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valentiyne · 2 months ago

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𝗆𝗒 𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌 𝗋𝗂𝖼𝗈𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗍 ᥫ᭡ 𝖻𝗎𝖼𝗄𝗒 𝖻𝖺𝗋𝗇𝖾𝗌

Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

Summary: In the heart of Avengers Tower, you are unexpectedly paired with a reclusive Bucky Barnes for a quiet city mission that turns into something far too personal. As the two navigate tight quarters, hidden threats, and lingering trauma, a fragile trust begins to form in the spaces between silence.

Warnings: Mild cursing & mentions of Bucky's trauma

Word Count: 4.3k (not proofread)

The day they brought the Winter Soldier in, I heard the doors to the sublevel medical bay slam open like someone was breaking in. Alarms didn’t go off, so I assumed it was fine. Mostly.

Tony’s voice echoed through the corridors, brisk and sarcastic, a tone I’d come to associate with anything out of his control. Steve’s quieter, more urgent voice followed, trailing behind like a leash trying to hold back a pit bull.

I didn’t see him that day. Just heard the noise.

He stayed below the surface for weeks, buried like a secret in the foundation of the Tower. Nobody said his name unless they had to. I didn’t ask questions. Being the second youngest member of the team had its perks: I wasn’t expected to know everything, and most people assumed I was better off not knowing anything at all.

Still, I caught whispers.

Nightmares. Damage control. Deprogramming.

Hydra.

The word sat like a splinter in the air every time it was said. Everyone felt it. Especially Steve.

I saw him, Bucky, maybe three times. Once, early in the morning, when I shuffled into the kitchen half-asleep and found him sitting at the counter. Silent. Hunched over a cup of black coffee he didn’t seem to be drinking. He didn’t look at me, and I didn’t look at him, not really. Just enough to clock the metal arm resting on the counter. My breath caught in my throat, but I didn’t bolt. That was my victory.

I grabbed a banana and walked out.

The second time, I was coming back from training. The hallway lights flickered, a glitch they said they were fixing, and I saw his silhouette at the end of the corridor. He didn’t move when I passed. Just stood there, half in shadow, watching me like I was some flickering signal he couldn’t quite make sense of.

The third time, I swear he nodded. It might’ve been my imagination. But something shifted. A blink of recognition.

But no one let him near me.

Tony said it was precautionary. “Kid, it’s not about trust. It’s about, y’know, surviving to see your twenty-first birthday. No hard feelings.”

I pretended to agree.

It was a Thursday when everything changed.

I was up early, too early, slumped at the counter with a bowl of soggy cereal. Nat was drinking black coffee and watching the news with that half lidded boredom she always had in the morning. Clint was nursing a hangover on the couch

Tony strolled in last, sunglasses on indoors like always, holding a cup labeled “WORLD��S OKAYEST GENIUS.”

“Morning,” he said, flicking the TV off with a remote I didn’t even know existed. “Big announcement. Sort of.”

Everyone turned to look at him. Even Clint, who groaned like moving physically hurt.

Steve came in behind him, face already locked in a tight frown.

Tony clapped his hands. “Alright, hear me out, and don’t throw a vibranium shield at my face yet, Cap. I think it’s time Barnes sees a shrink.”

Silence.

Nat arched an eyebrow. “He already is.”

“A real one,” Tony replied. “Not whatever Soviet era hypnosis Steve is trying to pass off as emotional progress.”

Steve crossed his arms. “He doesn’t need a psychiatrist. He needs time.”

“Steve,” Tony said, almost too gently. “It’s been two months. Two months of isolation, nightmare episodes, and one panic attack that almost blew out the med bay’s glass. I don’t want to be the guy who says ‘I told you so’ when Barnes freaks out and throws someone off the balcony.”

Steve’s jaw clenched.

“He’s not ready for normal life,” he said. “And you don’t get to decide what recovery looks like.”

Tony raised his hands. “I’m not trying to start a war, Spangles. Just saying...professional help might be good for him. We’re not therapists. We’re barely functioning people.”

“Speak for yourself,” Clint muttered from the couch, raising a limp arm. “I’ve been emotionally stable since 2014.”

Tony didn’t laugh. His expression turned more serious. “Look, the guy deserves help. And whether you want to admit it or not, he trusts you too much to say when he’s drowning.”

Steve didn’t respond. His knuckles went white against the countertop.

I felt invisible in moments like this. Half kid, half soldier, not old enough to be part of the “real” conversations, but too embedded to look away.

Tony finally broke the silence. “I’m scheduling a consult. He doesn’t have to go. But the option should be there. That’s all I’m saying.”

Steve walked out before he could finish.

That night, I couldn’t sleep.

I kept hearing something, soft thuds in the hallway, a door creaking open. I sat up in bed, listening.

Then came the screaming.

Muffled. Low. Pained.

My heart raced as I crept out of bed, careful not to make a sound. The hallway was dark, save for the faint emergency lights that ran low along the walls. I followed the noise toward the lower guest quarters, near the elevators they kept locked down.

Then, silence.

I almost turned back, until I saw a flicker of movement through the small window of one of the rooms.

His room.

The light inside was dim, but I could make out the shape of Bucky Barnes, sitting up in bed, both hands clenched in his damp sweat filled hair, shoulders shaking.

He looked… lost.

I didn’t knock. Didn’t speak. Just stood there.

Eventually, he looked up.

Our eyes met through the glass. For a moment, it felt like time paused.He didn’t say anything. Neither did I.

But he didn’t look away.

He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t violent. But he looked haunted.

Like something inside him had broken loose and clawed its way to the surface.

My chest tightened. And then, like a coward, I turned and ran.

The hallway seemed longer in the dark, lights flickering as my socked feet pattered against polished floors, arms tucked tight to my chest like that might keep the fear from spilling out. I didn’t stop until I was back in my room, door closed, back pressed to the wood as I slid down and sat on the cold floor.

I didn’t tell anyone.

Not because I wanted to protect him, necessarily, I didn’t even know him, but because I knew what Tony would do if he found out. And I knew what it felt like to constantly have nightmares. Nightmares of my life before the tower. Tony would punish Bucky.

Back to isolation. Back to sublevel lockdowns and reinforced doors and whispered speculation.

And even though I barely understood the man, I knew he didn’t deserve that.

So I stayed quiet.

Even when I passed him in the hallway two days later, coffee mug cradled in my hands as I headed to the lounge. Even when I felt his stare crawl across the side of my face. I didn’t say a word.

Didn’t even glance at him.

The team meeting was held in the main briefing room. Floor to ceiling glass walls, too many touchscreens, and chairs that cost more than my education.

I stood up front beside Tony, who was tapping through holographic files like he was picking a playlist instead of choosing who might die next week. Steve stood beside him, arms folded, stern as ever.

Behind me, I felt eyes burning a hole through the back of my skull.

I didn’t need to turn around to know it was him.

Bucky.

I shifted my weight, fingers curling into my sleeves, trying to ignore the electricity crawling up my spine.

Tony flicked a file closed and clapped his hands once. “Alright, kids, here’s the breakdown. We’ve got a recon mission in Prague. Quiet op, surveillance only, don’t get noticed, don’t start a war. Clint and Nat, you’re our shadows on the rooftops. Steve, Bruce, you’re handling the eastern perimeter. No Hulk unless provoked.”

Bruce made a face but nodded. Tony scrolled to the last file.

“Thor and Strange are off world, Peter’s on a field trip, and Spiderbaby's aunt gets real pissed when I drag him out of algebra. So that leaves… our in house intern.” He looked at me. “You’re staying home.”

My mouth parted.

“What? Why?” I said, voice sharper than intended.

Tony shrugged like it wasn’t personal. “Peter’s not here. I’m not sending you alone.”

“But you’re sending Clint and Nat!"

“They’re walking death machines. You’re barely twenty.”

“I’m not a kid.”

“Didn’t say you were. But I don’t trust you not to try and impress anyone and get shot in the face.”

Steve’s voice cut in. “She’s trained.”

Tony raised a brow. “And?”

“She’s ready.”

Tony scoffed. “Oh come on, Steve. We’re not doing this.”

“She’s not a rookie. She’s been here longer than Peter. She’s already done the work. What’s the point of letting her train with us if you keep treating her like furniture?”

My heart beat so loud I barely heard them over it.

“She’s not ready.”

“You don’t get to decide that.”

“She’s not regulated, Steve,” Tony snapped, the easy charm dropping from his voice. “She’s not licensed, she’s not on any agency’s roster, and if something goes wrong overseas, guess who gets blamed? Not you. Not me. Her. I’m not throwing her into a war zone to prove a point.”

Silence.

My face burned. I wanted to scream. Instead, I clenched my jaw and stared straight ahead.

Then a voice from the back of the room, low and smooth and cold like metal on ice:

“Send her with me.”

I turned so fast it made me dizzy.

Bucky stood in the shadows near the back wall, arms crossed over his chest, jaw locked, eyes fixed on Tony.

The entire room stiffened.

Tony blinked. “I’m sorry. What?”

“You won’t send her alone. Fine. Send her with me.”

Steve looked between us.

Tony exhaled through his nose and muttered, “And here I was thinking today would be boring.”

The car ride was quiet.

Painfully quiet.

The kind where the air feels heavier with every passing block, every streetlight flashing ghost-like across the windshield. The city blurred outside , neon signs, rain slick pavement, crowds of strangers who had no idea the kind of chaos that sat just beneath the surface.

I sat stiffly in the passenger seat, hands clasped in my lap. Every so often I glanced at him...Bucky, behind the wheel, eyes focused ahead, his expression unreadable. His fingers, both flesh and metal, tapped rhythmically against the steering wheel. It might’ve been nerves. It might’ve been habit.

But he hadn’t said a single word.

Before we left, everyone had looked at me like I was walking into a lion’s den. Bruce gave me a protein bar. Natasha handed me a small blade she said Tony didn’t need to know about. Clint whispered, “Be cool. He’s not gonna kill you. Probably.”

But it was Steve who stopped me just before the elevator doors closed. His hand caught my arm gently, his expression lined with concern.

“If anything goes wrong,” he said under his breath, “if he starts to go sideways… you call for backup.”

I swallowed hard and nodded, though the words throbbed in the back of my skull now like a warning bell.

Sideways.

The word hadn’t left me since.

I snapped back to the present as the car slowed in front of a glowing tower of glass and chrome. A hotel. Fancy. Too many floors. Too many places to hide.

He pulled up to the valet with practiced ease and shifted the car into park. Then, finally, he spoke.

“We’ll stop here for the night.”

His voice was low and rough, like it hadn’t been used in hours.

I looked up at the building, heart thudding.

“Why here?”

His jaw tightened slightly as he glanced up at the hotel’s facade.

“Thief’s in there,” he said. “Probably in the casino. Last ping from the tracker Tony set up puts them inside this place. Room’s booked under a burner name. You and I check in, keep eyes open. Tomorrow, we move.”

I blinked. “You want us to stay in the same hotel as the guy who stole the crystal?”

He looked at me. “We’ll be less noticeable in the crowd than on the street.”

I hesitated, then nodded.

Fine.

We stepped out of the car together, the bellhop eyeing Bucky’s duffle bag like it might explode. I moved quickly, forcing my limbs to act like this was normal. Just another mission. Just another hotel.

The hotel glowed like money.

Warm gold lighting, sparkling chandeliers, and soft classical music piping through the air vents, the kind of place that catered to high stakes gamblers and people with clean shoes. Bucky looked like he didn’t belong, but no one dared to stop him. His face was carved from stone, eyes flat, jaw locked like he was chewing on a threat.

We walked up to the front desk, and he dropped the forged ID and Stark’s burner card without a word. The clerk, a woman in a navy blazer with a name tag that read Michelle, clicked her perfectly manicured nails against the keyboard and hummed.

“I’m sorry,” she said after a moment. “We’re nearly full for the weekend. We’ve got a luxury suite with a king bed and pullout couch, or… two single bed rooms. But those are on separate floors.”

I watched Bucky’s jaw tighten.

“No connecting rooms?” he asked, voice like gravel.

Michelle shook her head with an apologetic smile. “Afraid not.”

He exhaled through his nose like someone punched him in the ribs. Then turned slightly toward me, lips thinning.

“One room,” he said under his breath, like the words tasted wrong. “We’ll take the suite.”

Michelle beamed and swiped the card.

I stayed quiet. It wasn’t my call.

We made it to the elevators with a faint chime following us, the kind that sounded fancier than it needed to be. Once inside, Bucky jabbed the button for the twelfth floor hard enough to make the panel beep twice.

“You can have the bed,” he muttered. “I’ll take the couch.”

I glanced at him. “I don’t mind...”

“Not up for debate.”

I swallowed the rest of my sentence and looked at the scrolling numbers above the door.

Then, just as they started to slide shut, a hand shot between the gap.

The doors bounced open again.

A man stepped in.

Late 30s. Slick suit. Sunglasses indoors. He reeked of cologne and overconfidence, and he didn’t hesitate before sliding in right beside me, too close. His shoulder brushed mine.

I stiffened. My eyes flicked toward Bucky instinctively.

Bucky didn’t say anything. But I saw it, the side eye, the slight twitch of his fingers at his side. His stance widened almost imperceptibly, like his whole body tensed.

