Don’t Make Me Go Home
Wc: 4k
Pairing: Peter Parker x Female Reader
Synopsis:Peter hates going home to an empty apartment.
So he starts staying at yours longer. Movie nights turn into sleepovers. Sleepovers turn into him showing up after patrol without asking.
He always has an excuse.
“It’s late.”
“I’m tired.”
“Can I stay just tonight?”
Eventually, you tell him he needs to go home.
Peter goes quiet.
He looks around your apartment before quietly asking—
“I thought this was home.”
Warnings: Needy Dark! Peter, emotional dependency, loneliness, possessiveness, attachment issues, Dub con , Smut,( 18+ MDI) , Kidnapping, Emotional Manipulation, Dead doves don’t eat , jealousy, obsessive behavior, Yandere, dark romance, post-No Way Home angst.
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"Do you think the capacitors in this thing are actually shot, or is it just the wiring?"
The question hung in the air of the cramped dorm adjacent workshop, where the scent of ozone and solder mingled with the stale aroma of overpriced espresso. Peter was hunched over a disassembled motherboard, his fingers calloused and scarred from a thousand unseen collisions trembling slightly as he probed a circuit with a multimeter. He looked younger when he was focused, the intensity in his eyes shifting from the heavy burden of a city's protector to the frantic curiosity of a twenty one year old student trying to pass Advanced Electromagnetics. The workshop was a chaotic sanctuary of stripped copper wires and discarded heat sinks, a place where the logic of physics provided the only certainty in a life that had become an exercise in erasure.
"Definitely the wiring," you replied, leaning over his shoulder. You pointed to a frayed connection where the insulation had melted into a blackened glob, looking less like a circuit and more like a burnt piece of charcoal. "You oversteered the voltage on the primary coil. You're lucky you didn't blow the whole bench."
Peter blinked, his focus snapping from the board to you. For a second, the intensity vanished, replaced by that soft, crooked smile that always seemed to be reserved for the moments when the mask was truly off. He let out a huff of a laugh, leaning back in the swivel chair that groaned under his weight. "I was trying to optimize the pulse. I thought if I could just push the current a little harder, the response time would drop."
"Optimization is just a fancy word for 'I wanted to see if it would explode,'" you teased, reaching for the soldering iron.
You had met Peter during your sophomore year in a crowded lecture hall where the air felt thick with the collective anxiety of two hundred students. He had been the quiet one in the back, always wearing oversized hoodies that seemed to swallow his frame, sketching complex geometric patterns in the margins of his notebook. At first, you were just the person who lent him a pen or shared a glance of mutual exhaustion during a three-hour lab. But as the semesters blurred, you noticed the gaps in his life the way he’d mention a memory of a home that no longer existed, or the haunting silence that followed whenever he spoke about his family. He moved through the campus like a ghost, an expert at blending into the background, yet possessing a gravity that drew you in. He wasn't just shy; he was adrift, a man who had mastered the art of being alone in a room full of people.
The progression had been slow, a series of shared coffees and late night study sessions that eventually bled into something more intimate. You became the anchor he didn't know he needed. You were the only one who noticed when his eyes grew hollow from a night of "studying" (which you eventually realized was patrolling the city in spandex), and he was the only one who truly listened when you rambled about your own niche passions. He began to treat your presence like a lifeline, a steady frequency in a world of static. The loneliness he carried wasn't a loud, screaming thing; it was a quiet, persistent hunger, and your apartment with its warmth and the smell of cinnamon candles became the only place where he felt he could actually breathe without permission.
"You're always taking care of me," Peter murmured, his voice dropping an octave as he watched you fix the connection he’d botched. He wasn't looking at the circuit anymore; he was looking at the way your hair fell over your shoulder, his gaze lingering with a focused, almost hungry intensity.
"Get used to it," you laughed, though the warmth in your chest felt like a physical weight. You stepped back, the circuit finally humming with a steady, clean light, and for a moment, the two of you just existed in the golden glow of the workshop.
