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ok so a tom’s peter x reader fic or a petermj fic by stealing petergwen crumbs from amazing spiderman part 1 (especially the scene where andrew’s peter is fully injured and gwen treats him) with angst would be CRAZYYY (wouldn’t mind if it’s arachnid!peter either)
Summary: Despite being told a hundred times to be careful, Peter Parker still comes home injured. Tonight, patching him up at 2 a.m., you finally tell him how you feel about it, and he doesn't have a joke anymore.
Warning: bruising, blood, angst, themes of fear.
No mention of Y/N.
Word Count: 949
Author's note: This was a request sent by @riniiiya. Hope you like this !!
The request made is here!
You heard the window slide up before you turned. You didn't even need to look up at this point. You know every sound he makes, especially the ones he makes when he is in pain and trying not to show it, but despite the numerous times, you're off the couch before you register it.
"Hey sweetheart," Peter says, too brightly, pulling off his mask.
He's still near the windowsill, panting a bit, one hand braced on the frame. You could see how his suit was torn at the shoulder, blood soaked all over.
"Hey, I'm okay," he says, but your feet are already moving around to get the first aid box, which you had started keeping ever since you got to know about his part-time job- well, scratch that. Being Spider-Man was a full-time job. And your full-time job was to worry about him.
You make him sit on the kitchen counter, and he wipes away the tear that had rolled down your cheek with his gloved thumb, making you huff.
"Sit still," you speak finally, your voice soft.
Despite sitting still, he just kept talking the whole time, and that's when you knew that it was really bad. You knew Peter. You knew that he'd be quiet and joke around if it was just minor. But he keeps talking to distract himself when it's bad.
"There was this thing- like, a delivery truck came out of nowhere; a dude had a pipe, like—babe, who carries a pipe?! I swear I had it completely handled—"
"Pete."
"Like, bro? At least get a proper weapon, rather than something from the dumpster—"
"Peter."
He stops when he hears you say his name in a sharp, firm tone. It wasn't meant to come out that way, but it had, and his eyes were on you, taking in the fact that there were numerous cotton balls and wipes stained with blood.
"I need you to stay still and not speak. I need to give you stitches. Just butterfly closure won't do for this," you say quietly, and he can hear your voice break.
He goes very still, and his face falls as he watches your hands shake.
"You said you'd pull back if it went overboard."
Your eyes were on the wound. "You said it last week."
"It didn't go overboard."
"You got thrown into a window."
"I was the one who threw myself. It was the right thing to do—" He started speaking, but you cut him off.
"Don't do the thing where you're downplaying what happened, Parker." Your voice cracked again, and you had to try so hard not to cry.
You had finally cleaned up most of the cut carefully.
"You're mad," he said. "I know you're mad, since your voice has been cracking more than it usually does."
"Look, Peter, I'm not mad." You speak softly, placing your palm on his cheek, making him lean into it.
"I'm not scared of you getting hurt, love. I knew what I was signing up for when I knew your job. It happens. But what scares me the most is the fact that one day you might not come back through the window." Your voice cracks just like he mentioned, but you continue.
"I'm scared you might not come back, and I'm clueless cause no one lets me know, since obviously the world doesn't know that Spider-Man has a girlfriend back home. So when you're out there, I'm all alone. Waiting and not knowing if you're okay."
His heart breaks as he watches you pour your heart out, and he lets you, while his hand comes up to rest on your own hand that was on his cheek, his fingers curling into yours.
"And then, despite me telling you, despite me sometimes begging you to be careful, you go and do this. I know you'll get hurt, but Peter, I am so scared."
"Baby..." He trails off, his hands now coming up to hold your face.
"I hear you every time; you tell me to be careful. I never forget. I also try to be careful, as you beg me to be. But at that moment, it's my well-being vs saving others, and I don't know how to choose between them. Because if I don't help and something happens, just because I hesitated even for just a second, I—I don't think I could handle that."
He then wipes your tears when you choke out a laugh.