“Evening,” the man said with a too-wide grin, eyes flicking between us. “Y’all here for the convention?”

My stomach knotted.

“There’s no convention,” I said carefully.

He blinked. “You sure? Coulda sworn I saw signs..."

Then I felt it. The quiet shuffle.

Bucky’s hand came to rest at the small of my back. Firm, steady, not pushing, but guiding. He shifted, smoothly placing his body between me and the man, like he was just readjusting himself.

I stepped back, behind him without protest, pulse quickening.

The man kept talking.

“You two together?” he asked, leaning around Bucky slightly to try and make eye contact. “Not judging, just..."

Bucky turned his head, slow and deliberate.

“Yes,” he said flatly. No inflection. Just a word dropped like a hammer.

The man held his hands up in mock surrender, chuckling under his breath.

The elevator kept climbing. The silence turned sour.

When we reached the eleventh floor, the man stepped off. He gave a lazy wave and muttered, “Well, enjoy the suite,” before the doors closed again.

Bucky didn’t move until we were alone.

Then he finally exhaled and muttered, “That guy rubbed me the wrong way.” His hand finally moved from the small of my back, and for some reason, I missed when it was still there.

“You think he was our thief?”

“Doubt it. Too loud. But I don’t like surprises.”

The elevator chimed and the doors opened to the twelfth floor.

We stepped into the hallway in silence, the plush carpet muffling our steps as we made our way to the suite.

“Seriously though,” I said after a moment, voice quieter now. “Thanks. For, y’know… doing the whole ‘bodyguard’ thing.”

He didn’t look at me. Just slid the key card into the door.

“Don’t thank me,” he said. “Just stay behind me when things go bad.”

The hotel suite was big. Sleek, modern, and too quiet. A king sized bed sat centered against the far wall, sheets crisp and undisturbed. There was a velvet couch near the window and a minibar no one dared touch. It all felt staged, like a showroom, not a place people lived.

I stepped in first, tossed my backpack near the foot of the bed, and rolled my shoulders with a sigh. The tension from the elevator hadn’t left my body yet, still simmering under my skin.

Bucky followed close behind, but he didn’t slow down.

Instead of dropping his own bag, he went straight to work.

He moved silently, gliding from one end of the room to the other, checking every door, every cabinet. He opened the bathroom door, flicked the light on, then off. Looked behind the shower curtain. He opened the closet, pressed the wall, then shut it again. He moved to the dresser drawers, slid them open, checked under the bed. All without saying a word.

I stood in the center of the room, watching him.

“You expecting someone?” I asked, trying for lightness, but my voice came out too soft.

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he crossed the room to the window, a tall glass panel that overlooked a tangle of glowing rooftops and streetlights far below. With quiet precision, he undid the lock and opened it just a crack. A breeze slipped through, cool and metallic.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

He didn’t turn around.

“I always need an escape route,” he said, like it was obvious. “In case they come back.”

I blinked. “They?”

He was quiet for a beat too long. The wind stirred the curtains.

“Hydra,” he said finally. “Or anyone who thinks I belong to them.”

The words hung heavy in the air.

I looked down at the carpet, heart tightening in my chest. The weight in his voice wasn’t just fear, it was preparation. Like he’d already played out the scenario a dozen times in his head. Like he expected it.

“You’re not theirs anymore,” I said quietly.

He still didn’t look at me.

“You’re safe here,” I added, firmer this time.

He let the curtain fall back into place and locked the window again.

“Maybe,” he muttered, more to himself than me.

Then he stepped back, eyes finally meeting mine, not hard or angry, just… tired. Like the kind of tired that no amount of sleep could fix.

For a moment, neither of us said anything.

I rubbed my hands down my arms and nodded toward the couch. “Still want it?”

He looked at it, then at me.

“You can have the bed,” I offered again. “Seriously.”

He moved toward the couch and dropped his duffle bag beside it.

“I’ve slept on worse.”

There was no bravado in it. Just a simple fact.

I didn’t push.

I went to unzip my bag, letting the soft sound fill the space between us, and Bucky crouched down to remove a small pistol from his boot, setting it within reach on the end table before slowly lowering himself onto the couch.

He didn’t turn on the TV. Didn’t pick up a phone. Just leaned back, metal arm across his chest, eyes on the ceiling.

I pulled my bag toward the bed and started digging for my pajamas, acutely aware of the man sitting a few feet away on the couch. His presence filled the room like gravity, silent, heavy, impossible to ignore.

Still, I moved like I would at home. Carefully casual.

I disappeared into the bathroom to change, pulling on a pair of pink Hello Kitty pajama pants, faded from too many washes, fraying slightly at the drawstring. I topped it off with one of Peter’s old oversized Stark Industries t-shirts, stolen during laundry roulette a few months back and never returned. It smelled like soap and nostalgia.

When I stepped back into the room, towel drying my damp face, Bucky looked up from where he sat on the couch, one brow lifting in visible judgment.

“Nice shirt,” he said, voice edged with dry sarcasm. “Very intimidating.”

I blinked, then glanced down. “Oh. Yeah. It’s Peter’s.”

His expression shifted, subtle but noticeable, a twitch of his mouth, a slight tilt of his head.

“S'you two dating?”

The question caught me off guard. Not because he asked, but because he sounded… cautious. Not jealous. Just curious in a way I didn’t expect from him.

I snorted and walked toward the bed, flopping back onto the mattress with a bounce.

“God, no,” I said. “Never.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow.

“He’s not my type,” I added, smirking slightly. “Way too sunshiney. And he talks too much. And he uses the word ‘bro’ unironically.”

That earned me the faintest twitch of a smile from him.

Just a flicker. There and gone.

I settled back against the pillows, curling the covers over my legs as the city buzzed faintly through the closed window. Bucky leaned his head back against the couch cushion, exhaling slowly through his nose.

“What is your type, then?” he asked after a moment.

I looked at him, surprised again. But this time, I didn’t deflect.

I thought for a second.

“Someone quiet,” I said finally. “Maybe a little broken. But trying. Someone who doesn’t make me feel like I need to talk just to fill the silence.”

His eyes flicked over to me, unreadable.

Then he nodded once.

“Huh." The bed was softer than I expected.

I curled beneath the hotel comforter, one arm tucked under my cheek as I watched the soft light above cast faint shadows across the ceiling. The curtains were mostly drawn, the room dim, but not dark, not really.

That was by design.

Bucky hadn’t turned the lights off.

He sat on the edge of the couch, elbows resting on his knees, the tension still written into the lines of his back like he hadn’t exhaled in days. His metal fingers tapped slowly against the armrest, a soft, metallic rhythm in the quiet.

I blinked over at him, groggy but aware. “You’re not gonna sleep?”

He shook his head once. “Not yet.”

“You can sleep, y’know. I won’t let anyone stab you in your sleep.”

A faint snort, the closest thing I’d heard to a laugh from him all day.

“I’m keeping watch.”

I frowned, pushing up slightly on one elbow. “Why?”

He didn’t answer at first.

Then, "Because someone should.”

I let the silence stretch, watching him from the bed. The steady clink of his fingers on the armrest continued. There was no fear in his face, not in the traditional sense. But there was wariness. A wired kind of stillness, like he didn’t trust the world to stay put while he closed his eyes.

“…You’re safe here,” I murmured again, softer this time. “We both are.”

He didn’t look at me. Just said, “That’s what the last place said too.”

That one hit something inside me.

I settled back onto the pillow, watching him in the dim glow of the room. His shoulders were still squared, eyes fixed on the door.

“You really gonna sit up all night?”

“Better me than you.”

I wanted to say more. Something comforting. Something wise. But the truth was, there was no quick fix for that kind of wound. He wasn’t just watching the door. He was watching the ghosts he knew might show up, because in his life, they always had.

“…Alright,” I whispered after a moment, letting my eyes fall shut. “But wake me up halfway. We’ll take turns.”

No reply.

But a few seconds later, the soft ticking of his metal fingers stopped.

I was just starting to drift, muscles loosening, the steady hum of the city below sinking into the silence of the room, when his voice broke through the dark.

“Hey, kid…”

I blinked my eyes open and pushed up slowly on my elbows, squinting toward the couch.

Bucky was sitting forward again. But this time, his hand moved with purpose, reaching under the hem of his jacket. I watched, confused, as he unbuckled the holster strapped across his ribs and pulled his pistol free. He turned it in his hand once, checking the safety, and then reached toward the small nightstand beside the couch and laid it down with quiet care.

The sound of the metal against wood was soft, but final.

I sat up straighter in bed, blinking. “What are you doing?”

His expression didn’t change. But his jaw flexed.

“If you wake up,” he said slowly, “and I’m not… me, you know what to do.”

The air left my lungs in a quiet rush.

“What?” I asked, a little sharper than I meant to.

He didn’t repeat it.

Just looked at me.

And then, like I was stupid for even asking, he said flatly, “You know what I’m asking.”

I stared at the gun. Cold and matte black. Sitting right next to his elbow like some grim insurance policy.

My throat went tight.

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “No, I’m not..."

“If something happens-"

“I’m not going to shoot you, Bucky.”

My voice cracked at the end. I didn’t mean for it to.

He looked down, jaw grinding like he wanted to argue, but what was there to say? He wasn’t asking to be dramatic. He wasn’t even scared. He was just prepared.

And that made it worse.

“I trust you,” I said after a long beat, softer now. “And if something does happen, I’ll handle it. But I’m not going to kill you just because you had a nightmare.”

He didn’t respond. Just leaned back again slowly, eyes dark and unreadable in the low light. He didn’t pick up the gun, though. He left it there. Between us.

“I don’t sleep easy,” he muttered.

“I know,” I whispered.

And with that, I laid back down. I didn’t sleep for a long time. I stared at the ceiling, listening to the hum of the vents and the low creak of his leather jacket as he shifted, maybe trying, and failing, to find peace.

The gun stayed where it was. A silent agreement neither of us fully acknowledged.

Bucky hadn’t moved in minutes. He sat leaning back into the couch cushions, one boot still on, head tilted slightly to the side.

I was almost sure he was still awake, until I heard it.

A soft, low sound. Snoring.

Just barely.

Like he hadn’t meant to fall asleep, but his body finally gave in.

I turned onto my side, curling in a little tighter, the sound of his breathing slow and steady in the dark. There was something strangely comforting about it, the weight of someone else’s presence. Someone who didn’t expect anything from me. Someone who might actually understand what it meant to live half on edge all the time.

And somehow, despite the mission, the strange hotel room, and the pistol sitting six feet away, I felt my eyes start to close.

Sleep came easier than I expected.

For once, neither of us woke up.

213 notes · View notes

valentiyne · 2 months ago

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𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝖽𝖾 ✘ 𝗍𝖺𝗌𝗆!𝗉𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗄𝖾𝗋

PART TWO OF BLINDSIDED

TASM!Peter Parker x Fem!Reader

Summary: Uncovering the truth about your little affair with Spiderman to your oblivious Exboyfriend!Peter. What could go wrong?

Warnings: Mild cursing & Peter being a dork. This is filled with Angst i'm so sorry.

Word Count: 6.5k

I barely heard the bell ring.

Professor Harding’s voice droned like an electric fan in the distance, muffled beneath the weight of my own thoughts. Molecules. Compounds. Covalent bonds. None of it landed. The sharp smell of dry erase markers, the scratch of pencils on paper, normally grounding. Today? Just static.

All I could focus on was him.

For two straight weeks, Spiderman had walked me home every night from the diner. Rain or shine, like clockwork, he’d drop down from some alleyway shadow or slide in from a nearby rooftop right around 9:02 p.m. Never 9. Never 9:05. Just after I dumped the day’s coffee filters and locked the side door. Always on time. Always with stories.

But not the kind of stories you’d expect from someone who, according to The Daily Bugle and every trending hashtag, had helped take down numerous space aliens. No, these were tales of small time crooks. Purse snatchers. A guy shoplifting allergy meds. A skateboarder who tagged the wrong warehouse.

It didn’t add up.

Why was Spiderman spending so much time walking someone like me home? And why was he telling me about things that didn’t match the magnitude of who he was supposed to be?

“Hey,” a voice whispered beside me. “Are you okay?”

I blinked.

Felicia Hardy was leaning sideways in her seat, one arm draped over the back of her chair, eyebrows knitted in concern. Her shining I hadn’t even noticed her move. Hadn’t noticed anything.

“You’ve been drawing the same hexagon for five minutes,” she added, glancing down at my notebook.

I looked.

She was right. My page was filled with the same six sided shape, traced over again and again until it was nearly worn through the paper. A crude attempt at a benzene ring. Or maybe just a nervous loop I’d been stuck in.

“Yeah,” I said quickly, flipping the page. “Just tired.”

“Spiderman tired?” She asked, voice low, teasing, but something in her expression hinted she was fishing.

I froze. A little too long.

Felicia raised both brows now. “Why the weird expression?”

“I- what? No,” I said, way too fast, laughing awkwardly. “Why would I...?"

“You just twitched like Peter does when he lies.” She narrows her eyes, piercing through me like a cat.

“Felia!”

She held up her hands innocently. “Okay, okay! Just sayin’. You’ve got that whole ‘I’m hiding something cool and it’s definitely Spiderman related vibe going on. Plus I saw you liked the Daily Bugle's instagram post of him..."

