Chapter Text
By Friday afternoon, you’ve had just about enough of the whispers and hushed giggles.
You set your lunch tray down on the table just a little too hard, and the sharp crack immediately grabs your friends’ attention. Their eyes dart around the crowded cafeteria guiltily. “Alright,” you hiss, “Will someone please share with the class what the big goddamn secret is? You know. The one that you’ve all been sneaking around behind my back about - great job, by the way, because I literally figured out you’ve been hiding something maybe five minutes after you decided to be all stealthy?”
Clint Barton has enough of a conscience to look a little ashamed; by comparison, Natasha Romanoff simply raises her eyebrows and continues to pick at her nail polish.
You set your hands on your hips and continue, even more incensed. “It’s been five freaking days. I’m over it. Just tell me now and get it over with so we can move on with our pathetic twelfth-grade lives.” You huff and finally plunk yourself down on the hard plastic bench.
The silence is alarmingly palpable, even in the dull roar of senior lunch period. Your bag of Fritos squeaks shrilly as you rip open the plastic. After a few tense moments, you toss the bag onto your tray, thoroughly exasperated. “What?”
They’re all staring. Not at you, though. Their eyes are pinned somewhere just over your shoulder. Tony Stark’s mouth hangs open, just a bit.
Your patience is down to its last threads as you twist around in your seat to find out what, exactly, the big deal is. “Jesus Chr-“
And you nearly fall right off of the uncomfortable hard plastic bench.
Peter Parker, nerd extraordinaire, valedictorian-to-be, and your crush since the first day of ninth grade, is wearing a massive sandwich board with the words “Will you go to homecoming with me” scrawled across the front in varying colors of Magic Marker. He’s got a hopeful smile on his handsome, boyish face.
And he’s staring directly at you.
It takes a few moments for you to realize that the entire cafeteria has gone painfully silent. You gawk, feeling the flush rise to your face. Me? you wonder.
No. It can’t be. You and Peter - you’ve been everything for the past three years - study buddies, wingman/woman, a shoulder to cry on - but it always stopped right before it could cross into anything more. You’d resigned yourself to it, and both fervently wished for and dreaded the end of the school year when you’d go your separate ways.
But.
There he is, grinning nervously, and taking small steps toward you. Frozen, you can only manage to keep yourself from keeling over onto the linoleum. “Hi,” he says shyly once he’s close enough to hear his shallow breaths.
“Hi,” you answer dumbly.
He cracks a small smile. “Uh, sorry about - all this,” he chuckles, using one hand to gesture at the board. Up close, the penmanship is even more loopy. “I just - I know we’ve been friends for a long time, and maybe you’d think I wasn’t, y’know, serious? If I asked when we were alone? So, I thought if I did it this way, you’d know that I, uh. That I meant it.” He laughs a little. “Lots of witnesses.”
Well. That wasn’t a lie. The entire twelfth grade was glued to your little telenovella.
“Wow,” you murmur, still stunned. “All this, just for the...homecoming dance?”
Peter’s face scrunches up, just a bit, as he considers. “Well, yeah,” he admits, and a tiny part of you deflates. “But, I was hoping that we could go on a couple of dates, first?”
Now you really were going to fall over. Three years of hoping and wishing and watching him pine after other girls...and here he is, looking at you like he can’t believe you’re real. You can’t help it, your face breaks into the brightest, sunniest smile. You feel his fingers rest lightly at your waist as you throw your arms around his neck and pull him in tightly for a hug. “Yes,” you gasp out, half-laughing, half-something else you cannot name, elation lighting up your veins like fireworks. “Yes, Peter.”
You can feel his grin against your cheek as he pecks you there, and the rest of the cafeteria breaks into applause.
***
“So, my foster parents, they’re really awesome,” Peter stumbles as he struggles to get his key into the lock. “Super great. They’re gonna lo-like you,” he catches himself, but not before you smile privately to yourself at the slip. “Really.”