The months that followed were a blur of exhilarating firsts. Dating Peter felt like discovering a hidden language; there were late night calls that stretched into the early hours of the morning, where he would describe the way the city looked from the top of the Chrysler Building, his voice a low, soothing vibration over the line. He would tell you about the small things the way a street performer in Queens played a song that reminded him of a childhood memory he couldn't quite name, or the absurdity of fighting a man in a rhinoceros suit on a Tuesday. You became the keeper of his secrets, the one person who knew exactly how he liked his tea and which specific bruise on his ribs was acting up after a rough night. He was devoted, almost frighteningly so, treating every date like a sacred ritual and every touch like he was memorizing the texture of your skin.
But as the honeymoon phase stretched on, the devotion began to warp. The warmth that once felt like a sanctuary started to feel like a perimeter. It started with the questions not the curious, gentle inquiries of a boyfriend, but a relentless, systematic cataloging of your day. He didn't just want to know how your classes went; he wanted to know who you sat next to, why you had stayed ten minutes late after the lecture, and why a particular classmate had texted you a joke at 3:00 PM. He wouldn’t yell; he would just tilt his head, his eyes wide and searching, his voice soft and wounded. "I just worry about you," he'd murmur, his hand gripping your wrist just a little too tightly. "The city isn't safe. I just need to know where you are."
Then came the "surprises." You’d wake up to find your phone on the nightstand, the screen dark, but you'd notice a new app installed a location sharing software you didn't remember downloading. When you questioned him, he’d laugh that awkward, boyish laugh and tell you he just wanted to be able to find you if you ever got lost, his thumb grazing your cheek in a way that felt more like a claim than a caress. He started showing up at your workplace before you were even off the clock, leaning against the wall with a crooked smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. He was always there, a constant, looming presence that made the rest of the world feel small and unnecessary.
The oddities transitioned from digital to physical with a seamless, unsettling fluidity. You’d find your favorite snacks stocked in the pantry before you even knew you were craving them, the bags placed with mathematical precision. Your wardrobe began to shift; you’d find your less-flattering dresses missing from their hangers, replaced by softer, more inviting fabrics that Peter had "thought you'd love," the tags still crisp and new. He began curated your surroundings, rearranging your bookshelves by color or subject without being asked, as if he were sculpting a version of your life that suited his vision of comfort. When you complained that you couldn't find your chemistry textbook, he didn't just tell you where it was; he had already highlighted the sections he thought you'd struggle with, his neat, precise handwriting filling the margins like a silent guide.
The tension peaked on a Friday when a group of classmates invited you to a rooftop mixer a loud, crowded celebration of the semester's end. Peter hadn't been invited, but he didn't seem to mind, promising he had "things to take care of" and encouraging you to go. Yet, throughout the night, your phone buzzed with a rhythmic persistence. Who are you talking to? Is the music too loud? Do you want me to come get you? Each text arrived seconds after you’d mentioned a detail to a friend, as if he were listening through the very air. By the time you returned home, exhausted and smelling of cheap punch and city smog, you felt a strange sense of relief to find him waiting in the dark, the only light in the apartment coming from the soft, blue flicker of the television.
"I thought we could just do something quiet," he whispered, pulling you into a hug that felt less like a greeting and more like a reclamation. He had already set up the movie night popcorn in a bowl, the lights dimmed to a cinematic gloom, and a romantic comedy queued up that you’d mentioned wanting to see months ago. For two hours, you tried to sink into the rhythm of the evening, leaning against his chest, but you couldn't shake the feeling of being watched. Even as he kissed your temple, his eyes weren't on the screen; they were scanning the room, tracking the way you shifted in your sleep, ensuring you didn't drift too far from his reach.
As the credits rolled, a sudden wave of claustrophobia hit you. The apartment felt smaller than usual, the air thick with his scent and his silent, heavy needs. You gently disentangled yourself from his arms, stepping toward the kitchen to clear the bowls. "It's getting late, Peter," you said, your voice sounding thin in the silence. "You should probably head home. You have that early lab on Monday."
