consideration the next time you go down on him and his entire world shatters.
find my way to your tongue I @/arachine I A + F I it's been three years since dr. strange cast the spell—three years peter has spent thinking about you. his final promise to you was to keep you safe. let you go. but peter has never been good at making promises.
frat!peter I @webslingingslasher I H/C
lucky I @miserymorgue I F
the ways that you say my name I @kryptidfiles I S I The sound of being known after years being forgotten makes Peter lose every careful piece of himself
i’m not there yet I @hanasnx I A + S
the front door I @hearts4hughes I A + F
yandere!stalker peter I @/heart4hughes I ~A
brand new changes, same ol’ spidey I @heyaheyrinny I S I Peter’s body is changing and you take this as an opportunity to tease his overstimulated senses.
drabble I @vampyrsm I ~S + F
thank you, spiderman I @sluvaffair I S I Enhanced!Spidey has made a habit of visiting you. You don't know what he looks like, but you do know how he likes to be touched.
drabble I @starlord-s I A
in dreams, i meet you in a warm conversation pt2 I @everythingcollided I H/C I you're avoiding the party that mj and ned wanted to throw, but that doesn't stop you from being found by a stranger. why can't you shake the feeling that he's familiar?
affixing attachment I @kentcant I H/C I where peter didn’t come back to remind you what you’d lost, and you confront him for leaving you abandoned too (aka you’re MJ, and you end up remembering him… sorta)
no strings webs attached I @mypoisonedvine I S I you've been hooking up with peter for a few months, letting him use you and never asking for more. but after he goes through some... changes, you end up getting more after all; unfortunately, it might be more than you can handle.
a journalist’s (lack of) integrity I @80sfilmclub I F I desperate to make it ahead (and establish yourself as an actual journalist) at the daily bugle, you tell your boss that you scored an exclusive interview with spider-man when you definitely did not. while you scramble to make good on your lie, peter parker hears your plight.
the kindness of a stranger I @webslinger-holland I F I After a night of one too many drinks, the reader finds herself vulnerable and alone on a Brooklyn street corner. Her night takes an unexpected turn as New York's own Spider-Man swoops in to save her and get her home safely.
sue me, i wanna be wanted I @rosesaints I F + S I it's been a long time coming and you want nothing more than to jump peter parker's bones
neighborly I @filmjules I S
sensory overload I @anon-188 I A + S I peter’s senses are spiraling out of control, and after an especially rough night, he decides staying away from you is the safest thing he can do. you, however, disagree.
gif @/zendadya I paper dividers @/dividers4u I notebook spiral and color dividers @/me
⤿ STEVE ROGERS hadn't thought about the public-appearances aspect of agreeing to be a subject of the super serum. You, however, were a pro when it came to events, so needless to say he was a little starstruck when he saw you in person.
!! fluff. fem!reader. hollywood!reader. 40s!steve. he's a goober. god forbid a man's jaw drop. i got this idea when i was watching oompaville's new video and heard a clip of a transatlantic accent. also pls get my reference with the reader's makeup colors. taglist open. ENJOY.
The dressing room smelled faintly of powder, cigarette smoke, and hot lights cooling somewhere beyond the walls. You sat perfectly still while a woman with practiced hands pinned your hair into glossy, sculpted waves, her fingers moving with the confidence of someone who had done this a thousand times and would do it a thousand more.
Outside the door, the studio buzzed with the movement of assistants calling out schedules, shoes clicking briskly across concrete floors, and men arguing about lighting and angles like it was a matter of national importance.
In some ways, today it was.
You stared at your reflection, chin lifted, lips already painted a careful green, eyes rimmed in soft shadow that made them look larger, more dramatic, more cinematic. The woman in the mirror looked like a movie star. She always did by the time they were finished with her. What she didn’t look like was tired, or bored, or quietly lonely in a way that never quite left you, no matter how full the room became.
When you were on camera.. you were her, not you.
“Five minutes,” someone called through the door.
You exhaled slowly through your nose, smoothing your hands over the silk of your robe. This picture was meant to be lighthearted, romantic.. the kind of thing audiences wanted right now. Escapism. A story where everything ended neatly and no one had to think too hard about the world outside the theater doors.
You stood when they were done, heels clicking softly as you crossed the room, shrugging into your costume while a dresser fastened it at your back. It was a beautiful thing, tailored perfectly to your body, designed to make you look effortless and luminous, like nothing had ever weighed on you at all.
By the time you stepped out onto the stage, you were already smiling.
The set was dressed like a grand New York apartment, all polished wood and elegant windows painted to look out over a city that didn’t exist. The director waved you over with a distracted grin, script tucked under his arm.
“Ah, there she is,” he said, relief clear in his voice. “You’re right on time. Before we start, I want to introduce you to someone.”
You followed his gaze toward the edge of the stage, where a small cluster of men stood talking quietly. One of them didn’t quite belong.
He was too still, for one thing. Too attentive. His suit was well-tailored but worn like armor rather than decoration, shoulders broad beneath the fabric, posture straight in a way that suggested training rather than polish. He looked… solid, in a room full of men who seemed made of smoke and noise.
And when he turned, when his eyes found you, something in your chest gave a small, unexpected lurch.
“This is Steve Rogers,” the director said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Army wants him consulting on the picture. Public morale, authenticity, all that. Captain America himself.”
You blinked, once.
That was Captain America?
The man in front of you looked young, despite everything. Earnest, despite the uniform pins at his lapel and the quiet authority in his stance. His face softened immediately as he stepped forward, a little awkward, like he wasn’t sure where to put his hands.
“Ma’am,” he greeted, then winced faintly at his own words. “I mean-.. I’m sorry. Miss...”
You smiled before he could spiral, extending your hand. “It’s all right,” you assured warmly. “You can call me by my name. Everyone else does.”
He took your hand carefully, as though he were afraid of squeezing too hard, his grip firm but gentle. Up close, his eyes were impossibly blue, the kind of color studios tried to manufacture with lighting and lenses.
“It’s an honor to meet you,” he said, and you believed him completely. “My ma used to take me to see your pictures back in Brooklyn. She really loved them.”
Something softened behind your ribs at that, a quiet, human detail offered so plainly. “Well then, I’m very glad I didn’t disappoint her,” you replied.
He smiled then, full and unguarded, and it caught you off balance.
They pulled him away a moment later to explain the scene, and you returned to your mark, listening as the director rattled off adjustments. Steve stood just off-camera, arms folded loosely, watching with an intensity that surprised you. Not critical, but seemingly curious, like he was trying to understand how all of this worked and how something so artificial could feel so real.
Between takes, you caught him studying the set, the lights, the crew moving in precise choreography. When your eyes met, he looked away quickly, sheepish.
“You don’t have to stand all the way back there,” you said during a pause, gesturing toward an empty chair nearby. “You’re allowed to sit.”
He hesitated, then nodded, moving closer. “Sorry. I don’t want to be in the way.”
“You’re not,” you assured him. “Trust me. If you were, someone would’ve told you already.”
That earned a quiet laugh from him, the sound low and sincere. “That’s… Well, that's good to know.”
The afternoon wore on slowly, the rhythm of filming settling into something familiar. Between scenes, you sipped water, adjusted your gloves, listened as the crew reset. Steve stayed nearby, always polite, always a little unsure, answering questions when they were directed at him, otherwise content to just observe.
Eventually, you found yourself sitting beside him while they fixed a sound issue, the space between you close enough to feel his warmth.
“So,” you drawled lightly, glancing over while leaning towards him to bump shoulders playfully. “Is this what you expected?”
He considered that for a moment. “Not really,” he admitted. “I figured it’d be… bigger, somehow. Louder, I suppose.”
You smiled. “It usually is. You’ve caught us on a calm day-.. calmer day.”
He nodded, then glanced at you. “You make it look easy.”
You laughed softly. “It isn’t.”
He frowned, just a little. “No?”
“No,” you shook your head, letting a soft sigh leave your lips. “It’s work. Long days, longer nights. You give a lot of yourself away.” You paused, then added gently, “I imagine you understand that.”
His expression shifted, something thoughtful settling over his features. “Yeah,” he agreed quietly. “I think I do.”
When filming wrapped for the day, the set began to empty, people drifting off toward other obligations, other lives. You slipped back into your robe, removing the costume that turned you into someone larger than life.
Steve waited near the exit, hat in his hands.
“I, uh,” he began when you approached. “I wanted to say… thank you. For letting me sit in, and for being… kind.”
You studied him for a moment, really looked at him — at the man beneath the symbol. “You're very welcome, Steve." Your voice was light, and the smile that pulled at your lips crinkled your nose as well. “Hollywood can be overwhelming your first time.”
He smiled faintly. “That’s one word for it.”
As you walked out together, the setting sun spilling across the lot, you felt a quiet sense of curiosity unfold inside you. Not the flashy, dangerous intrigue you’d known before, but something steadier and very real.
And as Steve held the door open for you, eyes warm and earnest, you had the strangest feeling that this meeting was going to stick in your thoughts late into the night.
Everyone forgot who spiderman is—including his girlfriend Y/N. But her body remembers something her head can't. She wakes up in the middle of the night craving something she never knew she had. Peter ensures they find their way back to each other (very smutty)
WC: 16.4k, unprotected sex, restrained by Spiderman's webs during sex, dirty talk, kinda Dom!Peter, sex dreams (memories), reader is horny af, casual mentions of sex throughout the entire story, this is the same as my NCT Donghyuck story, this is a MCU ver! Part 1, part 2 at the end
----------------
Spiderman slips onto the fire escape outside Ned's apartment, the city humming below him like a heartbeat he can't quite feel anymore. He's not here to spy—he tells himself that. He's just checking. Making sure she's safe. That's what he does now: patrols her life like a ghost, invisible and aching.
But then he hears Ned's voice through the cracked window, and Y/N's laugh—that soft, familiar sound that used to be for him—and he can't tear himself away.
He crouches low, listening.
"So you're telling me you haven't gotten laid in, what, three months?" Ned's voice is teasing, light. He's sprawled on his couch, a beer in hand, grinning at Y/N like they're having the most casual conversation in the world.
She's curled on the other end, legs tucked under her, a throw pillow hugged to her chest. "That's not what I said."
"That's exactly what you said. You said you're 'too wound up, stressed, can't sleep.' That's textbook horny, babe."
"Ned!"
"What? I'm just saying." He takes a lazy sip of beer. "You're way too tense these days. You need to hook up with someone. Let off some steam."
She gasps, swatting at his leg. "I absolutely am not."
He grins, eyes glinting. "Yes you are. I can't put my finger on it, but you just seem so restless lately. Like you're crawling out of your skin."
"It's just stress over work." She pulls the pillow tighter. "Writing for the New York Chronicles is a lot of work. Deadlines, interviews, fact-checking—"
"Uh-huh. And when's the last time you got properly fucked?"
"Ned!"
He laughs, full and unbothered. "I'm serious. Maybe some good dick will help you. Relax those shoulders, clear that head of yours. You're practically vibrating."
On the fire escape, Peter's hands tighten into fists.
She's mine.
The thought crashes through him, possessive and raw. His jaw aches from clenching. He watches her through the window—her flustered expression, the way she hides her face in the pillow, the way she doesn't deny it. She's restless. He knows. He's seen her pace her apartment at 2 a.m., seen her press her thighs together in the bathtub, heard the soft, frustrated moans she thinks no one can hear.
And he knows Ned is right. She needs release. But the idea of her finding that release in someone else—some stranger's hands, some stranger's mouth, some stranger's cock inside her—makes his stomach twist with something dark and violent.
"You're impossible," she mutters, throwing the pillow at Ned.
He catches it easily. "And you're in denial. But okay. Keep telling yourself it's deadlines."
She stands, smoothing her shirt. "I'm leaving before you say something even more embarrassing."
"Text me if you change your mind! I know a guy—"
"Goodnight, Ned!"
The door clicks shut. Ned chuckles to himself, shaking his head.
Peter stays frozen on the fire escape long after she's gone, her scent still lingering in the air, her laugh still ringing in his ears.
He knows what he has to do.
He has to reintroduce himself. Casually, carefully. Slide back into her life before she finds someone else to release those frustrations on. Before some other man touches what's his.
But not tonight.
Tonight, he watches her walk home from a rooftop three blocks away, her silhouette moving under the amber streetlights. He watches her pause at her door, glance over her shoulder like she feels something watching her. She hugs herself, shivers, and disappears inside.
Soon, he tells himself, pressing a hand over his chest where his heart used to belong to her. Soon I'll make you remember. Or I'll make you want me again.
But for now, he waits.
Peter stands outside the coffee shop, his reflection staring back at him from the glass door. He checks his hair three times—runs his fingers through it, smooths the front, tucks a stray strand behind his ear. The black shirt hugs his shoulders just right, and the glasses frame his face in a way that used to make Y/N bite her lip and look at him twice.
She loved these glasses, he thinks, adjusting them once more. She used to say I looked like a secret librarian. A hot one.
He takes a breath, pushes the door open, and walks in with a confidence he's been practicing for weeks.
The bell above the door chimes. Y/N looks up from the counter where she's been scribbling in a notebook—probably working on another article for the New York Chronicles. Her hair is pulled back in a loose ponytail, a few strands escaping to frame her face. She's wearing a simple apron over a cream sweater, and when she sees him, she smiles.
It's polite. Professional. The same smile she gives every customer working at her parent's cafe.
But it's still her smile, and his heart stumbles.
"Hi," she says, setting down her pen. "What can I get started for you?"
He steps up to the counter, leaning an elbow on the polished wood. "Hey. I'll take an iced americano and a chocolate donut."
She nods, writing it down. "Anything else?"
"No, thanks. That's perfect."
She turns to prepare the coffee, and he watches her movements—efficient, practiced. The way she scoops ice, pours the espresso, reaches for the donut with a tissue. When she turns back and hands him the cup, their fingers brush.
It's barely a second. Just a whisper of contact.
But she pauses, her eyes lifting to his face. A flicker of something—recognition? Curiosity?—passes through her gaze before she blinks it away.
"Here you go," she says softly.
He takes the cup, letting his fingers linger just a moment longer than necessary. "Thanks."
She smiles again, a little different this time—warmer, a hint of confusion. Then she turns back to the sink where a few dishes are waiting, rolling up her sleeves.
Peter takes a seat by the window, sipping his americano, watching her from behind his glasses. She's humming softly, something he doesn't recognize. From the back room, he hears Ned's voice, humming some pop song, the clatter of boxes being moved.
Over the next few weeks, he becomes a regular.
He comes in every other day, sometimes every day. Always orders the same thing—iced americano, chocolate donut. Sometimes he grabs a table and pretends to work on his laptop, but really he's watching her. The way she tucks her hair behind her ear. The way she bites her lip while reading. The way she laughs at something Ned says, bright and easy.
Their interactions are casual. Limited.
"Morning Peter." She learns his name.
"The usual?" She asks.
"You know it."
A smile. A quick exchange. Then she's busy, and he's left with the ghost of her attention.
It's not enough.
So one afternoon, when the shop is empty and Ned is in the back, he makes his move.
He walks up to the counter, coffee in hand, and as he reaches to pay, he lets his wrist go slack. The cup tips. The lid pops off. Brown liquid splashes across the floor, a puddle spreading near his feet.
"Shit," he mutters, a little too loud.
Y/N spins around from the espresso machine. "Oh no! Don't worry, I'll get it—"
She grabs a roll of paper towels from under the counter and moves to crouch down, but he's already there. He takes the roll from her hands, his fingers closing over hers for a brief, deliberate second.
"It was my fault," he says, meeting her eyes. "Don't worry about it."
"Really, I can—"
"Nope. I got it." He kneels, wiping up the mess quickly, ignoring her protests. "You have enough to do. Let me take care of this."
She stands there, hands on her hips, watching him clean up her floor with an expression caught between amused and impressed.
"You're not going to let me help, are you?" she asks.
"Nope." He finishes, tosses the wet paper towels in the trash, and straightens up. "See? All good."
She shakes her head, a smile tugging at her lips. "You're stubborn."
"I prefer determined."
"A determined mess-maker."
He laughs—a real laugh, not the careful one he's been using.
They stand there, the air between them easier now, the tension cracked open. She leans against the counter, crossing her arms, studying him with fresh eyes.
"You come here a lot," she says.
"I do. Good coffee. Good donuts." He pauses, letting his voice drop just a fraction. "Good company."
Her cheeks flush. She looks down, then back up, a spark in her gaze. "You're not from around here, are you?"
"Born and raised. Just... been away for a while."
"Ah. A returning native."
"Something like that."
She tilts her head. "What do you do, Peter? Besides cleaning up your own messes?"
"I'm a freelance photographer. I take pictures of the city, the people. Try to capture moments that don't last."
Her eyes light up. "That sounds beautiful."
"It has its moments." He holds her gaze. "Maybe I could show you sometime. If you're interested."
The offer hangs in the air, soft and deliberate. She bites her lower lip, considering, and he feels his pulse quicken.
"I'd like that," she says quietly.
A bell rings from the back—Ned calling something about a shipment. The moment breaks, but it doesn't shatter. It settles into something warm, something potential.
"I should let you get back to work," Peter says, stepping back. "But I'll see you tomorrow. Same time?"
"Same time," she confirms, her smile lingering.
He walks out of the coffee shop, heart hammering, a grin threatening to break across his face. He doesn't look back, but he doesn't need to.
He knows he has her attention now.
Ned slides up beside Y/N the moment the door swings shut behind Peter. He nudges her shoulder with his, a knowing grin already spreading across his face.
"Okay, so that guy? Exactly your type."
Y/N rolls her eyes, but she can feel the heat creeping up her neck. "Peter?"
"Obviously Peter." Ned leans against the counter, crossing his arms. "Like, I get it. He's attractive in that nonchalant way. The whole I just rolled out of bed but I'm still hotter than you vibe. And that confidence? It's practically dripping off him." He wiggles his eyebrows. "Makes you horny, doesn't it?"
"Ned!" She smacks his shoulder, but she's laughing. "Shut up. He's just a nice guy."
"A nice guy who you've been staring at for three weeks straight."
"I have not—"
"You literally watched him walk to the door just now. Like a sad puppy."
She opens her mouth to argue, but nothing comes out. Because he's right. She did watch him. She always watches him.
Ned groans, shaking his head with mock exasperation. "When you two finally hook up, I'm going to be right there to say I told you so."
"He's just a customer, Injun."
"Mhmm. Sure." He pats her shoulder and heads toward the back room, already humming again, leaving her standing there with her thoughts.
She bites her lip.
He's just a customer, she tells herself. But her mind drifts anyway, unbidden.
His voice—low and warm, with a teasing edge that makes her stomach flip. The way he carries himself, relaxed but aware, like he knows exactly what he's doing at all times. His baggy clothes, the way they hang off his frame, hiding and revealing at the same time. The silver rings on his fingers. That little smirk he gives her sometimes, like he's in on a joke she hasn't heard yet.
Her exes were... fine. Nice. Respectful. Boring.
They held doors open and said please and thank you. They kissed her forehead and asked if she was comfortable. They never made her pulse race. They never made her wonder what it would feel like to be pushed against a wall and taken.
Peter does.
He gives her mystery. Maybe even a little danger. The way he looks at her sometimes, like he's holding something back—something intense.
She shakes her head, physically trying to dislodge the thought. Crazy. You don't even know him.
But the thought lingers, hot and stubborn, all the way through the rest of her shift. It follows her home, past the subway, up the stairs to her apartment. It settles in her bones the moment she closes her door.
---
She's restless.
The apartment is quiet, dark except for the lamp by her bed. She changes into a tank top and shorts, lies down, tosses, turns. Her body feels tight—a coil wound too tight, needing release.
She gives in.
From the nightstand drawer, she pulls out her vibrator—a sleek pink thing she's had for years. She lies back, spreads her legs, and lets the hum of the motor fill the silence.
Her mind drifts to him.
To Peter. To his hands. Those rings. What they'd feel like gripping her thighs. His voice, low in her ear, telling her exactly what he's going to do to her.
She presses the vibrator harder against her clit, her breath hitching. She thinks about his smirk, his confidence, the way he holds her gaze a second too long. She chases the image, lets it build—
And then she comes.
A sharp, quick release. A gasp. The tension snaps, but it doesn't dissolve. It just... scatters. Falls apart unsatisfyingly.
She sighs, letting the vibrator drop onto the mattress. Her body feels hollow. Empty. Like the orgasm barely scratched the surface of what she actually needs.
"Fuck," she whispers to the ceiling.
She lies there, staring at the dark, her skin still buzzing with unresolved heat. She wants more. She wants him. But he's a stranger. A customer. Nothing.
She rolls onto her side, pulls the blanket up, and tries to sleep.
---
Outside her window, perched on a fire escape three buildings over, Peter watches the dark shape of her bedroom through the gap in her curtains.
He didn't look. Not directly. He swung toward her building on instinct, drawn by the familiar pull of her presence, and he landed on the adjacent rooftop just in time to hear it.
The buzz of the vibrator. Her soft, breathy moans.
His name. She whispered his name—Peter—on a desperate exhale.
And then the sigh. That disappointed, hollow sigh at the end.
He heard it all.
His fingers curl into a fist against the brick wall beside him. A smirk spreads across his face, slow and predatory, mixing with the ache in his chest.
You're not satisfied, are you, baby?
He knows the feeling. He's been unsatisfied too—in a different way. Hungry for her touch, her voice, her warmth. But that hunger is about to be fed.
He pushes off the ledge, letting the night air rush past him as he swings into the darkness.
Soon. I'll take my rightful place soon.
Below him, the city blurs. Sirens wail somewhere in the distance. Another night of crime waits for him—thugs to stop, civilians to save. The usual.
But tonight, for the first time in weeks, he feels something close to hope.
———
It starts slowly.
A whisper of warmth against her skin. The weight of a body behind her, pressed close, solid and familiar. She can't see his face, but she knows him—or rather, her body knows him. Her back arches into his chest instinctively, seeking more contact.
His hands. God, his hands. Calloused palms sliding up her thighs, fingers digging into her hips with just enough pressure to bruise. She feels the cool bite of metal rings against her overheated skin. A low chuckle rumbles against her ear.
"You've been so good for me, baby. But I'm gonna take what's mine now."
She opens her mouth to respond, but he's already rolling her onto her stomach, pulling her hips up, positioning her on her knees. The sheets are soft beneath her palms. She can feel his cock—thick, hard, pressing against her soaked entrance—and she whimpers, pushing back against him.
"Please," she breathes. "Please, I need—"
He cuts her off with a sharp thrust. He slams into her to the hilt, and she screams, her body clenching around him immediately. He doesn't stop. He fucks her like he owns her, like he's been waiting for this, each stroke deep and punishing, hitting a spot inside her that makes stars burst behind her eyelids.
"That's it. Take it. Take all of it."
His voice is low, rough, almost unrecognizable through the fog of lust. She can't think. She can only feel—the stretch, the burn, the relentless pounding. He wraps a hand around her throat, not choking, just holding, tilting her head back so he can whisper directly into her ear.
"You missed me, didn't you? Your tight little pussy missed me. Say it."
"I—yes—fuck—I missed you—"
He groans, a sound so raw it vibrates through her bones. His pace quickens, his grip on her hip bruising. She feels the coil building, tighter and tighter, her moans turning into desperate sobs—
And then she wakes up.
---
Gasping.
Y/N bolts upright in bed, her tank top soaked with sweat, her thighs sticky with arousal. The sheets are twisted around her legs. Her pussy is throbbing, clenching around nothing, so empty it almost hurts.
She blinks at the ceiling, panting.
What the fuck was that?
The dream is already fading, slipping through her fingers like water. She remembers heat. A deep voice. Being pinned down and fucked senseless. But the face—she can't remember the face. Just a blur of dark hair, broad shoulders, a cruel smirk.
She presses her palm against her cunt, gasping at the sensitivity. She's soaked. Her thighs are slick. Her hole flutters, desperate to be filled.
"Fucking hell," she mutters, flopping back onto the pillows.
It's been like this for almost a week now. Every night, another dream. Some nights she's on her knees, sucking a thick cock while a hand tangles in her hair. Some nights she's tied to a bed, spread open, being fucked so slowly she can feel every inch drag against her walls. Some nights it's just a voice—a low, possessive voice—calling her filthy, desperate, mine.
She always wakes up the same way: wet, aching, unsatisfied.
She reaches for her vibrator on the nightstand, but even as she presses it against her clit, she knows it won't be enough. It never is anymore. She comes—hard, fast, grinding into the plastic—but the release is hollow. An echo of what her body actually craves.
She doesn't know what that is.
Her exes were boring. They never made her feel claimed. They never made her scream.
But her body wants something more, something she's never experienced. Or so she thinks.
She sighs, tossing the vibrator aside. Her cunt still throbs, still clenches, still weeps for something she can't name.
Why does this feel like grief?
---
Across the city, perched on a water tower overlooking her block, Peter watches the distant glow of her window with a dark, hungry expression.
He knows.
He's been watching her sleep through the gap in her curtains. He's heard her moans, her whimpers, the desperate sounds she makes when she's lost in a dream he put there—not consciously, but through the lingering threads of the spell that binds them. She can't remember him, but her body can. Her body is a traitor, whispering his name in the language of her muscles, her slick, her trembling thighs.
He clenches his fists, his cock hardening painfully in his suit.
He lets out a slow, shaky breath.
I'll give you what you're craving soon.
He pushes off the water tower, swinging into the night, leaving his mark on the rooftops like a promise.
But he doesn't go far. He lands on the fire escape just outside her window—close enough to hear her frustrated sigh, the rustle of sheets as she rolls over, the quiet, desperate whisper she thinks no one hears:
"What do I need? What's wrong with me?"
He presses a hand to the glass, his rings glinting in the moonlight.
Nothing's wrong with you, love. You just need me.
————
The morning rush at the coffee shop had been mercifully slow, leaving Y/N and Ned with nothing better to do than wipe down the already-clean countertops in a lazy, synchronized rhythm. The TV mounted in the corner murmured in the background—some local news broadcast about a bank robbery in Midtown. The anchor's voice was tinny, almost an afterthought.
"...and witnesses report that Spider-Man intervened just moments after the robbers entered. No casualties reported. The web-slinger made a quick escape as usual—"
Y/N didn't look up. Neither did Ned. It was New York. Spider-Man stopping a robbery was as routine as a subway delay. They'd both heard the name so many times it barely registered anymore—a ghost in red and blue, flickering across screens, saving lives, disappearing.
Ned hummed a tune under his breath, rubbing a smudge off the granite with his thumb. Y/N's mind was elsewhere. Still half-lost in the hazy aftertaste of another dream from last night—the echo of a deep voice, the phantom weight of hands on her hips, the ache between her legs that hadn't fully faded even after she'd come twice this morning.
She bit her lip, grip tightening on the rag.
Focus. Work. Coffee. Normal stuff.
The little bell above the door jingled.
She looked up.
And there he was.
Peter stepped inside, and she felt the air shift. He was breathing hard, his black t-shirt clinging to his torso like a second skin, dark patches of sweat spreading across his chest and under his arms. His hair was damp, plastered to his forehead in messy waves, and a thin sheen of perspiration glistened over his neck and collarbones.
He looked exhausted. But also... good. Really good.
"Hey," Y/N said, her voice coming out a little too breathy. She cleared her throat. "You okay?"
He offered a tired smile, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. "Yeah. Just tired. Killed it at the gym today." He let out a huff of laughter, rolling one shoulder like it ached. "Didn't realize I pushed myself that hard."
She nodded, already moving to make his usual ice americano. Her body went through the motions automatically while her eyes trailed down his frame. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing forearms corded with muscle, veins visible beneath the tanned skin. The sweat highlighted every contour—the arch of his biceps, the column of his throat, the way his chest rose and fell with each controlled breath.
Shit. She felt heat creep up her cheeks.
Her gaze dropped lower, catching a glint of silver at his wrist. A bracelet—woven black cord with a small metallic charm, a roughly shaped star. It looked handmade, well-worn, the edges smooth like it had been touched a thousand times.
She slid the cup across the counter toward him. "That's pretty," she said, nodding at the bracelet.
For a split second, something flickered in his eyes. A flash of emotion too fast to name—hope? Pain? He opened his mouth, and she could've sworn she saw him about to say something, his throat bobbing with a swallow.
Do you remember that you gave this to me?
But the words didn't come. He just watched her as she pulled away from the counter, already turning back to the rag in her hand.
Of course she didn't remember.
"Thanks," she said over her shoulder, already distracted, moving toward the back to restock napkins.
Peter stared at the bracelet on his wrist. The star charm. She'd made it for him on their six-month anniversary, clumsily braiding the cord while sitting cross-legged on his bed, laughing about how she'd never made jewelry before. "So you don't forget me," she'd said, pressing it into his palm. "Wear it even when you're being Spider-Man. I want to be with you, always."
He clenched his jaw, forcing the ache down his throat.
She doesn't remember. Of course she doesn't. You knew that.
Ned slid off his stool and walked over, holding out a napkin. "Hey," he said, his voice soft but pointed. "Your forehead's bleeding a bit."
Peter blinked, reaching up. His fingers came away with a smear of red. Shit. Must've caught a stray piece of debris during the takedown. He'd been too focused on getting there fast—on changing out of the suit in that alley, on making it to the shop before she closed—that he hadn't bothered to check for damage.
"Ah, that." He took the napkin with a casual shrug, pressing it to the cut. "Tripped on the way here. Almost ate pavement. Stupid, I know."
Ned's eyes lingered on him a moment too long, a quiet skepticism behind his gentle gaze. He didn't say anything, but Peter could feel the weight of his unspoken question.
That's a weird place to trip. And you're too banged up for just a fall. And you showed up right after Spider-Man was seen.
But Ned just nodded, taking a slow sip of his own drink. "Be careful," he said simply, and walked back to the counter.
Peter exhaled slowly, pressing the napkin harder against his temple. He watched Y/N move behind the counter, her hair tied in a messy bun, a few strands escaping to frame her face. She was beautiful. She was his. And she didn't even know it.
He took a long sip of the coffee she'd made him, letting the bitterness ground him.
He smiled against the rim of the cup, eyes fixed on the curve of her back as she bent down to grab more cups from the low shelf.
The bracelet gleamed on his wrist like a promise.
The morning air in Manhattan carried the usual cocktail of exhaust fumes, pretzel cart steam, and distant sirens. Y/N walked with her messenger bag slung across her body, earbuds in, a playlist of lo-fi beats keeping her grounded. The New York Chronicle skyscraper loomed ahead, all glass and steel, reflecting the pale winter sun. She was running a little early today, which meant she could grab a decent coffee from the lobby cart before heading up to her desk.
She was two blocks away when the screaming started.
At first, it was distant—a ripple through the crowd ahead. Then it grew, a wave of panic rolling toward her. People began sprinting in her direction, faces twisted with fear, elbows knocking pamphlets and coffee cups out of the way. A woman clutching a toddler nearly collided with her.
"What—" Y/N pulled out her earbuds, heart lurching. "What's happening?"
No one stopped to answer. The tide of bodies pushed past her, and she stumbled sideways, grabbing a lamppost to steady herself. Then she saw it: a column of smoke rising from the base of the Chronicle building. Orange flames licked at a collapsed awning. Glass littered the street like crushed diamonds.
Oh god. That's the lobby.
Her feet started moving before her brain caught up. She had to get in there. Had to see if her coworkers—her editor, the layout team, Maria from HR who always gave her extra granola bars—were okay. Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She ignored it.
"HEY!"
A blur of red and blue dropped from above, landing in front of her with a soft thud that cracked the asphalt. She yelped, skidding to a halt.
Spider-Man.
His lenses narrowed, body angled like he was about to grab her.
"What the hell are you doing?" His voice was modulated, sharp with urgency. "There's a gas leak—could blow again any second. Get back."
"I have to see if the people in that building are okay!" She tried to sidestep him, but he moved with her, a wall of spandex and muscle.
"I'll check. You stay here." He pointed a gloved finger at the sidewalk behind her. "Don't move."
She barely registered that she'd just been ordered around by a superhero. Her heart was hammering. The smoke stung her nostrils. "I'm not just going to—"
He was already turning, preparing to leap. She took a step forward, following him.
A sharp thwip sliced through the air.
Something snapped around her right wrist—a rope of white webbing, sticky and warm, yanking her arm sideways. She stumbled, grunting, and found herself anchored to the handle of a police cruiser parked at the curb. The web held fast, elastic but unyielding.
"What the hell?!" She yanked at her wrist, but the webbing stretched and held. "Are you serious right now?!"
Spider-Man paused, tilting his head. She could almost hear the smirk behind the mask. "Nope. Wait here. I'll free you after I'm sure it's safe."
And then he was gone, a red streak disappearing into the smoke-filled doorway.
Y/N stood there, arm stretched awkwardly toward the cop car, jaw hanging open. People were still running past her, but the immediate panic was thinning. She looked at her wrist, at the white strands wrapped snugly around it, and felt a jolt—not of anger, but of something else.
The texture. The pressure. The slight give when she pulled.
Her breath caught.
She was in her bedroom. The lights were dim. Her wrist was bound to the bedpost with...not a rope...not a scarf...something else entirely. Her arms stretched above her head and a dark figure hovered over her. She couldn't see his face, but she could feel his weight, his heat, the deep rumble of his voice against her ear.
"Stay still, baby. I'm not done with you yet."