You squeeze Peter’s hand, a little tingle in your belly. Peter has been notoriously secretive about his foster parents, who just formally adopted him last year after the paperwork finally went through, and you count yourself as one of Peter’s inner circle to be meeting them in person like this.
“They even said, like, you know, like, all - ‘Son, we oughta meet this young lady,’” his voice drops artificially low as he mimics a dad-voice, “‘it’s only right after six dates, why, back in my day-“
The heavy oak door swings open, and you’re greeted by a tall, broad-shouldered man with sunny blonde hair and a smile that crinkles around his bright blue eyes and widens as he extends his hand to you. “Hello there! It’s so nice to meet you. I’m Steve.” His palm is warm and envelopes your entire hand as he shakes it firmly.
“Hi,” you answer shyly. “I’m-“
“Oh, we know exactly who you are,” another voice drifts in, good-natured and deep. A second man, slightly shorter but just as broad, appears in the doorway. Close-cropped dark hair accents his strikingly handsome face, just as arresting as Steve but less...wholesome, like he knows something you don’t. He holds out his hand as well. “I’m James, but you can call me Bucky.”
Next to you, Peter fidgets. “Dad, can we come in now?” he asks plaintively. “It’s cold.”
Bucky bumps Steve’s shoulder with a smirk. “Gonna make the kids stand out there all day, Rogers? The hell are your manners?”
Steve rolls his eyes and gestures you both inside. Bucky comes up and takes your coat and bag as Peter hangs his on the coat tree in the foyer. You rub your hands up and down your arms as you take in the warm wood paneling, Tiffany lamps and faint strains of jazz music. Black and white framed photographs line the hall, and you recognize Peter in several, along with what look like versions of Steve and Bucky with longer hair, shorter hair, beards.
“Your house is lovely,” you offer to Bucky with a smile. Peter’s hand drifts to the small of your back.
“Ain’t much, but it’s home,” Bucky agrees. “Pete, you want to give your girl the tour?”
Peter walks you around the brownstone, and as you follow him from room to room your eyes grow bigger and bigger. You’re no art critic, but some of the pieces that hang from the walls are definitely worth more than your dad makes in a year. The furniture is elegant but comfortable, clean-lined and plush. There’s a state-of-the-art home theater system in the family room, a gourmet kitchen in gleaming stainless steel, and three bathrooms that are each bigger than your own bedroom with glass-enclosed walk-in showers. It’s clear that Peter has been adopted by a very affluent set of foster parents.
Your eyes slide to Peter as he shuts the door to where he’s finished showing you his dad’s home office. “Pete? So, Steve’s your dad, right? And Bucky is…?”
He pauses. “Uh, yeah. Steve’s my dad. And Bucky’s...my other dad.”
It all clicks into place then. “Oh! That...makes so much more sense now.”
“Is that...a problem?” he asks, trying for flippant but missing the mark horribly.
“No!” you exclaim. “Oh, Pete, of course not. You just never said anything about your parents to anyone, so I just assumed, and - I’m sorry. Of course it’s not a problem. It’s wonderful. They seem like wonderful people.”
The tension drains out of him so fast it’s like someone cut the strings holding him aloft. “Oh, man. They’re great. I got so lucky with them.” Your heart breaks for him a little then; to be a child in the system, bounced from family to family, and then to finally belong somewhere. You can’t begin to imagine it.
You twine your fingers with his and lean against his shoulder, warm where your bodies touch. “Well. They got lucky with you, too.”
***
Dinner is a delicious pork roast, slow-roasted with orange slices adding a tangy zing, along with sweet potatoes, brussel sprouts and dried cranberries.
Steve and Bucky ask all the requisite questions, and you respond with where you grew up (Brooklyn, which is met with approving nods), where you’re applying to college (NYU as a stretch but falling back on the CUNYs if need be), and what you’re going for (Information Technology with a concentration in IT security).
Steve takes a particular interest in your prospective studies. “When I was in the Army I led a team of specialists, mostly counterintelligence. They specialized in threat analysis - sort through the bull and pick out the legitimate stuff, which then went on to command staff for investigation.” He takes a sip of his wine. “So I know a little bit about security,” he winks.