The reaction was instantaneous. Peter didn't move; he froze, his body turning rigid as if you had physically struck him. The warmth that had radiated from him moments ago vanished, replaced by a cold, sudden void. He didn't argue or snap; he simply went quiet, his gaze dropping to the floor. He began to gather his things with a mechanical slowness, his movements devoid of their usual grace. He picked up his phone, his jacket, and his keys, but as he reached the door, he stopped. His hand hovered over the knob, but he didn't turn it.
"I don't want to," he murmured, his voice barely audible. He turned back to look at you, and the expression on his face was devastating a mixture of raw longing and a desperation that bordered on something predatory. "I can't go back there. It's so quiet, and it's so empty, and the only thing that makes the silence stop is being here. With you." He stepped closer, his space invading yours, his eyes searching yours for any sign of hesitation. "Please. Just let me stay. I can't face the silence tonight."
"Stay," you whispered, the word barely a breath. You didn't see the way his pupils dilated, swallowing the iris until his eyes were two bottomless wells of hunger.
Peter didn't just move toward you; he surged, his movements blurring with a speed that defied human physics. One moment he was five feet away, and the next, his chest was flushing against yours, pinning you against the cool surface of the kitchen counter. He was wearing a charcoal-grey oversized hoodie that smelled of rain and ozone, the fabric soft but the grip of his arms around your waist like iron bands. You were in grey slacks and a matching tank top , that felt suddenly too fragile, too exposed under the intensity of his gaze. The contrast was stark: the delicate silk of your skin pressed against the rugged, utilitarian cotton of his clothes.
The air shifted, the silence no longer peaceful but heavy, as if the oxygen had been sucked out of the room to make space for his desperation. Peter didn't pull away; instead, his grip tightened, his fingers digging into you , anchoring you to him with a strength that reminded you he could lift a city bus if he wanted to. When you tried to shift, to create even an inch of breathing room, his arms locked, pinning you firmly against the granite counter. It wasn't a hug anymore; it was a hold.
"Peter, you're hurting me a little," you whispered, your voice trembling.
Peter didn’t flinch. He didn’t even look surprised that he was squeezing too hard; he just looked focused, as if he were calculating the exact amount of pressure required to keep you from drifting away. A strange, distant light flickered in his eyes a cocktail of love and a terrifyingly singular purpose.
"I know," he murmured, his voice devoid of its usual tremor. "But if you leave, you might realize you don't need me. And I can't let that happen."
Before you could process the shift in his tone, his hand moved with a blurring speed, reaching into the hidden pocket of his hoodie. You caught a glimpse of a small, pressurized canister something he’d whipped up in the lab, a concentrated sedative derived from his own synthetic pheromones and neurotoxins. He didn't shake it; he just pressed the nozzle against the pulse point of your neck. A sharp, cold hiss echoed in the quiet kitchen, and a mist of colorless vapor bloomed against your skin.
"So sorry," he whispered, his lips brushing your ear, "but this is for your own good."
The first thing you noticed was the ceiling. It wasn’t the familiar, slightly cracked plaster of your bedroom with the water stain in the corner that looked vaguely like a cloud; this was a seamless, industrial concrete expanse, painted a sterile, muted grey. You tried to sit up, but your limbs felt like they were made of lead, a heavy, humming lethargy clinging to your muscles. As your vision cleared, you realized you weren't in your bed. You were lying on a massive, plush mattress that smelled overwhelmingly of Peter cedarwood, expensive electronics, and that sharp, ozone tang of his web-fluid.
You looked around the room. It was a sanctuary of high tech minimalism, a penthouse fortress where the floor to ceiling windows overlooked a New York City that felt miles away, separated by reinforced glass. This wasn't your apartment; this was his. He had simply moved the center of your world to his own.
The door clicked open, and Peter stepped in, carrying a tray of breakfast. He looked radiant, the haunted hollows beneath his eyes replaced by a terrifyingly serene glow. He didn't ask if you were okay; he simply sat on the edge of the bed and pressed a warm kiss to your forehead. When you tried to pull away, his hand slid to the nape of your neck, his thumb tracing your jawline with a possessiveness that felt like a brand. Then, he leaned in, his lips finding yours in a kiss that was slow, deep, and demanding. It was a dizzying blur of affection and control, a sensory overload that tried to convince you that this this cage was actually a homecoming.