I pressed my fingers to my temple, trying to shake off the heat rushing to my cheeks. The last thing I needed was her putting pieces together. Because if anyone could? It was her.

One of Peter Parker’s best friend. Peter, who hadn’t shown up in days.

“Where is he anyway?” I asked, maybe too casually. “Peter, I mean. Haven’t seen him since last Friday.”

Her grin dimmed slightly. “Sick day? I think. He said something about not feeling great. Haven’t heard much since. But, still it’s Peter. He disappears and then comes back with a thousand apologies.”

The bell rings right as she finishes talking, so i stand and swing my backpack over my shoulder. I was ready to leave this lecture hall.

The cafeteria was loud, metal trays slamming down on tables, someone blasting music from a phone they’d hidden under their hoodie, and the unmistakable snap of a soda can opening too close to someone’s math notes. Same chaos as always.

I sat under one of the shaded trees just outside, the one near the edge of the courtyard where the noise dulled to something bearable. I wasn’t even hungry, just picking at the fries on my tray, watching the sky shift from morning gray to that flat blue that meant the afternoon heat was coming in fast.

Felicia dropped down onto the bench beside me with all the grace of a cat who owned the place.

“Morning, sunshine.”

I gave her a look. “It’s lunchtime.”

“Semantics.” She stole a fry. “So… you seeing someone?”

I blinked. “What?”

“You heard me.”

I frowned. “Why are you asking?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Because I happen to know a certain web slinging someone has been walking you home lately. Every night. Same time. Like clockwork.”

My stomach twisted. “That’s not, he’s just making sure I get home safe.”

“Oh please.” Felicia popped another fry into her mouth, looking far too smug. “The Spider doesn’t just play bodyguard unless he’s got a thing for you.”

I tried to hide my face behind my cup, but it was no use. She grinned wider.

“I mean, honestly,” she drawled. “You do have a type. Brooding. Secretive. Drenched in guilt. How’s the conversation? All rooftop confessions and vague emotional tension?”

“Felicia,” I warned, voice tight.

“Bet he says your name all hushed like he’s afraid it might break him,” she teased, putting her hand to her chest dramatically. “Do you two make meaningful eye contact through the mask?”

I was this close to throwing my soda at her when, “What are you talking about?”

Peter’s voice cut through the air like a blade.

Felicia turned first, then me.

He stood a few feet away, shoulders a little hunched like they always were. His tray was balanced awkwardly in one hand. The other shoved into the pocket of his hoodie.

He wasn’t looking at me.

At all.

Just staring straight at Felicia, as if she was the only one speaking. As if I didn’t exist.

Felicia leaned back, relaxed and amused. “Oh, nothing. Just teasing our girl here about her very punctual walking buddy. You know, the one in bright red spandex?”

Peter blinked once.

His expression didn’t change much, barely a twitch of his jaw. But something shifted in his eyes.

He looked like someone had just pulled the floor out from under him and he didn’t want anyone to see it.

“Spiderman?” he asked. Still not looking at me.

Felicia nodded, watching him like she knew something.

Peter’s mouth pressed into a line.

“Oh,” he said, so flat it might as well have been a whisper.

Then he looked down at his tray, lips parting like he had something else to say. But whatever it was got lost somewhere between his throat and his pride.

And then, he turned.

Didn’t even sit down. Just walked away, moving fast through the crowd, like if he kept going, maybe no one would notice how much it rattled him.

But I did.

I watched the way his shoulders stiffened, the way his head dropped just enough to hide his face. He was halfway across the courtyard before I could even open my mouth.

Felicia let out a low whistle. "Well, that hit a nerve.”

I didn’t say anything.

Not because I didn’t want to, but because my heart was still racing. Because my stomach had dropped the second he walked away like I wasn’t even there.

Later that night, the diner buzzed with the usual hum of coffee cups clinking and the jukebox skipping over scratched tracks. The smell of hash browns lingered in the air, mixed with the sharper scent of burnt grease from the fryer we still hadn’t cleaned out properly.

I tied my apron tighter around my waist and leaned over the counter, watching the front door like I was expecting someone.

Because I was. It was 9:01 p.m.

Not yet.

He’d always shown up just after nine. Maybe this was the night I’d finally ask him why. Or what he wanted. Or, God...maybe even who he was. Because I had suspicions. Small things. A tilt of the head. A hesitant laugh. The way he always fidgeted with the edge of his glove like it didn’t quite fit.

9:02. Still nothing.

I cleaned the espresso machine twice. Dumped the coffee filters. Locked the side door. Nothing.

When I finally stepped outside, the night was heavy. The kind of humid that made my shirt cling to my back and my keys stick in my pocket. I waited.

Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen. I for sure missed the bus ride home.

No Spiderman.

No jokes about the guy who tried to rob a bodega with a water gun. No half laughed excuses for showing up late because of a “weird pigeon chase.”

Just silence.

I shoved my hands deep in my jacket pockets and started walking.

The city at night could feel like a thousand different things. A carnival. A war zone. A ghost town.

Tonight it felt like a question I didn’t have an answer to.

I turned the corner onto 53rd and paused beneath a flickering streetlight. Half of me hoped he’d drop down from the fire escape with some sarcastic remark about how dramatic I looked. The other half wasn’t sure what I’d say if he did.

Because I didn’t just miss him. I was starting to worry.

The kind of worry that gnawed at your ribs like guilt.

What if he was hurt? What if those dumb stories about small crimes weren’t dumb at all, what if they were all he could manage between something bigger going on?

What if walking me home was the only time he got to be a kid?

I leaned against the cold brick wall and looked up at the stars. The clouds shifted, swallowing them whole. I waited a few more minutes, then turned and kept walking.

The hum of the city was faint outside my bedroom walls like a lullaby for the restless. A far off siren. The dull roar of traffic several blocks away. Somewhere beneath it all, the low mechanical rattle of a busted air conditioning unit that had lived just outside my window since before I moved in.

My eyes fluttered closed. It had been nearly a week since I’d seen him.

No Spiderman waiting outside the diner. No footsteps alongside mine as I walked home. Just quiet. Empty sidewalk. The usual ache.

I tried not to let it bother me. He didn’t owe me anything. He was a superhero. He had… well, superhero things to do.

But something in my chest ached. And it wasn’t just disappointment.

It was the strange feeling that something had gone wrong. And I keep going back to blaming Peter. It was hard to tell if I missed him, or just missed having someone to be mad at.

My breath evened out. The sheets were tangled around my legs, the night air warm enough that my skin stuck to them. I was just on the edge of sleep when...

Tap. Tap. TapTapTapTap.

I jolted upright.

The sound was fast. Urgent. Desperate. I turned toward the window. At first, I thought I was still dreaming. The sound of my heartbeat in my ears, the sluggish haze of sleep still crawling over my thoughts. But then it came again-

Tap. TapTap.

I scrambled out of bed, nearly tripping on the comforter, and rushed to the window. And there he was.

Spiderman.

Slumped against the frame, one arm barely keeping him upright as his body bobbed and swayed like he couldn’t fully support it. His suit, usually pristine or at worst dust covered, was torn to shreds. His mask clung to his face by threads. One lens was completely cracked.

Blood stained the fabric across his side. Dark. Soaked through.

“Oh my God!"

I fumbled with the latch and shoved the window open, catching him just as his arm slipped. His weight collapsed forward, and I managed to hook my arms beneath his shoulders and pull him inside, barely keeping us both upright as we hit the floor hard.

He didn’t yelp. But he groaned, the sound deep and wet and raw. His head lolled forward, chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven bursts.

“What happened?” I whispered, heart pounding as I tried to steady him, get a look at the damage. “Jesus, what the hell happened to you?”

He didn’t answer.

His hand clutched his side. Blood oozed through his fingers. Not fresh, already thickened and sticky, but still coming.

“You need a hospital-"

“No,” he croaked, shaking his head once. “No hospital.”

His voice was so hoarse I almost didn’t recognize it.

“You’re hurt!"

“Please,” he rasped, leaning his head back against the side of my bed. “Just...don’t call anyone. I...I didn’t know where else to go.”

I stared at him.

This wasn’t the same person who made dumb jokes and told me stories about stopping candy bar thieves. This was someone barely hanging on.

“You shouldn’t be here,” I said quietly, eyes scanning his face, trying not to let the panic crawl into my voice. “Why are you here?”

He looked up at me slowly, one good eye catching the light through the broken lens. His breath hitched. “You were the only one I could think of.”

My chest twisted. He sounded terrified. And not just of dying.

But of me seeing him like this.

I knelt beside him, hands trembling as I reached out. “Okay. Okay, just...let me help.”

The suit was sticking to his skin in places, ripped through across his ribs, his shoulder, his thigh. I didn’t even know where to start. But I grabbed the scissors from my drawer, and with every snip, every glimpse of bruised skin or gash, my stomach turned colder.

This wasn’t just a fight. This was something brutal.

“Who did this to you?” I whispered.

He didn’t answer.

His jaw clenched as I peeled back the shredded fabric, revealing a deep gash across his ribs. Clean. Precise. Like something sharp had sliced through.

“You’re lucky it didn’t hit your lungs,” I said without thinking. My hands were moving on instinct, grabbing peroxide, gauze, the kit under my sink I hadn’t touched in months. “Hold this here.”

He nodded weakly and pressed the cloth against the wound.

I worked quietly, trying not to let the tension drown me. But my eyes kept flicking to his face. His mouth. The line of his jaw under the mask.

He wasn’t talking anymore. Just breathing. Barely.

But something about the curve of his brow, the faintest scar above his lip, the line of his throat...it felt familiar.

And that scared the hell out of me.

He shouldn’t feel familiar.

By the time I was done, he was still breathing heavy but stable. I wrapped the worst of the injuries, though he flinched at every touch. His body was lined in bruises, across his ribs, his shoulder, his thigh. His hands were scraped raw, like he’d been dragging himself across pavement.

“You need to sleep,” I said gently, pressing a clean towel to his forehead. “At least for a couple hours.”

He didn’t argue.

I slid a blanket over him and leaned back, sitting on the floor beside the bed. Just staring. Just breathing.

This man, this superhero, had somehow ended up at my window. Beaten. Bleeding. Like I was the only place he could think to go. Like I was his last option.

I watched him sleep. Or maybe just pass out. His chest rose and fell slowly now, his features finally still. And with every second, I found myself leaning closer. Studying him. Trying to see the man under the mask.

And suddenly…

A sick, twisting thought slid into my head.

My back was pressed against the wall, knees pulled into my chest, as I sat on the floor across from him. Spiderman. Passed out. Or unconscious. Or… healing, maybe. I didn’t know how his body worked. Didn’t know if he’d still be breathing in a few hours. All I knew was that he hadn’t moved since he collapsed.

And I hadn’t stopped watching.

The blanket I’d thrown over him had slipped off one shoulder, revealing the edge of the fresh bandage I’d wrapped across his chest. His mask, shredded at the sides, was soaked with dried blood along the seam where his jaw met the fabric. One of his gloves had come halfway off during the fall, exposing bruised knuckles and skin rubbed raw.

He looked human.

Too human.

That was what scared me the most.

I didn’t know his name.

But I swore I knew the shape of his face.

I gnawed at the inside of my cheek, legs cramping beneath me from hours of being still. My eyes burned, but I couldn’t sleep. Not while he was like this. Not while my mind kept playing this twisted, aching guessing game.

I glanced at the clock.

4:42 a.m.

And I was still wide awake.

My eyes dropped to the tear in his mask, to the curve of his jaw barely visible in the streetlight bleeding through the blinds. He had a small scar just beneath the edge of the fabric. One I thought I recognized, but I wasn’t sure.

I shifted slightly, reaching for the glass of water by my bed. My hand paused halfway. I stared at him. My fingers clenched.

What if I just looked? Just a peek?

Just a little. Just enough to confirm it, or put it to rest. One tug, and I’d know. I’d finally know why his voice tugged at something old and bruised inside me. Why he showed up at my diner. Why he looked at me like I was someone worth saving.

I hesitated.

The tip of my finger grazed the fabric just beneath his jaw.

But before I could move further-

“Why are you staring so hard?”

I flinched.

His voice was quiet. Rough from sleep. Barely a whisper. But awake. I yanked my hand back like I’d been burned.

He was still lying down, still weak, but his head had turned slightly, just enough for his half-shattered mask to tilt my way. One eye visible through the fractured lens, tracking me in the dark.

“I..I wasn’t,” I lied instantly, heart pounding.

“Uh huh,” he rasped, sounding more amused than angry. “You’ve been burning a hole in my face for… what? An hour? Two?”

“Three,” I muttered before I could stop myself.

He chuckled, but it turned into a cough...dry and shallow.

“Okay, well… that’s not unsettling at all,” he said between wheezes.

I grabbed the glass and handed it to him. “Drink. Slowly.”

He obeyed, hand trembling slightly as he took it. Water sloshed down the side of his glove. He looked like he’d barely lifted his arm before it gave out, and I had to help him tilt the glass to his mouth. Our fingers brushed.

God, his skin was warm.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” I said softly.

His head rested back against the side of the bed. He let out a long breath through the mask, tension easing just a little as the water hit his system.

“It’s okay,” he said. “I think I’d rather be awake with you than bleeding out alone.”

My chest twisted.