"I hate that I'm in love with someone who keeps going towards the danger side rather than away from it. I mean, I love how you wanna keep everyone safe, but I'm just scared about what might happen to you," you huff as he presses his forehead to yours.
"I'm not gonna go anywhere. I'll always come back to you."
"You better, Spider-Man."
A while later, you finally finished stitching the wound before cleaning up everything, while he slowly got off the counter, grunting a little, before you came back and handed him a glass of water, which he took, muttering a quiet thank you.
Just as you were about to turn, he placed the empty glass on the counter slowly, eyes not leaving yours, making you tilt your head.
He just smiled before wrapping his arms slowly around your waist, pulling you closer, as you wrapped your arms around his neck, careful not to hurt him. Peter leaned forward, pressing his lips to yours, making you sigh into it, as you felt his slightly chapped, split lips move against yours.
"I love you," you murmur.
"I love you too. So much."
You didn't care anymore. At least not at that moment, because Peter was home.
A/N: My first Peter Parker fic over here, and I hope I did justice to the request made. I hope you all enjoyed reading this.
Do interact!! Likes, comments and reblogs are appreciated 🫶
Also, let me know in the comments if you all want to be tagged in future works <33
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
SUMMARY: You’ve had a crush on Peter ever since freshman year at Empire State University, but it never seemed to click for him. When you transfer out to a college on the west coast and finally return three years later, something in his more matured mind finally catches on.
A/N: Based off of this request!
WARNINGS: Peter can’t take a hint, alcohol consumption, kiss scene at the end :)
WC: 2.4K
Main Masterlist!
Wherever you were Peter was, and wherever Peter was, you were.
You met Peter back in your freshman year at Empire State, having been paired up to work on a project together.
Immediately, you thought he was cute and his personality only made you fall harder. He was a little shy, very nerdy, and the type of guy to apologize a million times over for something that didn’t require it.
Exactly your type.
And unfortunately, exactly the type of guy your dad would make fun of you for liking.
“You really like that little dork?” he’d say over dinner, making fun of you for blushing at the mention of five letters.
Peter.
Over that same dinner your dad was rambling on and on about how Spider-Man was totally in his way on Staten Island. It went in one ear and out the other because he seemed to absolutely despise any living or breathing thing aside from you.
But then late one night in the library when you were half asleep trying to study with Peter, he mentioned something about helping out a cruel old man with the most erratic temper he’d ever met on Staten Island.
It didn’t take a genius to put two and two together and that was oddly enough when you found out the boy you’d been crushing on was Spider-Man.
So, not only did your dad think Peter was a dork, but he also hated Spider-Man’s guts.
How the hell could you possibly bring him home?
Luckily for you, you never directly shot your shot because he didn’t seem interested.
But truth be told he couldn’t take a damn hint to save his life.
You’d smile when he spoke, say something slightly flirty to make him blush, and poke fun at him.
Undeniably, he was attracted to you.
He thought you were cute, sharp, flirty, and way out of his league.
So naturally, whenever you flirted, it never clicked.
Because why would a girl like you want to be with a guy like him?
Your first year and Empire State flew by and before you knew it, you were onto new things on the west coast at a university with better opportunities for your major.
Life got busy for the two of you and those promises of phone calls, texts, and visits completely fell through.
Now Peter was truly alone.
That was until you showed up three years later.
Music bumped through the apartment, as Peter pushed his way through.
He crossed paths with Ned at the bodega and since then had followed him from said bodega to the subway, all the way through the city to his apartment where he was having a housewarming party.
It was a little weird stalking a guy who he had once known, but Peter was desperate to see his friends again.
And thank goodness he was because the stars aligned that night and an old flame would be ignited again.
Someone offered Peter a red solo cup, and every fiber in his body told him not to drink from it. The smell alone was enough to make him gag.
He drank from it anyway and coughed, spitting the drink back into the cup with a scrunched nose.