The memory dissolved as quickly as it came, leaving her gasping on the sidewalk, knees weak.
What the fuck?
She shook her head violently, pressing her free hand to her flushed cheek. "I'm starting to feel like a fucking sex addict," she muttered under her breath. Of all the things to think about right now—tied to a car by Spider-Man—her brain was conjuring erotic flashbacks? With...Spider-Man? For all she knew, the guy was a forty-year-old accountant underneath that suit. He could be balding.
But he didn't move like a forty-year-old. And his voice, even through the modulator, had a certain quality—young, confident, teasing.
She shook her head again, harder. Stop it. Focus. The building.
A few minutes passed. The fire trucks arrived. EMTs started setting up a triage zone. Y/N strained her neck, trying to see if anyone was being carried out. She pulled at the web again, frustrated, but it held true.
Then Spider-Man emerged from the smoke, walking casually now, hands on his hips. He jogged over to her.
"Building's clear. No casualties. Gas leak was contained before it got worse. Minor injuries, but everyone's out." He reached for the web on her wrist and gave it a sharp tug setting her free.
She rubbed her wrist, red and slightly raw. "That wasn't cool. You could have just asked me to stay."
"I did. You didn't listen." He shrugged, the motion exaggerated by the suit's padding. "You should be more careful. People get hurt when they run toward explosions."
"I work there." She glared at him. "I was worried about my friends."
He was quiet for a second, his head tilted. She could feel his gaze through the white lenses, studying her. There was something familiar about the angle of his jaw, the set of his shoulders.
Then he straightened. "Bye."
And with a single leap, he was gone, swinging between buildings, disappearing into the Manhattan skyline before she could even respond.
Y/N stood there, mouth half-open, hand still rubbing her wrist. The phantom sensation of the web lingered—soft, taut, possessive. Her skin tingled where it had been wrapped.
Why does that feel like a memory I can't reach?
She stared up at the empty sky, the smoke still curling into the gray clouds.
And for some reason, her thighs pressed together.
Get a grip, Y/N. He's a stranger in a mask.
But her body didn't believe that. Not for a second.
The evening air did nothing to cool the heat lingering beneath Y/N's skin. After the chaos at the Chronicle building, after being webbed to a police car like some disobedient puppy, after the shredded remains of her dignity scattered across Sixth Avenue—she'd gone through the motions. Talked to her editor. Confirmed everyone was safe. Filed a preliminary report on the gas leak. Smiled at Maria's thanks.
But all the way home, her wrist tingled. The ghost of that webbing refused to fade.
Now she stood in her apartment, shoes kicked off, coat thrown over the armchair. The city lights bled through her window, painting amber stripes across her wooden floor. She should shower. Eat something. Answer the three texts Ned had sent asking if she was okay.
Instead, she grabbed her laptop and collapsed onto her bed, flipping it open.
YouTube.
Her fingers moved before she could talk herself out of it. She typed in the search bar: Spider-Man New York 2024.
The results flooded the screen. News clips. Fan edits. Compilations titled "Spider-Man's Top 10 Saves" and "Spider-Man Being a Menace for 12 Minutes Straight." She clicked the first one—a news report from two months ago, shaky cell phone footage of Spider-Man webbing a falling construction beam before it crushed a bus.
She watched it twice. Then a third time.
The comments section was a battlefield.
"whoever is under that suit is DEFINITELY packing i'm not taking questions"
"imagine getting railed by spider-man... the grip?? the stamina???"
"he literally fights crime every night and still has time to help old ladies cross the street... husband material"
"plot twist: he's actually a 50 year old dude with a beer belly and we're all just simping for spandex"
"even if he is 50 i'd still let him web me to the bed 🥴"
Y/N snorted despite herself, scrolling deeper. The thirst was real, embarrassingly real. These women were out there, posting paragraphs about what they'd let Spider-Man do to them. What they'd do to him. She felt a pang of something—not judgment, because who was she to judge—but recognition.
She'd felt that web around her wrist. She'd felt the possessiveness in that single thwip.
And God help her, she wanted to feel it again.
She clicked on another video. This one was different—a street interview, low-budget, filmed by someone's phone. The camera focused on Spider-Man, standing casually beside a hot dog cart, and standing next to him was a little boy—maybe eight years old, holding a notebook.
The interviewer says, "We've got a special guest today—this is Liam, and he wanted to ask Spider-Man a few questions."
Spider-Man crouched down to the boy's level. His lenses softened, tilted—the body language of someone genuinely engaged. He reached out and patted the kid's head, a casual, affectionate gesture.
"Go ahead, Liam. I'm all ears."
And he laughed—a low, warm chuckle that cut through the modulator like a blade through silk.
Y/N's breath hitched.
That laugh. She knew that laugh. It tickled something deep in her chest, a phantom sensation, like a voice calling from underwater. Her fingers tightened on the laptop. She replayed it. Once. Twice. Three times.
"I'm all ears."
The way he said it—teasing, gentle, familiar.
She shook her head, hard. You're projecting. Every guy laughs. It's not him. You don't even know who "him" is.
But her skin was prickling. Her thighs pressed together under the laptop.
She kept scrolling.
There was a Reddit link. r/SpiderManFantasies (NSFW). Her thumb hovered over it for a full ten seconds before she clicked.
The forum was a treasure trove of desperation. Women (and some men) posting photos they'd taken of Spider-Man mid-swing, or perched on a rooftop, or standing in the middle of a street after a rescue. The photos weren't explicit—they couldn't be, he was fully suited—but the captions were anything but.
"If I ever meet him I'm dropping to my knees immediately. That suit does NOT hide what he's working with."
"Imagine him pinning you down after a fight, all that adrenaline still pumping... you'd feel the bass in his chest."
"I don't even care what he looks like. I just want one night. ONE. NIGHT. With whoever is under that mask."
One post showed a blurry shot of Spider-Man crouched on a fire escape, his legs spread, the suit stretching taut across his thighs. The caption read: "I want to sit on his face and never get up."
Y/N closed the laptop so fast the screen clicked shut.
Her heart was hammering. Her cheeks burned. She pressed a hand to her forehead, groaning.
"I'm not above this," she whispered to the empty room. "I'm so far below this it's embarrassing."
She threw the laptop aside and flopped onto her back, staring at the ceiling. The city hummed outside—distant sirens, a neighbor's TV, the low bass of a car passing by. Her skin felt too tight. Her cunt ached, a dull, persistent throb that had been living in her bones for weeks now.
The clock on her nightstand read 11:47 PM when Y/N finally collapsed onto her bed, still wearing her jeans and a thin camisole.
Sleep came heavy and reluctant.
---
She woke with a gasp, thighs pressed together, a dull throb between her legs.
The clock read 2:47 AM.
Her skin was damp with sweat. Her nipples were hard, rubbing against the cotton of her shirt. She'd been dreaming again—fragments of a body above her, weight pressing her into the mattress, a warm mouth trailing down her stomach. She couldn't see his face, but she could feel his hands. Strong, calloused, knowing exactly where to touch.
"I've got you, baby. I've always got you."
She threw an arm over her eyes, breathing hard. She was wet, aching, clenching around nothing. She slid a hand down her belly, into her underwear, her fingers finding her clit swollen and desperate.
She rubbed herself slowly, trying to chase a release that never came. She imagined the web wrapped around her wrist again. Spider-Man's lenses staring down at her. The low laugh from the video.
"Fuck," she whimpered, fingers moving faster. But it wasn't enough. It was never enough. She could feel a shape just out of reach.
Her body remembered. Her mind didn't.
She pressed her palm harder, hips bucking, but the orgasm hovered like a mirage, untouchable. She let out a frustrated sob, pulling her hand away, her chest heaving.
Outside, on the fire escape, a shadow shifted.
Peter pressed his back against the brick wall, his own breathing uneven. He'd heard her whimper through the glass. Heard the wet sound of her fingers working. The whine of her frustration when she couldn't finish.
His cock was hard, straining against the suit. He'd come here to check on her after the explosion—to make sure she was safe, to watch her sleep like he did most nights. He hadn't expected this.
But he couldn't leave. Not while she was aching.
Not when he was the only one who could fix it.
He pressed a palm against the cold glass of her window, the mask hiding the anguish on his face. Soon, he told himself. Soon I'll find a way.
But for now, he just listened to her breathe, and hated the spell that kept them apart.
———
The knock that rattled Ned's door at 11 PM was frantic—three sharp, pounding hits, then a pause, then another. He barely had time to unlatch the lock before Y/N pushed past him into his apartment, her eyes wild, her hair a mess, her chest heaving like she'd run the whole way.
"Okay," she said, hands on her hips, pacing his narrow living room. "You were right. You were fucking right."
Ned closed the door slowly, crossing his arms. He was in sweatpants and an old band tee, clearly winding down for the night. "Right about what, exactly? Because I'm right about a lot of things."
She whirled on him, jaw tight. "The sex thing. The needing-to-get-laid thing. The I'm crawling out of my skin thing." She raked her fingers through her hair, tugging at the roots. "It's not just being horny, Ned. It's like—" She stopped, struggling for words. "It's like my body is craving something specific. A specific touch. A specific rhythm. A specific person. But I don't know who or what. I don't remember. I just feel this ache that nothing fills."
Ned's teasing demeanor softened. He gestured to the couch, and she collapsed onto it, head in her hands.
He sat beside her, voice careful. "An ex? Someone you dated before? Maybe your brain locked away a breakup that hit you harder than you think."
She looked up, rolling her eyes so hard it was almost audible. "No. It's not an ex. I don't have any traumatic breakup memory. It's—" She groaned, frustrated. "I don't know. It feels like a ghost. A phantom limb."
Ned was quiet for a moment. Then he said, slowly, "Maybe you don't need to find that specific person. Maybe you just need to try someone new."
She blinked at him. The idea hung in the air, fresh and foreign.
"Someone new," she repeated, tasting the words.
"Someone who doesn't come with baggage or memories. Someone who can just—" He made a vague gesture. "Fuck you into forgetting whatever's haunting you. A clean slate. A hot body. A night of no strings."
She stared at him. Then, slowly, a nod. "Maybe you're right."
His grin spread wide. "I am right. And I know exactly how to start." He pulled out his phone, already scrolling. "There's that new nightclub in midtown. Opened last week. 'Velvet Underground.' It's got black lights, VIP booths, and supposedly a very attractive bartender who does body shots. I've been dying to go."
"A club," she said flatly.
"A club where you can find a guy—or girl, no judgment—who will take you home and fuck you until you forget your own name. That kind of club."
She chewed her lip. The idea terrified her. Thrilled her. She thought of her empty bed, the wet sheets, the incomplete orgasms. She thought of the phantom hands in her dreams.
"Okay," she whispered. "Okay. Let's do it."
Ned clapped his hands together. "Yes. I'll text you the details. Wear something slutty. I'm talking a dress that says 'I'm here to get railed.'"
She laughed—a real laugh, shaky but genuine. "You're such a bad influence."
"Someone has to be."
They spent the next hour planning. What time to arrive. Which drinks to order. An exit strategy if the guy was a creep. Y/N felt lighter than she had in weeks, a fragile hope blooming in her chest.
---
Outside, pressed against the brick wall of the adjacent building, a figure in red and blue watched through the sliver of curtain left uncovered.
Peter's hands curled into fists.
His jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached.
Someone new.
The words echoed in his skull, each syllable a knife twist. She was going to let some stranger touch her. Some random guy from a club. He'd put his hands on her skin, his mouth on her throat...
A low, guttural sound escaped his throat, muffled by the mask.
No. Absolutely fucking not.
He pushed off the wall, landing silently on the fire escape below. His mind raced. He couldn't stop her—not directly. He couldn't reveal himself, couldn't break the spell. But he could intercept. He could follow. He could make sure that no one—no one—got close enough to touch what was his.
Even if she didn't remember it.
He swung into the night, a plan already forming. The club. He'd be there. Not as Spider-Man—too obvious. He'd ditch the suit, put on something tight, something that would make her look. He'd find her on the dance floor, buy her a drink, let the night unfold.
The hunt was on.
The strapless bodycon dress was a weapon, and Y/N knew it.
Black velvet hugged every curve from her collarbone to mid-thigh, the hem riding up just enough to make men's eyes glaze over. She'd paired it with strappy heels that made her legs look miles long and a thin silver necklace that caught the light. Her hair fell in loose waves, makeup smoky and deliberate.
Ned let out a low whistle when she stepped out of her bedroom. "Holy shit."
"Too much?" She tugged at the neckline nervously.
"Not enough. You're going to break necks tonight. Possibly some hearts too, but who's counting." He offered his arm. "Shall we?"
She took it, laughing. "Let's get me laid."
---
The Velvet Underground lived up to its name. The interior was all dark burgundy and dim gold lighting, with a massive dance floor pulsing under black lights that made white fabrics glow. Bodies moved together in a haze of sweat and bass, the air thick with perfume and alcohol.
They claimed a spot at the bar, and Ned ordered them both shots of tequila. "Warm-up," he shouted over the music.
Y/N downed hers, grimacing at the burn. A second followed. Then a third.
By the fourth, the edges of her anxiety had blurred into a pleasant haze. The bass thrummed through her bones, and she found herself swaying, scanning the crowd. Potential candidates everywhere—sharp jawlines, broad shoulders, confident grins.
None of them made her stomach flip.
But then the door opened.
And he walked in.
Peter had planned this.
Tight black jeans that hugged his thighs and sat low on his hips. A simple white T-shirt, thin enough that the outline of his chest was visible when he moved. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, exposing the veins in his forearms. He'd styled his hair messy, like he'd just rolled out of bed, and he wore that lazy half-smirk that had always made her knees weak.
Her favorite outfit.
He remembered the first time she'd seen him in it. They'd been dating for a few weeks, and he'd shown up at her door looking like this. She'd pulled him inside by his collar, pinned him against the wall, and kissed him so deep he'd seen stars. Her hands had tangled in his hair, pulling, while the other roamed down his stomach to palm him through the denim. She'd broken the kiss just to whisper against his lips, "You look so good it should be illegal. I want to ruin you."
And she had. For hours.
He carried that memory in his bones as he pushed open the club door, scanning the crowd with practiced casualness. His eyes landed on the bar.
There she was.
Strapless black dress. Hair loose. Cheeks flushed from alcohol. She was even more beautiful than he remembered—which was saying something, because he remembered every detail.
He pretended not to see her at first. Ordered a drink. Leaned against the bar, letting the black lights catch the contours of his arms.
Then Ned spotted him.
"Hey! Peter!"
Peter turned, feigning surprise. His eyes landed on Y/N, and he let them widen slightly—just enough. "Oh. Hey. Didn't expect to see you guys here."
Y/N's breath caught. Her lips parted, a soft gasp escaping. "Hi."
Just that. Hi. But the word came out breathy, almost involuntary.
Ned gestured him over. "Come join us. We're just warming up. Y/N's on a mission tonight."
"A mission?" Peter raised an eyebrow, sliding onto the stool beside her. Close enough that his knee brushed hers under the bar. "Sounds intriguing."
She opened her mouth to respond, but the words came out slurred. "M'sion... find someone... hot..."
Ned sighed. "I think the tequila hit faster than expected."
Peter smiled knowingly. She always did get tipsy fast. Three drinks and she'd be clinging to him, whispering dirty things in his ear. Four and she'd be begging to go home. Five and she'd be asleep before they hit the door.
"I can help you get her home," he offered, voice steady. "If you want."
Ned looked relieved. "God, yes. I was not looking forward to carrying her six blocks in those heels."
They helped her off the stool. Her legs wobbled, and she stumbled forward—
Right into Peter's arms.
Her palms landed flat on his chest. Her head tipped up, eyes glassy and unfocused. She blinked at him, a dopey smile spreading across her face. "Wow. You're... strong."
His hands caught her waist, steadying her. The velvet of her dress was soft under his fingers, her skin warm beneath the fabric. He could feel the rapid flutter of her pulse.
He lowered his voice, letting it dip into that husky register she'd always loved. "Oh yea?"
She nodded, earnest and drunk. "Mmhm. Like... hero strong."
If only you knew.
Ned was already heading for the door, waving them along. Peter kept one arm around Y/N's waist, guiding her out into the cool night air. The city hummed around them, taxis honking, distant sirens, the buzz of neon signs.
The walk to her apartment was slow. She kept tripping on cracks, leaning into him, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. At one point she looked up at him, squinting.
"You smell... familiar."
His chest tightened. "Good familiar or bad familiar?"
"Good." She nuzzled into his shoulder. "Really good."
Ned shot him a look—half curious, half amused. Peter just shrugged, playing it casual, though his heart was hammering.
They reached her building. Ned held the door while Peter helped her up the stairs. At her apartment door, she fumbled with her keys, nearly dropping them twice.
When she finally got it open, she turned around, throwing her arms around both of them in a messy group hug.
"Thank you," she mumbled into Ned's shoulder. "You're the best."
She pulled back, swaying slightly, and turned to Peter.
Her eyes met his.
The air between them thickened.
"You..." She reached up, touching his cheek with drunken clumsiness. Her thumb brushed his jawline. "You look so good tonight."
The words came out soft. Barely a whisper. Heavy with something she couldn't name.
Peter's throat tightened. He wanted to grab her, pull her inside, pin her against that door and remind her exactly what she was missing. He wanted to kiss that drunk confession off her lips and replace it with moans.
But not yet.
Not yet.
He smiled, gentle and aching. "Get some sleep, Y/N."
She blinked slowly, then ducked inside, closing the door with a soft click.
The lock turned.
Peter stood there for a long moment, hand pressed flat against the wood. He could hear her on the other side, shuffling, probably kicking off her heels.
"She say something?" Ned asked from behind.
"Just saying goodnight."
Ned hummed, unconvinced. "You know, for a guy who just met her, you're pretty invested."
Peter turned, keeping his face neutral. "She's a friend. I don't like seeing friends drunk and alone."
"Uh huh." Ned didn't push. "Well, thanks for the help. I'm gonna crash. See you around, Peter."
"Yeah. See you."
When Ned disappeared down the stairwell, Peter let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
He pressed his forehead to the door, listening. On the other side, he heard her humming—off-key, sleepy—as she padded toward her bedroom.
Soon, he promised himself. Soon she'll know.
But for tonight, he'd settle for knowing that even drunk and confused, she still thought he looked good.
That was enough.
For now.
The door clicked shut behind him, and the silence of his apartment swallowed him whole.
Peter stood there for a long moment, forehead pressed against the wood, listening to the echo of her voice in his head. You look so good tonight. Drunk, slurred, honest. She'd meant it. Even without knowing who he was, her body remembered. Her eyes had traced the lines of his shoulders, the curve of his jaw, and something deep in her gut had stirred.
But she was inside, alone, probably already curled up in bed, dreaming of strangers.
And he was out here. Alone. Again.
He pushed off the door and walked to his kitchen, grabbing a glass of water he didn't want. The apartment was too quiet. Too empty. The walls seemed to press in on him, carrying the weight of every night he'd spent like this—restless, aching, watching the clock tick toward dawn while the city hummed outside.
It's hard when no one loves you and the ones you love can't remember you.
He set the glass down harder than intended. It cracked. Water spilled across the counter.
"Fuck."
He stood there, dripping, staring at his own reflection in the dark window. A stranger in his own life. Spider-Man saved people. Peter saved no one. Not even himself.
He loved being Spider-Man. Loved the rush of swinging between buildings, the wind in his face, the sound of sirens fading as he swooped in to help. Loved the gratitude in strangers' eyes when he pulled them from wrecks, the way kids pointed up at him with awe.
But Peter deserved his own life too. A job he didn't have to hide. Friends who called him by his real name. A girl who looked at him like he was the only man in the world.
He closed his eyes, and there she was. Y/N. Laughing. Touching his face. Whining his name in that breathless way she used to when he was inside her.
"You're so good, Peter. Fuck—don't stop—"
His hand curled into a fist.
Then his spider-sense flared.
Sharp. Urgent. Something wrong.
He sighed, heavy and resigned, and reached for the suit.
---
The city was cruel tonight.
He swung from rooftop to rooftop, the wind biting at the exposed skin of his face and hands. Below, the neon lights of Manhattan bled into puddles on wet asphalt. Somewhere, a woman screamed—he veered toward it, landing on a fire escape to find a mugger wrestling a purse from an elderly lady. He webbed the guy to a lamppost in seconds, returned the purse, and was gone before the woman could finish thanking him.
Two blocks over, a car crash. He helped pull a family out before the fuel line sparked.
A domestic disturbance. He talked a man down from a balcony ledge.
A break-in at a convenience store.
A fire on the Lower East Side.
He kept moving. Kept saving. Kept pretending that each life he touched filled the hole inside him.
But it didn't.
Because the whole time, in the back of his mind, he was thinking of her. Her safety. Her smile. The way she used to trace the scars on his shoulders after a bad fight, her voice soft with worry: "You can't keep doing this, Peter. One day you won't come back."
And he'd kissed her forehead and promised he'd always come back to her.
Now she didn't even know to wait.
---
He landed on a rooftop overlooking her building.
The lights were off in her apartment. She was asleep, probably still drunk, tangled in sheets that smelled like her perfume. He imagined her lips slightly parted, hair fanned across the pillow, the slow rise and fall of her chest.
He pulled out the photo he kept tucked inside his suit. Polaroid, edges worn from handling. Her smiling at the camera, hair messy, wearing his hoodie. She'd taken it one morning after they'd spent the whole night tangled together. He'd been making coffee, and she'd grabbed his phone, snapped the picture just as he turned around.
"So I can look at you even when you're gone," she'd said.
He didn't know she'd end up being the one gone.
He pressed his thumb to her face, tracing the curve of her smile.
Soon.
Soon, he'd find a way. Something drastic. Something that would break through the spell's hold and make her remember—or at least make her feel it, even if she couldn't name it.
Soon, he'd be inside her apartment. Inside her. Reminding her exactly what she was missing.
But for now, he tucked the photo back, turned toward the next siren, and launched himself into the night.
For her. Always for her.
The bell above the door chimed, and Peter walked in like he owned the place.
Y/N looked up from the register, head pounding, eyes barely open. Her hair was pulled into a messy knot, and she was pretty sure she still smelled like last night's cheap perfume and regret. The hangover was a dull throb behind her eyes, a punishment for every shot Ned had convinced her to take.
She squinted at him. Him. The guy with the dangerous smile and the bracelet she didn't remember giving him.
"Morning," she grumbled, not even trying to sound pleasant.
He grinned. Actually grinned, like her misery was the highlight of his day. "Someone had fun last night."
"Someone regrets everything."
He laughed—that low, easy sound that did something annoying to her stomach—and walked past her to the counter. "Just the usual, please."
She turned to make it, moving slow, her head throbbing with every step. The espresso machine hissed, and she winced.
Behind her, she heard the door open again—a small commotion, a child's voice. She glanced over her shoulder.
A little boy, maybe seven or eight, had run in too fast, his backpack swinging. He collided with the table where Peter had set his bag, sending it toppling. But before it could hit the ground, Peter's hand shot out, catching it mid-air with reflexes too fast, too precise.
"Sorry, mister!" the boy said, eyes wide.
Peter just smiled, crouching down to the kid's level. "It's okay, buddy. No harm done." And he reached out, ruffling the boy's hair with an easy, affectionate motion.
Y/N froze.
The gesture. The way his fingers moved through the dark strands, the gentle mock-scolding in his tone. It was exactly how Spider-Man had ruffled that kid's hair in the interview she watched online. She'd watched the clip multiple times, her body heating each time—the way those gloved fingers had been so careful, so human, beneath the mask.
She blinked, shaking off the thought. No. That's ridiculous. Lots of people ruffle kids' hair.
But something nagged at her. The precision of the catch. The casual confidence. The way he moved.
Peter straightened, catching her stare. His eyebrow arched. "Something wrong?"
She realized she'd been staring. Heat crept up her neck. "No. Nothing. Your coffee."
She shoved the cup toward him, maybe a little too aggressively. He took it, amused, and leaned against the counter instead of leaving like a normal person.
She needed to get this over with.
"Listen," she said, forcing herself to meet his eyes. "About last night. I was... a lot. I know I was all over you, and I'm sorry. I don't usually—I mean, I was drunk, and Ned was being an ass, and—"
"Cute."
She stopped. "What?"
"You were cute." He took a sip of his coffee, watching her over the rim. "Not 'a lot.' Cute."
Her face burned. She opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again. No words came out. Just a stupid, flustered silence.
He smiled—that knowing, crooked smile that made her knees weak—and pushed off from the counter. "See you around, Y/N."
He walked out, the bell chiming behind him.
She stood there, heart hammering, watching him disappear down the street.
Fuck.
She touched her cheek. It was hot. She was blushing like a teenager. And worst of all, she was thinking about him—the scent of his cologne, the strength in his hands when he'd caught that bag, the way his voice had dipped when he said "cute."
She shook her head, turning back to the register.
But as she wiped down the counter, her mind wandered. To Spider-Man. To Peter. To the way both of them made her feel seen in a way she couldn't explain.
Maybe I have a crush on him.
She bit her lip.
Or maybe I'm just that desperate.
But even as she thought it, she knew it wasn't true. There was something about him. Something familiar. Something that pulled at the edges of her memory, just out of reach.
And somewhere across the city, swinging between rooftops, Peter smiled to himself, her blush burned into his mind.
Soon, he thought. Soon, you'll remember.
The city was settling into dusk, streetlights flickering to life as Y/N walked home, her bag slung over one shoulder. The hangover had faded to a dull ache, replaced by the restless energy that had been gnawing at her all day. She was thinking about Peter—the way he'd laughed, the way his hand had caught that bag, the way he'd called her cute.
She was so lost in thought she almost missed the commotion.
A sharp cry. An old man's voice, cracked with panic. "Help! Someone help!"
Y/N's head snapped up. Across the street, a figure in a hoodie was sprinting away, an old leather bag clutched under his arm. Behind him, an elderly man stumbled, reaching out helplessly.
"Hey!" Y/N didn't think. She ran.
Three blocks. Her lungs burned, her legs pumping, the thief weaving through pedestrians. She was fast—she'd always been fast—but he was younger, more desperate. He ducked into a narrow alley, reeking of garbage and stale urine.
She followed without hesitation.
The alley was dark, shadows pooling like liquid. She could hear his footsteps echoing, slowing. He was cornered. She rounded a corner, ready to tackle him—
And then he was gone.
No. Not gone. Pinned.
A figure in red and blue dropped from above, landing silently. The thief was already webbed to a wall, the bag dangling from Spider-Man's hand. The hero turned to her, the white lenses of his mask catching the faint light.
"You really need to stop running into danger," he said, his voice modulated, teasing.
Y/N's heart pounded—not from the chase, but from him. From the way he stood, the way he moved.
She tried to step forward, to get a better look at the thief, to see where he'd gone into the darkness—
A thwip. A strand of web shot out, catching her wrist, yanking it to the brick wall beside her.
She stared at her hand, pinned by the familiar white silk. Again.
"Are you kidding me?" she snapped, yanking at the web. It held firm. "You can't just—"
"Watch and learn," Spider-Man said, and in two quick moves, he had the thief subdued, the bag retrieved, a police call tapped into his comm—all while she stood there, helpless, a memory flickering in the back of her mind.
Webs. Restraint. A voice whispering in the dark. Hands on her wrists, pinning her down. A body pressing against hers, the rough texture of a suit, the heat beneath it.
She blinked, the image dissolving like smoke.
He was in front of her now, the old man's bag tucked under one arm. He reached up and flicked the web on her wrist. It dissolved instantly, dropping her hand.
"You're free," he said. "Now go home. It's not safe."
She rubbed her wrist, glaring at him. "You can't just do that whenever you want! I was helping! I could have—"
She stepped forward, jabbing a finger at his chest plate. "You don't get to decide when I'm in danger! You don't get to just—"
She pushed him. Hard. He didn't move, but she kept going, frustration boiling over, her hands flat against his chest—
And then her foot caught on a loose piece of asphalt.
She stumbled forward, off-balance, straight into him.
Her body collided with his, her hands instinctively grabbing his arms to steady herself. Her fingers wrapped around his biceps, the fabric of his suit smooth and textured beneath her palms.
And something clicked.
The feel of it—the tight compression, the subtle ribbing, the exact way the material hugged the muscle underneath—sent a shiver through her. Her eyes widened. She didn't know why, but her hands began to move, sliding down his arms slowly, almost reverently. She felt the curve of his shoulders, the strength of his forearms, the way his muscles tensed under her touch.
She looked up.
The mask stared back at her, white lenses unreadable. But she could feel him watching her, feel the sudden stillness in his body.
Her breath caught. She could see him beneath the mask. Not his face, but something else. A feeling. A memory just out of reach.
I know you. I've felt you before.
She lifted a hand, reaching for his mask, her fingers trembling—
He stepped back.
Just one step, but it was enough to break her hold. Her hand hung in the air, empty.
"I have to go," he said, his voice tighter now, less playful. He set the bag down. "The police are on their way. Stay safe."
And before she could say another word, he was gone—a blur of red and blue vanishing into the night sky, leaving her alone in the dark alley, the old man's bag at her feet, her skin still tingling where she'd touched him.
She stood there, heart racing, frustration and confusion twisting in her chest.
Why does he feel so familiar?
She clenched her fists. It was like a word on the tip of her tongue, a name she couldn't remember, a face she couldn't see.
And yet, he's a stranger.
She bent down, picked up the bag, and walked out of the alley, her mind churning.
Who are you?
The question echoed in the empty space where Spider-Man had been. And somewhere, high above, hidden in the shadows, Peter watched her go, his hands shaking, his heart aching with the weight of everything she didn't remember.
——————————
The bell above the café door chimed, and Y/N's heart did a little flip she immediately suppressed.
Peter walked in, all easy confidence in a loose black t-shirt and those worn jeans that hung just right on his hips. He ran a hand through his hair—still slightly damp, like he'd just showered—and gave her a small smile as he approached the counter.
"Morning, Y/N."
She should have said something. She should have smiled back, asked for his usual order, made some casual remark about the weather. But her mind was still reeling from last night. The alley. The webs. The way her hands had traced the suit's texture like her fingers remembered what her brain couldn't.
Instead, she just nodded, her movements mechanical as she punched in his order. "Americano."
He blinked, clearly noticing her clipped tone. "Yeah. Thanks."
She turned to make the coffee, her back to him, feeling his gaze on her. She could sense the question in his silence—what's wrong?—but she couldn't bring herself to address it. She didn't know what to say. Hey, I think you might be the superhero who's been haunting my dreams and my subconscious sex life, but I can't be sure, so just pretend everything's normal.
She slid the cup across the counter. He took it, their fingers almost brushing. She pulled back too fast.
"Thanks," he said again, slower this time, searching her face.
She just nodded and turned to wipe down the counter, even though it was already clean.
The café was quiet—a lull between the morning rush and the lunch crowd. Ned was in the back, restocking cups, humming something under his breath. Y/N busied herself with meaningless tasks, acutely aware of Peter settling into his usual table by the window, pulling out his phone.
He didn't look at her again. Or maybe he did, in brief glances she pretended not to notice.
After a few minutes, he stood up, stretching his arms above his head. The motion pulled his shirt up just slightly, revealing a sliver of his stomach. Y/N's eyes tracked it before she forced them away.
"Bathroom," he said, more to announce it than anything, and disappeared through the back hallway.
The moment the door clicked shut, Ned emerged from the stockroom, his eyes gleaming with mischief.
"Okay. Now's my chance."
Y/N frowned. "What chance?"
Ned didn't answer. He darted to Peter's table, where the worn leather messenger bag sat propped against the chair leg.
"Ned, what the hell—"
"Shh." He was already crouching, unzipping the bag with practiced ease. "He's so mysterious. I just want to snoop a little. See if he's hiding anything interesting."
Y/N's heart lurched. "Stop! Put that back." She hissed, crossing the café in three quick strides. "What are you doing? That's his private stuff—"
"Relax, I'm just looking." Ned's hands moved through the bag's contents—a wallet, a phone, a protein bar wrapper, a small notebook. "Boring, boring, boring. How does this guy have no personality in his bag?"
"Ned, I swear to God—"
He pulled out a crumpled piece of fabric. Dark red and blue, folded into a rough square.
His eyebrows shot up. "Oh, he's a fan."
He unfolded it, and Y/N's breath caught in her throat.
It was a mask. A Spider-Man mask. The white lenses stared up at her, empty and familiar.
Ned held it up, smirking. "See? Fanboy. Probably wears it to bed or something." He scoffed, tossing it carelessly back into the bag. "Guess even mysterious guys have heroes."
But Y/N wasn't listening.
She reached down, her fingers trembling, and picked up the mask. The fabric was cool against her skin. She ran her thumb across the surface—the subtle ribbing, the tight weave, the exact texture that had pressed against her palms last night.
The same texture.
Her blood ran cold.
She remembered the alley. The way her hands had slid down Spider-Man's arms. The way the suit had felt beneath her fingers. The way her body had known it, even when her mind couldn't.
This was the same mask. The same fabric. The same—
She looked up. Ned was staring at her, his smirk fading into confusion. "You okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."
She couldn't speak. Her throat was tight, her heart pounding so hard she could hear it in her ears.
She was holding Spider-Man's mask.
Peter's mask.
Peter is Spider-Man.
The realization hit her like a freight train, knocking the air from her lungs. She stood there, frozen, the fabric clutched in her hands, the truth burning through her.