As the haze of the sedative finally lifted, a cold spark of panic flared in your chest. You pushed back, your voice raspy. "Peter, what is this? Why am I here? I... I need to go home."
Peter’s smile didn't fade, but it didn't reach his eyes. He reached out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear, his touch light, almost ghostly. "Home is wherever I am now," he murmured. "The city is too dangerous, the noise is too loud. Here, I can keep you perfect. I can make sure nothing ever hurts you again."
"I can't just live in a penthouse because you're worried!" you snapped, though the fight felt fragile. "What happens if I just... if I try to leave? Right now?"
He paused, his gaze drifting to the reinforced glass of the window, where the city looked like a miniature model. "You could try," he said softly, his voice devoid of any threat, which somehow made it worse. "But I’ve already thought of everything. I know the route you take to work, the exact timing of the light on 4th Street. I know your mother’s shift schedule at the hospital, which pharmacy she uses for her blood pressure medication, the brand of tea you buy when you're stressed." He leaned in, his breath warm against your cheek. "The world is so small, and I know every single piece of it that touches you. Why would you want to go back to a place where you're so... unprotected?"
He didn't wait for an answer. He surged forward, his body pinning you back into the plush depths of the mattress. The kiss was different this time urgent and hungry, tasting of desperation and a terrifying kind of love. It was a blurring of boundaries, a slow slide into a reality where your consent was something he had decided for you. As his hands slid under the silk of your dress, your mind screamed for the exit, but your body betrayed you, leaning into the familiar warmth of the only person who had ever truly seen you. You felt the heavy, rhythmic thrum of his heart against yours, a steady beat that sounded like a promise and a prison.
The next few days bled into a surreal routine of luxury and surveillance. He curated every second of your existence. He brought you clothes silks and cashmeres that felt like costumes and prepared meals that were perfectly tailored to your tastes, as if he were feeding a prized pet. He was the perfect partner: attentive, doting, and utterly suffocating. He would spend hours brushing your hair or reading to you, his touch a constant, grounding presence that slowly began to overwrite the panic of the first forty eight hours. The terror didn't disappear; it just settled into a dull ache, a background noise that you learned to ignore in favor of the way he looked at you like you were the only star in a dead sky.
You began to find yourself waiting for the sound of his footsteps, craving the moment he would return from some unseen duty to wrap his arms around you. It was a slow, insidious erosion of your will. You started to forget the smell of your own apartment and the sound of your own doorbell. You started to see the penthouse not as a cage, but as a sanctuary where the chaos of the world couldn't reach you. When he kissed you, you didn't push him away; you clung to him, terrified that if you stopped, you would realize how truly alone you were in this glass tower.
"Who is this, Peter?"
You asked the question softly, your voice barely a ripple in the heavy silence of the bedroom. You were draped across his lap like a discarded ribbon, your head resting on his chest as he scrolled through his iPhone. The screen cast a ghostly blue pallor over his face, illuminating the sharp line of his jaw. You had caught a glimpse of the screen a series of frantic, unanswered messages from Ned Leeds and a string of biting, suspicious inquiries from MJ. They were asking where he was, why he’d gone radio silent, and why he had stopped responding to their group chats. More unsettlingly, you saw a shared location screen; they were pinging his phone, their dots hovering in a frantic, circling dance around the neighborhood, as if they were trying to scent a trail he had intentionally erased.
Peter didn't look up. His thumb slid over the glass, silencing a new notification with a clinical precision. "Just noise," he murmured, his voice a low, soothing vibration against your ear. "People who think they know what's best for me. They don't understand, do they? They don't understand that this is the only place where everything finally makes sense." He shifted, his grip on your waist tightening, pulling you flush against him. He didn't tell them you were there. He didn't tell them that the girl they were worried about had been absorbed into his private orbit. To the world, Peter Parker was simply absent; to you, he was the only thing left in existence.