“A bit” turns out to be the title of president and CEO of SHIELD, Inc., the leading security firm in New York, with roughly half the company dedicated to information security. By the time you’ve moved on to dessert, he’s offering you an internship at their headquarters in Midtown.
“Careful what you wish for,” Bucky pipes up. He’s been mostly quiet through the meal, but now he’s smirking behind the rim of his whiskey glass. “Working for Stevie here might make you reconsider your career aspirations.”
Steve shoots him a withering look. “Bucky does mostly consulting work,” he explains, “so no one has the dubious privilege of keeping him in line.” He shakes his head good-naturedly. “Like herding cats.”
Bucky makes a weak attempt to hide his grin. The two of them make such a perfect counterbalance to each other - Steve, commanding and confident; and Bucky, all devil-may-care and captivating charm. How Peter kept them both under wraps all this time is beyond you.
***
After dinner, Bucky and Steve recline to the main living room to watch the news and catch up on work emails. You and Peter settle onto the family room sectional, a bowl of popcorn in your lap and the latest episode of Stranger Things queued up on Netflix.
Peter’s arm slides over your shoulders and you cuddle up to him contentedly. His fingers trail over the soft skin of your upper arm, caressing back and forth, the rhythm growing hypnotic as the minutes tick by.
Beyond a few kisses and lingering moments in each other’s arms, you two hadn’t delved into the more intimate aspects of your budding relationship. There hadn’t been time, or opportunity, and neither of you seem to be in a rush to move things forward.
Now, though, as his fingers brush over you, they seem to be leaving a trail of heat in their wake.
You slide minutely closer, and rest your right hand close to his knee. After a few moments, your fingers drift onto the fabric of his jeans. At first he doesn’t seem to notice, but then his other hand lifts your chin up, up, and turns you to where his eyes are dark and myopic. He tilts down to catch your lips, and then you’re kissing, soft and tentative at the start but the fire spreads fast. His hands slip down to grip your waist and span across your back, twining in your long hair. Your back arches needily, pushing your breasts into him, and the friction on your nipples is at once delicious and electrifying and so, so new. A small, hungry sound escapes him, and you answer with one of your own.
Carefully, Peter nudges you backward until you’re lying back on the couch cushions. His lips travel down your throat and collarbone, tracing every inch of exposed skin. Your hands run greedily over his spine, shoulder blades, feeling the lines and ridges of his athletic body through his sweater. You wonder fleetingly what he would look like without it on. Without anything on. The sheer naughtiness sends a thrill racing through you.
His hair falls into his eyes as he lifts his head and asks you, “Can I…?” as his fingertips ghost over the curve of your breast. You nod fervently and guide his hand to cup its fullness. He groans and his hips drive forward of their own accord. The stiffness in his jeans presses up against your thigh, and the breath rushes from your lungs as you realize it fully. Peter’s hard, for you, from you, because of you.
And it’s suddenly, abundantly clear: you want it. Whatever he wants to give, is willing to give. You want it. Between your legs, the desire pulses and demands, and you rub your thighs together for some tiny sliver of relief.
Peter’s tongue is tracing the seam of your lips, where they’re parted so slightly, and pushes inside gently. His hand has migrated from your breast to your belly and strokes the bare skin that’s exposed above the waist of your pants. “So beautiful,” he murmurs as he breaks the kiss, panting into your mouth. “God, I’ve wanted you for so long. Never thought - never thought I’d ever get to be here. Doing this.” He kisses you again, sweetly.
Even through the haze of lust, you manage half a laugh. “ You didn’t - Peter, I’ve been waiting for this since freshman Earth Science.” The confession doesn’t hurt, not while you’re cradled in his arms and he’s looking at you like he can’t bear to look anywhere else.
His smile beams. “Guess we’re both idiots, then.”
“Nah,” you tease. “Just you.”