He's the one who saved me. He's the one who webs me to walls. He's the one who watches me from the shadows.
He's the one I've been dreaming about.
She thought of the dreams—the vivid, explicit dreams where Spider-Man's voice had whispered filthy things in her ear, where his hands had pinned her down, where his body had moved inside hers like he knew every inch of her. The dreams where she had arched into him, moaning, pleading, coming undone.
Her face flushed, her thighs pressing together involuntarily.
Oh God.
She had been dreaming about him. About the man who had been coming into her café, smiling at her, teasing her, touching her—and she hadn't known.
But her body had.
Her body had remembered.
"Y/N?" Ned's voice was sharper now. "Put it back. He'll be out any second."
She forced her hands to move, folding the mask roughly and shoving it back into the bag. She zipped it closed just as the bathroom door creaked open.
Peter emerged, wiping his hands on his jeans. He glanced at them—Ned standing awkwardly by the table, Y/N frozen behind the counter—and his brow furrowed.
"Everything okay?"
"Fine!" Ned said, too quickly. "Great. Just—telling Y/N about a thing. A thing I saw. Bye."
He scurried back to the stockroom, leaving Y/N alone with Peter.
He walked to the counter, picking up his coffee, his eyes studying her. "You sure you're okay? You seem... off today."
She couldn't look at him. She stared at the counter, at the espresso machine, at anything but his face.
"I'm fine," she said, her voice flat. "Just tired."
He didn't push. He just nodded, taking a sip of his coffee. "Alright. I'll see you later, then."
He turned and walked out, the bell chiming behind him.
Y/N stood there, her heart pounding, her mind racing.
Peter is Spider-Man.
And she had been dreaming of him fucking her senseless.
She pressed a hand to her chest, feeling the rapid thrum of her pulse. A strange mix of fear, confusion, and something else—something hot and hungry—coiled in her stomach.
She had questions. So many questions.
But more than that, she had a need.
A need to find out if the dreams were somehow real.
----------
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summary: When choosing a female agent to send back in time to gain young Sergeant Barnes's trust, everyone's in agreement that it should be Sharon. Until Bucky, the man that you barely get along with, speaks up and lets everyone know that it could only be you.
warnings: angst, smut, profanity, pet names (only sweetheart & baby), mutual pining of sorts, enemies to lovers (kinda), jealous!Bucky, possessive!Bucky, one bed trope, teasing, masturbation (male & female), brief thigh riding, dry humping, nausea/vomiting (not graphically described and not a major part of the story, apologies to my emetophobic girlies), oral sex (female receiving), fingering, unprotected sex, MINORS DNI, 18+.
word count: 43.2k
a/n: Thanks again to @littlemiss-yeehaw for reading all of my shit and listening to my unhinged ramblings when I write, and for her amazing artwork. Thanks to @flowersforbucky for also reading my shit and for taking the time to tell me that it isn't as shitty as I think. Without them, this fic would be unreachable in the depths of my laptop's trash bin. Pics included in the title image for this fic are not representative of reader, location, etc.
Insufferable. Is that really the right word? Can someone be insufferable when all they do is mope around in silence, giving you looks of disdain? Maybe insufferable is a word better suited to describe someone who says more than five words at a time. And yet, you still feel that Bucky Barnes is insufferable.
Raindrops patter rhythmically against the roof of the car, making the all-too-quiet stakeout a little more bearable. You shift in the passenger seat, letting your eyes fall closed for a moment as you press your head against the leather headrest behind you. You’ve been sitting here for two hours. That’s two hours of listening to nothing more than the sound of your own breathing, Bucky’s occasional annoyed sighs, and the shitty audio feed of the abandoned storefront just up the street. You’re contemplating giving in and taking a nap when you hear the sound of gravel crunching beneath tires somewhere outside of your parked car, and your eyes shoot open. You catch a glimpse of the flashing yellow lights of a security vehicle in the rearview mirror and Bucky groans, quickly powering down the surveillance equipment and dropping it down to the floor at his feet.
“Just what we needed.” Bucky says sarcastically, with frustration edging his tone as the security guard pulls in closer and closer. He’s about twenty meters behind the car now, moving slowly. You’re sure he’s taking down the make and model of the car, the license plate, and noting the fact that it’s currently turned off. It looks suspicious as hell, you have no doubt. Your mind is moving a million miles a minute as you start shrugging your jacket off of your shoulders and mussing up your hair. “What are you doing?” Bucky asks, raising a brow in your direction.
“Getting us out of this.” You mumble, glancing back in the rearview mirror one last time. You see the security vehicle coming to a stop a few meters behind, so you move a little quicker. You’re climbing over the center console in a flash, placing your knees on either side of Bucky’s hips as you come to straddle his lap. You hover over him, with your ass pressing against the steering wheel so hard that it’s a wonder you aren’t honking the horn. “Move your seat back.” You whisper harshly, gripping his shoulders with both hands as you stare down at him. Bucky swallows hard and narrows his eyes at you as if he wants to throw you right back into your own seat, but he reaches down with his vibranium hand and starts sliding the driver’s seat backward.
Bucky can’t stand you. As you lower yourself down to sit on his lap, he keeps his hands stiff, with one resting along the driver’s side door and the other resting over the center console. His hands curl into fists when you lean in and press your lips against his neck. It’s soft and hesitant at first, as if you’re not really sure that it’s an acceptable thing to do. Bucky’s chin tilts upward and to the side instinctively, giving you more access and a clear go-ahead that has your second kiss coming in a little more desperate and firm against the column of his throat. Bucky tenses beneath you but the barely audible groan that slips past his lips has you wondering if he hates this as much as he’s trying to portray. You glance over his shoulder and see the security guard approaching the car now, his eyes scanning the rear windshield as he speaks lowly into a handheld radio.
“Barnes, I swear to god if you don’t put your hands on me and make this believable…” Your threatening tone has a roguish smile tugging at the corners of Bucky’s mouth, but he refuses to let it take full form. His hands move quickly now, grabbing onto your hips and tugging them downward. He realizes as he basically grinds your clothed center over the semi-hard front of his jeans that he probably shouldn’t have done that. When you feel his partial erection pressing against you, you falter for a moment, your lips stilling against his neck and your breath hitching in your throat. “And here I thought you couldn’t stand me.” You whisper against his skin.
“I can’t.” He responds dryly, sliding his hands up the sides of your waist and letting his fingers splay out over your ribs.
“Are you sure about that?” You ask teasingly, swirling your hips in a circle as you press down on his lap. He grunts and lets his right hand glide up your back, moving higher and higher until it’s tangled in the hair at the crown of your head.
“Pretty damn sure.” Bucky rasps as he uses his hold on your hair to tug your head back. He takes the opportunity he’s given himself to attach his lips to your neck, sucking a nice little red mark right below your ear before smoothing over it with his tongue. The whimper that leaves your lips at the feel of his tongue against your skin is enough to turn his semi-hard cock into a raging hard-on. The bright ray of a flashlight shining through the driver’s window catches your attention, and you feign surprise as the security guard taps on the window with his knuckles one, two, three times. Bucky’s letting go of your waist and hair and pushing the door open as a sly chuckle climbs up his throat.
“I told her we shouldn’t do this here.” Bucky says smugly, shaking his head as you place your hands on his chest and lean back, glaring down at him. “I can’t keep her off of me.”
“Could you uh, dismount? Ma’am?” The officer requests. You turn your head and take in the short, balding man. Blush colors his cheeks a deep shade of red and you wonder if this is the most action he’s seen all year. Moving off of Bucky’s lap, you come to stand just outside of the car, crossing your arms over your chest as the cool night air hits you. You regret taking your jacket off earlier.
“I’m so sorry.” You say ashamedly, hoping you look as faux-embarrassed as you’ve made your voice sound. The man offers you a shy smile, his eyes wrinkling around the corners as Bucky climbs out of the car next. You smirk at the way Bucky tugs his jeans down and adjusts himself, trying his best to disguise the tent beneath the fabric. He glances in your direction, his eyes briefly flitting down to where your arms are crossed over your chest, before shrugging off his leather jacket and tossing it to you. You’re still for a moment, until you realize that it would probably look questionable if you refused the kind gesture in front of the security guard, so you drape the jacket over shoulders and wrap it around your upper body. Your little act was so believable that Bucky only has to spend about one minute chatting back and forth with the security guard before he lets you both off with a warning. He didn’t even ask to see your IDs. Bucky’s pretty good at bullshitting, you’ll give him that.
Infuriating. As Bucky stands beneath the steady stream of hot water, letting it soak his hair and drip over the curves of his shoulders, it’s the only word on his mind. You’re fucking infuriating. How he continues to end up on missions with you is beyond him. He never thought he would miss the days of having Sam as his partner, but god, he misses them. He might even take Walker on as a partner if it means getting the hell away from you. Actually, he’d rather put up with you than with Walker. But anyone else? He’d happily work with anyone else out in the field.
Bucky’s just beginning to rinse the shampoo out of his hair when the sound of his bedroom door flying open registers in his mind. He freezes, both hands hovering at the sides of his head as you angrily rush through his room. The bathroom door is thrown open next, and he feels a whoosh of cold air floating over the top of his glass shower door.
“A hickey?” Your voice is laced with malice. The fiery rage inside of you is stoked by the sound of Bucky laughing behind the fogged-up glass. “Are you sixteen?”
“You made a pretty little sound when I gave it to you.” He points out, continuing to work the shampoo into his brown locks.
“I was playing the part.” You argue. You take a moment to glance around his bathroom, noting the way it looks exactly like yours except it’s devoid of any personality. He has dark gray rugs on the floor, a matching dark gray towel hanging over the shower door, and even a dark gray toothbrush sitting in a little white cup beside the sink. Is he allergic to every other color?
“The security guard couldn’t hear anything inside the car, you don’t have to lie to me. You liked it.” Bucky says coolly. He rinses the suds out of his hair and even with his eyes closed, he’s sure you’re standing there with your arms crossed. It’s your signature pose in his presence.
“I have shit to do tomorrow, Barnes. Now I have to worry about covering this up.” You complain. You snatch his towel off of the shower door and use it to wipe at the fogged-up mirror over the sink. You’re studying the sizable red mark below your ear in the reflection when Bucky turns off the running water.
“You have three seconds to put my towel back before I walk out of here without it.” His voice is low and threatening now. You roll your eyes before tossing the towel back up and over the shower door, he grabs it immediately. When he steps out a moment later, he has the towel wrapped firmly around his waist. As he steps into the view of the mirror, your eyes roam over his wet, toned body in the reflection. Your gaze follows a few drops of water as they drip from his hair and trail down the side of his neck. You stand still in front of the mirror, unmoving as Bucky meets your gaze and narrows his eyes, taking a few steps forward to close the space between you. He comes to a stop with his bare chest nearly brushing against your clothed back, and then he moves his hands to grip the edge of the countertop on either side of your hips. Leaning forward the tiniest bit, his lips graze the shell of your ear and every single muscle in your body tenses up. “Why cover it? You don’t want people to know that you like being marked up?”
“I can’t stand you.” You spit coldly, crossing your arms over your chest and glaring at him in the reflection. Bucky chuckles lowly before letting go of the edge of the countertop and turning away from you, leaving you alone in his steamy bathroom.
“I can’t stand you either.” He calls back to you.
When you stomp through his bedroom a moment later, he watches out of the corner of his eye as you disappear out into the hall and let his door fall shut behind you. He knows that on some level, you’re both liars. There are so many things that you can’t stand about each other, and yet, there’s an undeniable force that seems to keep you both coming back. You could simply stay away from each other when you’re in the tower. You live across the hall from each other but the place is so damn big that you could easily avoid each other anytime you’re not working together in the field. He’s sure that somewhere beneath the haze of false hatred and tension, you can feel that incessant pull just as much as he can. That’s why he can’t stand you. That’s precisely the reason why he finds you so infuriating. Because you act like you can’t feel it.
The Howling Commandos files have taken up nearly every waking second of your time for the past three days. You’ve read every word, combed through every grainy black and white picture, and taken enough notes to fill nearly twenty pages of the little notebook that currently sits open in front of you. And yet, you haven’t been able to formulate a solid plan. That’s why the conference room is packed full of people with varying skillsets and thought processes. Fury sits at the head of the table, leaning back comfortably in his chair as he twirls a black pen in his right. Sam sits to his left, staring down at the same files you’ve studied for hours. Beside him is Sharon, who looks equal parts bored and entirely over the situation at hand. Knowing the things that she’s been up to lately, she probably has more important places to be right now. A few people are littered around the room, leaning against walls and quietly conversing with each other as they try to come up with the best course of action to solve the present issue. You’re seated at the far end of the table, opposite of Fury, tracing the lines of your left palm with your right thumb.
Bucky stands near the door, with his back pressed against the smooth wall and his arms crossed over his broad chest. He wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t labeled a mandatory meeting. Hell, even with it being labeled mandatory, he considered skipping it. He doesn’t particularly enjoy watching everyone read up on his past life, even if it was the era that he considers his glory days. Being a part of the Howling Commandos was one of the few good things he ever did, but letting himself think about that time only leads him down a darker path. He thinks about how each Howling Commandos mission that he was a part of brought him closer and closer to getting captured, to losing his arm, to losing himself. Shaking his head, Bucky pushes away from the wall and stands straight, he wonders if anyone will notice him slipping out the door.
“I don’t like time travel.” Fury says evenly, keeping his eyes on the pen in his hand as he twirls it around just above the surface of the conference room table. Bucky freezes, his eyes narrowing as he looks to Fury. Everyone in the room halts, all eyes moving in the same direction to follow the commanding voice. “I don’t like time travel at all. It’s risky and it tends to fuck things up in the long run.” Fury takes a moment to cast his eyes around the room, taking in each and every person present. After making the first round, he turns his head to the right and focuses on Bucky. “Unfortunately, I think this situation calls for something risky.”
Goosebumps spread over the surface of your skin and you tense in your seat. You follow Fury’s gaze and your eyes land on Bucky, who stands tall beside the door. His arms hang still at his sides, and for once, his vibranium arm isn’t hidden behind a long shirt sleeve or leather jacket. The black and gold glints in the fluorescent lighting of the room, drawing attention like a bright red flower draws bees.
“The intel that we need from a currently non-existent HYDRA base doesn’t exist. The Howling Commandos weren’t tasked with collecting evidence or documenting what they found at each base.” Fury continues. Bucky swallows hard but maintains eye contact. He already doesn’t like where this is going. “So, we send someone back in time to get what we need.”
As tension rises in the room and the air begins to feel like its crackling with anticipation, Fury lays out the only two potential plans he can think of. The first plan is automatically a no, because of how risky it is to send a full team back in time. The first plan would’ve been to send someone back in time to infiltrate a specific HYDRA base moments before the Howling Commandos take it out, so the intel can be gathered and brought back to the present. But the second plan is the one that has discussion raging around the conference room.
“Steve wouldn’t trust someone he’s just met, we’d need to get through to Peggy first, then she can sway him and the rest of the Howling Commandos.” Sharon argues, leaning forward and clasping her hands together over the table. Your eyes flit over to her as her blonde hair falls over one shoulder and obscures the side of her face. She’s right, 1940s Steve Rogers wouldn’t even come close to trusting a new person in the midst of a war, let alone one who’s so obviously from the wrong time period. You see Sam laughing to himself further down the table and you’re sure he’s remembering the story Steve used to tell of his past self attempting to kick his present self’s ass during his time travel stint.
“Peggy wouldn’t be wholly trusting either.” Fury points out, barely looking up from the surface of the table before him. “We need to get Peggy and at least one of the Howling Commandos on our side for this to work. The rest will follow.”
“What if we go at this from a slightly different angle?” Torres asks. He stands a few feet behind your seat, leaning against the wall as his thumbs rapid-fire away at the phone in clutched in his hands. Everyone turns their attention to him and he finally looks up, blinking once before clicking the phone off and sliding it into the back pocket of his jeans.
“We’re listening.” Fury says, his interest clearly piqued.
“We pick someone that Peggy could relate to, someone she would like, maybe become fast friends with.” He starts slowly, letting his gaze roam over each person in the room as he speaks. His eyes stop when he reaches Bucky, and you don’t have to look over your shoulder to know that Bucky’s staring right back at him. “And that same person needs to be someone Bucky would like, someone he’d be drawn to. Steve would trust Bucky’s judgement, and at least by choosing to make Bucky the center of this, we have the advantage of having him right here.”
It’s silent for a beat as the idea is mulled over. You turn around and look back to Fury, watching as his face shifts from a blank, almost bored expression to a thoughtful one. He nods slowly before tucking the pen he’s been twirling around into the pocket of his jacket.
“Sergeant Barnes…” Fury’s eyes shift to his right, landing on the stiff super soldier who looks like he’d rather be anywhere but here right now. “Does that sound like a feasible plan?” It feels as though everyone is collectively holding in a breath as Bucky remains silent. You can tell he’s thinking, you can almost see the gears turning behind his blue eyes as he zeroes in on Fury. A small nod from him is all it takes to get the conversation churning around the room again. He's in.
“I can be in and out and have this whole thing finished within just a few seconds of passing time here, I need maybe two days in the past.” Sharon says calmly, leaning back in her seat as she tucks a stray lock of blonde hair behind one ear. You really don’t even know why the discussion is still ongoing at this point. Out of everyone left in the conference room, the majority is most definitely in favor of sending Sharon back in time for the mission. It’s not like there were many other options. You didn’t exactly volunteer yourself and as of right now, you and Sharon are the only women on the team. Sure, Fury could’ve shopped around the agency a bit and found a few other suitable agents to screen for the task at hand, but Sharon seems pretty set on handling it herself.
“Okay, say you gain Peggy’s trust easily. What about Bucky? What’s your plan for getting him on your side?” Sam asks with a raised brow. The room grows quiet and all eyes land on Sharon as she filters through the possible methods she could use. Your eyes flit over to where Bucky is still leaning against the wall by the door, looking slightly less disinterested in the conversation than he was earlier. He’s studying Sharon with an unreadable expression painted on his face. Instinctively, your hand lifts up to the healing hickey that’s hidden beneath a layer of concealer and foundation right below your ear. For the briefest moment, he turns his head and tracks your movement, his eyes roaming down to the tips of your fingers as they brush over the skin of your neck. You drop your hand in an instant and his blue eyes meet yours. You can feel the arrogance radiating off of him and you roll your eyes before looking back to Sharon. You swear you hear Bucky chuckle under his breath, but when you glance around the room, no one else seems to have heard a thing.
“I just put on a pretty outfit and dance with him. It can’t be that hard to woo a soldier in his bachelor phase.” Sharon laughs out. A few softer laughs ring out around the table, but Torres’s next question quiets everyone.
“Bucky, what kind of girl would you have asked to dance back in the forties?”
You think it must be Bucky’s lack of an immediate response that sucks the air out of the room. It’s so quiet you can hear the sound of your own heart beating in your ears, even though it’s beating at a normal rate and rhythm. You steal a look at Bucky once again, who’s face is cast downward at the floor. He seems to find his shoes overly interesting all of a sudden. Everyone’s staring at him.
Bucky’s mind is churning, running through all of the girls he ever shared a moment with back in his golden days. He has a type in more ways than one. It’s not just a physical type. He’s always been drawn to women with certain personality traits, women with certain ways of carrying themselves, certain ways they flirt. One wouldn’t think he was picky with the number of girls he found himself in the company of back in the day, but he damn sure was. And he still is. That’s why his heart beats a little harder, vibrating against his ribcage as he lets out a deep breath and finally looks up. He can feel everyone’s eyes on him, but he focuses in on the one person that he’s sure his younger self will trust. Bucky’s staring right at you.
“It needs to be you.” He says firmly, fixing his gaze on your face as the color drains from it. If the air hadn’t been sucked out of the room when Torres first asked a question, it sure as hell would’ve been now. Your breath is hitched in your throat and the skin over your hidden hickey suddenly feels like it’s on fire. No, scratch that. Every inch of your skin feels like it’s on fire. Color returns to your cheeks as quickly as it first disappeared, and suddenly, you’re flushed pink.
“Me?” The word leaves your lips as an unintended whisper, but you can’t be bothered to clear your throat and try again. You know he heard you. He nods slightly, looking quite sure of himself, but his expression is still unreadable and it’s driving you mad.
“Her?” Sharon questions, narrowing her eyes at you and pursing her lips. She’s looking at you in disbelief, but not because it’s questionable that you’d be someone’s type. She’s looking at you like that because she knows, like everyone knows, that you and Bucky are at each other’s throats more often than not. Why would that be any different with a younger version of himself? The last thing the team needs is you getting sent back in time to argue with yet another version of Bucky Barnes.
“Her.” Bucky shrugs, shooting Sharon a look that easily shuts her up. She leans back in her seat once more and crosses her arms over her chest, indicating that she doesn’t like where this is going.
“Are you sure?” Sam asks with a raised brow, his eyes flitting between you and Bucky. Bucky pushes himself away from the wall and turns to face the door that leads out into the hall. As his flesh hand wraps around the door handle, he finds himself biting down on the inside of his cheek. He’s sure that his younger self will be drawn to you, that he’ll trust you, yeah. Is he sure that this is a good idea? Hell no.
“It’s her.” Bucky confirms. Then, he walks out of the conference room as if he didn’t just drop a fucking bomb in the middle of the goddamn gunmetal table. What the hell does he mean it’s you?
Your silence is unsettling. Bucky thought you might come storming into the gym during his evening workout, ready to give him a violently worded piece of your mind after he left the conference room earlier, but you never did. Then, while a mix of sweat and suds spilled down the drain of his shower, he listened intently for the sound of his bedroom door flying open, but it never came. He sits on the side of his bed in the dim light of a lamp, thumbing through the little red notebook that once belonged to Steve. He isn’t digesting its contents. Really, he isn’t even skimming over the words that are written in pencil before him. He’s zoned out as he strains his ears to listen for you across the hall. He knows you’re in your room. It’s late, just a bit past midnight now, and you’re always tucked away in there by ten. But you’re not asleep, that’s for damn certain. He can hear the occasional sound of your footsteps against the soft rug you have spread over your bedroom floor. Every few minutes, he hears an uncharacteristic scuffling sound, following by a thud. What the hell are you doing over there?
He waits a moment longer before his curiosity and impatience get the best of him, and then he’s tossing the notebook onto his bed and taking long strides toward the hall. If you won’t come to him to argue about today’s conference room situation, about what’s now lingering on the horizon, then he’ll go to you. Arguing about it will be far better than sitting around while you do whatever the hell sort of noisy thing it is you’re doing over there right now, Bucky thinks.
In retrospect, he should’ve knocked. By the time he’s throwing your unlocked door open and taking the first step into your room, he’s already sporting a half-hard cock beneath the all-too-thin fabric of his sweats and boxers. The dog tags hanging against his bare chest give away the increased rate of his breaths as his eyes skate over you. You’re on your hands and knees in the center of the room, with your cheeks flushed pink and your oversized t-shirt making it look like you’re not wearing anything else. As you stare up at Bucky, both of you frozen in place, you’re acutely aware of the compromising position he’s found you in. You sit back on your knees quickly, dropping the last few stray rings into the small jewelry tray in your left hand.
“What the hell, Bucky?” You look up at him with a mix of confusion and annoyance in your eyes as the rings clink against the ceramic tray. Bucky swallows hard as he stares down at you, trying to figure out what the fuck you’re doing in the middle of the floor. His gaze lands on one single golden ring glinting in the low light of your room and your eyes follow his.
“You missed one.” He says lowly. You reach out and pick it up with your thumb and index finger before setting it on the small tray along with the rest. “What are you doing?”
“Rearranging.” You respond dryly. You stand carefully, making sure not to dump all of your rings out a second time, before crossing the room and setting the tray on your recently moved vanity. Bucky’s only been in your room once or twice before, but he notices the changes immediately. You’ve moved your vanity from the right side of the room to the left. The chair you used to have sitting near the window now sits in a corner near the bed. A few other small pieces of furniture are strewn about haphazardly, as if you haven’t quite decided where you want them yet.
“At midnight?” Bucky raises a brow, catching your eyes as you turn to face him once more.
“What are you doing in my room, Bucky?” In his peripheral vision, he sees the slight reflection of light in one last piece of jewelry on the floor. It’s just a foot in front of him, so he steps further into the room, letting the door fall shut behind him as he bends down and scoops the rose gold ring up in his palm.
“You haven’t said anything since the team meeting earlier today.” He points out. He studies the small ring in his hand, realizing for the first time just how much smaller your hands are than his. You don’t make a move to take it from him, so he continues fiddling with it as he stands in the middle of your room.
“You walked out.” You remind him. You turn your back to him and begin straightening up a few things on your vanity. It’s weird to have him in your room like this. Your skin feels warm while the air in the room feels cold. Your oversized t-shirt feels too small while his presence feels much too large.
“I didn’t have anything else to say.” Bucky takes a few more steps forward and turns, bending at the knees to sit on the foot of your nicely made bed. You watch him in the reflection of your vanity mirror, wondering why the hell he seems so comfortable in your room.
“And I should? What do you want me to say?”
“Anything.” His single-word response makes the air in the room feel even icier, and suddenly, you’re wishing you’d put on sweats tonight. A deep breath rattles in your chest before you turn around to face him.
“It’s not me.” You say evenly. You cross your arms over your chest and focus on his face as he stares back at you. He’s still fiddling with the ring, running the pad of his thumb back and forth over it mindlessly.
“It’s you.” He sighs. He almost seems tired with the conversation, which is frustrating considering he’s the one who came in here and started it.
“It’s not, and having me deal with two of you is a recipe for disaster. I can barely handle one Bucky Barnes in this century. Sharon’s the better choice.”
“It’s not Sharon.”
“Bucky—”
“It’s you. I don’t know what you need me to say or do to convince you, but it’s you. The sooner you accept it, the sooner we can start making a plan and preparing for the mission.”
His words swirl around in your head, bouncing off of the walls of your mind like it’s a fucking pinball machine. It’s not you. You’re pretty damn sure that what 1940s Bucky Barnes needs is anything but you. Maybe Bucky’s so far removed from his younger self that he just doesn’t realize how wrong you are for this mission. He’s gotten too used to working with you in the field lately and he doesn’t want to figure things out in the field with a new partner. Whatever his reasoning is, you need him to figure his shit out before you’re sent back in time to fuck up the op.
“You can’t convince me.” You reply stubbornly, narrowing your eyes at him. “Sharon is right for this mission and everyone sees that but you.” When he glances up at you this time, his eyes settle on the light pink mark beneath your ear. His mark.
“You’re my type.” The words slip past his lips before he can stop them, and he’s gripping the ring tightly in his flesh fist.
“What?”
“I’m not saying it again.” He decides, pushing himself up to stand. You’re frozen in stunned silence, your eyes wide. You’re sure you’re about to watch him walk out the door after dropping his second bomb of the day, but he turns to face you. He’s moving forward before you have a chance to do or say a damn thing. Bucky doesn’t stop until your arms are dropping down to your sides and his hands are resting on your hips. He walks you backward one, two steps, until your ass hits the edge of the vanity and a gasp parts your lips.
“There was this bar in London, the Whip and Fiddle. I went there with Steve and the guys a few times.” Bucky starts. His tone is low and gravelly and his lips are so close to yours that they nearly touch with every word he speaks. He’s looking down into your eyes with an intense look, a look that keeps you firmly in place, along with his hold on your hips and his muscular frame pressed partially against your front. A shiver runs down your spine, but you stay silent, waiting for him to continue. Bucky’s right hand glides upward, following the curve of your body until his fingertips are ghosting over the side of your neck. He presses his thumb against your healing hickey lightly, feeling you tense against him at the touch. “If younger me saw you walk into that bar, even with all of the noise and the low lights, he’d fucking swoon. It would all be over. The chasing girls around, only ever learning first names and hometowns, the bachelor shit. It would be over. He’d follow you anywhere.”
“Bucky—”
“It’s you. Not Sharon, not anyone else damn it, it’s you.” His vibranium hand tightens over your hip and his right hand slides further back behind your head. His fingers tangle in your hair but it’s a gentle, careful act. You tilt your head up and take in his serious expression. His brows are furrowed and his gaze heats your face as he stares down at you. He isn’t fucking with you. He isn’t trying to get in your head or manipulate you into being a part of this mission. He means every word of what he’s saying right now and it scares the shit out of you. You move quick, drawing your arms up between the two of you and pressing your palms flat against his bare chest. You shove him back hard, forcing him to take one big step away from you. He doesn’t look surprised at all, and his expression never shifts, the seriousness never leaves his face.
“You can’t stand me.” You remind him, though the words feel empty as you say them. You’re questioning the notion, as if he hasn’t said those words himself a hundred times before.
“I can’t.” He agrees, nodding slowly. You take a deep, shaky breath in and let it out through your teeth. “But for some reason, it’s still you.”
You stand still, with the edge of the vanity still digging into your ass and your chest heaving as Bucky turns his back to you and heads for the foot of your bed. You watch through narrowed eyes as he leans over and scoops up the ring he left sitting there. He straightens up and looks down at the small shiny object held precariously between his thumb and forefinger.
“Do you know how to dance?” The question rolls off of his tongue so casually that for a moment, you wonder if anything that just happened really happened. Did he not have you pushed up against the vanity only seconds ago? Was he not touching you and leaning in close like you meant something to him after months of acting like you’re nothing more than his shit-giving coworker?
“What?” You nearly choke on the word. Your throat is so dry after seemingly forgetting to swallow at all in his presence.
“Do you know how to dance?” He repeats, craning his neck to the side to look at you.
“What the hell does—”
“He’s going to ask you to dance, and you’ll have to say yes.” Bucky says matter-of-factly. You find it a little odd that he refers to his younger self as if he’s someone else, but you don’t comment on it. “I can teach you.”
“Fine.” Bucky freezes at your quick and unexpected caving. He raises an eyebrow at you, still fiddling with the ring between his fingers. “Help me move my dresser.” Your eyes dart over to the large piece of furniture across the room and Bucky’s gaze follows. He looks at it for a second as the realization dawns that you’re really asking for manual labor in exchange for agreeing to go back in time for this mission. The fact that you’re going to do it, that you’re going to be the one who does this with him, leaves an unfamiliar calmness settling inside of him and he lets out a deep breath.
The sounds of furniture scuffling around the room and soft thuds carry on for the next half hour as Bucky uses the serum in his veins to set your room up just how you want it. When everything is finished and you seem satisfied, he walks over to your vanity and drops the last ring into the ceramic tray. Your eyes rake over his bare back, taking in the way there isn’t even the slightest sheen of sweat present on his smooth skin. You should’ve asked him to move your furniture two hours ago when you first started doing it yourself. If you’d known it was so damn easy for him, you might’ve even said please.
“You should probably lock your door at night.” Bucky says as he heads toward it. He wraps his hand around the door handle and you watch as the muscles of his flesh arm ripple slightly.
“Why? Are you going to keep barging in?”
“You’ve done that a lot more than I have.” He points out, tugging the door open to reveal the darkened hallway beyond.
“So, start locking yours then.” You retort. He can hear you rolling your eyes. A small smile plays on his lips as he steps out into the hall and runs a hand through his messy hair, keeping his back to you.
“My door’s always open for you, sweetheart.”
“Fuck you, Barnes.” You say coldly, just as the door clicks shut between the two of you.
You can’t stand him.
Sam doesn’t let things go easily. Sure, if he was really pushing Bucky’s buttons, he might back off a bit, but he hasn’t gone too far yet. Yet.
“I just want to know how you can go from barely getting along with the woman to demanding that she’s the one for your little forties self.” Sam says through a smirk. He falls into step next to Bucky as the two of them jog through the heavily wooded trails behind the tower.
“If you’re going to keep talking about this, you can finish the run alone.” Bucky threatens, shooting Sam a deathly sideways glare.
“I’ve been telling you for months that there was something between the two of you, and you shot it down every time. I don’t get to gloat now?”
“There’s nothing to gloat about. There isn’t anything between us besides this mission. You’re reading too far into shit, Sam.”
“That super soldier serum didn’t teach you how to be a convincing liar, huh?”
“I’ll see you back at the tower.” Bucky says flatly, immediately picking up his pace to an ungodly speed and leaving Sam behind in literal dust.
Bucky’s ears are filled with the sounds of his feet pounding against the dry dirt path below and his own steady, even breaths as he speeds along the trail. The mission is the only thing between you, he tells himself. There isn’t anything else. As much as he wants there to be, as much as he feels something there, you fight against the tension like it suffocates you. You fight against it tooth and nail, pushing Bucky away every time you think he might be getting a little closer to you. Is it just him? If it was someone else running dangerous ops with you, saving your ass regularly, and sitting through stake-outs with you late at night, would you push them away just as hard? Or is it just because that guy is Bucky?
Thunder rumbles in the distance, tearing Bucky away from his troubling train of thought momentarily. He glances up through the crowded tree branches and catches sight of the gray sky above. He can smell rain in the air, so he picks up the pace a little more, intent on beating it.
He can still feel the curve of your hip against his vibranium hand and the way every muscle in your body tensed up when he pressed his thumb against the mark on your neck last night. Fuck. Bucky feels beads of sweat forming around his hairline, and it’s not from the hellish pace he’s bent on keeping. His mind falls even further back to that last stakeout. The memory of you moving over the center console of the car and seating yourself on his lap so effortlessly plays out in front of him like a movie. He doesn’t even realize how fast he’s running until the tower comes into view a whole lot sooner than he expected it to. With sweat dripping down the back of his neck, he tugs his shirt off and scans his palm at the back entrance to the gym.