“Is that what you were trying to do?”

He didn’t answer.

For a moment, I thought he’d fallen back asleep, but then his fingers twitched against the rim of the glass.

“No,” he said finally. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

I nodded slowly. “You said that.”

“I meant it.”

“Why me?”

The words came out before I could bite them back.

He didn’t respond right away. Instead, he shifted, painfully, and pulled the blanket back over himself. His arm rested over his ribs, protecting the wound I hadn’t dared look at since wrapping it.

“You were the first person I thought of,” he said finally.

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“It does to me.”

“Why?”

Silence.

Then, so quietly I almost missed it:

“Because I miss you.”

I felt like the floor had dropped out from under me.

“What?”

He tensed, like he hadn’t meant to say it. Like he was suddenly regretting everything.

“You don’t know me,” I said, voice sharp. Too defensive.

His fingers curled slightly against the blanket. “Don’t I?”

I stood up.

He didn’t move, but his head tilted up toward me. That broken mask. That familiar shape beneath it. The bruised lips and scraped jaw. The hesitations in his voice. The way he always laughed like he didn’t think he deserved to.

“Take it off,” I said, the words slipping past my lips like a dare.

He stiffened.

“What?”

“Your mask.”

He didn’t speak.

I crossed my arms. “You came here. You bled out on my floor. You said you miss me. And now you’re hiding again.”

“I’m not hiding.”

“You’re literally wearing a mask.”

His breath hitched. “It’s not that simple.”

“Yes,” I said, stepping forward. “It is.”

We stared at each other, the tension coiling between us so thick I could barely breathe.

I waited.

Waited for him to do it.

For him to finally stop lying to me, if not with words, then with that mask. I wasn’t sure what I wanted more: confirmation that it wasn’t him… or proof that it was.

He sat there. Frozen.

Then he looked away.

“I didn’t come here to lie,” he said quietly. “I came because I didn’t know where else to go. And I didn’t want you to find out like this.”

“Well, you nailed it,” I said, breath catching. “Perfect execution.”

He shifted like he wanted to get up, but his body wouldn’t let him. He flinched hard and sank back to the floor.

“I’m sorry.”

His head dropped, mask torn and clinging to his sweat damp skin.

“I didn’t stop thinking about you,” he whispered.

And something in me snapped.

Enough dancing around it. Enough waiting for answers that never came.

My body moved before my thoughts caught up.

I lunged forward, grabbing the torn fabric at his jawline, and yanked.

“Wait!" he gasped, reaching up too late.

The mask peeled away with a desperate rip, half sticking to the dried blood around his cheek, until I was staring, face to face at Peter Parker.

His eyes were wide. Bloodshot. Mouth parted in a shaky breath. Hair matted to his forehead with sweat and ash. And that same scar. That same stupid scar beneath his lip from when he’d fallen off his own skateboard in eighth grade.

Time stopped.

My stomach dropped like an elevator with the cables cut.

“No,” I breathed. “No, no, no..."

“I was going to tell you!" His hands come up defensively.

“You’re Spiderman?” My voice cracked.

“I didn’t know how..."

“Oh my God,” I choked out, stumbling back. “I told you things. I told Spiderman things..personal things. Things I never would’ve said to you.”

Peter winced like I’d hit him.

“I didn’t come here to hurt you!"

“But you did!” My heart was racing. Too fast. My chest felt tight. “You stood there. Night after night. Listening to me. Pretending to be someone else. Do you have any idea how messed up that is?”

“I just wanted to be close to you again,” he said helplessly.

“So you put on a mask?” I snapped. “You let me think you were someone safe, someone who didn’t betray me. I trusted him. Spiderman.”

“I am him,” he whispered.

“No,” I said, tears stinging my eyes. “You’re Peter Parker. You’re the guy who broke me.”

He looked like he wanted to say something, anything, but his mouth just opened and closed, useless.

And all I could do was stand there, shaking, staring down at the boy who had left me once… and had the nerve to sneak back into my life wearing someone else’s face.

“You don’t get to do this,” I whispered. “You don’t get to be both.”

I stood facing the wall, arms wrapped around myself like I could physically hold everything in. Like I could somehow stop the tears burning in my eyes from spilling over. Peter hadn’t moved. I could still hear his breathing, uneven, shallow. But not from pain.

From guilt.

And good. Let it crush him.

“You shouldn’t have come here,” I said, my voice low and shaking.

“I didn’t know where else to go,” he said again, weaker this time.

“You could’ve gone to Gwen,” I spat, turning sharply. “Or was she busy playing nurse for Harry Osborn?”

The words slipped out sharper than I meant them. But I didn’t care. Felicia had told me that Gwen Stacy wasn't being faithful to Peter, but a part of me was happy that she wasn't. Serves him right

Peter’s head dropped slightly. The cut across his brow had started bleeding again, the trail running down toward his temple. His lips parted like he was going to lie, then didn’t bother.

“She’s not with me,” he said. “Not anymore.”

My eyes narrowed. “What, she break up with you before or after you decided to play dress up and follow me home for two weeks?”

“She’s with Harry,” he said, quietly now. “Or… seeing him. I don’t know. They’ve been close for a while. We broke up a few weeks ago.”

I blinked. “So you came running to me? After that fell apart?”

“No,” he said quickly. “That’s not, God, that’s not what this is.”

“Then what is it?”

He opened his mouth, but I was already moving.

I crossed the room, grabbing the mask from the floor where it had fallen, holding it in my fist like evidence. Like a confession I hadn’t agreed to.

“You showed up outside the diner. Every single night. You let me talk to you. Confide in you. You let me believe you were someone else. You knew what you were doing.”

“I didn’t mean to manipulate you,” he said, hoarse.

“Bullshit,” I snapped. “You knew exactly what you were doing. You knew I’d never open up to you. Not after what happened. So you hid. You made yourself into someone else. And I...I let myself feel safe with you. Because I didn’t know.”

Peter pushed himself up slightly, wincing as his ribs pulled under the bandages. He sat back against the bed frame, eyes never leaving me.

“I wasn’t pretending,” he said. “Everything I said to you, as Spiderman it was all real. That was still me.”

“Then why didn’t you say anything?” I demanded. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“Because I knew you’d hate me for it.”

“You were right.”

We stared at each other.

The silence was raw. It filled every crack between us. Every piece of unfinished history.

“I never stopped caring about you,” he said quietly.

I laughed. It was bitter and broken. “You had a real funny way of showing it.”

“I made a mistake,” he said. “With Gwen. With everything. But I couldn’t undo it. And I didn’t know how to fix it. So I just… became someone else.”

“So this was what? A redemption tour?”

“No,” he said. “It was me trying to protect you."

“From what? You? Because newsflash, Parker, you’re the one who hurt me. Not Spiderman. Not Gwen. You.”

His jaw tightened. “I didn’t know what I was doing.”

“You knew enough to lie to my face.”

“I wanted to be near you again,” he admitted. “And I thought if you didn’t know it was me, maybe I could just be there for you in the only way you’d let me.”

“That’s not love,” I said coldly. “That’s manipulation.”

He flinched at that.

“I know,” he whispered. “I just… missed you.”

The words should’ve hit softer. But they didn’t.

They just burned.

I crossed my arms tighter over my chest, every muscle pulled so tight I thought I might snap in half.

“You took something from me, Peter,” I said. “You took safety. You took honesty. You took the one place I could finally breathe again after what you did.”

“I didn’t mean to..."

“But you did.” My voice cracked. “You took all of that and gave me lies. You stood under that mask and let me think I wasn’t talking to you. You made me trust you again without even giving me the chance to decide if I wanted to.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, again, helpless.

I dropped the mask at his feet like it weighed too much to hold anymore. He leaned forward, one hand pressed to his side, breathing hard.

“I didn’t want you to hate me forever,” he said.

“Then maybe you shouldn’t have left.”

The air between us grew sharp with all the things we couldn’t say.

I hated that he looked like this, broken, bruised, real. I hated that he had come to me at his most vulnerable, that he still sounded like the boy I used to love. That for two weeks, I let myself pretend there was someone else out there who saw me, really saw me, and it had been him the whole time.

And worst of all?

Some part of me still cared.

That part made me furious.

I turned away, jaw locked, chest burning.

“You can stay until the bleeding stops,” I said. “Then you need to go.”

Peter didn’t argue. But I saw the way his shoulders dropped. Like he’d already known there was no fixing this.

I couldn’t stop shaking.

I lay curled on my side in bed, arms wrapped tight around my torso like it could somehow hold in the storm still crashing through my chest. The blanket was thin, the kind you don’t notice until you’re cold and alone beneath it. It had never felt so heavy. Or so useless.

Behind me, the silence stretched.

Peter hadn’t said another word since I told him he could stay until the bleeding stopped. He didn’t plead. Didn’t push back. And that silence? It felt worse than if he had screamed.

Because it meant he knew.

He knew what he’d done to me.

The ache behind my eyes burned deeper. I blinked up at the ceiling for a long while, willing the tears not to fall.

Eventually, I heard him move. The faint rustle of cloth. A low, strained grunt as he shifted his weight and tried to sit up straighter. It sounded like it hurt.

Good.

“…I’ll take the floor,” he muttered after a moment. His voice was hoarse, less like a superhero now and more like a boy with broken ribs and nowhere to go.

I didn’t answer.

Not because I didn’t have anything to say, but because if I opened my mouth, I was afraid I wouldn’t stop. I’d pour out every fractured piece of me he didn’t deserve to hear anymore.

So I stayed still. Silent. Facing the wall.

The blanket shifted slightly as I adjusted my legs. I pretended to settle, like I was slipping into sleep. I wasn’t. I was wide awake. Every nerve lit up. Every part of me aware of his body on the floor just feet away. The low creak of him pulling one of the old throw pillows from the chair. The soft drag of fabric across carpet as he eased himself down, his breath catching when his side touched the ground.

My fists were still clenched beneath the covers.

How many nights had I thought about what I’d say if I ever saw him again?

How many times had I imagined him showing up at my door, not like this, not bleeding, but something real. A conversation. An apology. Honesty.

Instead, he wore a mask and stole my secrets like they were owed to him.

I told Spiderman things I would’ve died before telling Peter Parker. And now I had to live with that.

The minutes blurred. A numb, fragile kind of quiet settled between us. Not peaceful. Never peaceful. But quiet enough that I could hear his breathing even out. Slow. Shallow. Exhausted.

I tried to let myself drift too.

But sleep didn’t come. My mind wouldn’t stop spinning.

Did he come here just to guilt me? Was this whole thing just another one of his cowardly ways of being near me without taking responsibility? Without having to stand in front of me as himself?

Was I really that easy to fool?

And still… part of me had noticed the way he looked at me. Even with the mask. Like I was something safe. Like he wasn’t Spiderman. Just Peter. Just a boy who still carried everything he’d broken and didn’t know how to ask for forgiveness.

Zzzzt.

The sound of a zipper sliding open tore through the stillness like a blade.

My breath hitched.

I didn’t move. My eyes stayed shut, but behind my eyelids, everything sharpened. I could hear it all, clearer than before.

Another soft shift.

The metallic click of something being fastened closed again.

Then silence.

Then

Creakkkkk.

The groan of my bedroom window being slid open. The faint rattle of the glass as it moved against old, crooked tracks. I knew that sound. I’d heard it before, every night, for two weeks, when he arrived. Now I was hearing it in reverse.

Cool air slipped into the room like a whisper, brushing against my cheek.

I kept still.

I couldn’t look.

I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me watch him leave.

There was a pause.

Long enough that I could feel it. Like he was hesitating. Like he was looking at me. Maybe wondering if he should say something. Or waiting for me to stop him.

I didn’t.

I refused.

Because if I said anything now, it would undo me.

And he didn’t deserve that.

Click.

The window slid closed again, softer than it opened. Gently. Carefully. He didn’t slam it. He didn’t try to be dramatic.

And this time, he didn’t take anything with him. Not the blood-stained gauze. Not the shredded gloves or the cracked mask still lying on my floor like a discarded lie. He didn’t even grab his hoodie or the spare web cartridges I’d noticed fall out of his pocket when I dragged him in.

My chest rose and fell in sharp, shallow waves. I pressed my hand to my mouth as a shaky breath slipped out.

He was gone.

He was really gone.

And somehow… it didn’t feel like relief. It felt like something else. Like an exit wound that wouldn’t stop bleeding.

The room was quiet again.

I rolled onto my back, blinking at the ceiling. The city sounds returned through the window he’d left from distant tires, a train groaning far away, someone yelling on a rooftop two buildings over. Normal things.

Everyday life.

But nothing about tonight had been everyday.

I turned my head and stared at the space where he’d laid just minutes before.

Along with his mask.

It sat on the floor a few feet away, crumpled and stained with sweat and blood. Torn along the jaw where I’d ripped it off. I couldn’t stop looking at it. As if the longer I stared, the more it would start to mean something different.

But it didn’t.

It just looked like betrayal.

Everything he’d been hiding behind. Everything I’d been honest with. Every part of myself I’d handed over without knowing who was beneath it.

I hated that I had loved Spiderman. And I hated that it had always been Peter.

I dozed in and out, mind drifting like the flicker of a broken streetlamp...never fully off, never fully on. I saw pieces of him in every shadow. Heard the rasp of his voice every time the floor creaked. And when I dreamed, I dreamed of red and blue fabric, unraveling in my hands like threadbare promises.