Peter pushed further past the crowd, eyes moving around rapidly in an attempt to find Ned. He wasn’t sure what he’d do when he crossed paths with him. Maybe he’d introduce himself, throw out some nerdy reference, and perhaps become friends with him again.
The sea of bodies was practically drowning him alive and Ned was nowhere in sight.
He managed to make his way through the crowd and ended up in a corner with wide eyes, desperately searching for the reason he came. Little did he know, the reason why he came would be thrown completely over his head as someone else would catch his attention.
“Peter?”
Immediately, he recognized that voice.
You.
He whipped his head around, finding you leaning against the wall at the corner of the room, a red solo cup pressed to your lips.
Relief, excitement, and shock washed over him. Your name fell from his lips. “What are you doing here?” he asked with a boyish grin, walking over to you. The smoothness of your voice filled him with that warm feeling it had three years ago and very quickly, his feelings of attraction towards you returned.
You returned the smile. “MJ’s my coworker, she invited me,” you said.
“MJ?” he repeated. “Wait…you work? Like, here? Not back in California?”
You smirked. “I work here. Like, in New York,” you said with a familiar smile.
Peter’s eyes widened. “Wait! That means- that would mean you’re back?! For good?!”
You nodded. “Just graduated and I’m back.”
“Holy shit!” Peter laughed, pulling you in for a hug.
You wrapped your arms around him, careful not to spill your drink all over his clothes.
You were quickly overwhelmed with his scent, touch, and the feelings that you had long forgotten about in the past three years returned as if they had never gone away.
Your heart palpitated, face warming up.
Peter pulled away, eyes glancing over your features.
You looked good.
You had always looked good. But now…?
He was so stupid not to make a move three years ago or let alone catch onto the fact that you were undeniably into him.
“How have you been?” you asked casually.
Peter blinked, snapping out of his daze. “Oh, yeah, pretty good. You know, school, work, saving the city,” he said, the last part in a low tone.
You nodded slowly. “Yeah, my dad kinda hates you. Spider-Man, that is,” you whispered, leaning in a little closer to Peter, which made his breath hitch.
While he could dwell on how close you were to him, what you had just said registered. Peter rolled his eyes. “Tell me about it,” he groaned. “I saved his freaking life and all he does is berate me. He ran me over the other day!”
Peter expected you to be shocked, but you simply sipped on your drink and nodded. “Hmm, yeah, he told me about that too. He was pretty upset you just got right back up.”
Peter shook his head. “He’s lost his mind.”
“You say that as if this is a new revelation.”
Peter laughed, watching you finish the last of your drink. His nose scrunched. “What the hell are you drinking?”
You shrugged. “No idea. That guy gave it to me at the door,” you said, pointing at the same exact guy who gave Peter his drink.
Peter followed where your finger pointed. “Me too. This is disgusting,” he said, holding the drink out to you. “Want it?” Before you could respond, he yanked the cup away. “Wait! I spit it back out in here, don’t drink that. I’ll just finish it…I guess…” he trailed off. He lifted the drink to his lips, not wanting to be rude and waste what he presumed to be Ned’s alcohol.
Now you scrunched your nose. “Gross. Glad you remembered that because then we would’ve practically kissed,” you joked.
Peter coughed, spitting his drink back out into the cup yet again.
Your eyes widened as you watched him go into a coughing fit.
The thought of him kissing you, your soft lips on his, his hands on your waist, your hands on his shoulders…oh, that was enough to drive him mad.
He finally collected himself, laughing awkwardly. “Y-yeah…we would’ve uhm- we would’ve kissed…basically…”
“That was a joke,” you said slowly. “No need to get all nervous.”
Peter raised a brow. “Are you flirting with me?” he blurted out.
You tilted your head slightly. “Do you want me to?”
“No!” Peter shouted. “I- I mean, you don’t have to if you don’t want to. Like- I mean- if you want to then yeah, but like, I don’t- I mean…I wouldn’t say that I don’t want you to, but…”
You stared at Peter blankly for what felt like eternity.