He can feel the weight of your body settling over him, feel your thighs pressing against either of his hips as you straddle his lap. Bucky bites down on his bottom lip as he tugs the door open and glances over his shoulder for any sign of Sam. He lets the door fall closed behind him when he realizes that he’s probably still a couple of miles back in the woods. Lifting the t-shirt that’s hanging from his right hand, Bucky uses it to wipe the sweat from his brow and neck. Fuck you. Fuck you for acting like you’re oblivious to whatever the hell has been brewing between the two of you for months now. It’s right in front of your face and yet you act like you can’t see a damn thing, like you don’t feel a damn thing. Fuck you for giving Bucky just enough of you to fantasize about but not enough to feel satisfied. He heads straight for the locker room, shoving the door open hard as he uses one hand to untie the drawstring of his shorts.
He won’t let himself do what he needs to do. He comes to stand in front of the mirror, placing his hands on the edge of the sink as he drops his head and sucks in a deep breath. He won’t do it. Bucky lifts his head a bit, looking his reflection in the eye for a moment before flicking the faucet on and splashing a handful of cold water against his flushed face.
Fuck. He’s going to do it. He’s rushing for one of the showers within the next second, turning the hot water on just before he shoves his shorts and boxers down. He steps out of them, already mentally chastising himself for what he’s about to do.
He’s only been in the shower for a minute when heat begins to spread down his spine, sending a warmth over the surface of his skin and pushing him to lean forward. He rests his forehead against the cold tile wall of the shower, telling himself that this is pathetic. His flesh hand works quickly, moving back and forth while staying wrapped tightly around the shaft of his cock. A shaky breath snakes past his lips as his eyes flutter closed and his hips piston forward once, twice, three times. He fucks his hand roughly, letting out a low groan when the pad of his thumb brushes against the sensitive spot on the underside of the head of his cock. He hates that this is what he’s resorted to. Never once has he left himself do this with you on his mind. It feels shameful, even offensive. You’d kick his ass if you ever found out, he’s fucking sure of that. Still, he continues on, working himself up until he’s teetering on the edge of bliss. It’s the memory of you on his lap in that damn care, letting him tug on your hair and tilt your head back so he could suck on your neck, that almost finishes him. His movements grow sloppy and his breaths come out a little more ragged. He replays the sweet little sound you made when he left that hickey on your skin, when he left his mark on you.
“Shit.” Bucky groans, scrunching his eyes shut even tighter and stroking his cock a little harder. A shudder races through him and he bangs his vibranium fist against the shower wall just as his climax hits. He opens his eyes and watches as ropes of cum paint the tiles. The steamy shower water washes it all away and carries it down the drain within seconds. What a waste.
You’ve been lying on your stomach in bed ever since you woke up, watching every video you can find that depicts anything remotely close to dancing in the forties. It’s stressing you the hell out. How long do you have to learn this shit? Does Bucky even remember how to do this? You can’t picture him doing something so…lighthearted.
You roll over onto your back, tossing your phone to the opposite side of the bed before pressing the heels of your hands into your eyes and letting out a frustrated groan. Why the hell did you agree to this? Oh, right. The memory of last night starts playing in your mind on a loop. Bucky barged into your room like he had every right to. He sat on your bed. He pushed you up against the vanity and…and did absolutely nothing. So, why does your heart race merely at the memory? If it was nothing, why did it feel like something? You let out a louder groan and run your hands through your messy hair, tugging at it a little and feeling the slight stretch of your scalp. You’re thinking about pulling the covers over your face and going back to sleep for the rest of the rainy morning, but your train of thought shifts over to the contents of the communal fridge in the kitchen down the hall.
Bucky’s chosen to avoid you today. If what he did in the shower half an hour ago is any indication of the dangerous territory that he’s put himself in, he knows he needs to pump the brakes now. So, he stands in the kitchen, leaning against the edge of the countertop as he sips on a glass of orange juice in near-silence. The sounds of rolling thunder and heavy rain are all he can hear as he tries to ignore the guilt eating away at him. He really fucked his hand simply at the memory of being close to you last night. He’s in way too fucking deep and he needs to get a grip before this mission really starts. Maybe he should’ve just let it be Sharon. She probably could’ve pulled it off. Younger Bucky wasn’t really all that picky if he’d had a few drinks, and Sharon could’ve easily been coached to put on a personality that Bucky would’ve been drawn to. But no, he had to make sure it was you. God, he’s kicking himself for it all now.
He stiffens when he hears your door open down the hall, fighting against the urge to make a dash for the elevator just to avoid you. He glances at the time displayed over the stovetop. It’s still too early to get ready and rush off for his therapy session, but maybe if he drives really slowly Dr. Raynor won’t have to question why he’s there an hour and a half ahead of time. Bucky lets out a heavy sigh as your footsteps patter down the hall in the distance. He’s being dramatic. He knows that. He had a moment of weakness in the shower this morning and it was his own fault. He shouldn’t have let his thoughts carry him that far and he sure as hell shouldn’t have been in your room doing and saying the things he did and said last night.
When you appear in the main living area, you’re still wearing that damn oversized t-shirt and distinct lack of pants that you were last night, and Bucky stifles a frustrated groan. His eyes roam over your body so quickly that you don’t even notice the look as you enter the kitchen and give him a small nod. You tug the fridge open and rummage around for a few seconds as your mind races. Your heart is beating wildly in your chest, you can feel warmth creeping into your cheeks, coloring them pink. You hate this. Why the hell did he decide to flip a switch this week? You were fine barely getting along, just giving each other shit in the field and then coming home after missions and going your separate ways for the most part. Why did he have to say all of that shit about it being you that his younger self would want?
Your appetite dissipates more and more with each passing second, until suddenly you’re shutting the fridge and taking a step back. You see Bucky out of the corner of your eye, sipping on an almost empty glass of orange juice as he studies you.
“You’re manipulative.” You say lowly, crossing your arms over your chest as you turn to face him. He raises a brow at you and takes another sip from his glass, but says nothing in response. “What you did last night wasn’t fair.”
“Moving your furniture around?” He questions, keeping that one brow raised. You can tell by the look in his eyes that he’s being facetious and it pisses you off. Your tongue presses against the inside of your cheek as you look him over. He’s clearly fresh out of the shower with messy, damp hair. He’s dressed in dark gray sweats and a navy blue t-shirt that hugs the muscles of his upper body a little too snugly for your liking.
You could just respond to his question with a verbal answer, you know that. You could just open your mouth and remind him about what it was that he did last night that you’re referring to as being unfair and manipulative. But your feet carry you forward. You move slowly, giving him a multitude of opportunities to step around you and leave the kitchen unscathed. Bucky remains planted there, leaning against the kitchen counter with the glass in his hand. When you’re only a foot away from him, you reach out with your right hand and take hold of the glass. He watches you carefully, with his head slightly cocked to the side as your grip tightens and his loosens. When he lets you fully take the glass from his hand, you lift it to your lips and swallow the last sip of orange juice. Bucky’s cock twitches beneath the fabric of his sweats as he watches your lips retreat from the exact spot that his once pressed against the glass. He bites down on the inside of his cheek in an attempt to dissuade the hardening of his already tired cock.
“Do you really think I’m talking about you moving my furniture around?” You ask in a whisper, taking one more step forward until your chest is nearly brushing against his. You reach past him with your right arm and set the glass on the countertop behind him, holding your breath as your bottom lip comes within a centimeter of his chin. You keep your head tilted up, watching his eyes as the distance between you diminishes. “I couldn’t possibly be talking about you pushing me up against the vanity and putting your hands on me, right?” His eyes flutter closed and you smirk, feeling satisfied with the effect that you’re clearly having on him. You let both of your hands rest against the edge of the countertop on either side of him and suddenly you’re close enough that when you stop tilting your head upward, the tip of your nose is threatening to brush against the column of his throat.
“Did that do something for you?” His words come out slightly raspy and it sends an unfamiliar warmth surging low in your stomach. You pull your head back a couple of inches and look up at him through your lashes, tilting your head to the side.
“Not a damn thing.” You lie. He chuckles darkly and lets out a breath that fans across your face. A smug smile takes over his features and you feel your confidence wavering.
“Right.” He says absently, as his flesh hand begins to move. You can feel your heart rate doubling as you anticipate his touch, and it infuriates you. Since when does he get this kind of physiological reaction from your body? As his fingertips make light contact with the side of your neck, you inhale sharply and let your eyes fall closed. You want so badly to remain stoic, to look as unbothered as ever as his fingers ghost over the now mostly invisible hickey that he left days ago, but you fail.
Bucky knows that when he presses his thumb against that spot, just like he did last night, your body will tense up. Even with the alarm bells going off inside his head, with that little voice inside of him screaming for him to run, to do anything but the stupid thing he’s about to do, he can’t help himself. His wraps his vibranium around your waist and presses his cool metal palm against the small of your back before tugging you forward. The moment your chest collides with his, he pushes the pad of his thumb against that spot beneath your ear and revels in the feeling of your body tensing against his. Fuck. He’s in deep, but he wishes he was in so much deeper.
“Not a damn thing, hm?” He teases, looking down at you as your eyes flutter open.
“I really can’t stand you.” You retort, but you make no move to get out of his hold. You’re sure that he can feel the dangerously high rate that your heart’s beating at, but still, you stay there against him.
“I know.” He smirks. He lets his thumb trail down the side of your neck until it reaches your collarbone, and then he moves it right back up to the spot where he first marked you. “But you agreed to be a part of the mission anyway, so you’re stuck with me for now.”
“I still think it’s a bad idea.” You point out. You’re coming to your senses now, realizing just how compromising of a position you’re both in right now and how beyond stupid and careless this is. What are you thinking? You pull your hands up between your two bodies and place your palms against the soft blue fabric of his shirt, getting ready to push yourself away from him. He knows what you’re about to do so he tightens his vibranium arm around your waist and slides his flesh hand back to tangle in your hair.
“I didn’t convince you last night?” He asks roughly, narrowing his eyes at you as if he’s slightly annoyed. You shake your head and push lightly against his chest, not putting any real effort behind your movement. He holds you impossibly tighter against his chest before dipping his head down toward your neck.
“Bucky.” You breathe his name out softly, with no other words coming to your mind.
He’s feral. He’s fucking feral. He’s fighting with every ounce of restraint that he possesses to keep from leaving five more marks on the skin of your neck, just to replace the one that’s now faded from there. It’s as if he didn’t fuck his hand to completion less than an hour ago, because his cock sure seems to have forgotten. He bites down on his bottom lip before nudging the tip of his nose against the column of your throat. God, he wants to fucking taste you.
“You know where to find me if you need more convincing.” He says lowly, nipping at your neck one single time before releasing you from his grip and pushing past you. He needs to get the fuck out of here.
You spend the rest of Saturday morning in bed, just like you’d planned, though you didn’t get much sleep. You laid there under the covers, lazily scrolling through your phone, until you heard Bucky’s door opening, closing, and then locking right before he headed for the elevator down the hall. With him out of the tower, you finally felt like you could breathe. So, that’s what you did. You laid in bed and breathed. You took a nice, deep breath in as you rolled over onto your back and let your hand snake down beneath the waistband of your panties. You let a long breath out as you ran your fingertips through the wetness that had gathered along your folds. Then, you drew a shaky breath in as you circled your middle and ring fingers over your clit, using your own arousal as lube. You don’t feel good about what you did to yourself the moment Bucky was out of earshot. You don’t feel good about pretending that your hand was really his. You really don’t feel good about his name being on the tip of your tongue as an orgasm shook you to your core. But you feel good about the fact that you didn’t actually say his name out loud. That’s something, right?
As you put the final finishing touches on your makeup look for the night, you force yourself to push Bucky Barnes far out of reach of your mind. You know that you’ll have to deal with him enough come Monday, when there’s another team meeting about the mission, but for now, you tell yourself that he’s off limits. He’s off limits and you get to spend the night thinking about anyone and anything else. Maybe that’s exactly what you should do. Think about anyone else.
The bar that Sharon chose for tonight is dimly lit and overly full of patrons. You feel like you touch a minimum of three people every time you try to take a step in any direction, so you settle into a cramped booth with your drink and good company, hoping you can get away with sitting there for at least the next hour while the crowd thins out.
“You could’ve picked a busier place.” Maria remarks sarcastically, shooting Sharon an annoyed look as they both slide into their seats across from you. You take a long sip of your drink before setting it down on the wooden surface of the table and double-checking that nothing was swiped from your clutch on your way through the bustling bar.
“You need to get used to being around normal people, Maria.” Sharon wiggles her eyebrows. “No gods or mutants or super soldiers, just good old fashioned normal men.”
“I came here under the impression that this was going to be a girls night.” Maria says as she lifts her drink up to her lips. A mischievous look takes over Sharon’s face and her eyes glimmer as she looks between you both.
“A girls night where all the girls go home with a plus one.”
“Oh, fuck off, Sharon.” Maria scoffs, shoving her shoulder playfully. Sharon snorts and casts her gaze around the crowded bar, seemingly browsing the vast menu of eligible men. As you follow her line of sight, you notice that there are significantly more men than women here. Including the three of you, you count maybe a total of ten women versus at least fifty men.
“Sharon…” You start, narrowing your eyes as you face her.
“Maybe I chose a bar that’s currently having their weekly guys night.” Knowing that both you and Maria are ready to start in on her, Sharon raises a hand and closes her eyes. “But I did it with a good heart. You both need to get laid.”
As much as you want to kick her from underneath the table, you know she’s right. You shake your head as you take another long sip from your drink, and wonder just how many of these you might need before you agree to go home with one of the strangers in this bar.
“I don’t think I’m the one that needs to get laid tonight.” Maria says quietly, casting a pointed look in your direction. Your eyes widen at her insinuation.
“Why are you looking at me when you say that?”
“You’re about to spend a whole lot of time with not one, but two Bucky Barnes.” She responds. Sharon nods eagerly, suddenly leaning forward and resting her elbows on the table as she joins Sharon in staring you down.
“You need to fuck someone and clear your system before this mission takes off. Make sure you’re going into it with an empty tank, you know?” You’re sure that Sharon’s mostly joking, but there’s still an air of seriousness to her words.
“You both think that I’d be tempted by him?” You raise an eyebrow at both of the women before you. They share an indecipherable look between themselves before all eyes are back on you.
“Aren’t we all?”
Bucky doesn’t usually pick whiskey. Nowadays he’s more of a beer kind of guy. Especially when he wants to drink a lot and reminisce about the times when he could get drunk. The feel of a cold glass bottle in his hand and the lip of it pressing against his mouth with each sip reminds him of a time when just a few of those would do him in. But tonight, he’s drinking Four Roses.
As he swirls the amber liquid around in his glass, he scans the packed bar. The crowd is thick, with men heavily outnumbering and swarming the few women that are milling about.
“I didn’t take you three for the guy’s night type.” Maria’s familiar voice sounds from behind Bucky’s left shoulder. He turns in unison with Sam and Torres. When their backs are to the bar, they all come face to face with Maria Hill. Bucky gives her a subtle up-and-down look, feeling a bit odd seeing her in an outfit that doesn’t resemble anything tactical for once.
“I wouldn’t have taken you for the guy’s night type either.” Sam laughs out before taking a sip of his beer.
“Trust me, I’m not.” Maria responds with a slight grimace, casting a glance over her shoulder in the general direction of where she came from. Bucky follows her gaze and spots a few booths off to a side wall, but it’s too dim for him to tell which one she might be looking to. He focuses back on her as she pushes between him and Sam to get to the bar. She orders three different drinks in quick succession, but only the last one catches Bucky’s attention. It’s your drink. “Is that you guys that I feel staring or is it the rest of the sleazy men in this place?” Maria asks jokingly, looking over her shoulder again. Sam and Torres both laugh, but Bucky’s barely paying any attention. He’s scanning the room again, studying each face with a watchful eye as he searches for you. “They’re in the third booth against the far left wall.” Maria says reluctantly, when she catches the look in Bucky’s eye. She may find him attractive as hell, like everyone else does, but she knows he’s essentially off the market. He may hide it well with the constant bickering and brooding façade, but he’s so fucking into you. Maria knows it as well as anybody else. Well, anybody but you. Sometimes she wonders if Bucky himself even knows it.
Bucky shoots Maria a sideways look and she shakes her head.
“They won’t be happy that you guys are crashing girls’ night.” She clicks her tongue disapprovingly, just as the bartender starts working on her drinks.
“Oh, come on. They’ll be thrilled.” Sam jokes, immediately heading off in the direction of the booth Maria described. Torres stays with her, but Bucky follows Sam closely. He should be running in the opposite direction. He knows it’d be in his best interest to down the rest of his whiskey and run right out the door. And yet, his feet carry him forward like his entire goal since this morning hasn’t been to avoid you.
You were having a half-decent night before you laid eyes on Bucky Barnes. When he comes into view, wearing one of his signature leather jackets and dark gloves, your heart skips a beat. You’re sure it’s skipping a beat out of protest rather than anything more meaningful, but still, it skips a damn beat. You don’t even hear Sam’s initial greeting, or the immediate banter that he and Sharon get into the moment he’s within earshot of the table. In fact, every single sound in the bar seems muffled all of a sudden. He’s staring at you. Bucky’s looking right into your eyes as he hovers near the end of the table, with his expression as bored and unreadable as ever.
The intense eye contact is only broken when Maria and Torres appear, and she uses her shoulder to nudge Bucky out of the way so she can set the three drinks down. As soon as she slides the small glass in front of you, the din of the bar is loud again and you’re itching for a higher blood-alcohol level. You down the fresh drink in one long gulp, ignoring the burning in your throat as all eyes fall on you.
“I think I need something a little stronger.” You say flatly, after clearing your throat and setting your empty glass down on the table. Sharon raises an eyebrow at you but within a second, she re-engages with Sam. Maria and Torres are quick to take your side of the booth the moment you rise to your feet, and Sam slides in next to Sharon. As you saunter off toward the bar, you can hear the sound of Bucky dragging a chair over to the edge of the table to give himself somewhere to sit.
Bucky can’t seem to tear his eyes away from you as you make your way to the bar. You’re wearing a little black dress that hugs your curves and accentuates every part of you that he’s been trying not to think about all goddamn day. The heels you chose are surely killing your feet with every step you take, but god, they keep drawing his gaze down your legs and then the dress drags him right back up again. The front of Bucky’s jeans have started to feel a bit too tight and his mind is reeling. He wants to pour his glass of whiskey into his eyes. It may be the only way he can stop fucking staring at you.
Though you feel Bucky’s eyes burning a hole in the back of your head, you refuse to look back. He can stare all he wants, but you’ve decided not to give a shit. He messed with your head last night and manipulated you into being a part of next week’s mission. Then, he messed with your head again this morning, telling you to come find him if you need anymore convincing. What the hell did he mean by that? You swallow hard as you reach the bar, reaching out and grabbing onto the edge of it to steady yourself. You’re two drinks in now and starting to feel a little buzzed, but you sure as hell won’t be stopping if the guys are sticking around. You order something significantly stronger than your last two drinks and then start fiddling with a stray lock of hair that’s hanging over your shoulder as you try to look unapproachable. This place feels like a testosterone festival and although Bucky’s stare was the only one you felt at first, you’re acutely aware of quite a few more pairs of eyes on you now.
Bucky’s aware as well, so fucking aware. He watches with veiled frustration as you become the center of attention over at the bar. He can tell you don’t even want the attention simply by your body language, but that doesn’t stop men from ogling shamelessly. He knows you can handle yourself, so he bites down on his bottom lip and tries to return his attention to the table, choosing to pick his battles wisely. He tunes into a semi-heated conversation about who’s worse at holding their liquor amongst everyone at the table, but every now and then, his gaze flits back over to you.
Two minutes go by before Sam notices the tension seemingly rolling off of Bucky’s broad shoulders. The brooding super soldier sits stiffly in the wooden chair at the end of the table, gripping his whiskey glass so tightly in one gloved hand that Sam’s surprised it hasn’t shattered under the pressure. When he follows Bucky’s gaze across the room, he finds the source of all of that angsty tension. There you are, looking undeniably gorgeous in that little black dress of yours with a fresh drink in hand as some tall, charismatic guy tries his best to win you over. Sam chuckles under his breath and watches for a moment, noting the way the guy continues getting closer to you every time you lean away from him. He sees the fake smile painted on your face and the way you keep nodding your head in the direction of the table as you speak in short sentences, probably letting the guy know that you have a group waiting for you.
“Go get your girl, Bucky.” Sam finally says, lifting his half-empty beer bottle in your direction. “Haven’t you two been a fake couple at least a hundred times by now? Pretend to be her man and get her out of that.” Bucky winces at the idea. Conversation at the table dies down as everyone starts shifting to get a look at you.
“What do you want me to do?” Bucky asks dryly, taking a long sip of his whiskey as he analyzes Sam’s expression over the rim of the glass. “She can get out of that herself if she wants to.”
“Yeah, or you could make it easy for her.” Sam points out. Bucky turns his head to look at you again and he doesn’t like what he sees. The man takes one step closer to you, nearly closing the gap between your bodies entirely. He makes it seem as though he was pushed into you, which you seem to buy given how crowded the bar area still is. You let out a stiff but polite laugh, and then the man rests his right hand on your hip as he leans down and whispers something in your ear. That’s enough, Bucky decides. He downs the last of his whiskey before standing up and setting the empty glass on the edge of the table. He’s moving toward the bar before he has a moment to tell himself to stop. In an instant, his gloves are being tugged off one at a time and shoved into the pocket of his leather jacket.
Bucky could just shove the guy away from you. He could throw a punch and start a good old-fashioned bar fight, maybe get himself kicked out into the street along the way. He could even waltz up and call you some sweet little pet name, because maybe, just maybe, the guy would be respectful enough to ditch the moment he thinks you’re spoken for.
But as Bucky’s flesh hand tangles in the hair at the crown of your head and he tugs you back harshly, every other possible way to handle the situation is trampled under his feet. His movements are rough but calculated as he separates you from the guy and places his own body between you. Your lips part and you nearly spill your drink as Bucky uses his hold on your hair to tilt your head up so you’re looking right into his blue eyes.
“Bucky, what—” The. Fuck.
With his right hand still fisting your hair and his left moving to wrap around your waist, he pulls you flush against his chest and leans in. You don’t realize it, but even in your shocked state, you lean in to meet him. He tilts his head to the side and sucks your bottom lip in between his teeth instantly, barely even kissing you before he’s biting down on it hard enough to draw a gasp from you. He takes the opportunity to slide his tongue between your parted lips and taste you. Fuck. He didn’t mean to do it. He didn’t mean to put his tongue in your mouth, but now that it’s there? Fuck, he’s ruined. Bucky kisses you so intensely, so fucking passionately that for a moment, you’re convinced it’s real. It isn’t until his grip on your hip falters and he has to pull back to take a breath that you realize why he did it, that you realize it most definitely wasn’t real. You’re fighting to catch your breath as he lets you go and glances over his shoulder, making sure the guy is gone. When he looks back at you, you’re pressing your fingertips to your lips lightly, while clutching your drink in your other hand. Your eyes are wide and your hair messy from his touch. His eyes skate over your face, taking in the way your cheeks and nose are rosy and your pupils are dilated as you stare at him. Bucky runs a hand through his own hair and bites down on his bottom lip. Wait, is he…flustered?
“Stop looking at me like that.” He says lowly. As much as you want to give him hell for that stupid stunt, your brain only seems to be able to focus on one thing.
“You taste like honey.” Your voice comes out soft but raspy, and your fingertips still ghost over your lips as you speak. Bucky looks taken aback by your response, and he stills for a moment as he looks down at you, his eyes narrowing.
“You taste like strawberries.” His gaze darts down to your lips, but then quickly back up to your eyes. Shaking your head to snap yourself out of whatever trance you’ve found yourself in, you brush past Bucky, making a break for the table.
Bucky needs a fucking minute. With your scent swirling around him and the ghost of your mouth on his, he needs a minute to adjust the raging hard-on he’s sporting and gather himself. What the fuck did he do that for? He’s gritting his teeth as he turns on his heel and heads for the bathrooms off to the side of the bar. When he steps foot in the men’s room, he scans the floor of each stall quickly, making sure he’s completely alone before locking the door to the entire bathroom and moving to stand in front of the large mirror displayed across the wall of sinks. Strawberries. Bucky stares down at the ceramic sink in front of him as his hands move to grip onto the edge of it. He fights the urge to break it into a million little pieces as he licks his lips, picking up a hint of your taste. Lifting his head and catching his own gaze in his reflection, he bites down on his bottom lip nearly hard enough to draw blood. The twinge of pain is enough to snap him out of whatever the hell kind of haze he’s in, and he flicks the sink on with his flesh hand. After washing his hands, he splashes a bit of cold water on his face before drying up with a few paper towels. He doesn’t leave the bathroom without adjusting his cock, tucking the head of it beneath the waistband of his boxers and pants to ensure his unchecked arousal won’t be noticed by anyone.
With lively conversation passing back and forth across the table, no one seems to notice the thick tension brewing between you and Bucky. You haven’t glanced at him once since he came back from the men’s room looking utterly unbothered by the display of public deception that he’d put on just moments earlier.
Bucky steals looks at you throughout the evening as you go through three of your usual drinks and two shots of vodka with Maria and Sharon. He notices that you smile a lot more when you have some alcohol in your system. You also look at him a hell of a lot less, and he hates that. He can’t seem to go more than a minute or two without searching you out, while you don’t even seem to notice that he’s still in the bar. He watches with a knotted stomach as two other guys attempt to move in on you when you’re up at the bar with the girls, but the knot unties itself when he sees you quickly turn them both down. Why hadn’t you done that with the first guy earlier tonight? A weird sensation bubbles up in his chest as he wonders if maybe you’d actually been attracted to the man you were talking to before Bucky stormed over and stuck his tongue in your mouth. Did you only turn the last two men down because you were worried that Bucky would try to kiss you again?
As much as you would’ve liked to avoid looking at Bucky all night, your plan is thwarted when Sharon ends up a little past tipsy and Maria decides to Uber back to her apartment early. Not wanting to wrangle a semi-drunk Sharon in an Uber by yourself, you accept Sam’s offer for a ride. With Sam driving and Torres immediately sliding into the passenger seat, you push Sharon into the backseat on the passenger’s side and shut her door. You watch with a small smile playing on your lips as she promptly leans against the door and closes her eyes. You’re sure she’ll be asleep before Sam ever pulls up to her apartment complex.
You cross around the backside of the car to find Bucky standing, holding the other back door open for you. You glance inside, noting the small middle seat and shake your head.
“I’m not sitting in the middle.” You say stubbornly, crossing your arms over your chest. A small shiver wracks through your body as the chilly night air blows over your exposed skin. Bucky’s shrugging his jacket off before he even realizes it. When he holds it out to you, you look at it warily, but another cold breeze wafts by and you reach out and grab it. Draping it over your shoulders, you narrow your eyes at him. “I’m still not sitting in the middle.”
“Yes, you are.” He responds roughly, resting his left forearm on top of the open door as his right hand moves to rest on his hip.
“No, I’m not.” You’re aware of the fact that you sound like two children arguing over something so trivial, but still, you maintain your stance. Bucky bites the inside of his cheek before stepping back and pushing the door shut. You hear Sam shout something out of confusion, probably wondering what the hell you two are doing out there in the cold delaying the ride home, but you both ignore him.
“You kissed me back.” He says in a low, raspy voice, making sure no one in the car could possibly make out his words. Your eyes widen and you pull his leather jacket tighter around your shoulders, trying to ignore the way his scent is rolling off of it and surrounding you.
“You put your tongue in my mouth.” You respond stiffly, glancing over your shoulder at the car.
“I’d do it again if it would shut you up and make you get in the car.”
“Sounds like you’re looking for an excuse.” You say, letting out a fake laugh. Bucky rolls his eyes, clearly unimpressed with your accusation.
“You really think I’d look for an excuse to do that again?” Bucky asks, taking a step toward you and reaching past your body for the door handle. When he’s close enough to you that his lips are nearly grazing against the shell of your ear, your eyes flutter closed. “I think we both know I wouldn’t need one.”
Bucky tugs the door open just as you open your eyes and look into his.
“Get in the damn car.” He says authoritatively, holding the door open as you glare at him. You want to dig in your heels and stand on the curb until the sun rises in the morning, but with how cold you are and how late it is, you know you’re fighting a losing battle. You give Bucky a look that could kill as you slide into the middle seat and let out a frustrated sigh. You use his jacket to cover your legs and maintain what little body heat you have left. When Bucky slides in after you and pulls the door shut, Sam’s driving off before either of you have buckled your seatbelts. Bucky fastens his own before noticing that you’re not making a move to buckle yours, so he takes matters into his own hands. He leans over you and grasps the seatbelt in his flesh hand as he brings his lips close to your ear again, lowering his voice to a whisper. “Always so fucking stubborn.”
With every little curve and bump in the road, Bucky’s leg brushes against yours and you tense up each time. You’re always quick to pull your leg away and back toward the middle of the floorboard, until you start to notice that he never pulls his away. You stare out of the windshield ahead as Sam weaves through the city, heading toward Sharon’s downtown apartment. When you turn your head and glance over at her, she’s sound asleep with her mouth wide open as her head rests against the door beside her. Another bump jostles the car and Bucky’s leg collides with yours, but instead of pulling away this time, you stay still. As the heat of his leg permeates the thick fabric of his jeans and warms your bare knee, you find yourself relaxing a little. It really is way too cold to be wearing such a tiny dress.
Bucky’s gaze is fixed outside of his window, but he can feel you letting your head fall back to rest against the headrest behind. He tries not to move too much, sensing that you’re somewhat thankful for his body heat warming your leg and side. It’s cold as shit tonight and you picked what has to be the thinnest dress in your wardrobe. If he didn’t love it on you so much, he’d have told you that you were fucking stupid for risking hypothermia by wearing it.
You let your eyes fall closed as goosebumps prickle across the skin of your arms and you lean back against the headrest. Sharon’s apartment is just another ten minutes away, and then the tower will be an extra thirty on top of that. If you clear your head and pretend like the man beside you is merely a stranger in a shared Uber, and not someone whose tongue was in your mouth only an hour ago, you might be able to get a little sleep before you’re home. But Bucky’s leather jacket sits heavy over your thighs, and his intoxicating scent swirls around the backseat, begging to be inhaled. He’s not a stranger. He’s a fucking coworker who left a hickey on your neck and what feels like a black hole in your gut after offering up some kind of half-baked confession of attraction a couple of days ago. Younger me would fucking swoon. Who the hell says something like that to a girl who thought she was the last person he’d ever be into? Does he get off on looks of confusion and bewilderment?
The car tires screech against asphalt as Sam slams on the brakes and the car struggles to meet his demand. You’re lurching forward in an instant, the seatbelt pulling coarsely across your chest as it locks and holds you in your seat. But it isn’t the sudden unexpected stop that has everything moving in slow motion. It’s Bucky’s hand gripping your mid-thigh tightly over the fabric of his leather jacket. As your back thumps against the seat and your eyes dart out toward the windshield ahead, you see that Sam narrowly avoided running a red light with a traffic camera posted on the street corner. He mumbles something about refusing to get another citation, but your ears are ringing as you cast your gaze downward. Bucky’s hand is still right there, his knuckles nearly turning white with how hard his fingers are digging into your leg. For a moment, a fleeting moment, you let yourself think about how nice his touch feels. You can feel the warmth of his palm even through the leather jacket covering your legs and the chill in your body begins to dissipate. In reality, he’s only been holding onto your thigh for two seconds, but it feels like it’s been two minutes. You let out a shaky breath as the stoplight turns green and Sam starts driving past it. Bucky’s grip loosens and he starts to withdraw his hand, but something within you stops him. You’re reaching out and grabbing his hand in yours, tugging it back to your thigh and resting it atop the leather jacket again. Neither one of you turns to look at the other. You both stare straight ahead, silently letting the moment play out.
It feels as though a fire’s been ignited deep in Bucky’s chest. As you move your hand away from his, he has to turn his head and look out the window to keep from looking down at where he’s touching you. If he gets a glimpse of where his hand is at right now, he won’t be able to scrub the image from his mind no matter how hard he tries. And his hand is only on your damn thigh. He takes even breaths through his nose as he watches the city lights dance around outside. He estimates that Sharon’s apartment complex is less than ten minutes away. What happens after those ten minutes? Will you push his hand away and pretend like the moment never happened?
Each passing minute feels longer and longer as Bucky’s hand remains heavy on your thigh. Two minutes go by before he starts alternating between squeezing your leg and letting his hand rest loosely atop the jacket across your lap. When you reach the third minute, your cheeks are flushed pink and sparks are igniting throughout your body at the slightest touch. There aren’t many thoughts floating around in your head now, which is probably why it’s so easy for you to slide your hand over his and quietly guide it beneath the fabric of the jacket. He doesn’t resist. He doesn’t pull his hand away or fight your movement, and when you feel the warmth of his palm pressing against the bare skin of your thigh, you withdraw your own hand and cover his with the jacket carefully. Bucky’s clenching his teeth as he grips your leg and scrapes his trimmed, blunt nails along the inside of your thigh. He feels you shudder against his touch, but then you seem to press into him a little closer and he can’t fucking breathe. The backseat of this car is suddenly feeling too damn small for either of you, and he wants nothing more than to drag you out at the next red light and find the nearest alley with a brick wall he can back you into.