When I finally sat up, the sun hadn’t even breached the horizon. The sky outside was a dusky gray, the color of bruised clouds right before a storm. My mouth was dry. My legs heavy. But I couldn’t stay in bed.

Not with all of it still clinging to the walls.

I threw off the blanket and swung my legs over the edge of the bed, only to stumble forward as my foot caught on something near the floor.

My shin knocked against it hard. “Ow! what the hell?”

I rubbed the spot and looked down.

A box.

Wrapped in Christmas paper.

I blinked.

It was a clean, glossy red and white print sleighs and reindeer, pine trees and gold stars. A little crumpled from where I’d tripped, but otherwise still folded. The edges were too precise to be accidental. Tucked corners. Sharp tape lines. Someone had taken their time with it.

There was no tag. No name.

Just… the box.

I stared at it for a second. Confused. Christmas was months ago. And no one had given me anything wrapped like this. Definitely not Peter.

I sat down slowly, legs crossed under me, the lamp still off. The morning light was enough just enough to trace my fingers along the edges, like I expected it to vanish if I touched it too hard.

My heart picked up. I turned on the lamp.

Then, slowly, carefully, I peeled back the tape.

It wasn’t loud, but it felt loud in the quiet. Every rip echoed in my chest.

When I lifted the lid off the box, my breath caught.

Inside, resting on a nest of old newspaper, was a skateboard.

But not just any skateboard.

It was my skateboard.

Or, at least, the exact one I’d lost the night I first met Spiderman.

Oscorp Limited Edition. Matte black finish. Neon green logo across the bottom. The wheels were still scuffed in the same spots I remembered from the sidewalk crack outside the bodega where I bailed that one time. Even the little sticker I’d put on the underside, a stupid holographic frog wearing sunglasses, was still there.

I stared.

My mouth opened slowly, but no words came out.

My chest ached. It had been found.

Kept. Cared for.

I traced my fingers over the deck. The feel of it was familiar. It still held a faint scratch down the side from the time I tried to bomb that hill on 8th and barely escaped with my kneecaps intact.

I didn’t know what to feel.

A laugh slipped out. Barely a breath. Tired. Crooked.

“Christmas in May,” I muttered.

And it hit me then, this was why he came here.

Not just for a place to heal. Not just because he didn’t know where else to go.

He had planned this.

He had brought it with him. Maybe not sure if I’d ever see it. Maybe hoping I would. Maybe it was some last ditch gesture he couldn’t bear to say out loud. Maybe he thought this would make it better.

It didn’t.

But God, it hurt in a different way.

Because despite everything, he’d remembered.

He had kept it.

Some part of him had held on to a piece of me even when I couldn’t do the same for him.

I set the skateboard down slowly, gently, like it was something fragile. Then I sat back on my heels, staring at it. Wondering how someone who had lied to me so completely could still be capable of something so impossibly kind.

I sat in silence, the weight of the skateboard warm against my thighs, like it belonged there. Like it had never been gone at all.

The wrapping paper lay scattered around me, torn at the edges, wrinkled like it had been carried in a backpack for weeks. Maybe it had. The box was dented on one side, like he’d dropped it once and debated whether or not to keep going.

Of course he had.

That was Peter. Always second-guessing. Always stumbling toward what he thought was the right thing, even if it came too late.

I brushed my fingers over the tail of the board, sighing softly, when something caught my eye.

A small piece of tape.

I leaned forward and peeled it back from the inside lid of the box. Folded neatly beneath it, almost invisible unless you were looking for it, was a small square of notebook paper. Lined. Torn from the middle of a page.

My name wasn’t on it.

My fingers trembled slightly as I unfolded it.

The handwriting was unmistakable, sharp and cramped and a little uneven, like he was always writing in a rush. Probably because he was.

I read slowly.

Hey,

Sorry for missing a few days of walking you home. Was busy saving the world.

You know how it is.

Anyway…

I remembered how upset you were when you lost this. Figured maybe you’d want it back. Or maybe you’d throw it at me. Either way, worth the risk.

Also, I was wondering if you’d want to go to lunch sometime. I know a cool place a few miles from your diner. Best sandwiches in Queens. Outdoor seating.

Just… think about it, okay?

From,

Your Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man.

I sat there, the note trembling slightly in my hands.

A laugh caught in my throat, wet and sharp and stupid.

He was such an idiot.

An idiot who remembered my favorite skateboard. Who taped a note to the inside of a box like it was a middle school locker. Who had the nerve to make me feel something again after everything.

And despite everything in me screaming that it wasn’t fair, that it wasn’t enough.

Part of me smiled.

Just a little.

DIVIDER BY: @bernardsbendystraws

Tag List: @bartxnhood @k-pevensie28 @derangedangel @personalfavsthatarerandom @thegirlinthemaroonsweater

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valentiyne · 2 months ago

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Just an FYI, I write for Marvel & DC so leave some requests in my inbox!

I'm currently working on a few Bucky Barnes, Amazing Spiderman, & Jason Todd. Be sure to review my rules before submitting a request ❤️

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valentiyne · 2 months ago

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god given solace | bucky barnes

bucky barnes x fem!reader

summary: in which bucky realizes just how in love he is with you.

w/c: 1k

a/n: hey guys!! i know you must get tired of me saying the same thing lol but i decided to write again. i have been sooo busy these past few months. trying to navigate adult life with graduation and my new job, plus i had a surgery that knocked me off my feet but i have been ITCHING to write. so, even though this is small, i hope you all enjoy!!!

✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵

bucky never knew he could love until he met you. all of those sleepless nights, begging, praying to any gods out there just to make them stop. he just wanted peace, no more war, no hydra, no night terrors, and no more fighting.

he wasn’t aware that love is what he so desperately needed. someone to soothe those nightmares, to hold him close and hush him during the worst moments of his life.

but, bucky was convinced he was not capable of being loved. because, who in their right mind would love someone as tortured and damaged as him?

after all, that’s what he was. damaged goods.

but you? god, you were the purest things he had ever seen. you were like an angel that came before him, cascading in white light and warmth every time your gaze lingers on the super soldier.

even now, watching you from the doorway of your shared balcony, bucky finds himself unable to take his eyes off your frame. sometimes, he felt pathetic for the life he harbored for you. trapped in the memory of your first encounter.

relishing in the memories that he looked back on so fondly.

you, the angel, being the only person who could see through bucky. through the “i’m fine” and the “don’t worries” he’d spill, you never put up with his lies.

“you can’t fool me, barnes” you’d say while wrapping your arms around his midsection. bucky sighed as he rubbed his temples, “i know..” there was absolutely no fooling you.

“you can tell me anything, buck..” you pressed a kiss on his shoulder, just above where the metal began.

“does it hurt?”

bucky shakes his head, “no, not right now.”

he’d find himself leaning against the glass door, his eyes trained on your figure as you lean against the metal railing. the skyline of brooklyn in the distance, the moonlight shining on your skin, which only convinced him further into believing you were some sort of angel that was meant for him.

you could do no wrong in his eyes, you could commit a thousand crimes and bucky would still look at you like you hung the moon and stars for him. still, in the end, he felt satisfied knowing that you were his. his to shower with affection, to whisper sweet words in the middle of the night as your bodies lie tangled beneath the sheets of the dark bedroom. not even death could pry you from him.

in the beginning, he tried his hardest not to succumb to his feelings for you. he didn’t want to get attached because attachments always lead to heartbreak, and bucky didn’t know if he could handle another heartbreak.

but you were incredibly persistent, and ultimately it worked.

“i love you..” the words would spill from his lips like honey; the words came so naturally for him, easy as breathing.

the worst left a sweet taste in his mouth.

you turn on your heels just as those words left his lips.

“what?” you laugh, not at him though, but because it was random and very rarely did he. not that he doesn’t love you, but because he doesn’t want the words to lose their meaning.

“i love you,” he repeats as he walks towards you. his hand finds home on your lower back, his fingertips memorizing the texture of your skin that peeked from your sleep shirt.

you smile, hands coming to rest on both of his forearms, and for just a moment, bucky swore he could feel the warmth of your touch against his bionic arm. if he closed his eyes, he could picture it.

“i love you too, james.” you called him every nickname in the book, but sometimes it felt better calling him by his real name. especially in an intimate moment like this.

your brows furrow, his fingers digging into your skin like he’s afraid you’ll slip from his grip. like you’re a figment of his imagination. “what’s wrong..?” you inquire, hands moving from his arms to the base of his neck. fingers entangling with his hair.

bucky shakes his head, “nothing, i just..i just love you s’all”.

you smile, looking into his baby blues that held so much affection when looking at you. like you were the only thing in the universe.

he loved spending his time with you, being in your presence, wrapping his arms around you, and finding peace. no nightmares, no flashbacks, no regrets, just you. just your soothing voice, the stillness of your breathing as you lie next to him. he was so in love with you.

“you are so..beautiful..” bucky found it hard to find a word to describe you. you weren’t just beautiful, you were so much more. you carried this gentleness about you that made him feel at home. home. you were his home.

a smile spreads on your face, a quiet giggle stuck in your throat as you watch his eyes rake over your figure. “bucky..”

“m’serious,” he mumbles. he pulls you closer against his frame, his lips pressing fleeting kisses just below your earlobe.

“you sure you’re okay?” you ask again, your hands still resting at the base of his neck.

“mhm,” he’s still pressing kisses to your flesh, relishing in your signature scent. a gentle reminder that you’re real.

“buck,” your words cut him off, hands finding either side of his face. “cmon..what’s goin on?”

“i don’t say it enough.” he was reluctant to pull away, but he was looking in your eyes again. his hands moved from your lower back to your waist, now. thumbs massaging circles absentmindedly.

you press your lips into a thin smile, tilting your head to the side while your fingers push some hair from his eyes. “oh..bucky..”

“no,” he shakes his head.

“you are my god given solace, y/n. you know that?”

you’re a bit taken aback by his sudden words, your hands pausing their movements. “what?”

“i know it hasn’t been easy to love me, but you’ve been there for me” he’s rambling now, wanting to get his words out while he still has it on his mind. “you’ve shown me love, doll” he presses a kiss to the top of your head, letting it linger for a moment.

“you saved me.”

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valentiyne · 2 months ago

Text

𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗌 ꕥ 𝖺𝗌𝗁𝗍𝗈𝗇 𝗂𝗋𝗐𝗂𝗇

Summary: Inspired by "Back to Friends" by Sombr (Ironic, sorry...)

Warnings: Implications of sexual content, swearing & angst of course!

Word count: 7.6k

THE lights on the set were a little too bright for how early it was.

I stood off to the side of the studio, arms crossed loosely over my chest, trying to look like I belonged there..like I wasn’t holding my breath with every question the interviewer threw at the band.

The boys looked good, comfortable on the cushioned couch, joking with each other and flashing smiles that had probably been trained into muscle memory by now.

Luke sat at the far left, one long leg crossed over the other, and Calum, with a baseball cap tugged low, was already laughing at something Michael had said. Ashton sat closest to the interviewer, his fingers drumming lightly on his knee, a faint shadow of stubble along his jawline.

It had been months since I’d seen him in person like this.

“Let’s talk about the new record, Youngblood,” the host said, shuffling her cards. “It’s been called your most vulnerable album yet. A lot of songs that sound like breakups, heartache, holding onto something that’s already slipping…”

Luke nodded. “It’s definitely more personal. We weren’t trying to write a breakup album. But I think we had to get a lot of stuff off our chests.”

My stomach twisted. I already knew what was coming.

The host turned to Ashton, a glint in her eye. “Ashton, you co-wrote most of the tracks, including ‘Lie to Me’ and ‘Why Won’t You Love Me,’ which fans think are heartbreak anthems. Were those songs about anyone in particular?”

He let out a small laugh, the kind that was meant to disarm. “I think every song’s about someone. But… you know, it’s not always that straightforward.”

The host leaned forward. “So are you single now, or…?”

Ashton blinked, caught off guard for the smallest second before his lips quirked into a half-smile. “It’s… complicated.”

A beat. The silence behind the camera buzzed in my ears.

“Oh?” she pressed, clearly thrilled. “Because this photo has been circulating. Want to tell us a little about this?”

She held up a tablet, the screen turned toward the camera, and toward me.

The image was a candid. Ashton and I in a park, laughing about something, his hand on my cheek, forehead pressed to mine like he was telling me a secret. I remembered that day. It was the last day things felt easy between us. Before the fights. Before the distance. Before the silence.

I didn’t realize I’d moved until I felt my shoulder bump a light stand. I straightened immediately, pretending like I’d only shifted weight, but Ashton saw. His eyes flicked toward me, then back to the screen.

The smile he gave was tight.

“That was a while ago,” he said.

The host grinned. “Still look pretty cozy.”

He didn’t respond, just nodded once, gaze fixed on the coffee table in front of him like it suddenly held every answer he couldn’t say out loud. Calum quickly picked up the awkwardness, deflecting the host by talking about some picture of him that was leaked a few years back.

I slipped out of the studio quietly.

I sat outside the green room, sipping on my burning hot coffee that tasted like cardboard and waiting for the adrenaline to wear off. My phone buzzed in my lap. My bestfriend Alyssa.