“You’re really weird,” you finally said.
“Oh,” he said quietly. “Sorry,” he apologized, glancing down at his shoes.
You laughed softly. “It’s kinda cute. You know, you all flustered and what not.”
“Oh,” Peter laughed nervously, swallowing hard.
Why was he so flustered?
Did he always get this flustered around you?
Short answer, no.
“Wanna get out of here?” you asked, a mischievous smirk on your lips.
Peter’s lips pulled upward. “Yeah.”
And that’s how you ended up outside about forty stories in the air swinging from building to building. You held onto Peter tightly as he swung you across the city to the top of the building you two sat at for hours when you went to MIT.
Knees pulled to your chest, eyes staring at the skyline, you went on and on about the past three years of your life as Peter listened intently, a small smile on his lips.
“What about you?” you asked suddenly, turning towards him.
He raised a brow. “What about me?”
You smiled. “What have you been up to in the past three years?”
Peter shrugged, looking away. “Saving the city, school, work,” he said dryly, his past three years far less entertaining than yours.
Your expression softened. “That’s it?”
“Yeah,” Peter snorted. “It’s been kinda…lonely without you.”
“It hasn’t been that lonely,” you said, nudging his shoulder. “My dad is basically your coworker.”
“Like I said,” Peter said, giving you a deadpanned look. “Very lonely. No offense, but your dad is crazy. He needs to be put into a psych ward.”
You opened your mouth to say something, but stopped, shutting your mouth. “Maybe you’re right, but he’s still my dad.”
Frank was all you had, even as a kid. You were forever grateful that he took you under his wings. Everyone saw him as some scary monster, but to you, he was your dad. Your protector. The man who read you stories at night and made you laugh when you cried.
Peter huffed. “He’s still scary.”
You giggled, leaning back onto the palms of your hands. “I hear that more often than not.”
It was quiet for beat, the hum of the city below you filling your ears.
“So…” you trailed off. “Do you have a…Mrs. Spider-Man?” you asked.
Peter slowly turned towards you. “Mrs. Spider-Man?” he repeated.
You nodded. “Yeah.”
Peter’s lips pulled upward. “You mean do I have a girlfriend?”
“Or had,” you clarified. “You seem incredibly single to me.”
Peter nudged your shoulder lightly, making you laugh. “No, there wasn’t a Mrs. Spider-Man,” he said with a playful eye roll. “Do…you have a boyfriend?”
You raised your brows as you stared at him. “Me?”
“Yeah.”
“Hell no,” you laughed.
“Why not?” Peter asked, genuinely curious. “You’re really smart, and pretty and-”
He cut himself off, eyes wide. “I mean, you’re not pretty!”
“What…?”
“No! No you are! You’re really really really pretty! I just mean not like that.”
You raised a brow. “Like what?”
“Like, objectively speaking you’re attractive but I’m not saying that I’m attracted to you.” Peter’s face was now red. “But like, you are really pretty and I can see that, anyone can!”
You laughed. “You really are weird.”
Peter sighed, dropping his head in embarrassment. His heart couldn’t take it anymore. After living three painful years without you in his life, he realized that he hated what life looked like without you in it. And he hated even more the idea of being forced to just be your friend. “Can I tell you something?”
You nodded, turning to face him. “Sure.”
Peter hesitated, playing with his fingers as he stared at the skyline, trying to gather his thoughts. “These past couple of years without you have been…terrible,” he admitted. “I’ve missed you, like, a lot.”
His gaze lifted to look at you and the almost pleading look in his eye was enough to make your breath catch in your throat.
“And, I’ve realized something,” he said, voice wavering slightly, nerves coursing through his veins. “Our freshman year together was the longest I had been happy in a very long time. You reminded me what it was like to live again.”
Your expression softened.
“When you told me you were transferring, I thought that I could handle it, but I couldn’t,” he said. “Especially not when I’ve liked you for the longest time.”