She’s just cold. Bucky keeps reminding himself that that’s why you’re letting him do this, that that’s why you’re encouraging him to touch you this way. But are you really that cold? Your skin feels almost overheated beneath his hand. He grips your leg again and then starts drawing lazy circles with his fingertips along your inner thigh. He never once tries to move his hand any higher or lower than the exact spot that you placed it in. You’re having a hard time figuring out if that excites you or disappoints you, especially when all you can do is focus on keeping your breathing unnoticeable and eyeing the three other people in the car to make sure no one is the wiser.
The tension in the backseat of the car is so thick that you could cut it with a knife by the time Sam’s pulling into a parking spot in front of Sharon’s building. Bucky’s fingertips dig into the skin of your thigh one last time before he drags his hand out from underneath the jacket and back to his own lap. You start to unbuckle so you can help Sharon out of the car and up to her apartment, but Sam shakes his head at you in the rearview mirror and pushes his own door open quickly.
“We’re not going to make you walk her all the way up there when you’re in heels.” Sam tsks, signaling for Torres to hop out as well. “We’ll take her up and get her settled, just stay in the car.”
“Are you sure? I could do it, she can probably walk fine, she’s just sleepy.” You say softly, glancing over at Sharon as she begins to stir. She shoots you a sideways smile and starts unbuckling her seatbelt with sloppy movements.
“Don’t say that, let them carry me.” Sharon jokes, slurring nearly every single word she speaks. You laugh lightly before pushing a bit of her blonde hair away from her face and leaning over her to open the door on her side.
“Fine, but don’t give them too much trouble.” You concede, watching as Torres takes both of her hands and helps her out of the car. You find your heart racing as she straightens herself up and takes just enough steps forward for Torres to shut the door again, leaving you and Bucky alone in the dark car. You let out a shaky breath as you watch Sam, Torres, and Sharon all move further and further away from the car. You don’t move a muscle. You stay seated right there in the middle of the backseat, painfully aware of how your left side is still brushing against Bucky’s right side.
Bucky’s sitting stiffly in his seat, wondering if you can hear how hard his heart is thumping against his ribcage right now. His eyes flit downward to where his leather jacket has shifted off of your lap a bit and the skin of the thigh that he was just toying with is now exposed. Gritting his teeth, he reaches over slowly and pinches the edge of the jacket with his fingertips before dragging it back up to cover your lap entirely. Your head moves quickly, tilting downward to watch what he’s doing. You swallow thickly as thoughts start swirling around in your head. It’s a mixture of sane, rational thoughts about thanking him for the jacket and dirty, irrational thoughts about putting his hand back where it was before the car stopped here. Even as your mind is formulating a coherent sentence to spit out, you know you should sit here quietly and act like nothing happened. You know so much better than to speak when tensions are running this high, and yet…
“I did kiss you back.” The words roll off of your tongue so quietly that you fear Bucky might not even have heard them. But when he stops staring out his window and drops his gaze down to where his hands rest in his lap, you know he heard you.
“You did.” He says just as quietly, shifting in his seat a bit. You let out a soft sigh and glance over at the empty seat beside you. You know it’ll look a bit odd to Sam and Torres when they get back to the car and see you still sitting in the middle of the backseat. You’re thinking about sliding over and buckling yourself in when movement catches your eye. Bucky’s flesh hand reaches over slowly, and his fingertips take hold of the edge of his jacket just like they did a moment ago, but instead of making sure the fabric covers your thighs, his moves it further down your legs this time. Your breath hitches in your throat as he pushes it down just an inch, revealing the hem of your short dress and the tiniest bit of skin across the tops of your thighs. Goosebumps prickle across your skin, but it has little to do with the fact that you’re still a bit cold. “I put my tongue in your mouth.” He rasps. You’re frozen in place as he starts tracing the hem of your dress with the tip of his index finger. His words hang in the air, swirling around with the thick tension like a heavy fog early in the morning. Bucky leans in as you stare down at his hand. He leans in until his forehead is nearly touching the side of your face and his lips are ghosting around the shell of your ear. “Would I need an excuse to do it again?”
As your eyes flutter closed and you suck in a deep breath, Bucky can only think of one thing. He can only think about how fucking perfect it felt to have you kissing him back, to push his tongue past your lips and really taste you for the first time. Of all the times he’s kissed you for undercover missions, it was never like that. He never dared to let his tongue get involved, not until tonight. Now he fears he might be ruined.
You’re thinking about the same damn thing. You’re thinking about how he tasted like honey and citrus and vanilla all jumbled together. You’re replaying the feeling of him fisting his hand in your hair and pulling you toward him in a way that should’ve done nothing other than piss you off.
Neither of you realizes that you’re both glancing toward the apartment building entrance at the same time, both checking to see if Sam and Torres are anywhere nearby. Are you really about to do this? You finally turn your head to face Bucky, and find him already staring at you intensely. His blue eyes reflect the tiniest bit of light from a street lamp in the distance, and you swear you can see something akin to flames dancing around in his gaze. He stares back at you for one, two, three seconds before the tension hanging in the air between you both shatters. In a flash, you’re shoving the leather jacket onto the floor and moving toward Bucky just as he’s grabbing you by the waist and tugging you toward him. Your lips meet before your bodies do and you’re kissing him so desperately that you almost feel a bit of shame. You’re acting like a horny teenager having her first bit of alone time with a guy on prom night, but as your dress hikes even higher up your hips and Bucky settles you not over his lap, but over his right thigh, every trace of shame disappears. You’re straddling the toned muscles of his thigh as he curls his fingertips against your scalp and takes a handful of your hair in his fist.
“You like when I do this, don’t you?” He asks lowly, nipping at your jawline as he pulls on your hair just enough to tilt your head back. A soft whimper escapes you and you grind down on his thigh, feeling just the right amount of friction as the fabric of your panties meets his jeans. He falters for a second and looks down, his grip on your hair loosening as you grind against his leg again. “Fuck, don’t do that.” He growls, squeezing your hip with his vibranium hand to make sure you’ll be still.
“But it feels so fucking good.” You whisper, fighting against his vibranium hand and dragging your clothed cunt against his thigh again. A guttural sound crawls up his throat and he pulls you in for a kiss, sliding his tongue past your lips instantly. There’s that honey taste again. He doesn’t try to stop you this time when you grind down, so you keep doing it over and over again for a few seconds, giving your clit exactly enough friction to elicit a sense of pleasure. If his side of the backseat was bigger, you’d settle yourself over his lap and grind on the bulge that you know is hiding behind the zipper of his jeans, but you’ll take what you can get.
“Is that enough for you?” Bucky asks roughly, the second he pulls away from your lips and glances down at where you’re grinding on his thigh once again.
“They’ll be back any minute.” You whisper. You place your hands on his shoulders as you crane your neck to glance back at the apartment building again, ensuring Sam and Torres are still out of sight.
“Say it isn’t enough.”
“Bucky—” Both of his hands move down your back and he cups your bare ass beneath the fabric of your dress, squeezing hard enough to leave red fingerprints in your skin. He leans in and presses an open-mouthed kiss to your neck before dragging the tip of his tongue up toward your ear and biting down on your earlobe softly. “It isn’t enough.” You moan out as your back arches and your chest presses against his. Bucky lets out a groan before reaching down with one hand and unbuckling his seatbelt. The thin strap moves between your two bodies quickly before clicking against the door, and then Bucky’s wrapping one arm around your lower back and moving to lay you down in the backseat. He hovers over you as your legs spread a bit to accommodate him, and then he sinks down on top of you. There’s something about feeling the full weight of a man over you that makes it hard to think rationally. That’s why when you feel the outline of his hard cock press against your damp panties, your back arches and his name leaves your lips in such a desperate, sultry moan. That’s why you let him grind and rut against you relentlessly for at least thirty seconds, listening to the sounds of his grunts and heavy breaths as he buries his face in your neck and moves his hips rhythmically. That’s why you let yourself get so dangerously close to an orgasm that you’re circling your own hips against his. It’s because you’re not thinking rationally, not one tiny bit.
You don’t hear it, but Bucky does. He hears the distant click as the door to Sharon’s apartment building swings open. He knows he only has a few seconds left before Sam and Torres will be close enough to see the car, so he presses his hips into you one last time, making sure you feel the entirety of his hard length against your clothed cunt before he looks down into your eyes and memorizes the look of pleasure on your face. He kisses you one last time, savoring the taste of your lips and letting his tongue dance with yours for one fleeting moment. Then, he’s pulling himself away from you and grabbing your hands to pull you back into a sitting position beside him. You’re in a daze as he leans down and scoops his leather jacket up off of the floor. The sound of Sam and Torres’ voices ring out in the distance and you move yourself to the seat Sharon had previously occupied, quickly smoothing out your dress and hair before buckling yourself in. Bucky holds the jacket out to you just as Sam and Torres are nearing the car, and you take it, draping it over your lap carefully.
Sam and Torres’ incessant small talk is the only sound to be heard as the car carries you all back to the compound. You’re keeping your legs tightly crossed and your hands folded neatly in your lap as you stare out your window and try to avoid thinking about what just happened. Adrenaline is still surging through your veins, almost cancelling out the alcohol in your system. On top of that, the sexual frustration that you feel from having not finished what you and Bucky so recklessly started in the backseat is giving you a bit of an attitude. You chew on the inside of your cheek as the damp panties trapped between your thighs begin to feel uncomfortable and the gravity of what you just did, what you would’ve done if Sam and Torres hadn’t showed up when they did, begins to set in. You’re compromising not just the upcoming mission, but your entire working relationship with a damn good partner. And for what? Not even an orgasm. He didn’t even give you that. You have no doubt that he would have if you’d had the time for it. Hell, you were pretty damn close to one with him grinding against you like that and those sounds he was making. Your mind starts to float back into dangerous territory and you bite the inside of your cheek a little harder, nearly drawing blood. You shudder at the sensation of pain, but continue staring out the window, wishing Sam would drive just a little bit faster.
He could cum right now. Bucky could actually cum in his jeans right now, and it’s been a solid ten minutes since he even looked in your direction. His cock is still painfully hard and fighting against the front of his jeans, threatening to pop the zipper if he doesn’t free it soon. He glances around Sam’s headrest to see that he’s already doing five over the speed limit. Still, it’s not fast enough. Not when you just did what you did, and you’re sitting only a foot away with Bucky’s scent all over you. Actually, that’s not even the worst of it. The worst of it all is the fact that you left wet spots on his thigh and over the crotch of his jeans, both of which hold the scent of your arousal. Bucky lets out a heavy sigh and shifts uncomfortably in his seat, adjusting the seatbelt over his lap so it won’t restrict his cock any more than it needs to. He catches you turning your head in his direction out of the corner of his eye, but he doesn’t dare look back at you. Screwing his eyes shut, he pinches the bridge of his nose with his flesh index finger and thumb as he presses his head back against the headrest. He can survive the last twenty minutes left in this car ride, but as soon as the car pulls up to the tower, he’s getting the fuck out of here.
Sam, ever the courteous and thoughtful designated driver, let you, Bucky, and Torres all out of the car right at the front entrance to the tower before heading off to park the car in the underground garage. Bucky almost decided to stay in the car and take the ride down to the garage with Sam, just to keep from being stuck in the elevator with you. However, it turns out that Torres is pretty damn good at icing over the fiery tension in a small space. Bucky is leaned against the back wall of the elevator, staring at the leather jacket hanging off of your shoulders as you stand a few feet in front of him. You’re so close to the metal doors that if you stuck your tongue out, you’d probably be licking them. Torres stands oblivious off to one side, scrolling through his phone absentmindedly as the elevator carries the three of you closer and closer to the main living quarters.
“Have you two gotten started on the dancing lessons yet?” He asks casually, without looking up from his phone. You say nothing. You stay still, staring at the metal in front of your face as the elevator continues on. Bucky clears his throat lightly and you hear him shift somewhere behind you.
“Tomorrow.” Bucky replies stiffly, offering no more than that single word. You turn your head the tiniest bit to see Torres nod, still looking down at the device in his hands.
“Saving it for the last minute?” He jokes. Your eyes dart upward and you see that you’re only a few floors away from the living quarters. “Fury wants you guys back in the past within the next two days.” You swallow hard at the reminder as an uneasy feeling settles in your gut.
“There isn’t going to be much to teach.” Bucky’s tone is flat, but still somewhat polite. You see Torres nod in your peripheral vision, and then the elevator is dinging and it’s slowing to a stop. You’re hurrying out the second the doors begin sliding open. You hear Torres’ phone ring and he mumbles something about taking the call down in the conference room, but you’re already halfway through the main living area. Your heels click against the hard floor as you make your way toward the dark hall, refusing to look back at the super soldier who can only be a few yards behind you.
“You don’t have to walk so damn fast.” Bucky mutters, watching you storm ahead. You’re still about ten feet from your door when you slow down and turn on your heel. Now you’re standing there looking at him as he continues walking toward his own door at a normal pace. You stand there and stare at the man you didn’t want to look at for another second tonight. He’s nothing but danger and bad decisions and you’re learning not to trust yourself around him anywhere but in the field.
“My feet hurt.” You say matter-of-factly, narrowing your eyes at him. You watch as he comes within a couple of feet of you and turns left to face his door that’s right across from yours. “I want to take off these heels and this dress and shower and just…” Your voice trails off and you catch Bucky looking over his shoulder at you with a raised brow. “And just sleep this off.” You finish, making it clear that you’re talking about whatever it is that’s between you right now. He turns to face you right as you’re turning your back to him and reaching for your own door handle.
“Sleep it off, huh?” He scoffs, noting that you’re still keeping his leather jacket draped over your shoulders. “Whatever this is, it’ll just be gone in the morning?” You keep your hand on the downturned door handle but you pause, not yet pushing the door open fully. You shrug your shoulders and Bucky watches as his jacket moves up and down once around your frame. “Kinda hard to forget what happened tonight if you wake up and see my leather jacket beside your bed in the morning.” You snort out an amused laugh before casting a glare at Bucky over your shoulder.
“Maybe you should take your jacket back then.” You respond calmly. As you’re facing your door, letting your head turn forward once again, you hear Bucky shuffling behind you slowly. A chill spreads beneath the surface of your skin as he grows closer and closer, until his body heat is enveloping you and his proximity has your hand faltering on the door handle. When he comes to a stop right behind you, so close that one deep breath from you would have your back pressing against his chest, he braces himself against your doorframe. Both of his arms are outstretched, his hands grasping the doorframe on either side of you as he leans in close to your ear, just as he’s done so many times tonight.
“But it looks so damn good on you.” He coos, taking a chance to inhale your sweet scent after he speaks. His breath tickles the side of your face as the wetness in your panties suddenly feels a little less uncomfortable and a little more exciting. You’d like to say your body is beyond your control when you draw in a deep breath and let go of the door handle. When you let your palms glide over the surface of your door and arch your back just enough to push your ass against the front of Bucky’s jeans. You’re met with the same hard-on he was rubbing all over your clothed cunt in the car just a little while ago and warmth pools low in your stomach. Bucky’s hips lean in, pressing himself against your ass a little harder as his flesh knuckles turn white and his vibranium hand whirs with exertion against the doorframe. He gives you a chance to open the door and disappear for the rest of the night, but when you circle your hips back against him a second time, his hands quickly move down to your hips and he pushes your front into the door firmly. He crowds in behind you, dragging his lips over the skin of your neck as you tilt your head to the side. He makes sure your bodies never part as he kisses down the column of your throat and bites down lightly on your collarbone. You grind your ass into him one more time and his control starts slipping.
“Keep that up and I’ll fuck you against this goddamn door.” Bucky rasps against your neck, tightening his hold on your hips to keep you from grinding anymore. You wriggle in his grasp, but he only curls his fingers against your dress even more, before dragging his lips back up toward your ear. “You’ll wake up tomorrow wondering why the fuck you can’t walk.”
“I’d blame the heels.” You whisper, surprising yourself at the fact that you’re going along with this. But everything he’s saying, everything he’s doing makes it hard for you to think straight. Bucky lets out a surprisingly gentle, genuine laugh before letting go of your hips and tugging his jacket off of your shoulders. He steps back suddenly, leaving you a bit cold and wanting for his touch. You turn around to watch as he walks over to his own door and pushes it open. “That’s it? You just walk away after that?”
“You can’t stand me, remember?” He replies. You can hear his smirk showing through his tone. “Should be easy for you to sleep it off.”
With that last line, Bucky’s shutting his door and you’re left in the dark hallway alone. You have half a mind to kick his door in and ruin your pretty heels, but the other half of you knows he’s doing the right thing. What did you really want him to do? If you’d invited him in and spent the night with him, you have no doubt that your professional life would’ve gone to shit before the end of the week. If he’d invited you in, or even worse, fucked you against right there in the hall like he’d said, the outcome would’ve been the same. You can’t mix work and play. You know that all too well. But why is it turning out to be so damn fun to blur the lines with him?
You take your time peeling off your dress and heels, soaking in a long, hot shower, and then getting ready for bed. By the time you’re flicking off the bathroom lights and pulling back the plush covers on your bed, it’s already a bit past one in the morning and the aching between your legs hasn’t ceased. You refuse to indulge your fantasies after having already made yourself orgasm once within the last twenty-four hours at the mere thought of the man across the hall. Twice would be too much, way too much when you’re actively trying to tell yourself that you need to start keeping things strictly professional with him. You choose to lie in bed and scroll through your phone for a bit, but still, Bucky remains at the forefront of your mind.
Bucky vows not to touch his cock in the shower ever again. Tonight was the last time. As he towels himself dry and avoids looking at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, he’s surprised at the fact that he doesn’t feel so much shame this time. He has a feeling you might’ve even been flattered by just how much cum ended up being washed down the drain after he thought of nothing but you as he stroked himself. Okay, maybe that’s wishful thinking. But seriously, with the things you did to him…with him tonight, he knows that you wouldn’t have kicked his ass for what he had to do in the shower. He has a feeling you might’ve even been tempted to do something like that for yourself after you parted ways.
One text. That’s all you need to send to give yourself a little peace of mind and maybe set things back on the right track with Bucky. It’s why you’re staring at the typed out message on your phone screen and your thumb is hovering over the send button. It’s late. Maybe too late to be sending him a text. But you feel like you have to do it. You’ll clear things up now and tomorrow everything will go back to normal, or as normal as things can be before a mission like this. When you hit send, let out a deep breath and let your head fall back on your pillow a bit dramatically.
When Bucky’s phone vibrates on his nightstand, he’s rolling over and grasping it in one hand almost instantly. Holding it over his face and quickly dimming the brightness of his lock screen, he sees your name at the top of the notification and he narrows his eyes. How many times have you texted him since you’ve started working together? Once? Maybe twice? His heart thumps a little harder than it previously had been as he unlocks his phone and reads your message. You don’t need any more convincing? His tongue darts out and wets his lips as he sends his overly simple response through.
Two question marks. That’s all you see as you stare at his text. Heaving a sigh, you type out a slightly longer message, making sure you’re abundantly clear. You need to make sure that he knows he doesn’t have to keep going with whatever act this is that he’s been putting on the last couple of days. If he’s only been fucking around with you to convince you that you’re the one his 40s self would approach in a bar, he doesn’t have to keep doing it. You’re thoroughly convinced. It’s only a few seconds after you’ve sent your message that you see the little gray typing bubbles pop up on his end of the message window.
You watch those three little dots with bated breath as your thumbs hover over your phone screen. When his final text comes through, your heart rate nearly doubles and warmth rushes up to color your cheeks a soft shade of pink.
Shit. You exhale noisily, before clicking your phone off and setting it on your nightstand. Your mind starts rushing back to all of the missions you’ve worked together, all of the times you bantered back and forth or argued and yet, every mission was carried out seamlessly. Was the tension between you two something that you’ve been misreading up until now? Had you been mistaking it for the type of tension felt between two people who don’t really get along, when all of this time it was that kind of thick, suffocating tension that you only find between two people who are oblivious as to how right for each other they really are?
You wrap yourself up in your bedsheets and let the darkness of your room envelope you. No fucking way. You do not have feelings for James Bucky Barnes. And even more than that, he most definitely does not have feelings for you. There’s simply no way.
When you finally drift off to sleep, what happened in the car on the way back from the bar replays in your dreams on a loop, growing slightly filthier with each rerun. You wake up three hours in with a pillow wedged between your legs and your hips instinctively grinding down into it in search of friction. You wake up a second time just before sunrise and you almost can’t take the ache between your legs.
If you really couldn’t stand him, if this was really nothing, you would’ve been able to sleep it off. And that scares the shit out of you.
Glimmers of early morning sunlight peek through your curtains, casting your room in a hazy yellow glow. Stretching out your legs beneath the covers, you rub the sleep from your eyes and blink a few times. Your gaze settles on the white ceiling above and you notice a slight twinge of pain behind your eyes as a headache begins to set in.
The night before replays in your mind, almost like a highlight reel, as you push the covers back and move to sit up on the side of your bed. You see yourself being pulled away from that stranger in the bar, being pulled to Bucky’s chest as he kissed you like you belonged to him and no one else. You squeeze your eyes shut and massage your temples with the middle and index fingers of your right hand. You see Bucky’s hand on your thigh in the car, and then him lying you down in the back seat before crawling on top of you and…fuck.
Tonight had nothing to do with convincing you. His last text to you from just a few hours ago is displayed across a billboard in the forefront of your mind. You rush through pulling on an outfit for the gym, settling on a lazy hairstyle and light makeup to hide the dark circles under your eyes from the poor sleep you got last night. It might be Sunday and you might not have much to do today, but you know good and well that sitting here in your room is only going to send you straight into a spiral of thoughts you don’t need to be dwelling on right now.
You listen carefully through your door, straining to detect any sounds that might let you know someone else is up and about this early. When you’re sure the coast is clear, you make a dash for the elevator and ride it all the way down to the gym.
Sam’s sitting in the conference room with Fury and a very hungover Sharon just a little past eight. He’d probably be laughing if she didn’t look so miserable. Her blonde hair is pulled back into a messy ponytail and the dark circles under her eyes are aging her by about five years. He can tell her head must be throbbing by the way she keeps squinting at the bright lights overhead and glancing over at the light switch across the room. Maybe he should’ve made an effort to end the fun a little earlier last night, but in his defense, none of you really made an effort to do that. Besides, he had no idea Fury would want to see them first thing on a Sunday morning.
“We’ll be sending you in tomorrow to bring Peggy Carter up to speed and establish a safehouse for the mission.” Fury explains slowly, eyeing Sharon as he speaks. She nods along, keeping her hands folded in her lap beneath the table. “You’ll have one day to get it done.”
“It won’t be a problem.” Sharon affirms confidently, letting her eyes shift between Fury and Sam. “One day is plenty of time. What stipulations do you have for the safehouse?”
“As long as they have a place to sleep and a door to lock at night, I don’t care. Whatever Peggy can help you find is going to have to do. They’ll only be there for two nights.” Fury responds. His phone chimes and he quickly stands up from the table, pushing his chair in gently. He casts Sam and sideways glance as he heads for the door.
“Maybe don’t take her out drinking tonight.” Fury advises, letting out a half-hearted laugh as he reaches for the door handle. “And let me know how those dance lessons go later. If those two can’t get along long enough to make it through one song, I have half a mind to scrap the whole damn mission.”
“They got along pretty well last night.” Sam snorts, remembering the way Bucky kissed you in the bar. Sure, he was the one that encouraged him to do it, but Sam knows for damn certain that it was anything but fake. He wonders for a moment just how complicated this mission might end up being with the two of you being thrust into the past without backup readily available. You’ve always worked well on missions before, but this is so different. This is the kind of mission that’ll make or break a partnership, and he’s very much aware that your partnership is somewhere on a tightrope between being rock solid and completely falling apart at the seams. If he had to place a bet, he’d say neither of you come back from this one the same as when you went in. Something’s going to change.
It doesn’t feel real. As you stand on a platform that looks like something straight out of a sci-fi movie, wearing a quantum suit in the darkest shade of black you’ve ever seen, you feel a bit like an imposter. It should be Sharon in your position right now. You know she was just in this same spot yesterday, heading back in time to establish a safehouse and make the first contact with Peggy Carter, but still. Who the hell decided that you’re qualified not only to run ops in this century, but to send you back to the last one to run an op as well?
“Hey.” Bucky says quietly, drawing you out of your spiraling thoughts. You turn your head to the right and take in the sight of him as he takes the few steps up onto the platform. He moves to stand directly in front of you, taking in the apprehension written all over your face. You tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear and let out a shaky breath as you meet his gaze. “Just another mission.” He assures you, keeping his voice low so only you can hear it. You nod, but you’re sorely unconvinced. This is not just another mission. You know it and he knows it.
“It should’ve been Sharon.” You mumble, averting your gaze and choosing to watch Bruce, Scott, and Torres as they work seamlessly behind a table of screens and electronic devices. Bucky shakes his head and narrows his eyes at you, but you refuse to look at him again.
“Okay, let me hit a few main points before we do this.” Bruce says suddenly, clapping his oversized, green hands together as he approaches the edge of the platform. “You have one roundtrip each, please make every effort to come back from this together. You can come back earlier if you have to but for the love of all things scientific, don’t come back later than planned. What feels like five minutes to you might be fifteen years here.”
“Bucky, you’ll keep your watch on at all times in the past. Take that thing off and lose it and you’re stuck in the forties, which I get might not be all that unappealing to a man who’s over a hundred years old, but still…keep it on.” Scott says pointedly. You glance down at your own time-space GPS device. While Bucky’s does resemble a normal wrist watch, yours was made to look more like an inconspicuous necklace so you could continue wearing it in the forties and still be dressed for the time period. “Don’t let anyone take that off of you.” Scott directs his warning at you. You nod curtly, reaching up and running your fingers along the dainty device lightly.
“Try not to go changing the past.” Bruce takes over again, but he’s backing away from the platform now and moving back toward the table of screens and devices. “Stick to the mission. Get in with the Howling Commandos, get what you need from the HYDRA base, and then get the hell out of there on time. Are we all on the same page?” Both you and Bucky nod in unison, and you finally face forward to meet his piercing stare.
“It could only be you.” Bucky whispers across the short distance between the two of you. Warmth floods your chest and you barely hear the sound of Bruce beginning to count backwards from twenty.
“I told you I didn’t need any more convincing.” You remind him, matching his low volume. “I’m here, I’m doing this. I just think Sharon would’ve been the smarter choice.” Bucky shakes his head at you almost disappointingly as Bruce reaches the ten second mark. You see something flash in Bucky’s eyes, something passionate and intense as you ready yourself to activate the helmet and face mask on your suit. When Bruce calls out eight seconds left, Bucky rushes forward, taking two steps before grasping the sides of your face firmly in his hands.
His lips are soft and gentle when they meet yours, but in less than a second he’s kissing you like it’s the last time he’ll ever get the chance to. It sucks the air right out of your lungs and sets a fluttering sensation off deep in your stomach, but then he’s pulling away and stepping back. You activate your helmets and face masks at the same time, right as Bruce is nearing the end of his count.
“Three, two, one…”
With a flash of light and an unusual feeling that the gravity beneath your feet has just increased by a hundred-fold, you’re being dragged through time and space, hurtling toward a period of time that you’re sure you don’t belong in.
Rain pours down heavily on the roof of the car as Peggy drums her fingertips along the top of the steering wheel. She glances down at the coordinates scrawled on a small scrap of paper for the fifth time, even though she knows she’s exactly where she’s supposed to be. She can’t help but feel a little on edge. The street light perched above her car gives off just enough light for her to lean over in front of the rearview mirror and reapply her red lipstick one last time. It’s a bit of a nervous habit really, because it’s not like she has much reason for her makeup to look perfect with the role she’s about to play. A glorified cab driver. That’s what she is tonight. A flash of light in the distance catches her attention, and it isn’t lightning. She turns the key in the ignition and watches as her headlights suddenly illuminate the alley ahead.
She isn’t quite sure what she expected the two of you to look like. She should’ve assumed that Sergeant Barnes would age well, but the fact that he’s barely aged has her raising a brow as she studies him from a distance. She notes the fact that he seems taller and much more muscular than the Sergeant Barnes she’s come to know through Steve and the Howling Commandos.
“Welcome to London.” Bucky mutters under his breath, as he raises a hand to shield his eyes from the bright headlights ahead. He squints slightly and catches sight of Peggy’s characteristic red lip and brown curls through the windshield of a dark Morris eight. You cut your eyes to the side and take in the sight of him, with his hair already soaked through and rainwater dripping down the side of his face. Before you have a chance to say anything back, he’s moving to stand behind you and placing a hand against the middle of your back, lightly guiding you toward the car.
The rain sends a chill racing from your head to your toes as Bucky reaches past you, tugs the front passenger door open and ushers you into the seat. He leans down before closing the door, letting his scent invade your space as he looks past you to Peggy.
“Peggy Carter.” He says with a soft smile, looking at her as if he’s seeing an old friend after so long apart. You’re stuck staring at him. You’ve never seen this look on his face before and it lets you see him in a slightly different light.
“Sergeant Barnes.” Peggy’s British accent is almost musical in a way. You finally turn your head and get a good look at her. She looks perfectly put together and polished with her bright red lipstick, styled hair, and navy blue pantsuit. “If you’d like to hop in and allow your partner here to close her door, we just might make it to your safehouse before you’re both thoroughly soaked.” A laugh slips past Bucky’s lips, but he listens to her and steps away from the door, closing it for you gently. Once he’s settled in the backseat, Peggy shoots a sideways smile in your direction before putting the car into reverse. “Does he always listen that well?”
“Not at all.” You respond honestly.
Peggy guides the car backwards out of the alley and onto the very sleepy, rainy streets of London. It’s an odd feeling to be in such a major city but see so little traffic or nightlife. You’re taking everything in with widened eyes, noting all of the little differences between the forties and the time period that you come from. Bucky’s soaking it in as well, but instead of exciting him, it relaxes him. He sinks into the backseat and lets out a deep breath, watching as the old buildings and signs roll past his window. He almost feels at home here.
The drive to the safehouse on the outskirts of the city doesn’t take anywhere near as long as it would’ve taken in the modern world. When Peggy turns into the long driveway of one of Howard Stark’s many homes, you’re starting to feel the effects of time travel. Your head feels a little fuzzy and you have a sensation almost similar to that of motion sickness. Peggy says something about the house being a bit small for two people, mentioning it being one of Stark’s occasional residences for when he travels alone.
“Everything you need will be inside. Clothes, food, a few choice weapons for the mission at hand. Please let me know if I missed anything, but I think I was rather thorough.” Peggy says cordially as she leads the way up the paved driveway toward the front door. You take a few steps away from the car but stop short, scrunching your eyes shut as a heavy wave of nausea hits. Bucky’s behind you in an instant, letting his palm press against your lower back as he stands at your side and leans over to look at your face.
“What’s going on?” He asks in a hushed tone with concern lacing his words.
“I’m good, it’s just the time travel thing.” Bruce made you both read an obscene amount of research on the potential physiological effects of time travel, but assured you that you probably wouldn’t experience any of them. Yet, here you are, experiencing a bout of time sickness before you’ve even made it into the safehouse. Bucky scrutinizes your expression, searching your eyes for any sign that you’re downplaying whatever’s going on with you. You wave a dismissive hand at him as rain begins to come down a little heavier.
“Are you two coming?” Peggy asks from the door up ahead, looking at you both with a raised brow. Bucky turns his head for a second to glance at her, but quickly looks back at you as his hand falls away from your back. He watches you carefully as you put on an unbothered expression and take a couple of steps forward. Shit. The nausea increases ten-fold and suddenly you’re rushing over to the edge of the driveway and leaning over with your hands on the knees of your quantum suit, losing the contents of your stomach all in one go. Bucky’s beside you within a second, gathering your hair up in both of his hands and holding it back behind your shoulders.
“Don’t say it.” Bucky warns as you turn your head to look up at him, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.
“It should’ve been Sharon.” You groan, straightening up and tugging your hair away from his grasp. He shakes his head at you and you can already see an argument gearing up in his head, so you brush past him, feeling significantly better now that you’re completely empty.
Peggy can’t seem to stop herself from reading into the way you and Bucky interact. When she met Sharon just yesterday, it was made abundantly clear that you and Sergeant Barnes are partners but don’t always play nice with each other. From what she’s seeing now, Bucky wants nothing more than to play nice with you. She has to wonder if the bickering and constant tension that Sharon talked about is a façade, a thick wool blanket over what’s really at the core of your partnership.
You feel fine just long enough to run your fingertips over the green and cream floral wallpaper that covers the kitchen walls and admire the pristine white oven that anyone’s great grandmother would love. But the moment you turn your attention to the living area just a few steps outside of the kitchen, a fresh wave of nausea begins taking up residence in the pit of your stomach and you breathe in deeply through your nose. Bucky watches you apprehensively from the foyer, waiting to see what you’ll do. He can tell you feel miserable. He can tell you want to get a good look at the safehouse and settle yourself in, but you’re looking a little green and fatigued as you move toward a large dark green couch in the living room.