Lys: Saw the clip... Yikes girl. You ok?

I stared at the screen but didn’t type anything. What was I supposed to say? That I felt like my ribs had been rearranged hearing him say, “It’s complicated”? That I still hadn’t figured out how to stop missing him when I knew damn well I had no right to?

The door creaked behind me. I didn’t need to look to know it was him. I recognized the soft shuffle of his boots and the way the air seemed to tense just before he spoke.

“You alright?”

I nodded, still staring ahead. My phone gripped tightly in my hand.

He stepped around to face me, and I finally looked up.

Ashton. Taller than I remembered. Or maybe I just felt smaller now. His curls were longer, pushed back beneath a beanie, and his arms crossed loosely over his chest like he was guarding something fragile.

“You didn’t have to come today,” he said quietly.

“I was invited by the label."

He nodded, kicking at the floor with his boot. “You saw the picture?”

I laughed, but it came out more like a scoff. “Kind of hard to miss.”

He sat down on the bench beside me, careful to keep some space. Not too much. Just enough to feel like old ghosts were sitting between us.

“I didn’t know she was gonna do that.”

“I figured.” I sipped my coffee, felt the burn on my tongue.

“You’ve been okay?”

That question. The one people ask when they already know the answer. When they’re hoping you’ll lie so they don’t have to feel worse than they already do.

I set the cup down.

“I’ve been around. And I’ve been mad at you, Ashton.”

His eyes met mine then, sharp and unblinking. “I know.”

“I’m mad because you walked away like I was supposed to just understand. Like what we had wasn’t worth a conversation. Like I didn’t deserve an explanation.”

He took a breath, then another. “You’re right.”

I wasn’t expecting that.

“I didn’t handle it well,” he continued. “The band was changing. Everything felt like it was cracking under me. And I didn’t want to drag you through all of it. But leaving the way I did… I still think about it.”

“You should.”

Silence stretched between us.

He looked down at his hands. “I wrote about you, you know.”

I blinked. “Which one?”

“‘Ghost of You.’” A pause. “And a few others.”

That one hurt. I swallowed hard. I had heard it the exact day the album came out, in a grocery store somewhere in Maine. I dropped my grocery basket and made a beeline to my car before the tears started. I felt sick to my stomach.

“It’s weird,” I said, voice quieter now. “Hearing yourself in a song that millions of people scream every night.”

He gave me a small, sad smile. “I didn’t think anyone would know it was about you.”

I looked at him. “I did.”

I don’t know why I said it.

Maybe it was the heaviness in the air, or the way Ashton was sitting beside me like gravity itself had finally gotten tired of holding us apart. Maybe it was the way his voice cracked when he said he wrote songs about me. Or maybe it was just the truth, clawing its way to the surface after all this time.

“You remember that night?” I asked, not looking at him.

He didn’t ask which one. He didn’t need to.

A muscle twitched in his jaw, and he nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

I blinked hard, trying to focus on anything other than the pounding in my chest. But memory is a cruel thing, it doesn’t ask permission before showing up.

It was a Wednesday. The kind of evening that hung low in the sky, thick with leftover summer heat and the scent of asphalt still drying from a quick storm. I’d stopped by Ashton’s place under the flimsiest of excuses, he’d left a hoodie in my car, and I didn’t want it “cluttering my backseat.”

Really, I just missed him. Missed the way his voice softened when he was tired, the way he made silence feel like it had shape. We hadn’t defined whatever it was we were doing. I wasn’t sure if we were allowed to.

But that night, something was different. His eyes were rimmed in red like he hadn’t slept, and he looked at me like I was the only thing in the world not slipping through his fingers.

“Stay,” he said, his voice hoarse. Just one word.

And I did.

The music playing in the background was low and fuzzy, some lo-fi record spinning on vinyl like it was melting into the walls. We sat on his couch for hours, our knees brushing, words trailing off mid-sentence. I remember the feel of his hand grazing mine as he handed me a glass of water, hesitant at first, then certain. I remember how quiet his apartment felt, like it was holding its breath right alongside us.

And when he kissed me… God, it wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t heat or urgency or recklessness. It was reverent.

He kissed me like he needed to memorize the exact way my lips fit against his, like he already knew he wouldn’t get to do it again.

It was wrong. We were crossing the line of professionalism; I was one of the band's producer for christ sake. But we lost all signs of professionalism, along with my morals.

We didn’t talk much after that. Just let the night pull us under. Shirts came off. Fingers fumbled. But there was nothing clumsy about it. It felt like falling asleep in the middle of a storm, terrifying and safe all at once.

His body was warm, his touch careful. He ran his thumb over my cheekbone as he moved deep inside me, his mouth pressed to my collarbone like a prayer. I remember the way his breath hitched, the way he whispered...

“I love you.”

It was so soft I almost missed it. But I heard it. Clear as anything. The words spilled from his lips like they��d been waiting in his mouth for weeks.

And for a moment, I let myself believe we’d crossed some invisible line. That things would change. That maybe, finally, we were choosing each other. I didn't say it back, afraid that it would change things for good.

But when it was over, when the sweat was drying on our skin and the room had gone still again, Ashton pulled away.

Not gently. Not cruelly. Just… deliberately.

He climbed out of bed like it was on fire. His back was to me as he reached for his jeans on the floor, yanking them up in a practiced motion.

My heart was still fluttering in my chest, stupid and soft.

He ran a hand through his curls and let out a breath like he was about to dive into deep water. “You can’t tell anyone what we did.”

The words landed like a slap.

I sat up slowly, the sheet clinging to my chest. “What?”

He didn’t turn around. He tugged on his shirt. “I’m serious.”

I laughed, sharp, bitter. “Are you kidding?”

“It’s not a good time,” he said, finally facing me. “The album. Press. Management already thinks I’m distracted. If they knew..."

I cut him off, heart thudding in my throat. “If they knew you slept with me? If they knew you cared about someone?”

His eyes flashed with guilt. “It’s not like that.”

“Then what is it, Ashton?” I stood now too, my voice rising with every word. “Because it sure as hell felt like it meant something five minutes ago.”

“It did,” he said, too fast.

“Then why are you acting like I’m a mistake?”

He flinched. “I’m not. I just… I can’t have people knowing right now. Everything is too unstable. I’m trying to protect-"

“Protect who?” I snapped. “Me? Or yourself?”

Silence.

That was the last night I let him hold me.

And the last night I worked for the band. He had asked me not to come to the next couple meetings; He was worried the boys would be able to read our guilty faces. I took it a step further and walk away from the company as a whole.

“You said you loved me,” I said again, the memory leaving a weight in my chest that hadn’t dulled with time. “And then you told me I had to keep it quiet. Like it was shameful.”

Ashton looked up at me, his expression drawn and hollow. “I did love you. I still...” he broke off, swallowing hard. “I thought I was doing the right thing. That if I could just keep you away from all of it...the noise, the chaos...you’d be better off.”

“But you didn’t keep me away,” I said. “You just made me feel disposable.”

His hands curled into fists at his sides, his voice rough. “I never wanted to hurt you.”

“But you did.”

The tears stung before I even felt them fall. “I would’ve stood by you, Ashton. If you’d asked. If you’d just told me the truth. But instead, you made me carry it alone.”

He stepped forward, slow, like he was afraid I’d bolt. “I didn’t know how to choose you without losing everything else.”

I met his eyes, my voice trembling. “That's not fair.. why are you telling me this now?”

“Because I’ve spent the last year writing about you,” he said, voice breaking. “Touring the world with your name buried in every goddamn lyric. And I can’t keep pretending like that’s enough.”

I exhaled shakily, hating how badly I still wanted to reach for him. “So what now?”

He looked down, then up at me with something like hope flickering behind all the hurt. “Maybe we just talk. Maybe we try to be friends again. Or maybe we finally stop lying about what we are."

“I don’t know how to do either of those things.”

“Then let’s figure it out. Together. If you’ll let me.”

I didn’t answer right away.

Because love was never the hard part with Ashton.

It was what came after.

The silence between us lingered like smoke, curling into the air even though neither of us dared speak. Ashton’s words still hung in the space between us: honest, heavy, bleeding. And mine, still burning on my tongue, tasted like regret and something too close to longing.

But I didn’t have time to decide what any of it meant.

Because the door swung open.

“Mate, we’ve been looking for-" Calum’s voice cut off mid-sentence as he stepped into the hallway, Luke just a step behind him. Both of them froze when their eyes landed on me.

Luke blinked like he wasn’t sure I was real. Calum’s eyebrows shot up, and a slow grin spread across his face.

“No way,” Calum said, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “No way. Is that really you?”

I swallowed hard and took a quick step away from Ashton, who immediately straightened like he hadn’t just been standing inches from me with his heart on the floor.

I tried to smile, but it came out uneven. “Hey.”

“Holy shit,” Luke laughed, stepping forward, arms out. “It’s been forever. Y/n... You... look...different. Good. Better than last time we saw you.”

I let him hug me. He smelled like cologne and faint sweat, his embrace warm and familiar in a way that made something in my chest ache. Calum was next, wrapping an arm around my shoulder like it hadn’t been over a year since we last spoke.

Michael stood against the doorway, a bag of chips in one hand as he scrolled on his phone with the other. I didn't expect a welcoming hug from him. After all, Ashton clung to him once we parted ways.

“Didn’t know you were here,” he said, voice warm. “You working with the label again or just visiting?”

My gaze flicked to Ashton before I could stop myself. “Just visiting.”

Calum noticed. His eyes darted between us, subtle, but sharp. He didn’t say anything, just tilted his head slightly like he was clocking the space, the tension.

Luke, blissfully unaware, looked between us all with a grin. “You guys catch up already? Should we give you a minute?”

“No, we’re good,” I said quickly, backing toward the wall, away from Ashton’s reach, away from the truth. “We are done catching up."

Ashton cleared his throat behind me, that guarded look sliding over his face like armor. “They were about to reset the stage, weren’t they?”

“Yeah,” Luke said. “They want us back in the green room to talk over post-show plans.”

Calum gave Ashton one last glance, a quiet flicker of question in his eyes. Ashton ignored it.

“I’ll be right there,” he said.

The boys nodded and started back down the hallway, Luke tossing one last grin over his shoulder at me. “It’s good to see you. Don’t disappear to Maine this time.”

When the door swung shut behind them, the silence returned, sharper now.

I turned my back on Ashton and busied myself with pretending to check my phone. My hands trembled slightly, so I locked the screen just to keep them still.

“You don’t have to pretend,” Ashton said behind me, his voice softer now, like he was afraid of scaring me off.

I didn’t look at him. “I’m not pretending. I’m just trying not to make things harder than they already are.”

He stepped closer, but not too close. Respecting the boundary. Still… his presence always had a weight to it, like gravity itself bent differently around him.

“You pulled away the second they walked in.”

“Because I didn’t want them to see me falling apart,” I snapped, sharper than I intended.

He didn’t flinch. “You’re not falling apart.”

I finally turned to face him, blinking against the sting in my eyes. “Then why does it feel like I’m barely holding on?”

His expression crumpled, just for a moment. Then he nodded.

"Dont you have a show to be preparing for." It came out harsher than I intended, but maybe I was just being irrational and wanted to be alone.

“I’ll give you space,” he said calmly, turning to walk away.

I waited until he was a far enough distance before finally saying the words I buried for months.

“How can you just go back to being friends with me?”

I wasn’t even sure he’d hear me. But he stopped, his boots stopped thudding down the hallway.

Ashton froze. His shoulders tensed beneath the soft fabric of his flannel, and for a second, he just stood there, back turned, like he was deciding whether to keep walking or come back.

He turned slowly, his expression unreadable.

“We slept together, Ashton.” I said loudly, my voice almost echoing.

He flinches, looking around embarrassed. The words sliced through the stillness like a blade.

He blinked, once, as if trying to process the way my voice shook. Like he wasn’t expecting me to say it out loud. Maybe he thought I’d keep pretending with him, keep tiptoeing around the past we never really buried.

“We slept together,” I repeated, quieter now. “You told me you loved me. And now you want to talk like none of it happened?”

He looked wrecked. Not in a loud or obvious way, but in that quiet, soul-deep kind of grief. The kind people carry when they know they did the thing they swore they never would.

His lips parted, ready to answer, something, anything...but the moment shattered.

“Yo, Ash!” Luke’s voice called down the hallway, upbeat and completely unaware. “They need us back for post-roll. You comin’?”

Ashton’s head dropped just slightly. Like he didn’t want to turn away from me. But he also didn’t know how to stay.

His eyes met mine, and for a heartbeat, everything in them was wide open. Regret. Longing. Fear. The echo of every version of us that could’ve been.

Then the wall went back up.

He took a slow step back toward the direction of the stage, toward the voices calling his name.

“I’ll call you,” he said softly, almost like a promise.

I stayed behind, still trying to catch my breath, wishing it didn’t feel like I was drowning in everything I didn’t say.

Later that night, I lie on my bed in the dim glow of my bedside lamp, staring blankly at the ceiling. Shadows play along the plaster, and every quiet hum of the city outside echoes like memories of what once was.

My mind drifts, unbidden, back to a night in the studio a year before, when Youngblood was nothing more than a dream taking shape in the boys' whispered ideas. Before Ashton and I slept together.