Your heart dropped. “Peter…”
“I know you probably don’t like me back,” he said, looking away. “But I can’t keep it inside anymore. I’ve liked you ever since we were paired up for the project together and I was just too scared to say anything or do anything about it.”
“Peter-”
“And I know it’s been three years-”
“Peter-”
“This is honestly kind of embarrassing-”
“Peter-”
“I probably should’ve just told you three years ago because now I look like an idiot and-”
Peter stopped talking when you reached for his hand, squeezing it lightly.
“Peter,” you said softly. “Did you seriously think I was never into you?”
Peter blinked. “Were you?”
“Yes,” you laughed. “I still am. Why do you think I was always flirting with you?”
“I don’t know,” Peter shrugged. “I thought you had to be joking because there was no way in hell you would like me. And besides, you stopped after a while.”
“I stopped because I thought you weren’t interested,” you said.
“Oh…” Peter trailed off, his hand still tingling from where you were holding it.
It was quiet for a beat.
Peter slowly smiled and turned towards you. “Wait, you said you were still into me?” he asked like a complete dork.
You rolled your eyes, trying to suppress your smirk. “Don’t let that get to your head now.”
Peter hummed. “It already has.”
Peter’s fingers brushed a loose strand of hair out of your face, staring into your eyes as if they were the brightest constellation.
Your breath hitched as your eyes flickered down to his lips, his eyes glancing down to yours.
You both leaned in slowly, eyes fluttering shut as your lips met. Peter hummed in content, kissing you reverently.
You both pulled away, resting your foreheads on one another.
“My dad is gonna kill me,” you laughed.
“You or me?” Peter asked.
“Me. He thinks you’re a dork. Just don’t let him find out you’re Spider-Man because then he might actually kill you.”
Peter raised his brows. “How reassuring.”
You smiled and leaned in, kissing him again.
In the moment, your father’s reaction to finding out that you were dating the dork who he also subconsciously hated didn't matter.
All that mattered was that you had finally gotten with the boy you had long been attracted to.
𝓟eter 𝓟arker 𝒙 f!reader ⊹ ❛ fratboy!peter doesn't do condoms or pulling out ❜ 𖹭.ᐟ 2.1k wc. mdni. unprotected p in v. lowk manipulative!peter. creampie/breeding + mentioned risk of impreg. dirty talk + pet names + praise. prone bone position. alluded situationship between peter & reader. lowkey dubcon but reader fucks w it.
You hadn't exactly woken up that morning with the intention of sliding into frat king Peter Parker's bed (for the fourth time in two months, mind you), but that's exactly where you are now.
And, fuck, you can't even say you hate it or regret it—though you really wish you could say so.
You'd promised yourself after the third time that you'd stop. You wouldn't fall for his charming character, puppy-dog eyes, smooth words, or heaven-sent dick; actually, you'd ignore him, maybe even find someone else to help bite away at your sexual frustration for the remainder of your college years.
Someone safer, with far more respect for boundaries.
Because for as beautifully as Peter Parker fucked, for as skilled as he was with his hands, fingers, tongue, fucking everything—he had one glaring, impeding flaw.
He absolutely refused to use a condom.
"Don't have any," he'd murmured the first time you let him between your legs and asked the most obvious question of 'what about condoms?'
You almost shut it down there, but then he pinned you with those puppy-dog eyes, as if he knew what you were about to do, voice a husky whisper, "I'm sorry, I couldn't get any before you came over... is that okay?"
It wasn't. It shouldn't have been.
You should have made that crystal clear, or at least demanded he run to the nearest convenience store if he wanted to stick his cock in you—but you didn't.
You simply nodded, let that stupidly attractive little half-smile he gave you twist your heart, and proceeded to let him fuck your brains out, completely raw and bare. Let him pump his cum inside you and squeeze your throat a little as he did so, feeling your eyes roll at the way his tip smeared against your sensitive cervix in the most pleasurable way.