You sink into the couch and let your head fall back against the cushion behind you. As you reach up and wrap your fingers around your necklace, your quantum suit deactivates and you’re left in leggings and a black pull-over. Bucky glances around the house, noting the short hallway that leads to the master bedroom and what looks to be French doors leading to a study off to one side. He takes a few steps forward until he’s moving around the couch, and then seats himself in a dainty looking floral-patterned lounge chair that’s angled toward you across from a coffee table.
“Is this really just a time travel thing?” Bucky finally speaks. Your eyes flutter open and you take in the sight of him in that lounge chair. If you didn’t feel so shitty you might laugh at how out of place he looks in such a pretty little chair.
“What else would it be?” You ask. Bucky watches closely as you run your fingers through your damp hair and stare right back at him. He narrows his eyes at you and cocks his head to the side and you immediately know what he’s thinking. What is it with men always thinking that a woman is pregnant if she pukes? You just fucking time traveled and he still feels the need to rule it out?
“I’m not pregnant.” You sigh, letting your eyes fall closed again as you kick your shoes off and draw your knees up toward your chest. “I can’t be.”
“Can’t be?”
“I haven’t done the thing that you need to do in order to be pregnant in a long time.” Bucky finds relief in your words. He didn’t really think you were pregnant, but he sure as hell likes knowing that you haven’t slept with anyone recently. He leans back in his chair and lets his gaze float around the comfortable space. The homey kitchen makes him think of his mom. The wooden floor boards make him think of how carefully he’d have to tiptoe around his childhood home to keep from letting his parents know that he was awake past his bedtime. The slight chill in the air guides his eyes over to the fireplace that spreads across one wall of the living room. If it gets any colder he’ll have to start a fire.
“I kissed you.” He says evenly, turning his head back to you. You open your eyes and give him a hard stare, trying to read his indecipherable expression as his blue eyes zero in on your face.
“Yeah, you keep doing that.” Your nausea worsens and you draw your knees up even tighter against your chest before dropping your head down to rest on them. Bucky pushes himself out of his chair and heads for the kitchen. You listen as he opens and closes a few drawers, rummaging around for something. A few seconds later you hear the kitchen sink running and then it cuts off. Bucky stands there, wringing out a wet cloth as he purses his lips.
“You haven’t stopped me.” He points out. He turns on his heel and carries the wet cloth in your direction. When you feel his weight sink into the couch cushion beside you, you lift your head from your knees and find yourself face to face with him. He lifts the wet cloth to the side of your neck and dabs at it gently, watching as your eyes close and you take a deep breath in.
“I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again.” Sarcasm drips from every word. Bucky slides the cloth to the back of your neck and holds it there for a moment.
“He’s going to try to kiss you tomorrow.” Bucky seems almost annoyed with his own statement and you steal a sideways glance at him as he moves the wet cloth to your forehead. He seems to almost resent the way his younger self behaved.
“He moves that fast?” Bucky nods, chewing on the inside of his cheek as he contemplates how much to tell you.
“You’ll meet and he’ll ask you to dance. You’ll dance and he’ll ask if you want to leave the bar. He’ll take you out into the city, try to show you a good time.” Bucky slides the wet cloth down the side of your face until it’s right below your chin. You look into his eyes, watching as his gaze darts down to your lips for the most fleeting moment. “He moves fast.”
“I can handle it.” You assure him, but your words come out a lot quieter than you intended. Bucky pulls his hand and the cloth away from your chin and dabs your neck with it again.
“I know.”
“Then why does it seem like you’re worried?” Bucky shrugs his shoulders as he focuses in on the skin of your neck. He’s staring at the spot he once marked with his own lips, dragging the cool cloth over it slowly.
“I don’t like the thought of him touching you.”
“Bucky…” Your stomach churns violently and you’re rushing off of the couch at lightning speed. Your feet carry you down the hall, into the master bedroom, and into the bathroom quickly. You’re lucky you make it in time to drop to your knees in front of the toilet before the last remnants inside of you start to come out. You hear Bucky step into the bathroom only a second later and he’s tugging your hair back just like he did in the driveway earlier. “Don’t say shit like that.” You groan, grasping the wet cloth that Bucky’s holding out beside your head. You wipe at your lips and reach up to flush the toilet as you stay in place, not trusting that your gut is finished betraying you.
“Like what?”
“You shouldn’t care if someone else touches me. We’re partners. We can’t keep blurring the lines like this.” You explain. Bucky’s hands stay firmly in your hair as he waits to see if you’ll get sick a third time.
“The lines have been blurred for a long time.”
“Doesn’t mean we should keep blurring them.” You assert. Though you don’t peer over your shoulder to look at Bucky, you can sense the look of frustration that’s written all over his face. He lets out a weighted sigh before moving away from you and reaching over to turn on the shower. As the sound of running water fills the room, you gauge the heaviness in your stomach and decide that you definitely feel better. You remember Bruce’s little pamphlets saying that the first hour after moving through timelines is when you experience the most side effects, and you’re nearing the forty-five-minute mark now. You lean away from the toilet and drop the lid down before pushing yourself up to stand. Though you feel a tiny bit wobbly on your feet, the nausea is mostly gone and the steam from the shower is making you feel a little less chilly.
“I’ll go grab you some clothes.” Bucky says quietly as he brushes past you and heads back into the bedroom. You take the free moment to search the contents of the bathroom drawers until you find a new toothbrush and some toothpaste. Bucky comes back in when you’re brushing your teeth in front of the fogged-up mirror. “I get the feeling you aren’t going to wear these.” He says with a smirk, dropping a deep red set of folded pajamas beside the sink. You give him a wary side-eye, tucking the toothbrush into the side of your cheek before reaching for the pile of fabric. As soon as you unfold the top, you realize it’s a long sleeve button down shirt with matching pants. It looks like the kind of pajamas you see families wear on Christmas day in lifestyle magazines. Shaking your head, you fold the top and set it back on the countertop. Bucky crosses his arms over his chest and leans against the doorframe as you bend over the sink and spit out a mouthful of water and toothpaste.
“That’s all there is?” You rinse off the toothbrush and set it along the side of the sink before reaching down and gripping the bottom of your shirt. You already have it pulled over your head by the time you realize what you’re doing. Bucky stands frozen in the doorway, staring at you with narrowed eyes as you drop the shirt to the floor at your feet. He tilts his head to the side, never letting his eyes stray from your face even as you stand before him in a bra.
“How is this not blurring the lines?” He questions, jutting his chin out at you. You narrow your eyes back at him and cross your arms over your chest, matching his stance. There’s a palpable heat in the air, and it’s not just from the steamy shower. As you and Bucky stand there staring each other down, each of you refusing to break first, tensions soar and you find yourself itching to push him out of the bathroom and shut the door. He can see the idea forming in your head so he speaks up before you actually have a chance to go through with it. “There was a floor-length nightgown if you’d rather wear that.” He says with another signature smirk. You shake your head firmly.
“Were t-shirts not a thing in the forties?”
“You’re going to wear a t-shirt when there’s only one bed?” Bucky asks, raising a brow. A genuine laugh erupts from your chest as you uncross your arms and run your fingers through your damp hair.
“The bed’s all yours, Bucky.” You say, raising your hands up in a gesture that makes it clear you don’t want the bed for yourself. “I’m taking the couch.” Bucky scoffs as he reaches over for the folded pajamas beside the sink. As he steps out of the bathroom, he gives you a look you can’t quite read. It’s something between longing and frustration and it makes your cheeks feel warm. He pulls the door shut behind him, leaving you alone in the steamy bathroom. As you strip your clothes off and step under the stream of water, so many things are stuck in your head. The way Bucky rushed over and held your hair back not only the first time you puked, but the second time as well. He cares. You know he cares. He cares and it scares the shit out of you. The way he pressed a wet cloth to your neck and sat with you on the couch, even if he was using the moment to warn you about his younger self and reveal a little hint of how he feels about you. I don’t like the thought of him touching you. Bucky’s confession may not have surprised you, but it wasn’t what you were expecting him to say. What did he think was going to happen when he insisted you be a part of this mission? He could’ve let Sharon handle it and he never would’ve had to deal with the jealousy or possessiveness or whatever it is that’s coursing through him right now. But no, it had to be you. It could only be you. As you scrub a sweet-smelling soap into your skin, your mind wanders back to that moment on the platform earlier today. He kissed you. He kissed you in front of some of your coworkers without a care in the world. The lines are so fucking blurred that you wonder if he even knows where they are anymore, or if he cares. You look down as soapy suds circle around the drain near your feet. Do you know where they are? Do you care?
Bucky rummages around in the bedroom until he finds a plain white t-shirt that he’s sure Peggy meant to be for him. It looks like it’ll probably be a bit oversized on you, so he tosses it onto the bed and stands still for a moment, listening to the sound of the shower running through the wall. He knows you feel the same thing he feels. Every time he’s kissed you, he’s reminded that you feel it. Do you try to deny it because you don’t want to feel it? Sometimes he just wants to grab you and ask what it is that keeps you from being real with him.
Bucky shakes his head, trying his best to clear all thoughts of you from his mind, before tugging his shirt over his head and dropping it on the bed. He leaves his tactical pants on as he moves through the house, searching for an extra pillow and blanket. He sure as hell isn’t going to let you take the couch, especially not a couch made eighty years before the couches you’re used to sitting on. You’ll wake up in the morning with a stiff neck and aching back. He’ll take the couch and leave you the bed.
It’s just a few minutes later that you’re stepping out of the bathroom, wrapped tightly in a towel as you pad across the bedroom floor quietly. You glance around but see no sign of Bucky. Eyeing the crisp white t-shirt on the bed, you can tell he left it for you. You run your fingers over it while clutching the towel around your chest with one hand.
“Is that what you wanted?” Bucky’s voice is low and gravelly as he speaks from the bedroom doorway behind you. Clutching the towel a little tighter, you turn to face him with the white shirt fisted in one hand. Your eyes roam over the expanse of his bare chest, coasting down to the ripples of his abs and the v-line that so prominently drags your gaze even further down to the front of his tactical pants. He smirks at the way you’re ogling him, but he doesn’t mention it. When you finally tear your eyes away from him, the dresser beside the doorway catches your eye. You move closer to it and rummage around in one of the top drawers until you find a pair of simple black panties. Bucky’s eyes follow your movements carefully. He leans against the doorframe just like he did in the bathroom earlier, keeping his gaze trained on your face as you lean over and guide the panties up your legs beneath the towel. You’re just careful enough to make sure not to flash Bucky, but you wonder if his eyes would even stray from your face if you flashed him.
“It’s fine.” You say, referring to the t-shirt. “Are you gonna shower?” You ask, trying to keep your gaze from drifting down his torso again. You turn away from the dresser and head back for the foot of the bed, dropping the shirt onto the mattress before peeling the towel away from your body.
Bucky stiffens in the doorway as you let your towel fall to your feet. He’s never seen you this way. As you stand there with your back exposed, wearing nothing but a pair of black panties, he has to bite down on his bottom lip to keep from saying something stupid. Who’s blurring the lines now? He wants to point out your hypocrisy, to make it blatantly obvious, but he stays quiet as you tug the t-shirt over your head and slide your arms through the short sleeves.
“Did you want to keep staring or were you going to shower?” Your voice rings out playfully as you cut your eyes at Bucky over your shoulder. He tamps down a groan at the way you look at him through your lashes, but then he’s moving toward the bathroom door.
“If I find you on the couch when I get out, I’m moving you myself.” He threatens, not daring to steal another look at you as he nears the bathroom.
“I already called it.” You shrug, bending over to scoop your damp towel off the floor.
“Take the bed, unless you want me joining you on that damn couch and blurring the lines even more.”
As you settle into the bed, letting go of your signature stubborn nature for the time being, Bucky’s all you can think about. It’s not the fact that he looked undeniably attractive standing there in the doorway without a shirt on. It’s not the fact that he insisted you take the bed and leave him with the surely uncomfortable couch. It’s every little thing he’s said and done in between that has your heart racing and your mind reeling. What if, just this once, you let yourself explore the tension? What if instead of waiting for the tension to snap like a twig, instead of waiting for him to lay you down in the backseat of someone else’s car in the heat of the moment, you took the initiative and tried to figure out what the hell this is between the two of you? He was right when he said that the lines have been blurred for a long time. Maybe instead of trying to tiptoe around and avoid blurring them, you should just shift them. Shift the lines and see if things end up crashing down in flames. If everything goes horribly, it’s not like you had anything to lose. But if things go well? A shiver runs down your spine and you tuck yourself in underneath the covers of the oversized bed. You sink into the pillow behind your head and let your eyes fall closed as you imagine a moment where your field partner becomes something more. You imagine a moment where all the stolen kisses and touches lately stop being so stolen, and instead are given and taken freely. You imagine what it might feel like to stop running and fighting against this thing that you feel so strongly. Warmth spreads through your body and you relax against the mattress.
When Bucky steps out of the bathroom a few minutes later and catches sight of you curled up in bed with your eyes closed and the covers pulled up to your shoulders, he lets out a quiet sigh of relief. He really thought you’d try to tough it out and sleep on the couch. He stands in the doorway between the bathroom and bedroom, fiddling with the dog tags around his neck and wondering if he should look for some pajamas of his own instead of crashing on the couch in just a pair of black boxers. When he glances over at you again and sees the peaceful look on your face, he can’t bring himself to go digging through the dresser or closet and risk waking you. Though it’s chilly in the house, he could make it through the night just fine by starting a fire in the living room fireplace and using the spare blanket he set out on the couch while you showered. As he starts moving forward, his dog tags clink against his bare chest and the wooden floor creaks under his feet on the second step. He stills and holds his breath, not even moving to look over his shoulder and see if he’s woken you with those little sounds. After waiting a second, takes another cautious step forward and the floor creaks a little louder. Fuck it. He makes it to the door quickly, with only a few more creaks of wood beneath his feet, but as he exits the doorway into the hall, he hears you stir behind him.
“Bucky?” Your soft sleepy voice stops him in his tracks. He exhales deeply, feeling a bit guilty about waking you but loving the way you sound when you’ve just woken up. He turns around in the doorway and faces you. You’re propped up on one elbow, squinting at him through the dark room.
“If I knew the floors were so loud I would’ve just slept in the shower.” He says halfheartedly, speaking quietly to match the sleepy mood of the house.
“I wasn’t really asleep.” You whisper back. Your eyes follow the curve of his vibranium arm down until you’re studying the black and gold fingertips that hang at his side. Bucky raises a brow at you.
“You were asleep.” He murmurs, cocking his head to the right. He glances over at the empty side of the bed, noting how little space you take up even when you have your legs stretched out.
“I was just thinking.”
“About what?” Bucky wonders aloud. He takes a step forward and leans against the doorframe like he’s done multiple times tonight. He crosses his arms over his chest as you let your head fall away from your hand and lay back on your pillow again. You stare up at the ceiling as nervousness begins to swell up in your chest. You bite down on your bottom lip and screw your eyes shut, holding your breath for a second before deciding to speak again.
“Blurring the lines.” As you lay there in the dark, refusing to prop yourself back up to look at Bucky, your heart starts beating wildly against your ribcage. He’s silent for a second too long and it has you regretting opening your mouth. When you hear the wood floor creak, you force yourself to open your eyes. Pushing yourself up on your elbows, you see Bucky moving toward the bed slowly. His dog tags swing with each step, clanging against his chest a couple of times before he reaches your side of the bed. You watch with bated breath as he nudges your legs through the covers. Getting the hint, you sit up and pull your legs in closer, drawing your knees to your chest. Bucky sits down on the side of the bed but keeps his face cast downward at the floor.
“That night you tried to sleep it off…” His voice trails off as he leans over and rests his elbows on his knees. He looks down at his hands as he presses his palms together. “Did it work?” You swallow hard but don’t hesitate to shake your head. You know he catches the act in his peripheral vision, so you don’t say a word. Bucky nods slowly, studying his hands as if he’s memorizing every detail of them. Your eyes drift to his shoulders as he takes steady, even breaths. They rise and fall rhythmically as moonlight from the window across the room filters in through the curtains and highlights them.
Bucky wants to say more, to ask you more. He can tell that you’re open to talking right now, probably more open than you’ve ever been before, but he has this sinking feeling that you’ll say something that’ll break him. He doesn’t know if he can handle hearing you say out loud just how one-sided you think this thing between you really is. Even though he’s sure it’s not actually one-sided, hearing you say that it is might really break him. He won’t give you the chance to do that yet. He wants to hold out hope a little longer. So, Bucky rises from the side of the bed and exhales deeply. When he turns to head for the door again, intent on settling into that stiff green couch in the living room for the night, every sensory receptor in his body fires at once at the feeling of your hand reaching out and grasping his flesh one. He drops his gaze quickly and sees exactly what he feels: your palm sliding against his and your fingers intertwining with his softly. His throat feels dry and every thought leaves his mind as you tighten your grasp and tug on his hand slightly.
“Lay with me.” You whisper. Your tone is so meek that he can tell exactly what’s going through your mind right now. You’re afraid he’ll say no. You’re afraid that he’ll reject you and continue on to sleep on the couch, leaving you here alone, feeling vulnerable and stunted. The tone of your whisper puts the tiniest crack in his hard exterior.
Bucky’s silent as you drop his hand and scoot closer to the middle of the bed, pulling back the covers for him. He moves slow as he settles into the warm spot you’d been occupying, inhaling your sweet scent as he pulls the covers over his body and rolls onto his side to face you. You’re just a few inches away, lying on your folded arm since he moved the second pillow to the couch earlier. He could get up and go grab the pillow. He’d only be gone for a few seconds. But he fears the moment he leaves your sight, you’ll change your mind about having him here and he’ll have ruined everything. That’s why he tugs the pillow out from under his head and moves it toward you, watching with a softened gaze as you accept it and slide it beneath your own head.
You’re falling asleep right in front of his eyes a few minutes later, when suddenly your eyes flutter open and you reach out for him beneath the covers. Your warm palm lands on his side, skating around to his back before you pull him toward you. He moves in carefully, apprehensively, until his chest is nearly pressed against yours. He watches as you drag the pillow until it’s in the shared space between you and both of your heads fall to rest on it evenly. With Bucky’s body heat keeping you warm and the light patter of rain on the bedroom window lulling you to sleep, your eyes are closed only a few minutes later and Bucky finds himself missing the heat of your stare until he too drifts off into an unusually peaceful slumber.
You awake in a tangle of limbs with lightning flashing through the curtains and illuminating the room with a ghostly glow. Everything looks a little scarier in an antique house at three in the morning. Thunder rumbles loudly just above the house, shaking the roof and rattling the glass window. As you fully come to your senses, you figure out just where your limbs are in relation to Bucky’s and your heart rate picks up quickly. He’s asleep directly in front of you, with his face looking more relaxed than you’ve ever seen it. But his legs and arms…
A shaky breath flows out through your nose as you close your eyes and try not to move. Bucky has one thigh wedged snugly between yours and an arm thrown lazily over your waist. You can tell that your t-shirt has ridden up above your hips and ass, with his forearm resting against the hem of it on your waist. Blurred lines. So fucking blurred.
You close your eyes tightly as a loud crack of thunder reverberates through the house. Bucky’s instantly awoken as the thunder rolls and you tense up against him. He focuses on your face, on your tightly closed eyes and the way you’re holding your breath. He moves the arm that’s draped over your waist slowly until his hand is ghosting over your hip. His fingertips just barely graze the hem of your t-shirt as thunder sounds again. You look into his eyes right as you move your left hand to clamp down over his, forcing his palm to press flat against your hip and his fingers to curl against your skin. As you stare into each other’s eyes and the storm rages on just outside, the tension rising between you feels just like it did in the car outside of Sharon’s apartment that night.
“I don’t want to keep blurring the lines.” Bucky rasps as he squeezes your hip once. Your eyes trail down to his lips as he speaks only inches from your face. He leans in slowly until he’s so close that one little shift of your head would have you kissing him. He lets the tip of his nose brush against yours gently before moving down and pressing his lips to your jawline. He leaves kisses in a row all the way back to your ear, moving at a torturously slow pace until he’s nipping at your neck in that way that always drives you crazy.
“Then what do you want?” You ask breathlessly. Bucky pushes the knee that’s trapped between your legs upward until he’s applying the tiniest bit of pressure against your clothed cunt. A soft moan escapes your lips as you squeeze your thighs around his and focus on the feel of skin against skin.
“I want to cross them.” He whispers against your neck. You tilt your head back to give him more access as his tongue swirls against the column of your throat. “I want to lay you down on the line and just…” Bucky tugs the neck of your shirt to the side and bites down on your collarbone lightly. “Fuck you on it.”
“Bucky…” His name is a whimper that floats from your lips and fills the space around you both. Moving his hand back down to your hip, Bucky curls his fingertips into it and pulls you down, making your grind against the firm muscle of his thigh. This time a sultry moan slips out and your back arches slightly, causing your chest to press against his.
“How am I supposed to keep my hands off of you when you say my name like that?” Wetness pools between your thighs and begins to dampen the fabric of your panties as he pushes his thigh upward again, at the same time that he pulls your hip down and applies pressure to your clit just right. You know you should have better sense than to lay here and let him do unspeakable things to you. You should remind him that you’re partners, that you’d be risking things professionally if you let things go on this way. You should remind him that you’re technically on a mission right now, but his name just falls from your lips again. You’re actively emptying your mind of any thought that would have you push him away when he attaches his lips to your neck again and pulls you in against his chest. You try to push his shoulders and force him onto his back so you can move on top of him, but he fights against you, rolling on top of you instead. He pins your arms down on either side of your head and lets his nose brush against yours a second time. He lowers his hips down slowly as your legs spread on their own accord, giving him the space to press his clothed erection against your wet panties.
“How do we keep ending up like this?” You whisper against his lips, staring up into his blue eyes as your question hangs in the air. Bucky presses his lips to yours in a short, shallow kiss. “I keep telling myself this can’t happen and we keep ending up here.”
“Let me have you.” He begs, dropping his forehead to yours. You look at him through your lashes as your breath hitches in your throat. “Let me have you just this once.”
“Just this once? That’s all you’re asking for?” The words come out airy and light as you struggle to take in a full breath. Bucky grinds against you, circling his hips slowly while he keeps your arms pinned to the mattress.
“I’d ask you for a lifetime if I didn’t think it would scare the shit out of you.” Goosebumps prickle across your skin and you bite down on your bottom lip hard enough to draw blood.
“We can’t fuck.” You say decidedly. The surety of your voice surprises you, with how malleable you feel having Bucky grind against you like this. You fear that if he really asked you for something specific, you’d say yes in a heartbeat. He circles his hips into yours impossibly harder and shakes his head above you.
“I wasn’t asking if I could fuck you.” Bucky takes in the confused look on your face and he can’t help but to lean in and kiss you. He envisions what he really wants to do to you. He pictures the way he wants to push your legs apart and eat you out like your pussy is his last meal. Then he kisses you like that’s exactly what he’s doing. His tongue delves into your mouth relentlessly, leaving you gasping for air when he finally pulls back. He lets go of your forearms and pushes the covers away from his back as he shimmies down. He kisses your neck, then your chest through the t-shirt. He leaves soft, gentle kisses all the way down until he’s settling himself between your legs and pressing his lips against the waistband of your panties. You look down at him through your lashes, wanting nothing more than to tangle your fingers in his hair and pull his face closer to where you need it. “I was asking if I could taste you.”
“You say you want to lay me down on the metaphorical line and fuck me, and then you get between my legs and ask if you can just taste me?”
“I’m not fucking you until I know I can do it without you running off and pretending like it meant nothing to you.” He plants an open-mouthed kiss right over your clothed clit. The warmth of his tongue seeps through the fabric, sending a jolt of pleasure dancing up your spine and a knot tightening low in your stomach. “When I fuck you, you’re not going to get all in your head about how you shouldn’t have let it happen. You’re not going to have regrets and feel like we ruined everything we had.” Bucky hooks a finger in your panties and gently pulls them to the side, but he never looks down. He maintains eye contact as he starts pressing the pad of his thumb against your now exposed clit. Him finding your clit instantly without even looking, without having your anatomy perfectly memorized, almost ruins you. “When I fuck you, you’re going to realize that you were just delaying the inevitable.”
“You keep saying when.” You point out between heavy pants. You can’t resist the urge to tangle your fingers in his hair any longer, not when he’s toying with your clit this way and looking at you so intensely. You reach down with both hands, carding your fingers through his hair and tugging on it lightly.
“Inevitable, sweetheart. Tell me what that word means.” He finally lets his eyes angle downward and settle on your wet cunt. You watch as his pupils dilate and his tongue darts out to dampen his lips as he admires you from just a couple of inches away. He starts circling your clit with his thumb, applying just enough pressure to have your back arching off of the bed and your fingers curling in his brown hair. Bucky inches closer to your pussy and you feel his tongue press against your entrance firmly, before he’s dragging it upwards and using it to replace his thumb. He pulls back abruptly, leaving you whining out in frustration. “If something’s inevitable, it’s certain. It’s unavoidable, it was bound to happen.” His warm breath fans over your pussy as he speaks in a low voice. Bucky sucks on your clit roughly before pulling back again. “When I fuck you, when the inevitable happens, you won’t be able to pretend like there’s nothing between us anymore.”
You’re torn between wanting to argue with him and wanting to clamp your thighs around his head and grind against his tongue. Bucky smirks up at you and you tug on his hair a little harder out of spite.
“It’s already happening, isn’t it?” He asks just before flattening his tongue against your clit and letting your circle your hips against him. Your eyes flutter closed as that knot in your stomach tightens more and more. “It’s getting harder to pretend.”
“Fuck you.” You moan out the insult, but it’s useless as he slides down and pushes his tongue inside of you. His thumb takes over stimulating your clit once again as he starts eating you out like he’s dreamt of doing it since he’s known you. His tongue works you up higher and higher, closer and closer to the edge of the cliff as a sweat breaks out across your forehead and you struggle to keep your ass on the bed.
“You’re getting close.” He groans against you. You whimper as he drags his thumb away from your clit and switches to rubbing it with his middle and ring fingers. He moves slow now, sliding those fingertips away from your clit and toward your entrance.
“Bucky…” You say his name in warning. You know what he’s about to do. He plunges both fingers into you, stopping when they’re halfway in and your back is arched inches off of the bed. Your fingertips scrape against his scalp as you hold in a moan that would’ve been damn near pornographic if you’d let it out. Bucky lets out a frustrated sigh before dragging his fingers out and then pushing them back in all the way. As he holds them inside of you knuckle-deep, you cry out loudly. It’s been so long since you’ve let anyone do something like this to you and he isn’t giving you much time to adjust, but god, it feels so fucking good.
“Breathe, baby.” He says as he presses a soft kiss to the inside of your thigh. He starts fucking you with his fingers slowly, almost gently. In and out they go, first just halfway each time, but then he starts thrusting them deeper and going a little faster with it. “I would’ve gone a little easier on you if you hadn’t held in that pretty little sound.”
“Just…fuck, Bucky.” You moan, hooking your legs over his shoulders as a loud crack of thunder sends the window rattling again. “I’m close.”
“Trust me, I know.” He groans, pressing a sloppier kiss to the inside of your thigh as he curls his fingers inside of you. You cry out again, but this time your hands leave his hair and go to grip the sheets on either side of your head. “Are you going to imagine you’re cumming on my cock when this orgasm hits?”
“No.” You say defiantly, shaking your head as he curls his fingers again. He laughs darkly, clearly calling your bluff.
“You know you squeeze the hell out of my fingers when you lie?”
“I do not.”
“That’s it, baby.” Bucky coos. He positions himself to attach his lips to your clit as he continues his ministrations with his hand. “Keep tightening around my fingers until you fucking cum.”
Some part of you wants to keep defying him. You want to be stubborn and refuse to give him this piece of you, refuse to give him one of your orgasms. It feels like if you let go and give it to him, you’re going to tumble right over the edge of a cliff and into the unknown. But why does it feel so damn good as you stand on the edge of that cliff? When you stop resisting and let your orgasm wash over you, when Bucky watches as your face contorts with bliss and your knuckles turn white against the bed sheets, he’s just as far gone as you are. You’re cumming around his fingers while he laps at your clit, and he’s cumming in his boxers without even having realized just how close he was to doing it.
There’s an odd feeling brewing in his chest as he puts your panties back in place and collapses beside you in bed. He can’t quite figure out what it is. When you catch your breath and look over at him, taking in the sight of Bucky Barnes with your arousal painted over his lips and chin, you feel your heart skip a beat. Bucky looks back at you, but he only gets a second to see your dilated pupils and flushed cheeks before you’re leaning in and swiping your tongue across his bottom lip.
As your lips move against his in a gentle, familiar way, his lungs burn and his heart is pounding in his ears. Because he knows what this is. He knows what that unusual feeling in his chest really is. Love. He’s in love with the girl who lives to ignore her feelings.
You’re in too deep. You can’t even try to reason with yourself. As you lie in a tangle of sheets, listening to the mixed water sounds of Bucky showering and rain falling lightly just outside the bedroom window, you feel utterly fucked. And not just because Bucky fucked you with his mouth last night. You let out a frustrated groan before rolling onto your back and fisting your hands in your messy hair. You can’t tell yourself to be professional because you’re so far past professional now that it’d be insulting to you both if you tried to revert. You can’t tell yourself to stop crossing lines with him because you know just how good it feels every time you do it. Bucky was onto something last night when he asked you if it was getting harder for you to pretend that there’s nothing between the two of you.
Your eyes float over to the partially closed bathroom door and you watch for a moment as steam floats through the space between it and the doorframe. Is it steam from the hot shower or is it just radiating off of the man that said your pussy gets tighter when you lie? Blush creeps into your cheeks at the memory of him saying such a filthy thing while his fingers were inside of you.
Bucky tenses up in the shower when he hears the bathroom door creak open the tiniest bit. When your bare feet lightly tap along the cold floor and he hears them stop in front of the sink, a small smile plays on his lips.
“You’re not coming in?” Bucky’s smirk is evident in his tone and you’re biting on the inside of your cheek as you reach for your toothbrush.
“You remember me saying we can’t fuck, right?” You ask, though even as you say it, it feels like a weak statement.
“Do you remember me saying it’s inevitable?” He retorts playfully. You should tell him to fuck off, but you only find yourself tempted to actually join him in the shower. As you spread a bit of toothpaste along the bristles of your toothbrush, you shake your head to yourself.
“I’m brushing my teeth in the kitchen.”
“That’s fine.” Bucky replies nonchalantly, seemingly unfazed by your slight rejection. He spends the next ten minutes lathering and rinsing for the second time in less than twelve hours. He isn’t normally someone who takes a shower both in the morning and at night, but after he came in his boxers last night, he fell asleep next to you and didn’t take the time to clean himself up. He woke up feeling like he’d had a wet dream.
Peggy sits on the foot of the bed, waiting patiently as you try on a third dress.
“Are you alright in there?” Peggy calls out politely, uncrossing her legs and readying to rise from the bed if need be. You laugh softly from inside the walk-in closet before pulling the door open and revealing the deep blue dress she picked for you to try a few minutes ago. It has cap sleeves, a high neckline, and an A-line style skirt. “I think that one looks wonderful on you, don’t you like it?” She asks, pushing herself up and coming to stand in front of you. She catches the pinched look on your face before you’ve even formulated a response. You didn’t quite like the first two dresses either, and at this point there are only a handful left to try. She has to wonder if maybe it’s the dissonance between forties-style dresses and modern dresses that’s throwing you off. “Sergeant Barnes.” Peggy calls for him loudly.
Bucky’s rising from the couch and heading down the hall as soon as he’s been invited into the bedroom. He was kicked out pretty much the moment he finished up his morning shower, with Peggy showing up and saying she just had to get started on your look for tonight. He was a bit skeptical about how much time it’d really take, but after hearing you try on three dresses and dislike every single one, he sees why she came so early.
“What do we need him for?” Confusion is written all over your face as you smooth down the blue dress and raise a brow at Peggy.
“He’s the one that needs to like the dress, isn’t he?” She questions, motioning for Bucky to come in. He takes a few steps into the room and rubs the back of his neck awkwardly as his eyes coast over the dress. It’s pretty, it’s definitely very forties-esque, but it’s not you. It’s not you and it’s definitely not for him. “Help her pick a dress for tonight.” Bucky stares at her for a long moment before she starts moving toward the door. She pats his shoulder as she passes him, leaning in to whisper in his ear just as you’re disappearing back into the closet. “She needs you for this.”
You feel Bucky’s presence in the closet without having to turn around and look at him. He stops just a few inches behind you, looking over your shoulder at the row of dresses that you have to choose from.
“It’s a little different than your closet back home.” He says softly, watching as your fingertips dance across the fabric of each hanging dress.
“You haven’t seen my closet back home.” You point out, tugging on the side of a dark navy dress. As soon as you see the front of it, you let it go. Your fingers continue on, looking for another dark fabric.
“If you’re looking for something like that little black dress you wore last weekend, you won’t find it in here.” Bucky replies. Thinking about that little black dress sends your mind back to the night in the bar, when Bucky kissed you in front of everyone. Then your mind wanders to what happened in the car after, and you have to shake the thought of it from your head. Your fingers brush along a bright red dress and you don’t even consider checking it out. Bucky steps up close behind you, so close that you feel his body heat permeating your skin through the blue dress you’re wearing. He reaches around you with his right arm and grasps the edge of the only black fabric amongst all of the dresses hanging there.
“Peggy said something colorful would be best.” You murmur as he removes the dress from the hanging rack and holds it out in front of you both.