The air in the studio was thick with creative energy and the scent of coffee that barely masked the underlying buzz of fretless guitars and beat-up drumkits. I still remember how the soft hum of amplifiers and the clatter of instruments mingled with our laughter...raw and unguarded. Ashton and the boys had gathered in that familiar space, each of us desperate to carve out something real in the chaos of sounds and scattered ideas.

I sat on an old, battered couch that creaked under every shift of my weight, when Ashton and I ended up side by side. Our legs tangled together without us even noticing at first, a fleeting, gentle contact that felt like an apology, or perhaps a confession, of what was unspoken between us. In that moment, our barrier cracked.

Ashton leaned closer, his voice soft despite the hum of the mixing desk behind us. “What if we…” he began, a lopsided smile tugging at the corners of his lips, his eyes bright with something like hope and fear combined. We’d been bouncing ideas off each other all night, weaving lyrics that hovered between heartbreak and redemption. Every word felt laced with meaning, our very souls pressed into the shared creation.

I could still feel the warmth of his skin against mine, the subtle brush of his hand near my knee as we scribbled down lyric ideas on a notepad. We sat so intimately that it felt as if the entire world had slowed down, leaving just the two of us cocooned in our creative bubble. Our whispered suggestions and half-finished verses spilled out in a conspiratorial murmur, blending with the distant howls of guitars strumming in tune with our hearts.

But creativity, like love, has its moments of fragility. Before long, the energy in the room shifted. The rest of the band: Luke, Calum, and Michael, were growing restless. Frustration began to tinge their words as they circled back to discuss redoing a riff or tossing around changes that clashed with our mood. Voices were raised, and the tight focus of that intimate session splintered into a disjointed discord of opinion and irritation. There were pizza boxes or half eaten chinese takeout cartons sprawled across the studio, almost reminding me of them when they first started music. A twang of nostalgia shook my bones.

I looked toward Ashton, expecting him to mirror my quiet desperation for a break. And then, almost impulsively, I stood. “I’ll get us some snacks,” I declared, half-laughing at the absurdity of it all, a bout of rebellion against the chaos. “Maybe a little break will help clear our heads.”

Before I knew it, Calum was at my side. “I’m coming with you,” he said immediately, his tone laced with a warmth that reminded me of simpler times, back when being together wasn’t a secret or a puzzle. We left the studio, stepping into the cool night that felt like a balm, like quiet understanding after an exhausting argument.

Outside, under the buzzing fluorescent of a vending machine, Calum and I found a brief reprieve. The machine whirred as it dispensed a packet of chips, the sound oddly soothing against the residual echoes of the studio.

The fluorescent lights of the hallway buzzed faintly overhead, humming like static against the soft rhythm of my sneakers on the scuffed linoleum floor. Calum walked beside me, the hem of his hoodie clutched in one hand, the other buried in his pocket, shoulders slightly hunched in that way he always did when things inside the studio got too tense.

We didn’t say anything at first.

The vending machine buzzed to life as I fed in a crumpled dollar. I pressed a button for chips, something salty and safe. The silence between us settled thickly until Calum finally broke it.

“So,” he said casually, watching the bag drop. “You and Ash. What are you guys?”

I paused, hand still inside the vending slot, fingers curling around the foil packet. “What do you mean?”

"Don't do that.. You know what I mean.”

I glanced away, peeling the bag open, letting the scent of fake cheddar distract me. “We’re friends.”

“Right,” he said, dragging the word out with a tone dipped in disbelief.

I shoved a chip in my mouth. “We are.”

Calum leaned back against the opposite wall, arms crossed over his chest. His voice was softer this time. “Friends don’t look at each other like that.”

I swallowed hard, the crunch of the chip suddenly loud in my ears.

He didn’t stop. “Friends don’t sleep in each other’s beds after long sessions. Or disappear for hours at a time. Or walk around with that look on their face like they’ve got something sacred no one else is allowed to touch.”

I let out a breathy laugh, but it came out thin and strained. “You’re being dramatic.”

He didn’t laugh with me.

“You’re lying to yourself,” he said, voice low and careful, not judgmental, not cruel. Just… honest.

I turned my back to him, suddenly fascinated with the vending machine’s warped glass. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

“You sure about that?” he asked quietly.

Before I could answer, something caught my eye. My reflection overlapped with the view behind the glass, and there, through the wide window into the studio, was Ashton.

He was staring at us.

One hand rested against the neck of Luke's guitar, the other holding a pen loosely by his side. His head was tilted just slightly, eyes fixed on me and Calum like he hadn’t even noticed the boys talking around him. Like he’d forgotten the whole damn world.

The second our eyes met, he blinked and looked away, too fast. Like he’d been caught in a moment he hadn’t meant to be in.

I felt my stomach flip.

Calum followed my gaze, and something unreadable passed over his face. He didn’t say anything else. Just pushed himself off the wall and grabbed a granola bar from the machine, quiet again.

We didn’t speak as we walked back to the studio.

But I carried the weight of that look Ashton gave me all the way to the door.

The hum of my bedroom was all static and silence.

I’d been lying on top of my covers for over an hour, the overhead light off, the bedside lamp dimmed to a warm flicker. Outside, the city buzzed faintly through the cracked window, a distant rhythm that felt detached from everything inside me.

And then… it buzzed.

My phone, where it sat face down on my chest, lit up with a name I’d told myself I wouldn’t wait for.

Ashton xx

My breath caught and I fumbled around my sheets, trying to break my hand free.

I stared at the glowing screen like it was a question I didn’t know how to answer. The phone vibrated gently against my sternum, pulsing with every ring, and I counted to four before picking it up. Not because I needed the time to decide.

But because I didn’t want to seem too eager.

“Hello?” I answered, careful to keep my tone flat, casual. Like I wasn’t replaying every word we’d said earlier in the hallway. Like I hadn’t just been staring at the ceiling reliving that night in the studio with Calum. With him.

Ashton’s voice came through soft, a little hesitant. “Hey.”

I could hear the rustle of movement in the background, like he was walking somewhere, maybe pacing, maybe outside.

“I hope it’s not too late,” he added quickly. “I just got out of a meeting and- Look I just… wanted to talk.” I glance at the clock that I just so happen lost track of, and notice it was ten after midnight.

“It’s fine,” I said, shifting slightly on the bed, letting my voice dip into something nonchalant. “I wasn’t really doing anything.”

A beat of silence.

“Were you gonna call if I didn’t?” I asked, one eyebrow quirking like he could see me through the line. I meant it as a tease, but there was a sharpness under it I couldn’t quite dull.

He hesitated. “Yeah. I told you I would.”

“You tell me a lot of things.”

That landed heavier than I intended.

On the other end of the line, Ashton went quiet again. Not defensive. Just… still.

“I’m not trying to mess with your head,” he said eventually. “I know I’ve done enough of that already.”

“You’re not,” I said softly. “I just… don’t know what this is. Or what it’s supposed to be.”

“Neither do I,” he admitted. “But it doesn’t feel like it should be nothing.”

I looked up at the ceiling again, phone pressed to my ear, fingers curled into my blanket. The memory of his stare through the studio window still lingered like a fingerprint on glass.

“I’ve tried so hard to pretend it didn’t matter,” I whispered.

“I know,” he said. “Me too.”

We were both quiet again, breathing into the same fragile space.

Ashton exhales into the receiver. “I’d rather… I’d rather do this in person.”

There’s a pause. A long one.

“I mean, we’re talking now,” I say, pretending to keep it casual. “Might as well rip the Band-Aid off, right?”

“No,” he says, and it’s not unkind, it’s just quiet. Final. “Not like this.

I hesitate, biting my lip. “Okay, then… when?”

He’s silent again for a beat too long, and then his voice comes, careful. “I’ve got that interview with Zach Sang tomorrow. And then there’s the radio taping Wednesday. Thursday we’re flying out to New York for Fallon, and...”

I laugh softly, shaking my head. “Ash. You don’t have time.”

He tries to cut in, but I keep going. “It’s fine. We don’t have to meet in person. I get it. Life goes on. You’re busy, and this, whatever this is, doesn’t fit neatly into a schedule.”

His voice slices through mine, sudden and sharp. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Make this smaller than it is.” His breath catches like he’s holding something back, something too heavy to say all at once. “I owe you more than that.”

My heart squeezes.

I swallow thickly. “You don’t owe me anything, Ashton.”

“I do,” he says, softer now, like it hurts him to say it. “You let me into your world when I didn’t even know who the hell I was. You stood by me while I burned everything down and pretended I was fine. You gave a shit when I didn’t. And then I pushed you out. I can’t make that right over the phone.”

There’s something so raw in his voice I have to close my eyes.

“I want to look you in the eye when I explain,” he adds.

I exhale, long and slow. “Then when? Because every day you just listed is full.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then his voice, low, careful, asks, “Would you come to a show?”

I blink, caught off guard. “What?”

“The first date of the tour. We’re in L.A. next Friday. You could come early, hang out backstage. After the show, we could talk. I’ll make sure no one else is around.”

I hesitate. My mouth opens, but I don’t know what I’m trying to say. The thought of standing in that crowd, watching him on stage again, feels like opening a wound I’ve worked hard to pretend doesn’t exist anymore.

“I don’t know if I’m ready to see that.. Especially debuting the album that's supposedly written all about me,” I whisper.

There’s a pause.

And then he says it, quiet, breathless, like a prayer.

“Please.”

That one word carries everything. All the apologies he hasn’t said. All the weight he’s been carrying. All the nights we never talk about.

My throat tightens.

And even though every part of me is screaming that this could hurt all over again, something softer inside me whispers back.

“Okay.”

The concrete under my feet is cold, even through my boots.

I stand just behind the heavy black curtain, out of view, flanked by techs and crew members adjusting cables and mics and lighting cues like it’s any other night. But it isn’t.

The crowd beyond the curtain is electric.

A sea of voices echo in the stadium, the kind that vibrate in your bones even from backstage. The kind that makes your pulse quicken even when you’re not the one performing. The sound builds in waves: cheering, screaming, chanting, all for them. For him.

I can hear Luke’s low laugh. The clink of a beer bottle. Calum shouting something about his amp. Michael’s voice in response, teasing and loud. The boys are warming up, loose, wild energy spinning between them. It feels like they’ve done this a thousand times, and maybe they have. But to me, right now, it feels like standing on the edge of something I’m not sure I’m ready to fall into again.

I run my palms down my thighs, wiping off the nervous sweat, then clutch the fabric of my jacket tight in my fists. My heart is knocking against my ribs like it’s trying to escape.

Then the lights cut.

The stage goes black and the crowd erupts.

Their names boom over the speakers, and suddenly the boys are running past me, silhouettes lit by strobes, instruments in hand and grins plastered to their faces. Luke throws a fist in the air. Michael’s already waving to the crowd. Calum flips his pick and catches it midair like muscle memory. Ashton is the last to pass, and for a brief second, our eyes meet in the dark.

Just one look.

But it roots me to the floor.

He disappears onto the stage, swallowed by the roar of a crowd that’s already in love with them.

The lights explode into color. Music crashes into life.

They open with an older track, one the fans scream every word to, their voices rising above the speakers. I step closer to the curtain, peeking through the gap. The boys are lit up in gold and white and deep purple, the kind of lighting that makes them look bigger than life. Calum’s bass thrums in my chest. Luke’s voice is rich and effortless, slicing through the stadium. Michael spins toward the mic with a smirk, tossing out a line that makes the entire crowd scream louder.

And Ashton. God.

Ashton is behind the kit, head thrown back, arms sharp and fluid, completely in his element. His hair’s wild, curls clinging to his forehead, sweat already gleaming on his skin. Every movement is controlled chaos. A storm with a rhythm.

They play two more songs before the lights dim again.

Luke steps forward, catching his breath as the audience quiets enough for him to speak.

“Alright,” he says into the mic, grinning. “We’ve got something special for you tonight.”

The crowd screams.

“We’ve been working on this new album for a while now,” he continues. “It’s different. It’s raw. Probably the most honest thing we’ve ever done.”

Calum nods beside him, his smile crooked. “It nearly killed us, but we made it out alive.”

The crowd laughs, shouts, claps.

Luke turns slightly, looking toward Ashton as if silently inviting him forward. Ashton rises from behind the drums, slinging a mic from its stand and stepping up to the front.

My breath catches.

His voice comes low and steady through the mic. “This album… it’s about change. About the people who pull you apart and the ones who quietly put you back together when no one else is looking."

The crowd stills a little. Leaning in.

Ashton’s gaze drifts out across the stadium, but I know he’s not really looking at them. His fingers wrap tightly around the mic.

“It’s about mistakes. Regret. Forgiveness. Second chances.”

He pauses, eyes scanning the crowd, and for the briefest second, they land backstage.

I freeze.

“It’s about someone who meant more to me than I ever really knew how to say,” he continues, his voice softer now. “Until I nearly lost them.”

The crowd is hushed now, the weight of his words pressing through the silence.

“I wrote these songs because I didn’t know how else to say it. So if you’re here tonight...." his voice pauses slightly, but he swallows it down- "this one’s for you.”

The screams return. Louder than ever. But all I can hear is the echo of his voice.

And that word: you.

It hits my chest like a stone in water. Rippling.

The show ends in a flood of noise.