The ensuing tickle attack makes you squeal and giggle, but it’s short-lived as your knees fall open and Peter surges between them. Then his hips are slotted against yours and when he presses the length of his body against you, there’s a wave of pleasure that courses through you, hot and fierce. His fingers slip beneath the knit of your sweater and crawl up the smooth concave of your belly, and hesitate for only a moment before sliding under the cup of your bra. His thumb caresses your nipple and you gasp out, “Yes, please, more-“
“Peter.”
The deep, gravelly voice cuts through the fog of desire and you both spring backward from each other like a bucket of ice has been thrown on you. Your face heats up instantly and you hurriedly smooth down your sweater where it’s been hiked up.
Steve is holding a glass of amber-colored liquid and leaning against the doorway, nonplussed. “It’s a school night. What time does your young lady need to be home?” He seems unruffled by the interruption he’s created.
“Um, eight-thirty,” you answer in a small voice.
“It’s nearly twenty after. Why don’t I drive you home?”
“Oh, no, that’s okay. Really. I can just take the train-“ The prospect of sitting in a closed space with your boyfriend’s dad who just caught his son with his hand up your shirt made you nearly break out in hives.
“By yourself? After dark? If I were your dad I’d be furious.” He smiles ruefully. “I’ll meet you in the car.” He disappears into the darkened hallway.
You gather your things and head outside, Peter close behind. Steve’s in the drivers seat of a sleek-looking, immaculate Audi. When he sees Peter he shakes his head decisively. “Sorry, buddy. If I’m not mistaken you have a history exam tomorrow that you haven’t studied for.”
Peter’s face turns pained. “I did study! Not like, today, but...I did.”
Steve gave him an unimpressed look.
“Alright, alright.” He turns to you and grasps your shoulders lightly, kissing you chastely before opening the car door for you. “Good night.”
The drive with Steve is quietly awkward, but he hasn’t forced you in any small talk, which you’re grateful for. Your mind wanders as you rest your forehead against the cool window. The abrupt end to your and Peter’s evening has left you feeling restless and fidgety, with an itch you can’t quite scratch.
Steve’s deep voice shakes you from your ruminations. “Peter really likes you,” he says quietly. “Just thought you should know.”
“Um, I really like him too,” you reply quickly. “I do. I wouldn’t let just anyone do to me what...what he was doing.” Immediately after the words leave your mouth you wish you could yank them back in. You’re blushing furiously but the car is dark, so hopefully you’re the only one who notices.
You catch Steve’s half-smile in the passing streetlights. “It’s alright. Peter’s a good kid, I trust him.” Which isn’t really what you were saying, but then his next words are, “You’re a beautiful girl. Stunning, really.” His eyes travel down your body, just once. “Pete’s a lucky boy. If Bucky and I were closer to your age, we’d both be fighting him for your attention.”
You freeze, confused. “But - don’t you like...boys? I mean, men?” you sputter.
“Sure do. But not just men. Bucky and I, we both do.” Your mind is spinning.
“Oh.”
“I mean it. You’re gorgeous.” There’s heat on your thigh, and your mouth falls open as you register his fingers resting just over your knee. “I can see why Pete couldn’t keep his hands off of you. Probably got boys lined up around the block, pretty little thing that you are.”
Your heartbeat is pounding in your ears, stricken with disbelief. Was Peter’s dad... hitting on you? On his own son’s girlfriend?
As you quietly melt down in the passenger’s seat, Steve’s strong hand still wrapped around your thigh, the car slows to a gentle stop. Steve throws the gearshift into park. “We’re here,” he announces nonchalantly. He sends you a sunny smile.
Still reeling, you gather your bag to your body and pull your coat a little tighter. “Thank you for the ride,” you recite stiffly.
“Anytime,” he shoots back easily. “It was a pleasure meeting you, sweetheart. I hope we’ll be seeing lots more of each other soon.”
You scramble from the car gracelessly, slamming the door behind you and making a beeline for your front door. Only when you see the headlights recede, and then disappear down the street, do you relax against the warm oak, dropping your bag like a stone on the hardwood of the foyer.
It’s only a moment’s relief, though, before your stomach twists.
How did he know where you live?