“He won’t be paying much attention to the dress.” Bucky assures you. He leans in close to your ear before whispering his next words. “And you look good in black.” A chill runs through you but you reach out and grasp the hanger quickly before turning around and pressing a hand against Bucky’s chest.
“Let me change.” You push against his chest gently and he takes a few steps backward until he’s out of the closet. As he moves across the room to sit on the foot of the bed where Peggy previously was, he hears the sound of your blue dress unzipping but not the sound of the closet door closing. He takes a cautious look as he sinks down onto the edge of the mattress. There you are, slipping out of that deep blue fabric while giving Bucky an almost clear view of you in forties-style black lingerie. His cock is awake instantly and is hardening within the already sort of tight-fitting sweats he took from Stark’s dresser earlier this morning. Bucky leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees as he drops his line of sight to the floor.
You walk out only a moment later in the dress he chose. It’s all black, with off the shoulder sleeves and a fairly low-cut neckline. It hugs your body tightly. It’s quite similar to the shape of the red dress that Peggy wore when he first saw her in the Whip and Fiddle.
“Don’t look at me like that.” You say lightly, watching as Bucky’s eyes glide up and down your figure multiple times. He clears his throat and sits up straight before motioning with his flesh hand for you to come closer. You move forward until you’re a couple of feet in front of him, but then your eyes drop to his lap and you see his erection pressed against his sweats. Confidence rolls off of you in waves as you stop thinking and take a few more steps toward him. You don’t stop until you’re standing between his legs and he’s looking up at you. You let your hands rest on his shoulders as his move to ghost along the outsides of your thighs.
“Don’t go too far with him tonight.” Bucky’s tone is almost pleading as he searches your eyes, but his expression is unreadable.
“How far is too far?” You swallow thickly after asking your question. Bucky curls his fingers into your hips and draws in a deep breath.
“I don’t know.” He admits, but he does know. He knows that he doesn’t even want you to let this younger version of himself dance with you. He doesn’t want to let him lean in and whisper in your ear, he doesn’t want him to even get the chance to consider kissing you.
“You told me he moves fast, and we need him and Steve to be on board for this mission tomorrow. I can’t reject him.” You explain quietly, glancing over your shoulder to make sure Peggy’s still in the living room. When you turn your head forward again and look down at Bucky, he’s leaning in closer to you. You watch with your breath hitched in your throat as he lets the tip of his nose brush against your dress, just below your breasts. He moves slow, dragging his nose upward and letting his lips follow in their wake until he’s halfway up your chest. Your hands slide up the sides of his neck and tangle in his hair, tugging him back to look at you again.
“Why did you ask me to lay with you last night?” Bucky finally asks the question that’s been on his mind since he woke up this morning. You exhale slowly, absentmindedly massaging your fingers into his scalp while his thumbs rub circles against the front of your hips. He watches as you chew on the inside of your cheek, trying your best to come up with a safe answer.
“I wanted to know what it would feel like…to stop pretending.” You whisper.
“How did it feel?” His eyes stray from your face, taking in the swell of your breasts over the low neckline of the dress. Filthy memories of last night flood your brain and you clench your thighs together slightly. It wasn’t slightly enough, because Bucky catches on instantly and he tugs his bottom lip between his teeth. While you’re remembering the feel of his kisses against your inner thigh and his tongue on your clit, he’s remembering the sweet taste of your cunt and the pretty sounds you made just for him.
“Good.” Your whisper is even quieter now, and your nerves are rising knowing Peggy’s just down the hall in the living room.
“Just good?” Bucky fishes for more. He tests the waters, letting his hands slide down your thighs, closer to the hem of the dress. You don’t move away, you don’t swat at his hands or tell him to stop.
“Just good, Bucky.” You answer. But as his fingers hook beneath the hem of your dress and he starts guiding it higher and higher up your legs, you know your resolve and will to pretend is crumbling.
“I think you’re lying.” He says calmly, staring up at you with those blue eyes as the hem of the dress nears the middle of your thighs. You squeeze his shoulders as he lets his flesh thumb graze the lace edge of your panties, close to where your thigh meets your center.
“Peggy’s here.” You whisper the reminder, but make no effort to break away from him. In fact, you find yourself leaning into his touch. Bucky’s quick as he slips one finger into your panties and drags it along the length of your folds, gathering the slick arousal that’s started collecting between them.
“Shh, I just want to see if you’re lying to me.” Bucky hushes you just as his gaze is dropping to your lower body and he’s nudging your feet apart with his right foot. You don’t stop him. You don’t do anything but close your eyes and dig your fingertips into his shoulders as he dips a finger inside of you. Your mouth falls open and you inhale sharply as he curls it against your walls. “How did it feel last night? To stop pretending for a little while?” He gazes up at you with what you think is a look of lust, but he knows is all fucking love. “Just good?”
“Bucky…fuck.” He pulls his finger out before plunging it in deeper than before, and then he curls it again.
“That’s not an answer.”
“It felt good…it felt, shit, Bucky.” He starts thrusting his finger in and out of you at a medium pace as you try to piece together your answer. “It felt right.” He slows to a stop as you say that last word. Though you’re tight as fuck, just like you were last night, he doesn’t feel that characteristic clenching when you give your answer. You’re telling the truth. Maybe that’s a stupid way to interrogate you, but his theory is proving true so far. He pulls his finger out of you and brings it to his lips, sucking it into his mouth and savoring your taste. You look down just as he's pulling it away from his lips and tugging your dress back into place.
“Black heels.” He says lightly, patting the side of your thigh as you step away from him. He rises in front of you and moves a stray lock of hair behind your ear with the same finger that was just inside you. “The third ones from the closet door.”
Bucky’s waltzing out of the room, tucking his hard-on into the waistband of his sweats as you’re left standing there dazed. Dazed and beyond aroused. Part of you wants to grab him by the back of his shirt and drag him back into the room, telling him to finish what he started. The other part of you knows better than to give him the satisfaction. So, you grab that pair of black heels from the closet and keep your mouth shut.
You feel uncharacteristically nervous for what should just be another mission on your long list of undercover ops. Maybe it’s because you have one version of Bucky Barnes listening through the in-ear monitor you’re sporting, while you’re moments away from meeting another version of the same man. Or maybe it’s because you’re trying to walk the very fine line between hating Bucky Barnes and loving him. Whatever it is, you’re nervous and it’s showing.
Peggy walks close to your side, leading the way down the busy street in her red dress and matching heels. You can hear the watch on her left wrist ticking away as you approach the Whip and Fiddle.
“You seem worried.” Peggy voices her observation softly as she slows her pace a bit and casts you a sideways glance. You let out a stiff laugh before pushing a curl over your shoulder. She did your hair and makeup in a way that has you feeling like something fresh out of a forties fashion catalog. “Is it the mission itself or the man involved?” You swallow thickly, knowing Bucky can hear the entire conversation through your in-ear monitor. You could reach up and turn it off, have a quick girls chat with Peggy while leaving Bucky in the dark. But you’re sure Peggy would instantly realize that you’re on comms and you don’t know how she’d feel about not being let in on it sooner.
“I’m fine, just not used to life in the forties I guess.” You respond curtly.
“Well, that wasn’t very convincing.” She huffs. When she slows to a stop beside you, you know it’s futile to keep walking toward the bar, so you stop and turn to face her. “He looks at you like he would’ve given you the world and his last name in any timeline.”
“Peggy—”
“Now you have to spend an evening flirting with a younger version of him when you don’t even know how you feel about your version of him. You don’t have to lie to me just because he’s listening in, he knows that you’re conflicted.” Your eyes widen as she lets you in on exactly how perceptive she is. You hear Bucky clear his throat through your ear piece and pink begins to color your cheeks, you’re sure it’s even showing through the blush Peggy applied for you earlier.
“I’ll be fine.” You assure her, though the words don’t come out sounding quite as convincing as you’d hoped.
“I’m sure you will be. Sergeant Barnes will show you an exceptionally great time tonight, but it won’t make your problem any easier to figure out.”
“My problem?”
“You’re in love with your partner and you don’t know how to handle it.”
“You just met us last night and you’ve already decided that?” You ask incredulously, crossing your arms over your chest as Peggy glances over at the door to the Whip and Fiddle. You see a few soldiers spilling out of the place with varying degrees of unstable gaits and boisterous laughs. You don’t recognize any of them as Steve or Bucky, so you turn your attention back to her.
“It doesn’t matter when I met you, I look at you and I see me.” That’s how Peggy sees your situation so clearly. She’s in the same one. She’s in love with Steve Rogers and she doesn’t know what to do about it. She doesn’t know how to handle it yet. You let out a deep sigh and let your arms fall to your sides. Bucky’s staying quiet on the other end of comms, so quiet that you can’t even hear him breathe. “I want to ask you how things end for me in the future…how things end for us, but I won’t.” You know that she’s referring to herself and Steve and your heart breaks a little for her. “Don’t let fear get in the way of the rest of your life. You could live a wonderful life with a man that feels what he feels for you, but you can lose it all by being too afraid to give him a chance.”
Your black heels are frozen to the sidewalk as Peggy’s words echo in your mind. When she turns and starts heading for the entrance to the bar, you stay still and quiet.
“They end up together.” Bucky’s voice plays in your ear so quietly that you think you’ve made it up for a moment.
“How do you know?” You finally ask, speaking under your breath as you start moving in Peggy’s direction slowly. Bucky lets out a long sigh, like he’s dwelling on a memory.
“It’s the only reason Steve would’ve stayed behind like he did.” Bucky listens to the slow, steady clicking of your heels against the pavement as he grows closer and closer to losing you to his younger self. He wants to say so much more. He wants to point out that you didn’t deny it when Peggy said you were in love with him. He wants to ask if you’re really afraid, if she was right about that. But it’s not the time. It’ll probably never be the time.
He leans back into the couch as he listens to the distant din of the Whip and Fiddle. The in-ear monitor won’t pick up much background noise, but he hears the sound of a bell chiming as the door opens for you and the sound of way too many soldiers clamoring around the space that you’re in. His eyes scrunch closed and his vibranium arm whirs as he curls his hand into a fist.
“Captain.” Peggy’s accent carries the title with an air of class as she approaches a man seated at the bar. You recognize the back of his head instantly. Steve Rogers. He turns around quickly, coming to stand only two feet in front of Peggy as his eyes quickly, and quite respectably, roam over her figure. The room slows and everything starts sounding muffled when the man seated next to Steve turns around and his eyes meet yours. Bucky. You stare at each other for a few long seconds, neither of you saying anything.
“Agent Carter.” Steve addresses her, breaking you out of your trance. You look over at the tall super soldier with his perfectly styled blonde hair and dress uniform, noting the way his eyes never leave Peggy.
“Howard has some equipment for you to try.” Peggy’s mouth is speaking business, but her eyes are saying something else entirely as they lock onto Steve’s and refuse to stray. You can feel Bucky’s eyes studying you intensely over Peggy’s shoulder as you avoid his gaze and watch the exchange that’s happening in front of you instead. “Maybe after tomorrow’s mission?”
“Sounds good.” Steve keeps his replies short, but every word is thick with tension. Peggy leans back a bit and glances across the bar, noting a particularly lively table of men. They lean into each other as they sing along to a tune someone’s banging out on a beat up piano in the corner of the bar.
“I see your top squad is prepping for duty.” She says facetiously.
“You don’t like music?” Bucky asks, tilting his head to the side and cocking a brow at her. Her gaze remains fixed on Steve as Bucky steps to the side to get a better look at you.
“I do, actually. I might even, when this is all over, go dancing.”
“And you?” Bucky directs his question at you now, nodding his head in your direction as Peggy steps to the side and gives you space to join the conversation. “Do you dance?”
“With the right partner.” You reply softly, trying hard not to get lost in his blue eyes. Though he’s younger and so much more naïve, you see the Bucky you know all over the man in front of you. You see him in every artistic feature of his face, you see him in the way he cocks his head to the side and flashes a smirk at you.
“Then what are we waiting for?” He asks playfully, nodding his head toward the more open part of the bar. You don’t rush to take his outstretched hand, but once your palm is against his, you get the same feeling that you’ve felt every time your version of Bucky has ever touched you. It feels electric. It feels like every nerve ending beneath your skin is on fire. It feels like you’re on the edge of a cliff and a strong wind is about to blow through and send you spiraling down.
Back at the safehouse, Bucky’s stomach is twisting into knots as he pictures you wrapped up in the arms of anyone but him. He knows it’s stupid. He knows that this guy, in some way, really is him. But it still feels wrong. He listens reluctantly as this younger, more charismatic version of himself flirts and banters with you through multiple dances. He listens as the young soldier leans in close to your ear and tells you how you took the breath out of his lungs the moment you walked into the bar. He starts to feel a little nauseas and wonders if he’s finally heading into his own bout with time sickness when he hears the sound of a genuine laugh slipping past your lips at whatever it was that the young soldier said to you.
It isn’t long before Bucky’s ripping the in-ear monitor out and tossing it on the kitchen table. He paces back and forth, focusing on the sound of his feet thudding against the wooden floorboards. Don’t go too far with him tonight. Bucky can still hear the way he pleaded with you earlier today. It was pathetic, but it was heartfelt. This younger version of himself would be completely on board with your mission even if you’d just flashed him a smile. Fuck. He runs his hands through his hair and curls his fingers into the soft brown locks, tugging them away from his scalp as he stops pacing. What the hell is he doing? You invited him into bed last night. You slept next to him. You let him slip between your legs and eat you out so thoroughly that he swears he can still taste you now. You let him finger your pussy just so he could find out if you were lying or not. You’re not going to let this younger version of him take things too far after all of that, right?
Bucky exhales through his nose as he sinks back into one of the kitchen chairs and stares down at the earpiece on the table. He takes it in his flesh hand and rolls it between his middle and index finger for a moment, knowing he has to put it back in. When did he turn into such a jealous guy?
The young Sergeant Barnes is captivated by you. He watches from the bar as you breeze through casual conversation with Peggy. You have a way of seeming so genuinely interested in anything that anyone says to you. You wholeheartedly hang on every word spoken and you get this look in your eye like nothing is more important to you than whatever’s being said. You seemed every bit as invested in Bucky’s spiel about Ferris wheels as you were when he leaned into your ear and told you about his family back home.
“She’s a lady, Buck.” Steve says lightly, lifting his drink to his lips and taking a short sip. Bucky swirls amber colored whiskey around in the bottom of his glass as his blue eyes glimmer in the low lights of the bar. “Don’t get any ideas, she works with Peggy.”
“You work with Peggy.” Bucky points out, casting him a disapproving glance before zeroing in on you again. “And you have ideas.”
“I have ideas.” Steve mumbles, nodding curtly in surrender. He can’t lie to Bucky.
“You don’t want to take your ideas over there and ask her to dance?” Bucky shifts his gaze to Peggy. He can almost imagine her proper accent as he watches her lips move in conversation with you. He has no doubt, just from the little interaction between Steve and Peggy when you girls first arrived at the bar, that Steve’s head over heels. Not only Steve, but Peggy’s envisioning a life with him too.
“It’s not the right time.” Steve replies, setting his mug down on the bar and turning to face the same direction as Bucky.
“If you keep waiting, you’ll miss the time entirely.”
“Can you miss fate?” Steve asks thoughtfully. Peggy lifts her gaze and turns her head slightly to the side, meeting his gaze across the bar for a fleeting second.
“I’m not going to wait around here with you and find out.” Bucky’s downing the last of his whiskey and heading for you just as Peggy’s heading for Steve. His eyes are all over you as he approaches, sending your confidence soaring and your nerves stirring in the pit of your stomach. When he steps in close and wraps an arm around your waist, letting his right hand rest on the small of your back, you melt into his touch.
“How much of London have you seen?” He whispers the question in your ear, letting his lips ghost so close to your ear that a shiver rolls through you.
“Not enough.” You admit, biting down on your bottom lip as he curls his fingertips against the back of your dress.
“Let me show you?” It’s a request. But when he pulls back and looks into your eyes, there’s no way you could deny him.
No. Bucky’s clenching his fists atop the safehouse kitchen table as he listens to the sound of his younger self pushing open some creaky door. The din of the bar fades into the background as your heels click against pavement. You’re outside of the bar now. You’re not going to see London, that’s for fucking sure. Bucky grits his teeth as his own voice plays through the earpiece. He’s never wanted to wring his own neck so damn bad.
“There are a lot of parts of the city that aren’t safe with the war going on, but if you work with Peggy, I’m guessing you’re used to that.” You stand still at the side exit of the bar, watching as Bucky carefully places his army uniform hat over his head. Somehow, the dark brick walls of the alley make his eyes seem more blue.
“Are we going somewhere dangerous, Sergeant Barnes?” You ask softly, looking up at him through your lashes as he straightens up his uniform jacket. You let your eyes coast down, taking in the sight of him in full uniform. Why don’t they still dress men this way?
“Sergeant Barnes, hm?” He repeats the name slowly, taking two steps toward you as you take one step back toward the brick side wall of the Whip and Fiddle.
“That’s your name, isn’t it?”
“You don’t like calling me Bucky?” Another step forward and the fabric of his jacket is brushing against the fabric of your dress as your back meets the brick wall. He leans in and raises his arms, letting his palms rest against the brick on either side of your head as he cages you in. Truthfully, you don’t like calling him Bucky. You’ve avoided saying his name all night. It feels weird, it feels wrong. Just last night you were moaning that name with a slightly different man between your legs. By calling this one something different, you can at least separate the two a tiny bit.
“You don’t like when I call you Sergeant Barnes?” You skirt around his question with one of your own. He chuckles as a smug look spreads over his features. He drops his head lower and lower until his lips are a mere inch away from yours and his blue eyes are staring so far into you that you’re sure he can see every thought in your spiraling mind.
“You can call me anything you want and I’m damn sure I’ll love it.” He whispers. Your eyes track the movement of his tongue as it darts out and wets his lips.
Your world shifts when you grab the front of his jacket and pull him in. His lips are soft as they part against yours and move in the way that only men named Bucky Barnes seem to move their lips. He kisses you like he’s done it countless times in every timeline that exists. Even as rain begins pattering down, soaking his uniform and your dress, you only tug on his jacket a little harder and angle your head to the side. As his tongue dances along your bottom lip, you hesitate for the shortest second. You can hear a voice echoing in your head, asking you not to go too far tonight, but his tongue is in your mouth and your guilt only multiplies when the taste of honey-tinged whiskey soaks into your taste buds.
You taste like honey.
You remember the first time your version of Bucky slipped his tongue into your mouth as the rain begins to pour down. You don’t mean to be so rash, but you’re loosening your grip on the uniform jacket and pressing your palms flat against his chest in an instant.
“What were you drinking tonight?” You ask in a raspy whisper. You let Bucky stay close enough that your foreheads are nearly touching as he sucks in a deep breath and bites his bottom lip. Shaking his head like you’ve just asked him the most out of pocket question he’s ever heard, he releases his bottom lip slowly.
“Four Roses.” He answers just as quietly. You nod to yourself as you commit the name to memory. He lets his left hand trail down the wet brick wall, moving it closer and closer to your face until you feel his warm palm press against your cheek. The fact that his palm isn’t a cool vibranium metal one contrasting with your heated skin makes you draw in a sharp breath and close your eyes. Why the fuck are you having so much trouble with this? You should be able to make out with the guy and put on a convincing act for five minutes. But no, he tastes like honey and you’re done for. You’re suddenly acutely aware of just how long it’s been since you heard even the tiniest noise through your earpiece, and your guilt increases tenfold. As if the man before you can read your mind, he lets his hand fall away from your face. “You’re not mine to kiss like this, are you?”
“That’s the problem.” You whisper shakily, curling your fingers into the coarse fabric of his jacket lapels one more time. Your eyes float upward and meet his as you fight the urge to swallow the words you’re about to speak. “I think I am, and that scares the hell out of me.”
Something changed for you at the Whip and Fiddle tonight. Peggy isn’t quite sure what it is, but she senses it. She senses it in the air in the same way she senses the coming rain. Even if she couldn’t see the dark clouds gathering along the edge of the city, if she couldn’t smell the rain in the air, she could feel the atmosphere changing as the storm approaches. Everything is set for tomorrow. The Howling Commandos are going to take down yet another HYDRA base, and now that you have an in with the forty’s version of Bucky, it shouldn’t be all too hard to use the connection to your advantage and slip inside of the base yourself. As far as he knows, you work with Peggy and you can hold your own pretty damn well. So, as you sit in the passenger seat of Peggy’s car staring straight ahead, why do you seem so off? If everything is going according to plan so far, what’s wrong with you?
“Sergeant Barnes seemed quite taken with you.” Peggy comments as she guides the car away from the city. You’re not really paying much attention to her words, not when you’re still mulling over the realization you came to when you kissed the young sergeant in the alley earlier tonight. You couldn’t stand the fact that his left hand was his own, or that he was missing that characteristic darkness around him. It was Bucky, of course, but it wasn’t really Bucky. It wasn’t the Bucky you know. Sure, when you kissed him he tasted the same, he even smelled the same. But you were kissing a version of Bucky that hasn’t yet experienced any of the things that made the man you slept next to last night. You feel like you’ve been carrying around a perfectly crafted piece of pottery, neatly sculpted and fired in a kiln. It’s been hardened and glazed with dark earthy tones, completely finished. Then, someone shoved that piece of pottery into the back of a kitchen cabinet and handed you a wet mound of clay. You don’t want the soft, unmolded version of Bucky. You want the hardened, finished version.
“He still drinks the same whiskey.” You don’t know why you’re dwelling on that little detail. You reach up with one hand and press your fingers against your lips, feeling a frustrating warmth awaken low in your stomach. Peggy looks over at you briefly, not letting her gaze linger for long before her eyes are back on the road ahead.
“Steve and I…we wait until it’s too late, don’t we?” Peggy’s question snaps you out of your thoughts and your hand drops to your lap quickly. You turn your head and stare at her, but she remains focused on the dark street that the car is rolling down.
“What makes you ask that?”
“I have a feeling.” She sighs heavily, pursing her red lips at the end of her sentence. “I have a feeling that we don’t allow ourselves that happiness in this lifetime, and you’re not allowing it for yourself either.”
“It’s different for me.”
“How so?” She asks softly, taking a right turn. The car begins coasting down a street you recognize and you know the safehouse is just a couple of minutes away now.
“It’s just different. I can’t just give in and see if things turn out okay. We work together, we live across the hall from each other.” You’re grasping for excuses.
“You trust the man with your life but you don’t want to trust him with your heart?”
Peggy has a way with words. You don’t have a response for her as she slows down and turns into the driveway of Howard Stark’s house a couple of minutes later. As the car idles in front of the house, you feel a heavy weight settling on your shoulders.
When you reach the front door, you find that Bucky’s left it unlocked for you. You slip in quietly, leaning against the wall of the foyer for a second to gather your thoughts. The house is mostly dark except for a small light glowing in the kitchen. Your stomach is churning as you tiptoe through the foyer and peer into the kitchen, careful not to let your heels tap on the floor. You see no sign of Bucky there. When you turn your eyes to the dark living room, you see him sitting in the middle of couch with his back to you.
“The mission is set for tomorrow.” Your words come out sounding meek and uneasy as you stare at the back of Bucky’s head. He’s leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees like he’s lost in thought. He doesn’t even move at the sound of your voice and nervousness starts to bubble up inside of you. “Bucky?” He visibly tenses at the sound of his name rolling off of your tongue.
“I stopped listening when you kissed him.” Bucky rubs his palms together slowly as he stares down at the living room carpet. He doesn’t move from the couch, and he can tell by the silence behind him that you’re not moving either. “Honestly, I didn’t think it would bother me that much.” Bucky lies, tracing the lines of his vibranium hand with his flesh index finger. It’s dark, but he has the golden crevices memorized.
“Bullshit.” You say flatly, crossing your arms over your chest. “You knew it would bother you, but you swore I was the right person for this op anyway.” You’re not going to let him act like you did something wrong, when you’re doing exactly what you were brought here to do. You watch the back of Bucky’s head as he nods slowly.
“Okay, that was bullshit.” Bucky agrees. Rain begins to patter against the roof, starting out slow and soft but quickly picking up until the sound of it is filling the house. “I knew it would bother me. I guess I just didn’t expect you to let him take things so far.”
“How far do you think he took things?” You ask incredulously, with offense evident in your tone. If Bucky stopped listening when the kiss first started in the alley of the bar, then he didn’t hear a damn thing. He didn’t hear the brevity of the kiss or the way you pushed back and stopped it. He didn’t hear you coming to the realization that you already belong to him. He didn’t hear shit.
“Pretty damn far, if he’s me.” You scoff at his answer and run a hand through your hair, leaving it looking a little tousled and messy.
“It’s 1943. If pretty damn far means we kissed and went back inside then sure, he went pretty damn far.”
“That’s it?” Bucky asks, pushing himself up to stand and turning around to face you. The couch and a few feet of distance stand between the two of you as Bucky raises a brow. He doesn’t believe you.
“He’s not like this modern version of you.” You say defensively, gesturing at him as you speak. “He didn’t want anything more than a kiss from me.” You know your words aren’t necessarily true, but you say them anyway. Bucky shoots you a pointed look before shaking his head and crossing his arms over his chest.
“Yeah, he did."
“No, he didn’t.” You argue childishly, narrowing your eyes at him. “He was sweet and kind and we had innocent fun.”
“Innocent?” Bucky repeats the word and narrows his eyes at you in return. You bend one knee and lift your ankle up toward your ass as you start undoing your heels.
“That’s what I said.” You huff as your heels clatter to the floor and you push them over to the nearest wall with your foot.
“I was anything but innocent in the forties.” Bucky says lowly. When your eyes land on him, he’s approaching you slowly, moving around the couch but keeping his gaze trained on you. Something about the way he’s looking at you is dark, making your skin feel warm and your muscles tense up. Bucky runs a hand through his messy hair as he continues taking slow steps in your direction. “You’re really telling me he didn’t have you pushed up against a brick wall in some dark alley tonight?”
You swallow hard, feeling like a kid caught in a lie. Of course he knows exactly what happened. He doesn’t need comms or a surveillance team to know what he himself would’ve done with a pretty girl on a night out. You say nothing as Bucky moves around the couch and comes to stand right in front of you. You take a small step back as he invades your space, but he doesn’t stop. He presses forward until he’s backing you against the living room wall.
Bucky’s fighting to keep up the charade. He wants nothing more than to just be honest and tell you that he’s jealous. He wants to tell you that even though it was only another version of himself that you went out with tonight, he couldn’t fucking stand it. He needs you to know that he sat here for hours, thinking about nothing but you. He watches you with an intense gaze as your back collides with the wall and you look up at him through your lashes. He’s so close that he can see the wispy black mascara tinting them. It isn’t smudged in the slightest bit and that, at the very least, calms him a little. Bucky’s hands find your hips and he holds you still against the wall as he leans in and nudges the curve of your jaw with the tip of his nose.
“He didn’t touch you like this?” Bucky whispers against your neck, as his flesh hand glides around to your ass. He grabs a handful and curls his fingertips against the soft fabric of your dress. You offer no response, because although you didn’t let him touch you like that, you know Bucky won’t believe you now. Bucky groans as he nips at the column of your throat, taking your silence as confirmation. He kisses his way up to your lips and then drags his tongue up your chin until he’s letting it delve into your mouth. You tilt your head as he kisses you, feeling a burn in your chest from the lack of air. He pulls back suddenly, and cradles the back of your head with the same hand that was just grabbing your ass. “He didn’t kiss you like that?” He questions, already assuming the answer. You whimper as Bucky tugs on your hair lightly and moves his lips down to your neck again. Instead of simply kissing your skin this time, he sucks on it and scrapes his teeth down toward your collarbone. When he lets go of your hair and slides his hand down your thigh, your back arches off the wall and you swear you feel him smile before he pulls back and smirks down at you coldly. Curling his fingers behind your thigh, he hitches your leg up around his hip and uses his body to push you further into the wall. “He didn’t pull your leg up like this?”
It’s as if Bucky’s following a script. He knows himself so well that he’s able to carry out every single move his younger self would have made on you if you’d let things continue in the alley earlier. Bucky leans in and presses one last chaste kiss to your lips before he steps away from you entirely, leaving you struggling to catch your breath as he turns on his heel. You watch, thoroughly flustered, as he heads right back to the living room and takes a seat on the center cushion of that ugly vintage couch.
“That’s what I thought.” He says lowly, causing a pang of guilt to bubble up inside of you. You let out an exaggerated sigh before reaching behind yourself and undoing the back of your dress. Bucky listens as you let the dress slip off of your frame and fall to the floor. He’s still for a moment, refusing to look back as you stand there in nothing more than a lacy black bra and matching panties. You glare at the back of his head for a second too long before stalking off to find a t-shirt and some sweats to put on before you continue the conversation at hand.
“You don’t get to judge me for what he did tonight, for what you think he did.” You say coldly as you emerge from the bedroom a few seconds later. Bucky’s still sitting on the couch, now with both of his arms outstretched along the back cushions and an almost bored expression on his face. “You told me that your younger self would swoon and that’s exactly what happened. You knew what you were sending me into, you knew he’d want to do all of those things. So, if you want to be pissed, be pissed at yourself. Your current self or your former self, I don’t care. But stop being pissed at me.” Your feet thud against the hard floor, overtaking the sound of rain pouring down on the roof as you come to stand in front of the couch, facing Bucky.
“I’m not pissed at you.” He says plainly, cocking his head to one side as he studies you. You’re wearing an oversized white t-shirt that he assumes you pulled from his side of the closet, rather than picking any of the forties-style pajamas from your own side.
“Then why make me feel like I did something wrong? I did exactly what I was supposed to do on this mission.”
“I’m jealous.” His confession sucks the air out of your lungs and leaves you stunned.
“What?”
“I’m jealous.” He repeats calmly, looking you right in the eyes. “It took everything I had not to stop you from leaving earlier. I knew what he’d do. I knew that he’d kiss you, that he’d take every inch you gave him and ask for a mile more.” The fact that Bucky’s so calm and stoic as he confesses all of this has you shaken to your core.
“No, you don’t get to do this.” You say angrily, running both hands through your hair as you turn away from him. He’s sitting there with his arms outstretched along the back of the couch and his expression as unreadable as ever and it’s only making you more mad. “You don’t get to say shit like that to me. You don’t get to be jealous. You sent me into that situation even after I made it abundantly clear that I didn’t think I was the right person for this mission.” You turn back around and look at Bucky with a fiery rage burning in your eyes, but then your gaze settles on his calm, almost serene expression. He cocks his head to the side as you study him, with whatever angry words you were about to spit at him temporarily on hold. Your eyes float down his chest, passing over the dark t-shirt he’s sporting. With the way his arms are outstretched along the back of the couch, you can see the outline of his abs clearly through his thin shirt. When your eyes land on the front of his sweats, you notice two things. The first is that he's sitting with his legs spread in a way that tells you he’s comfortable as hell on that ugly couch. The second is that his cock is semi-hard and pressing against the fabric of those sweats shamelessly.
You want to leave. You want to head for the front door and run out into the rain, losing yourself somewhere in this city that you don’t know and this timeline that you don’t belong in. You don’t want to be in this house with Bucky for another minute. You can’t think straight when you’re around him. Here you are, angry as hell over something you can’t even recall in this exact moment, because when you look at him and he looks at you this way…you’re torn between wanting to run and wanting to straddle him right there on the couch. Bucky can tell exactly what’s on your mind when your eyes zero in on his lap. Even though the anger hasn’t dissipated from your features, he can tell it’s sitting on the edge of an abyss, ready to fall in and disappear if he says the right thing.
“Go ahead.” Bucky says firmly, narrowing his eyes at you.
“What?” You cross your arms over your chest like he’s seen you do a thousand times before as you stand in front of him. You watch as Bucky looks down at his lap for a moment, letting his gaze linger on his thighs before he lifts his head up and stares into your soul. Your heart begins to race as he tilts his head to the side slowly, the expression on his face never changing.
“Sit.”
The three seconds that you stare back at Bucky with your arms crossed over your chest feel like three hours to him. When you finally do take a step forward and let your arms reach out to him, he’s fighting to hold in a sigh of relief. You move slowly, lifting your right knee up to the edge of the couch first and letting it touch the outside of his left thigh. When your left knee lands on the couch beside his right leg, you carefully position yourself over his lap as your hands come to rest on his shoulders. Bucky’s fingertips curl into the fabric of the couch as he wills himself to keep his arms along the back of it, refusing to grab your hips and guide you to sit on his lap himself. You’re apprehensive as you stare down into his blue eyes and sink onto his lap at a painstakingly snail-like pace. Your breath hitches in your throat when you feel the outline of his erection pressing against the black lace panties you have on underneath the white t-shirt, but you don’t stop. You seat yourself firmly on his lap, with your knees bent on either side of his hips and your palms pressed against his opposing warm and cool shoulders. It bothers you that he doesn’t move his arms, that he doesn’t try to touch you. It really bothers you that his expression is still unreadable, as if having you on his lap doesn’t do a damn thing to him. If his cock wasn’t hardening more and more with each passing second, you’d truly believe that you weren’t having any sort of effect on him right now.
“You don’t get to be jealous.” You whisper, shaking your head just barely as Bucky studies your face.
“Why not?”