The transition from the day's quietude to the night's intensity was always seamless, a slide into a territory where the boundaries of your will became blurred. As the light in the room dimmed to a deep, bruised purple, Peter’s attention shifted from the phone to the curve of your throat. He began to kiss you with a feverish urgency, his hands mapping your body as if he were reclaiming a territory he feared might be stolen. There was a moment a sharp, sudden flicker of hesitation where you tried to shift your weight, a subconscious attempt to create a pocket of space. You weren't fighting him, not really, but your body was remembering a version of yourself that had a say in when and how this happened.
The hesitation in your muscles was a whisper, but to Peter, it was a siren. He didn’t stop; he simply adapted, his strength shifting from the crushing pressure of a hold to a slow, methodical persistence. He moved over you with a fluid, predatory grace, his weight a warm anchor that pinned you into the silk sheets. Every touch was a calculation the way his calloused thumb traced the line of your hip, the way his breath hitched against the sensitive skin of your collarbone designed to dismantle your resistance before you even knew you were resisting. He wasn't just seeking pleasure; he was seeking a total surrender, a synchronization of your heartbeat to his own.
When he finally entered you, it wasn't with the tentative gentleness of the boy who used to blush at a touch of your hand in the lab. It was a reclamation. He groaned low in his throat, a sound of raw, aching relief, as if the act of merging with you was the only thing keeping him from shattering into a million pieces. He moved with a rhythmic, relentless intensity, his eyes locked on yours, searching for the exact moment your pupils dilated and your fingers curled into the fabric of his hoodie. He wanted to see the moment you stopped thinking about the door, the phone, and the life he had systematically erased.
friction became a searing, rhythmic heat that drowned out every lingering thought of the world outside. Peter’s breathing was a ragged symphony of desperation, his voice dropping to a gravelly, possessive whisper that vibrated against your skin. "You're mine," he groaned, the words raw and stripped of any hesitation. "Tell me you're mine. Tell me you don't want to be anywhere else."
He shifted his angle, the movement blurring with an intensity that left you breathless. As he surged deeper, the sheer intensity of his release began to build, and you felt the hot, slick evidence of his arousal thick and oozing leaking against your thighs, a viscous seal that bound you to him. He was a crimson red blur of exertion and obsession, his face flushed with a frantic, hungry energy. "Look at me," he commanded, his voice a low, dirty rumble that sent shivers down your spine. "Look at how much you want this. How much you want *me*."
"I'm yours," you gasped, the words breaking as a white hot wave of pleasure crashed through you. Your back arched, the silk sheets bunching beneath your shoulder blades as you surrendered the last remnants of your autonomy to the rhythm of his body. You felt exposed, a raw nerve of sensation, your breasts heaving against his chest, the tips aching and sensitive where his skin grazed them. You were open to him in every sense, your body slick and weeping, the heavy, viscous heat of his release mingling with your own as you leaked around him, a messy, shimmering evidence of the collision.
You wrapped your legs tightly around his waist, pulling him deeper, your nails digging into the muscle of his back. The dirty, breathless sounds of your own voice surprised you the way you begged him to not stop, the way you whispered things that would have made the girl you were a week ago flush with shame. You weren't just accepting the pleasure; you were consuming it, meeting his obsession with a hunger that matched his own. As the peak hit, you felt him shudder violently, a low, guttural sound escaping his throat as he collapsed against you, his weight a crushing, comforting blanket.
For several minutes, the only sound in the room was the synchronized, ragged gasping of two sets of lungs. Peter stayed buried inside you, his forehead resting against yours, his eyes closed as he drifted in the afterglow of a total, terrifyingly complete union. He was shaking not from effort, but from the sheer emotional intensity of the moment. He looked smaller now, the predatory edge softened by a fragile, needy desperation.
You felt a strange, floating lightness in your chest. You knew the logic of the situation; you knew the locks were reinforced and your phone was gone. But as you looked at the way he clung to you, as if you were the only solid thing in a shifting universe, the anger felt distant, like a radio station losing its signal. You reached up, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw, feeling the stubble prickle against your skin.
"You're thinking about the door again," Peter whispered, his voice barely a ripple in the silence. He hadn't moved, his weight still pinning you into the mattress, but his eyes had opened. The predatory hunger had receded, leaving behind a wide eyed, searching vulnerability. He wasn't looking at your face; he was looking at the way your gaze had drifted toward the heavy oak door of the bedroom.