The lights dim with a slow fade, the final notes of the last song still ringing in the air as thousands of voices echo one last cheer into the arena. The kind of sound you feel in your spine. The kind of sound that once made me proud, and now just makes me ache.

Backstage is chaos again. Crew members scramble to tear down equipment, sweaty towels are tossed over shoulders, water bottles are passed around like currency. Everyone’s moving in different directions, hugging, shouting, laughing. High-fives and adrenaline fill the air.

And I’m still standing in the same spot, half-hidden behind a curtain, heart in my throat.

I feel him before I see him.

That warm, unspoken presence like the sun after a long, cold morning.

Walking toward me, his curls damp and stuck to his forehead, his chest rising and falling like he hasn’t quite come down from the high. His black jeans hang low on his hips, and his shirt is gone, tossed somewhere along the way, leaving his skin flushed and glistening under the dim hallway light. A towel is draped around the back of his neck, forgotten.

And God. I hadn’t seen him like this in so long.

That version of him. The one that glowed under stage lights. That burned from the inside out.

My eyes drop to the floor for a second, cheeks flushing hot. I suddenly feel sixteen again, like I’ve wandered into something I shouldn’t be allowed to witness.

He slows when he sees me, something softer taking over the adrenaline in his expression. Nervous now. Or maybe shy.

We just stare at each other for a second, the space between us filled with the ghosts of every unsaid thing.

“You stayed,” he says, voice low and a little breathless.

I nod. “I said I would.”

He smiles faintly, stepping closer. Close enough that I can see the way his fingers twitch slightly at his sides, like he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to touch me.

“I didn’t know if you’d make it to the end,” he admits.

I shrug, trying to stay casual, but my voice is soft. “I almost didn’t.”

His smile fades just a little. “Was it too much?”

“No.” I shake my head. “It was… a lot. But not too much.”

He exhales, the tension in his shoulders loosening a little.

“Can I just say,” he adds, wiping a bit of sweat from his temple with the towel, “you look good. Different, but… good.”

I laugh quietly, looking down at my hands. “You’re one to talk. You’re....” I gesture vaguely toward his bare chest, cheeks burning hotter. “You’re kind of… half-naked.”

He grins, finally catching on, and yanks the towel off his neck, swiping it over his chest and shoulders. “Right. Sorry. Force of habit. The shirt kind of… disappears after the second song.”

“You never used to do that,” I tease, glancing up through my lashes.

He shrugs with a sheepish smile. “Guess I didn’t have as much to prove back then.”

I look at him for a long second. “You don’t have anything to prove now.”

His expression softens again, and the air shifts. Slows. The noise around us fades to a low hum, distant.

“I meant what I said,” he tells me quietly. “About the album. About you.”

I nod slowly, throat tight. “I know.”

“I didn’t write it to get you back. I wrote it because I didn’t know how else to carry it anymore.”

We’re quiet again. Not awkward. Just… suspended in something fragile.

His voice is quieter now. “Do you wanna come with me? Just for a bit. Somewhere we can actually talk?”

I hesitate.

Not because I don’t want to.

But because I don’t know what talking might do to me tonight.

Still, I find myself nodding.

“Yeah,” I whisper. “Okay.”

And as Ashton leads me through the backstage hallway, hand barely brushing mine like he’s afraid of asking too much too soon, I realize something.

He didn't tell the boys I was coming.

The dressing room is small and dimly lit , just a single bulb above the mirror and the muted glow of streetlights filtering in through the window slats. The hum of the city beyond the arena is a dull ache against the silence inside, like the world knows to stay quiet for us tonight.

I sit on the edge of the couch, elbows on my knees, fingers twisting the hem of my sleeve.

Ashton paces the room for a few moments, still wound up, still caught somewhere between the stage and here. His chest rises and falls with leftover adrenaline, his curls sticking to the back of his neck, the towel now forgotten on the floor.

Finally, he sinks onto the couch beside me, body warm and buzzing with life. Neither of us speak right away.

Then I notice his hands.

Red. Raw. Split open just at the curve of his knuckles , the brutal, familiar aftermath of playing too hard. Of giving too much of himself to the drums. To the crowd. To the songs that bled out of him.

“You’re bleeding,” I murmur, barely above a whisper.

He looks down at his hands, almost like he hadn’t realized. “Yeah. Happens sometimes when I forget how to hold back.”

I reach for him before I can think twice, my fingers brushing over his, careful. Gentle. There’s a faint tremble beneath his skin, not from pain, but from me. From this.

He watches me as I graze a thumb over his palm. There’s something unspoken caught in his throat. His eyes, tired and open, hold that familiar storm I’ve seen before, but now it’s quieted. Honest.

“I don’t want this to go away again,” he says suddenly.

My hand stills in his.

He swallows. “Whatever this is between us… I can’t lose it again. I’ve tried pretending it didn’t matter. I’ve tried burying it in songs and cities and shows, and it doesn’t work. You leave holes in my heart when you’re gone.”

The words hang there between us: raw and vulnerable and unpolished.

“I don’t know what I am to you,” he continues, his voice cracking. “A mistake. A memory. A ghost. But I know what you are to me. You’re the part I never got over. The one that still shows up in every verse I write. And I don’t want to write around you anymore.”

I don’t speak.

I just slide my hand fully into his, fingers threading between the torn skin and callouses and everything he’s carried alone for too long.

And I squeeze.

He breathes out like he’s been holding it for months.

“I don’t know what this is either,” I whisper finally. “But I’m tired of pretending it didn’t happen. And I’m tired of wondering if you still think about me.”

He lifts my hand and presses it to his lips, eyes closed.

“I never stopped.”

We sit like that for a long time. The sound of the city humming through the window. His heartbeat steady under my palm. My thumb gently tracing the edges of his broken skin.

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valentiyne · 10 months ago

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𝖳𝖧𝖤 𝖢𝖠𝖲𝖳 𝖮𝖥 𝖬𝖨𝖣𝖭𝖨𝖦𝖧𝖳

(𝖡𝖮𝖷𝖤𝖱!5𝖲𝖮𝖲 𝖠𝖴)

FIND MIDNIGHT HERE

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valentiyne · 10 months ago

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monthly updated masterlist of Midnight for my friends & followers :)

MIDNIGHT ❀ MASTERLIST

-boxer!luke hemmings

-enemies to lovers

MIDNIGHT TRAILER *start here*

MIDNIGHT CHARACTER INTRO *faceclaims*

PROLOGUE - THE BEGINNING

AUTHOR'S NOTE - INTRO

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN *

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

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valentiyne · 10 months ago

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𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖽𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾𝖽 ✘ 𝗍𝖺𝗌𝗆!𝗉𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗄𝖾𝗋

TASM!Peter Parker x Fem!Reader

Summary: Uncovering the truth about your little affair with Spiderman to your obvious friend Peter. What could go wrong? (Let me know if I should do a part two!)

Warnings: Mild cursing & Peter being a dork

Word Count: 1.5k (not proofread)

Peter Parker stuck to himself for a majority of his time at Empire State High. I met him in middle school but we didn't meet up until eighth grade, and when I was stuck next to him in Chemistry- I knew we'd be inseparable. He was a nerd, a 4.8 GPA and enrolled in almost every club the counselors would allow.

He was a nerd, but he was also my best friend. My best friend that I hadn't talked to in two years.

The hundredth refilled coffee of the night almost dropped me to my knees. I was beyond exhausted, and it didn't help that my phone was almost dead. It was my fourth double this week, and I knew no amount of Redbulls would keep me going. There were a few stray customers sitting around the counter, reading the daily bugle or staring up at the old television playing a recap of the morning news.

Ben, a man who I've come to learn as a night shift security guard always came in before close. His hair was black with a few stray greys, mid forties with no wife or kids. He ordered a cherry pie with a black coffee and sat in silence until it was time to close.

He left a hefty tip- so I didn't mind.

"How you doing, Cherry." His nickname rolled off his tongue as he reaches down to grab his sweater from the stool. He knew everything about Peter and I, he had been here to see it all.

I shrug, dropping my dirty rag in the sink with a sigh. "I'll be okay."

"You said that two years ago when I first asked you." He teased, earning a small smile from me.

"That's what I like to see," He drops a twenty on the counter and gives a soft wave, letting the bells from the front door do the talking as he left to work.

As I lock the front door, I drop my skateboard to the floor and kick my feet up to head home. The skateboard was a limited edition OSCORP branded drop. Peter had camped out for two days to get it for me before the beginning of sophomore year, and i've treasured it every since. The train left 7 minutes ago, and I knew it would be a good forty minutes before I was home.

My headphones flowed with my hair as I pushed myself faster down the sidewalk. Queen was almost dead this time of night, aside from a few people who roamed the streets- and of course the vigilante the daily bugle has named Spider Man.

I've learned of his existence from a newspaper Ben was reading, his red and blue suit depicting on the front cover. It was something out a movie- a man who flies through the air with webs?

Peter thought it was fascinating, of course he did. He was a boy who thought everything was fascinating- except for me.

It wasn't that big of a deal, he liked Gwen. She was everything I wasn't. She had an internship at Oscorp, she was involved in the community, she was smart- if not smarter than Peter. Thank you Linkedln!

He was head over heels for her. And I was head over heels for him.

As my skateboard glided over the concrete, I felt my phone buzz in my pocket a few times. Slipping it out, I glance down to my screen to see a couple of messages from my roommate.

Just as I went to open the messages, my skateboard halted and I was launched from the board- sideways ankle and chin first into the rough pavement. "Fuck!" I cry out, my shaky hands immediately reaching for my chin. Crimson blood littered my fingers and I groaned obnoxiously, leaning down to my now shattered phone to check and see if it was still salvageable.

It was not.

Groaning in pain, I managed to extend my ankle out and look at it. It was probably a sprain, nothing that wasn't too life threatening but I knew I wasn't going to be able to skate any further.

Speaking of skating... Where the hell is my board?

I glance around the dark sidewalk, squinting to correct my vision but it was no use. My board was gone. I leaned down in pain, clutching my ankle and letting the blood drip onto the pavement below me.

I was screwed.

Peter kept his promise he had made to her years ago. He made sure she got home safe every night she worked. He watched her step out of the diner with his heart in his throat as he dangled off the side of a building. He had overheard all the conversations she had at work, not in a creepy way- he just wanted to know if she talked about him to some of her regulars.

His side hurt from a beating he took a few hours ago, a fight he had to cut short because he didn't want to miss "watching" her go home. He could have easily taken the guy out, but his mind was so lost on what went wrong between him and her. He wanted to just sleep. But the city never slept, and neither did he.

He left Gwen's apartment early this morning, almost couldn't stand the feeling of not watching and keeping tabs on the girl. His girl. It took him almost an hour to put the suit on, feeling like he wasn't strong enough mentally anymore. He wanted to walk her home as Peter, not Spiderman.

He told himself: stay away from her. Keep her safe that way.

But watching her collide with the pavement, her face hitting the hard cement and the board he had bought her going flying- he knew he had to step in.

I wiped the last of my blood from my chin with the back of my hand when a voice suddenly spoke right behind me.

"Ahem, You-Uh... You okay Miss?"

I yelped, turning around to see no one was there. My eyes traveling down the dark street and sidewalks.

Am I going crazy?

I look back down to my hands that were now stained red when the voice spoke again,

"I'm up here.." My head slowly angled upward and I see it- well I see him.

Standing ontop of a street light infront of me, I see none other than Spider Man.

"Yeah-" I cut my sentance off, my mind suddenly wandering to the fact that I was speaking to the infamous vigilante.

His head turns, his eyes on his mask narrowing at me. His mannerisms were odd, almost...familiar?

I look around, avoiding his gaze. "I fell off my skateboard... i need to get up," I hoist myself onto my right foot.

"Whoa whoa whoa", The man suddenly jumps down from his crouch position above and puts his hands on my shoulders. As his masked hands touch my shoulder, he flinches slightly. "The board isn't important, you're hurt."

My head shakes quickly, almost scrambling to get back on my feet. "No No no, you don't understand. That board, someone... he gave it to me."

The man steps back now, his eyes widening as he looks down at me. He looks... confused?

"Who did?"

I mentally slap myself in the face. He wasn't a therapist, he was a hero. I take a deep breath, "An old friend...." The breath that I let out was shaky, almost like I was about to cry.

The man now puts his hands up in defense, letting me get up onto my feet with a wince. I stumbled a bit from the unevenness, but I eventually got myself steady.

"I sprained my ankle," I say, gritting my teeth.

He immediately kneels down beside me and I limped as he starts to examine my ankle. He moves it gently, taking care not to cause any more pain. "It's not too bad," he says, "But it could use some ice."

I gave up hope looking for the board, and I let out a frustrated groan. I was annoyed. It was the last thing I had of Peter's, and now it was gone too.

"Shouldn't you be stopping a heist?" I suddenly snap, turning around to see the man standing behind me awkwardly.

He looks down at me and leans his hand back to scratch his neck sheepishly. "I saw what happened so.. I uh.. I wanted to help."

I look up at him now, feeling comforted by his presence. His posture, his voice, and everything else about him. He was familiar, but I couldn't place a finger on it.

I can't help but wonder how many other people he's helped like this. It's hard to believe that someone so extraordinary could exist in real life.

Now I just needed to figure out how I was going to get home.

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