“Because this is just…” Your eyes flit down to where your legs are spread over Bucky’s lap, but his never leave your face. He knows what you’re about to say and he’s already wishing you wouldn’t. This is exactly what he’s been trying to avoid. “This isn’t real.” It feels every bit as shitty as he thought it would, hearing you say it out loud. The muscle along the side of his jaw ticks as he clenches his teeth together. “It’s just tension. We let it build up too much and then we don’t know how to handle it, and we think it’s something more but—"
“But it isn’t.” Bucky finishes your sentence stiffly. You nod, but your eyes are searching his. You want him to convince you, you want him to tell you that you’re wrong like he has before. You need him to tell you that this isn’t just tension. But he stays quiet, staring at you like he doesn’t really give a shit what you need right now. So, you ramble on.
“Maybe if we take a break from being partners after this mission is over. We could let things cool off and give each other space.” The words tumble out of your mouth quickly, but they leave a bad taste. “But it’s hard to give each other space when we live across the hall from each other.” Bucky nods along, cocking his head to the side as he watches you scramble for other options. He doesn’t know why you’re still sitting on his lap if this is the direction you’re taking things, but he isn’t ready to push you off and end this just yet. Not if it might be the last time you let him get this close to you.
“Do you want space?” He asks lowly. You struggle to find a reasonable answer when his tongue darts out to wet his lips. You watch as it slides across his bottom lip slowly before disappearing into his mouth. He shifts his legs beneath you slightly and it causes his hard cock to press against your barely clothed cunt just a little more firmly than before and you inhale sharply, curling your fingertips into his shoulders as he stills once again.
“I want to stop thinking about you the way that I’ve been thinking about you.” Bucky’s heartbeat is rising steadily as your words sink in. You’ve been thinking about him. God, he wants to tangle his hands in your hair and pull you in closer, refusing to let go of you until you admit that you fucking want him. “I want to go back to when we had a normal, uncomplicated partnership in the field.” He wants to say fuck normal and uncomplicated and have his way with you, but he stays still. “I want to fuck.”
Bucky’s stunned. He blinks twice before squinting his eyes at you and letting out a long, slow breath.
“You want to fuck.” Bucky repeats under his breath, seeming like he doesn’t think he’s heard you right. You nod, coming to the realization that that’s exactly what you want.
“Maybe if we fuck, it would all just go away.” Bucky scoffs as soon as you’ve said it. He’s never felt as frustrated as he is right now. It isn’t just emotional frustration, but sexual as well. You’re fucking tormenting him. While you sit on his lap actively denying the fact that this thing between you is real, you’re simultaneously telling him you want to have sex with him. You tried sleeping it off once before and it didn’t work out for you, so now you want to fuck the feelings away. He’s pissed honestly. As he sits there, with his arms outstretched along the back of the couch and the girl he’s in love with on his lap, he’s pissed.
“Go ahead then.” He says roughly, jutting his chin out at you as his eyes flit down to where your legs are spread over him. “Go ahead and see if you can fuck it all away. It’ll work about as well as when you tried to sleep it off, but I’m willing to let you give it a shot.”
Thunder rumbles in the distance and rain patters against the windows as tensions rise all around you. It feels like the thunderstorm outside has somehow shifted through the walls and lightning could strike you at any given moment. Though your heart is racing and your breaths are coming in quicker than before, you don’t back down. You maintain eye contact as you lift your ass up slightly and then grind back down, dragging the fabric of your lace panties along the front of Bucky’s sweats. You feel his cock twitch in its confines, but his face never changes. Fuck him and his perpetually cold expression. You grind down again, harder this time, and watch as his hands curl into fists at the ends of his outstretched arms. What do you have to do to get him to put those hands on you?
Lightning strikes somewhere outside as you lean in and dip your head down, pressing your lips to the side of Bucky’s neck in an open-mouthed kiss. You feel his pulse thumping in his carotid artery as your tongue swipes over it. If you’re going to get this out of your system, you can’t take your time. You need this to be quick and dirty. Bucky senses that and isn’t surprised at all when your right hand starts tugging at the waistband of his sweats.
“I said go ahead.” He rasps, tilting his head to the side to give you more access to his neck. “Take what you want.” You take the encouragement and run with it, slipping your hand into the waistband of his sweats and boxers, quickly finding his length and wrapping your hand around it. He lets out a shaky but controlled breath as you start stroking his cock. He has to bite down on his bottom lip when you tighten your grip around the head and he feels his precum wet your palm. This is going to haunt him forever. He wants this, you, so fucking bad that he’s willing to take whatever he can get. And this is the most he can get. Your hand is around his cock with the sole intention of fucking around with him until you forget your feelings. He should feel used. He does feel used, but if you’re only okay with using him, then he’s fine with it. He’s fine with it because he fucking loves you.
You feel Bucky’s chest rise and fall at a quicker pace against your own as his cock twitches in your hand. Thunder shakes the house again and a tear slips down your cheek. It feels clinical when you push Bucky’s waistband down further and drag your lips along the curve of his jaw.
“He kissed me outside of the bar.” You whisper against the column of Bucky’s throat, hating the way he tenses up underneath you. You let your hand fall away from his cock and shift it between your legs, tugging your lace panties to the side beneath the oversized t-shirt. “And I couldn’t fucking stand it.” Your voice breaks and Bucky curls his fingers into the couch cushions so hard that he might’ve heard them rip if the storm raging outside wasn’t so loud. “You weren’t listening, so you didn’t hear me stop him.” Another tear falls as you rise up on your knees and guide the head of Bucky’s length to where it belongs. “But I stopped him.” Lightning strikes and you swear it nearly hits the house as you let out a shaky breath and start lowering yourself down. The sheer size of him makes your thighs ache and the walls of your cunt burn with the stretch. “I stopped him and he knew, before I said anything, that I wasn’t his to kiss.” Bracing your hands back on Bucky’s shoulders, you sink down onto him one slow inch at a time as he stares up at you. His expression isn’t so unreadable now. It’s showcasing the torment he feels, the torture you’re putting him through…the torture he’s enduring just because he loves you.
“Whose are you then?” He asks, his voice tense and strained as you seat yourself entirely on his cock. He can tell by the look in your eyes that you’re not going to answer his question. You know the answer, the tears rimming your pretty eyes and the pleading look taking over your face tell him that much. But you just can’t bring yourself to say it out loud. You’re his.
You didn’t give yourself any time to adjust to his size and you’re paying for it as you start riding him. You move slow at first, lost in the way he’s looking at you, wondering why the hell he won’t touch you. But as the storm picks up outside, so does your pace. Faster and faster you lift and lower your hips until it couldn’t possibly be more obvious that you’re trying to fuck your feelings away. Bucky’s pushing past the obscene sounds of skin against skin, past the rumbling thunder and heavy rain on the rooftop, until all he can hear is your heartbeat. You don’t even realize you’re doing it, but you’re timing each bounce of your hips with the steady beat of your heart. He focuses in on that when the walls of your pussy begin fluttering violently around his shaft, because if he lets himself focus on anything else, he’ll fall over the edge with you and he refuses to let it happen this way. Your goal isn’t to get him off, it’s to get something out of your system.
Bucky clenches his teeth when you start coming undone around him, he clenches his teeth and his vibranium arm whirs loudly along the back of the couch as you grip his shoulders and ride out your orgasm. It’s only a few seconds later when you blink your eyes open and let a few tears fall onto the fabric of his shirt.
“Did it work?” Bucky asks breathlessly, fighting the urge to wrap his arms around you and pull you against his chest.
“What?”
“Did you fuck it out of your system?” He narrows his eyes at you. He’s sure the answer is no, but he isn’t so sure that you’ll admit it. As you stare back into his blue eyes, he can tell you’re giving up and something akin to hope stirs in his chest. You shake your head gently, loosening your grip on his shoulders as the weight of your silent confession settles over you both. “Okay, let’s try again.”
Bucky doesn’t give you a chance to full catch your breath before he’s slipping his flesh arm around your back and rising from the couch, keeping his cock buried inside of you.
“Bucky—”
“You want it out of your system, don’t you?” He asks roughly, carrying you away from the couch and toward the kitchen table. You swallow hard as he skillfully uses his vibranium hand to shove a kitchen chair to the side before laying you down on the table. Still, his cock never leaves your pussy. “If we go at it from another angle…” Bucky’s voice trails off as he pulls his hips backward slowly until only the tip of his cock is left inside of you. You whimper at the loss of his length, hating the way your pussy fights to grip onto what he’s left you with. Bucky pushes your white t-shirt up until it’s sitting just below your bra. Though he doesn’t let himself get a glimpse of your chest, he has no problem with sliding his hands beneath the shirt and running his palms over your breasts. You arch into his touch and another whimper leaves your lips. “This might be the right angle.” He whispers, dragging his hands down until his fingers are curling into your hips roughly. You see stars when he pistons his hips forward so hard that the table shakes beneath the force and you feel him brushing against your cervix.
“Fuck.” You moan the word out as your tears begin to dry. Your hands circle around Bucky’s wrists as he holds your hips in place and starts fucking you relentlessly. Your mascara is smudged beneath your eyes but you still look so pretty that it hurts him to look at you. You wrap your legs around him as his head falls back a little and a guttural groan escapes him. It feels so damn good, you feel so damn good, but this isn’t how he wants you. Your whimpers and occasional swears turn into uninhibited, borderline pornographic moans as he fucks you until you’re lost in the bliss of it all.
“If you cum on my cock a second time, is it going to be enough?” He wonders aloud, slowing the pace of his thrusts and simultaneously deepening them as much as he possibly can. His balls press against your ass as a loud clap of thunder leaves the lights flickering. You’re shaking your head before your brain has a chance to reason with your heart. It won’t be enough. “You don’t think so? You seemed pretty damn sure of yourself when you said that this isn’t real. Cumming on my cock this time should be enough for you.”
“Shit, Bucky.” You let out a frustrated moan as he pulls his hips back slowly and starts giving your cunt the most shallow thrusts yet.
“This is so fucking real to me that I’d let you do it a thousand times if that’s what it takes to make you realize you’re wrong.” Bucky snaps his hips forward and hits your cervix again, admiring the way your body reacts to him as your back arches off of the table and your t-shirt rides up a little more. A tiny bit of the black lace of your bra peeks out beneath your shirt and Bucky lets out another groan before thrusting hard again. He wanted to slow down and make you feel even just a shred of the torment he’s been feeling tonight, he wanted to give you shallow, unrhythmic thrusts and delay your orgasm, but he’s already fucking his cock into you at an unforgiving pace and depth. His name falls from your lips in a breathless moan as your fingernails leave little crescent-shaped indents in the skin of his wrists and your pussy tightens around his shaft all over again. He has to bite down on the inside of his cheek, nearly drawing blood, just to keep from cumming with you. His own level of restraint is surprising himself. He hasn’t done something like this in decades and yet, he’s holding himself together pretty damn well.
“Bucky.” You gasp as your orgasm washes over you and he continues to pump his cock into you. He lets his thrusts slow more and more with each passing second until he’s just lazily circling his hips, giving you the faintest sensation of pleasure mixed with overstimulation.
“Did it work that time?” He asks between pants. He lets go of your hips as his eyes scan over the expanse of your skin where he had gripped you so tightly before, checking for marks. He can see his own handprints on each hip, but they aren’t red enough that he thinks he’s left bruises. You stare up at him as a sigh of relief slips past his lips. When his eyes finally meet yours, you know he’s waiting for an answer.
“It didn’t.” You admit. The lights flicker again, going out for a few seconds before coming back on. “I’m sorry I—”
“I don’t want to hear you say sorry.” God, that’s not at all what he wants to hear you say. He wants to hear you say you were wrong or that you were lying and this is as real to you as it is to him. He wants to hear you say that no matter how many times his cock slides into your pussy, the feelings aren’t going anywhere. As his hands find yours and your fingers intertwine, he tugs you up into a sitting position on the edge of the table and then slips his palms around to cup your ass as he lifts you once more. “We’re going to try this one more time and if it doesn’t work, if you can’t fuck the feelings away…” His voice trails off as the lights flicker one final time before shutting off completely. Bucky carries you down the hall and through the bedroom door in near total darkness. Every few seconds, lightning flashes and illuminates the house through the windows and sheer curtains, and you get a glimpse of Bucky’s serious face. “If this doesn’t work, you have to say it.” Keeping his flesh arm around your lower back, he lowers you onto the bed, hovering over you as his still-hard cock slips out of your sore cunt. You prop yourself up on your elbows as he stands at the foot of the bed and reaches back over his shoulders, grasping the fabric of his t-shirt and tugging it over his head in one smooth move. Lighting strikes again and you watch, with warmth pooling low in your stomach, as Bucky pushes his sweats and boxers down to the floor.
“I have to say what?” You ask, fighting hard to keep the stutter out of your question. Bucky wraps his right hand around the base of his cock tightly, but he doesn’t dare stroke it. He gives it a quick squeeze before moving that same hand down and palming his balls in an effort to slow himself down.
“You have to say that you’re mine.” He has no idea that you’ve already said it once tonight. He took his earpiece out, thinking you were having a heated moment with another man, when you were really telling that man exactly what Bucky wanted to hear.
“That’s how this works? You fuck me a few times and then I’m yours?”
Bucky can’t stop the dark, hair-raising chuckle that tumbles past his lips when you tilt your head to the side and narrow your eyes at him. He moves toward the bed slowly, placing one knee on the end of the mattress and leaning forward until both of his palms are flat on the bed. He’s hovering over you, his face only a few inches from yours when a burst of thunder rings out.
“You’ve been mine since the day we met, sweetheart. I just let you run around and deny it for too damn long.” Your breath hitches in your throat as he angles his chin toward the headboard, silently letting you know that he wants you to move further up on the bed. You scoot backward, keeping your eyes on him as the room grows impossibly warmer and goosebumps prickle over your skin. When your back lands flat on the bed and your head is laid comfortably on the only pillow there, Bucky’s over you in an instant, nudging your legs apart with his knee as he settles between them. The head of his cock, still dripping with precum, presses against the lace of your panties and he hisses at the contact. He hasn’t let himself cum yet and he’s dangerously close to losing control over his impending orgasm.
“Since the day we met?” You ask, scrunching up your face in confusion as you think of all of the missions you’ve been on, all of the senseless arguments and shit-giving. Did it all have a deeper meaning for him? Bucky nods as he stills above you and braces himself with his arms next to either side of your head. When he looks into your eyes you can tell that he’s straining to maintain his composure and it almost makes you feel guilty. Here you are two orgasms in and he’s hanging on by a fucking thread. You slide your hand down between your bodies, wrapping it around his length and giving it a few long, slow pumps as his eyes flutter closed and his head falls to your shoulder.
“I can’t stand you.” You say evenly, as he starts rutting into your hand carelessly. His small thrusts are sloppy and restrained, but he continues on as you stroke his cock and smear his precum around the length of it. He groans in response and bites down on your shoulder hard enough to make you inhale sharply. “I can’t stand the way you slept so close to me last night, because the next time I sleep alone, I’ll feel like something’s missing.” Bucky freezes, but you continue your ministrations with your right hand. He doesn’t lift his head, fearing that if he so much as moves an inch you’ll stop talking. “I can’t stand the way you say my name, because when anyone else says it, it doesn’t sound as good.” He lets out a shaky breath as he builds up the courage to move. Snaking his vibranium hand down between your legs, he starts tugging your panties to the side just like he did earlier. You move in tandem with him, guiding the head of his cock to your entrance as he clears the way. “And I really can’t stand the way you kiss me, because if I ever let anyone else kiss me, I’ll only ever be disappointed.”
Bucky pulls his head back and stares down at you with a furrowed brow, looking as though he’s thinking hard. The head of his cock notches into your pussy and he pushes his hips forward just enough to sink the first couple of inches inside of you, watching as your mouth falls open and your eyes close tightly. He’s staring at you with such an intense focus in his blue eyes that when you finally look back up at him, you feel like his gaze alone is burning a hole through your head. You spread your legs a little, bending your knees slightly to give him a better angle as he pulls his hips back slowly. When only the head of his cock is sheathed inside of you, he licks his bottom lip before snapping his hips forward and delivering one hard, deep thrust that forces the headboard to slam against the wall.
“I love you.” Bucky says the three words with conviction, with a confidence you’ve never heard before. You wait a few seconds, trying to recover from the earth-shattering sensations of your pussy being destroyed and actual bliss. His words sink into your skin and melt into your soul with an unexpected warmth as he drags his cock out of you and then pushes back in again. He loves you.
“You can’t stand me.” You correct, not even trying to hide the smile that’s beginning to spread across your lips as Bucky starts setting a rhythmic pace. He laughs, but then groans as you scrape your nails down his back roughly.
“I can’t, but still…”
“You love me.” You repeat smugly, finishing his sentence. He doesn’t need you to say it back yet. Just the fact that you didn’t shove him away and flee the house when he said it is enough for him right now. A few sultry moans play in his ears and he pushes himself up to sit on his knees, moving your legs so that one is over each of his shoulders before he starts fucking you so hard that he thinks Howard Stark might need to buy a new mattress, new headboard, and maybe even have the damn wall re-plastered.
The next few minutes consist of nothing more than filthy, pornographic sounds. With skin slapping against skin, the headboard snapping against the wall, your moans, and Bucky’s strained groans, neither of you can really hear the storm raging outside anymore. You focus in on Bucky as much as you can, watching as his abs ripple and the muscles of his flesh arm flex repeatedly. He catches you staring at him as he fucks you and he holds eye contact, letting his mouth fall open and his eyelids drop down halfway as he watches you watch him. Filthy. It’s filthy the way he's fucking his cock into you in someone else’s bed. You moan his name out in a raspy tone and it sends him over the edge. He guides your legs down, setting them back on the bed before crawling over you and fucking you missionary while he swallows every moan you let out. His lips brush against yours over and over again, but you don’t kiss. You breathe each other in until you feel his cock twitch and his thrusts grow sloppy.
“Fuck, I’m gonna cum.” Bucky groans, thrusting a little harder and deeper as he nears his release. You grip his sides and bend your knees as your own orgasm looms. “You’re so fucking tight and….fuck, you’re just…shit, baby.”
“Bucky, I love you.”
He loses every last remnant of control when you finally admit it. He can’t stop the flood of cum that starts spilling out of his cock and into you. Truthfully, he wouldn’t want to stop it. He thrusts as deep as he can and grinds his hips into you, watching your eyes scrunch closed and your mouth fall open as you take every last drop of his cum. It’s everything to him. Not you taking his cum this way, not you letting him have you like this, but you telling him the one thing he never thought you would. You love him.
His post-orgasm haze should last longer than yours. He should be collapsed next to you on the bed right now, but as you lay beneath him trying to catch your breath, he’s staring down at you with perfect clarity.
“If you go back to pretending you don’t feel anything after this…” Bucky’s voice trails off as he feels a good bit of his cum dripping out of you and back onto his shaft. He moves in a little closer and pushes his cock the rest of the way inside you as gently as possible, earning himself a whimper from your pretty lips.
“You’ll what? Fuck me on another table?” You tease, smiling up at him. He shakes his head and bites down on his bottom lip in an attempt to hide his own smile, but you catch it anyway.
“Why would I do that when there are so many other surfaces we haven’t tried out yet?”
“I hate you.” You retort playfully, sliding your hands up his chest and preparing to push him off of you. His cock hasn’t softened in the slightest bit yet and you don’t know if you can take another round tonight. His small smile turns into a hearty grin as his cock twitches again.
“That’s a lie.” He smirks, dragging his tongue along his teeth after speaking. You narrow your eyes at him as you realize he’s still leaning on his ridiculous theory that your pussy clenches down when you lie. “You love me.” He says slowly, dropping his head down and pressing his lips against yours. He kisses you gently at first, pecking your lips twice before going in for a longer one. After a few seconds, he slips his tongue into your mouth and the longer he kisses you, the more weight you feel lifting from your shoulders. You didn’t realize how exhausting it was to deny this for so long. But now that you’re here, letting it happen, you can’t stop the tear that starts rolling down your cheek. Bucky pulls back as soon as he feels it, searching your eyes to see what’s wrong. “What did I do?” He asks quickly, preparing to separate himself from you. You stop him, sliding your hands down his sides and curling your fingers against his skin to hold him in place.
“Nothing.” You answer honestly, smiling up at his look of concern even as that tear continues to roll down your cheek. “Peggy has a feeling that she and Steve wait too late in this lifetime, that they don’t let themselves have this kind of happiness.”
“I told you they end up together.” Bucky says gently, using the pad of his thumb to wipe the tear from your cheek.
“I know. I wonder if this is how they felt when they finally made it back to each other.” Bucky takes a moment, really thinking about it before he moves a stray lock of hair away from your face and lets out a deep breath.
“How do you feel?” He asks, speaking with a soft tone as he eyes you closely.
“Like if you asked me for a lifetime, it wouldn’t scare the shit out of me.”
As Bucky stares down at you, you can see that all of those times you thought his expression was so unreadable were because you didn’t really want to read what was there. All you see in his eyes is love. Love and probably some kind of half-assed plan to ask you for a lifetime while his dick is inside you, just so he can see if you’re lying or not.
Pairing: SoftDark!Mob!Steve Rogers x Female Reader
Word Count: 2810
Summary: Steve has an obsession with you and he vows to make you his. Are you willing to behave and accept your fate or go down swinging?
Warnings: Kidnapping, Stalking, Threats of Isolation, Some Cussing as usual, SoftDark!Steve is a warning in itself.
A/N: For @castielscaplan , The Obsession Files Challenge. This is a one-shot only.
Prompt: Waking up in a stranger's house. You don’t recognize the person standing in front of you. But they know ALL about you.
Quotes: “I know your routine. I built my life around it.” & “You don’t remember the first time we met. But I remember what you were wearing. I remember how you smelled.”
A/N 2: Thank you to my beta reader & header maker @late-to-the-party-81
Please Reblog & Comment. It lets me know you like my work. 😊💜
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Your eyes try to open but shut immediately at the headache that’s pulsing through your forehead. You knew you shouldn’t have had that last drink at the bar. Your body feels heavy and you can barely turn over without groaning. You reach for your phone on the nightstand and come up empty. Where did you leave it last?
You try to run the events of last night through your head, but it's a bit fuzzy. You remember going to the bar and having several drinks. The rest was blank. You don’t even recall making it home.
Despite the headache, you finally crack open your eyes and what you see startles you. This is not your own small bed. This bed is huge and the room it’s in is even bigger. The walls are a light gray and the windows are covered by thick curtains. There are expensive-looking paintings hanging on the walls.
Did you have a one-night stand? You look down at your body as you run your hands over yourself. Thankfully your clothes are still on. Nothing seems to have happened.
At that moment, the bedroom door opens and a tall blonde-haired man comes in with a tray in hand. You push yourself up to a sitting position and take in his features. He’s definitely handsome with a beard and, if the fit of his flannel shirt and jeans are any indication, well built. He sets the tray down on the nightstand and flashes you a smile.
“Good morning, sunshine. How are you feeling this morning?” he cheerfully asks.
You don’t recognize him at all and watch him cautiously as you answer, “I’m actually really confused, to be honest. Who are you?”
“Oh, sweetheart, no need to be confused. I’m Steve. We met last night at the bar. Don’t you remember?” The man, Steve, takes a seat at the end of the bed and tilts his head as he watches you.
You try really hard to remember anything, but again, nothing is coming up in your memory. This is why you should never have drunk so much while out alone.
“Sorry, Steve, I don't remember. I hate to ask this, but did we sleep together? I just wonder because I’m in your bed.” Your hands start to fidget in your lap while you nervously await his answer.
“Oh no, sweetheart, we never got to do that. I mean, we were making out and things were getting pretty hot and heavy, but then you just passed out. So I left you here to sleep and I slept in a spare bedroom.” He smiles at you while you take in his words. At least he didn’t take advantage of you while you were passed out.
Despite that, something feels off about this situation, so you clear your throat to speak and tuck your hair behind your ear. “Well, thank you for being a gentleman, but I have a massive headache and I should really be going. I have a busy weekend ahead of me and should really be heading home.”
Steve stares at you and shakes his head. “You know you don’t have to lie to me. We both know you have no plans for the weekend.”
Your eyes narrow at him as he inches closer to you. “I do have plans for the weekend and who said I was lying to you?”
Steve sighs, “When you lie, you tuck your hair behind your ears. It’s a habit you do.”
The statement makes your skin crawl. How does he know you did that? “Okay, Steve, I’m just going to leave now, you’re giving me the creeps. Now, if you can give me my phone, purse, and shoes, I will be out of your way in no time.”
Steve chuckles darkly this time and moves even closer to you. “No can do, sweetheart. I’ve waited far too long to get you right where I wanted you. You don’t remember the first time we met. But I remember what you were wearing. I remember how you smelled. I know all about you. Where you work, live, and your favorite coffee shop that’s just down the road from your place. I know your routine. I built my life around it.”
Your eyes widened in horror at what he’s saying. This guy has been stalking you. “You’re fucking crazy, Steve.” You move to stand up to leave, but Steve grabs your wrist and yanks you back down to the bed. You raise your other so you can slap him, but he’s much quicker and grabs that one as well, holding you in place on the bed.
“Now that wasn’t very nice.” Steve leans over you and runs his nose along your neck, taking a deep breath of your scent. You whimper as he breathes you in. “You smell exactly as I remember. I’ve always loved this perfume on you. Do you know how long I’ve waited for this moment? All the hours I’ve put in every day following you to make sure you were safe. I hated when you had to go to work at that office. I know how much you hated your job, but now you don’t have to worry about it anymore.”
You struggle against him, but he’s much stronger than you. “What do you mean I don’t have to worry about my job anymore? Are…are you going to kill me?” Your voice hitches at the thought of being murdered by this man. You hoped to God it will be quick; the thought of suffering makes you start to hyperventilate.
However, Steve shushes you. “No, God, nothing like that, sweetheart. I would never hurt you. I just want to show how much I love you and have you love me in return. With me, you no longer have to work. I can take care of both of us. You’ll never want for anything anymore. I can buy you whatever you want. Take you to fancy restaurants and show you off to the world. All I ask in return is to give me a chance. Give us a chance. What do you say?”
Tears spill down your face. This man is legitimately crazy. You’d rather die than live a life with him. “I say go to hell. Take the stupid life you want to live and shove it up your ass. I want no part of it.”
Steve narrows his eyes at you. “Trust me when I say this, you will never escape me. You really have no clue who I am and what I’m capable of. I’m Steve Rogers, and me and my ‘family’ run this city. Why do you think it was so easy for me to snatch you up in a bar full of people and not one of them reported you missing? You have no family, no friends. Your life revolves around an office job that got your resignation today, so your boss, who you don’t get along with, will never think twice about you leaving. And you actually think you're going to escape me? Darling, only in your dreams could you try and even then, I will invade them.”
Your mind feels defeated by his words. Maybe it’s the headache that’s still pulsing like crazy, but there doesn’t seem like there’s a way out. Not when Steve’s an actual mobster. You’ve heard of his crime family before in the news and it quickly dawns on you what they are capable of. The tears continue to fall down your cheeks and Steve lets go of one of your wrists to gently wipe them away.
“I want you to be my Queen. I want you by my side, so we can rule together. I want you to love me as much as I already love you. I would do anything for you, including burn the world down. Just give me a chance. What do you say now?” Steve cradles your cheek in his large hand as his blue eyes stared into your sad ones. You make the only sensible decision.
“I’ll try.” You whisper.
“That’s all I’m asking you. Now let's get something for the headache I know you have.” Steve stands and grabs a water bottle from the tray, along with two pills and hands them to you. You grab both hesitantly and Steve chuckles. “They’re just Tylenol for your headache and see the water bottle is sealed. I’m not drugging you.”
You quickly swallow the pills, place the bottle of water back on the nightstand and then sit there for a moment in silence. Then, looking up at him again, you ask, “What about all my stuff at my apartment?”
“Oh, don’t worry about that. I have people packing your stuff as we speak. You’ll have all your little trinkets and things to make you feel at home with me.”
Home. That’s definitely not the word you’d use to describe this. More like a stylish prison with a man who was absolutely crazy and dangerous.
Suddenly, there’s a knock on the door and Steve growls in frustration. “Come in,” he yells.
The door opens and there stands a large-framed brunette dressed in a red henley and jeans. “Sorry to interrupt you, boss, but you're needed for a minute.”
Steve nods at the man. “Be right there, Bucky.” You both watch as the man named Bucky closes the door behind him, leaving you both alone once more. “Sorry, I have to leave you for a few minutes, but I want you to rest. Try and get the headache to go away. Can you do that for me?”
You nod your head at him and he smiles at you. You watch as Steve turns around and heads for the door, leaving you behind on the bed. You wait a couple of minutes and, when he doesn’t return, you get off the bed and walk over to the window, pushing the curtains back. You’re met with the sight of a massive backyard surrounded by trees in the distance. This really is a mansion, and you can’t see any landmarks to tell you where it’s located. Next, you quickly walk over to the door and place your ear against it. It seems silent, so you quietly opened it. There was no one there.
You sneak out of the room barefoot, turning left, away from the dead end on your right that housed only two other doors. Slowly, you walk through the hallway and come across a staircase. Listening carefully again, there is nothing but silence and no one around. This seems so easy to you as you make your way down the stairs, so you start to think everything Steve has told you about himself is a lie.
As you reach the bottom of the stairs, you hear voices coming from the left, where there is another hallway that leads to a room. You take the right instead and slowly maneuver your way between rooms. After a couple of minutes, you spot the front door and think to yourself you will be home free if you can just reach the door. That’s until you come face-to-face with that damn brunette named Bucky.
There’s a low whistle as he takes you in and looks towards the front door. “Now, where do you think you're going, little dove?”
You look from him to the door. “I’m leaving this place. Steve’s a complete psycho for thinking he can just claim me and keep me here. I’m going to call the cops and unless you want to be arrested with him, you’ll get out of my way and do the right thing.”
Bucky bursts into laughter. “Oh, dove, you really are so naive if you think I’m going to let you just let you walk out of here, especially barefoot. You do realize we are in the middle of nowhere with no neighbors for miles around. How far do you think you could really make it without one of Steve’s other men bringing you back? If you haven’t seen them yet, just outside this front door are two security guards. There are plenty more carrying out surveillance on the property outside, plus inside.”
“If there is so much security, how did I easily get from my room to the front door?”
“Because I allowed it,” says a familiar voice behind you. You turn around quickly and stand face-to-face with Steve. “Bucky, you can leave us.” You watch as Bucky disappears into another room, leaving just you with Steve. Before you can say anything, Steve speaks first. “And where did you think you were going again, sweetheart? I mean, you did have a plan, right? What was it you called me a psycho? I think that’s a little harsh, but I guess my enemies do think that of me. But we’re not enemies, we’re more than that.” Steve steps closer to you and you take a step back. He laughs at you playing this little cat-and-mouse game.
“Steve, I don’t belong here. You took me from my life and I just want to go home. Just please let me go. I promise I won’t call the cops.” You tuck your hair behind your ear.
“That’s not what you just told Bucky though is it? See, you need to get your story straight before you start lying again.” This time, Steve takes two strides toward you and grabs your upper arm. “Let’s go for a walk, shall we?”
You attempt to pull away, but his grip tightens on your arm, causing you to whimper. You have no choice but to walk beside him as he leads you through the maze-like mansion. You pass through one hallway and he leads you to the door at the end of another. Opening the door, you see some steps leading down and he pushes you in front of him.
“Walk,” is all he says.
He turns on the lights so you can see where you are going and by the time you reach the bottom, you look around at the room. There is a bed, a lamp, and a nightstand. To the left of that is a bathroom. There is nothing else down here. A chill goes through your body as you look around and then back at him.
“What is this place?” you ask.
“This is one of the options that you have at the moment. Since you tried to run, I could keep you down here for weeks or months on end. Nothing to occupy your mind but time to think of what you just tried to do by running. One can go mad down here with nothing to do. No sunshine, just darkness. You will have a bathroom to use to shower and relieve yourself in. No books, no TV, no human contact, absolutely nothing.”
The thought of being down here alone frightens you to your core. “What's the second option?”
This time, Steve smirks at you. “It’s simple. Be mine. My queen. My lover. My everything. Say yes and you can stay in the main house with me in my bed. Eat whatever you want, get spoiled for a change, and let me show you the life that you deserve to have, with no worries in mind. You’ll be free to do what you want, although with some exceptions. We’ll get married someday and hopefully bring future children into the equation. What do you say? Say yes and all your dreams will come true.”
You hesitate for a minute, not saying anything as he smiles at you. You turn around again and look at the room, taking in the minimal features. Then you turn back to face him and place your hand in his. “I won’t promise that I might not try to escape again. But I-I will give this a try.”
“Oh, sweetheart, I have money riding on you trying to run again. But hopefully, this will be a deterrent for you. Now let’s go upstairs and let me show you around the house.”
He’s as good as his word, and as he gives you the tour you notice all the cameras that are situated throughout the house as well as the people who work for him. The mansion definitely is a high-end prison, at least for you. If you’re ever going to run from him, it won’t be from the house. You’ll have to gain his trust, put on a show for him, and when the moment’s right, you’ll escape. For now though, you’ll put on a facade and join his underground world.
Steve, however, can see the wheels whirling in your head. He said before he knew all about you – your routine and your life – and he anticipates that it will only be a matter of time before you do something stupid. And he’ll be waiting. Let the games begin, he thinks with a chuckle.
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