"I'm not," you lied, your voice sounding small even to your own ears. You felt the slick, drying heat of him between your thighs, a physical reminder of the boundary he had blurred and then erased. "It's just... Peter, this isn't how it's supposed to be. The way we started, the late-night study sessions, the way you used to ask if you could stay... it was about choice. This is just... a script you've written for me."
Peter shifted, propping himself up on one elbow to look down at you. He reached out, his thumb tracing the curve of your lower lip with a tenderness that felt almost cruel given the circumstances. "Choice is a luxury for people who have nothing to lose," he murmured, his gaze intensifying. "I spent years being the ghost in the room, the boy who could be replaced by a different set of grades or a better set of jokes. But with you, the silence actually stopped. When I'm with you, the noise in my head the guilt, the loss, the constant screaming of a city that needs me to be a hero it all just... fades. You're not a script. You're the only thing that's actually real."
"But you're killing the part of me that makes me ," you whispered, a single tear escaping and tracking a path toward your temple. "If I can't leave, if I can't choose to stay, then I'm not your partner, Peter. I'm just another thing you're protecting. Like a piece of equipment or a trophy."
Peter didn’t flinch at the word trophy. Instead, he leaned down, his lips brushing the tear from your cheek with a slow, deliberate suction that felt less like a comfort and more like he was drinking in your sorrow. He didn't offer an apology or a key to the door; instead, he shifted his weight, his body molding to yours with a seamless, terrifying precision. He began to kiss the bridge of your nose, your eyelids, the soft dip of your philtrum, treating your face like a map he was memorizing for the thousandth time. It was a silent answer: he didn’t want a partner who could walk away; he wanted a constant, an anchor that he could weld to his side.
The silence that followed was heavy, filled only by the hum of the penthouse’s climate control and the rhythmic thrum of his heart against your ribs. You felt the last flickers of your indignation begin to cool, dampened by the sheer, overwhelming scale of his need. He didn't argue with your logic because he didn't recognize it as valid; in his world, the only logic that mattered was the physical proximity of your skin to his. He began to murmur against your neck, a low, buzzing litany of everything he loved about you the way you frowned when you were thinking, the specific pitch of your laugh, the way you smelled of vanilla and old library books.
He eventually pulled away, but only far enough to look you in the eyes. The vulnerability was back, that wide-eyed, puppy-like longing that had always been his most effective weapon. He reached for a silk robe on the nightstand and draped it over your shoulders, his fingers lingering on the knot of the fabric. He was treating you with a tenderness that felt like a reward for your submission, a soft gold star for the way you had stopped fighting the current.
"I know you're sad," he whispered, his voice dripping with a sincerity that made your heart ache despite your brain's warnings. "But the sadness will fade. Eventually, you'll realize that the world out there doesn't deserve you. They don't see you the way I do. They don't know how to protect you." He kissed your forehead one last time, a lingering, proprietary press of his lips that felt like a seal on a contract you had never signed.
He stood up, the muscles in his back rippling under the dim light, and walked toward the door. For a fleeting second, you thought he might actually leave it unlocked, or perhaps hand you the key he kept tucked into the waistband of his trousers. You watched him, your breath hitching, your fingers clutching the silk of the robe. But Peter didn't reach for the lock. He simply glanced back at you, his expression serene, almost triumphant.
A muffled chime echoed from the foyer the distinct sound of the building's secure delivery portal signaling a visitor. Peter’s face lit up with a genuine, boyish warmth, the kind of smile that belonged to the Peter Parker who used to stumble through your doorway with a nervous grin and a handful of textbooks. He leaned over and pressed a final, lingering kiss to your temple, his eyes shimmering with a terrifyingly pure contentment.
“Pizza’s here!” Peter beamed, the words popping with a lightness that felt jarring against the backdrop of your captivity. He looked entirely too cheerful, his expression shifting instantly from the possessive intensity of the bedroom to the boyish enthusiasm of a college student. It was as if he had simply flipped a switch, compartmentalizing the horror of the situation into a neat little drawer labeled Necessary Logistics.