And even though you were nearly incoherent by the end of it, you were still able to stress that next time, he better have a damn condom.
And Peter smirked, pleased at the confirmation of a next time, and promised that he would have one.
Really, you probably should have seen that for what it was—a bold faced fucking lie. But he was a damn good liar, and they tend to twist even the most obvious of lies into something inherently believable.
Just as Peter had done the second time around.
On your back, legs splayed, lips locked with his and pussy positively buzzing from the promise of being stretched by that heavenly cock pressed against your cunt, you couldn't really register how faux it was when Peter leaned over and opened the bedside drawer, rummaging around inside it before popping up from your lips with a softly hissed, "shit."
"Wh-what is it?" you pressed breathlessly, eyes darting between Peter's tensed jaw and his hand still in the drawer. There was an ache where his lips had just been, an ache that begged to be soothed.
"The condoms," he half rushed, half groaned. "I swear to God I put them in here. They were there last night, I double checked—shit, I'm sorry, babe—maybe next time? I can't find them—"
You were stupid. So, so stupid. But you were so horny, so worked up from his lips and hands, that when Peter tried to push away from you, your hand shot out and caught his bicep.
"It's fine," you pushed out hurriedly. Peter's eyes snapped to you and his jaw unclenched, but his brows furrowed. "We can still—fuck, just don't worry about the condom. It's okay."
Had you been a little more clear headed, you may have been able to realize that weird gleam in his eye was actually the shine of victory, and not the puddle of concern you originally took it for when he asked if you were sure.
The first two times could be written off as you maybe being too gullible, but in a way that was acceptable; after all, Peter was able to hide his disdain for condoms pretty well.
The third time around? He didn't even try—maybe because he knew that by now, you were so hooked to his dick and the way he fucked you that he could get away with it.
And he wasn't entirely wrong. No, actually, he wasn't wrong at all.
That was evident in the way you were bouncing on his raw cock, taking him all the way to the hilt and rocking forward subtly before pulling up again, pulling soft groans and hissed curses from his lips. Rinse and repeat.
And he's just watching you, eyes sharp like a hawk, reveling in the way you unravel for him, a small smirk on his lips because even though you'd been so adamant for 'protection' at the door, you folded so easy.
A few slick words, soft phrases, sultry touches, an easy lie of he 'can't feel anything through them and he really, really wants to feel you, baby', and one look at his dick and you went wild, forgetting all about pesky condoms in exchange for mind-numbing pleasure.
Thank every god in every universe that you weren't fertile during any of those hookups; otherwise you'd definitely be carrying a miniature Peter Parker right now—which wasn't in your books, at all.
You couldn't say the same about this time. Which is why you shouldn't even be here, face down, hips lifted, moaning into a pillow that smells of Dior Sauvage and fresh linen fabric refreshner while you're railed into next week.
You hadn't even meant for it to happen; it wasn't on your agenda for the day.
But when you ran into Peter, his hair freshly trimmed, top shirt buttons popped to expose just enough of his chest, smelling of the same cologne you're currently huffing from his pillow now—well, your ovulating self couldn't fucking say no when he invited you to his place.
And, again, you can't even feel any regret. Because it's everything you'd been craving for the last few days; rough, feral sex, with your face pressed into fabric and your pussy fucked open so deliciously.
God, in this position, Peter feels even bigger than normal. His tip smashes into your cervix with every long, deep thrust, and the subtle upward curve of his cock allows him to slide right against that spot inside you over and over and over—holy fuck!
"Fuuck, Peter—mmm—easy—" you choke out, words slightly muffled by the pillow and nearly drowned out by harsh slaps of flesh. Your pussy is fluttering around him, so sloppy and drooly and that you can hear every single squelch of his cock splitting open your walls.
And Peter fucking loves it. Can't shut up about it, actually.
"Goddamn, jus' listen to that pussy," you can hear the smirk on his lips. "So fuckin' wet, isn't she? You been thinking about me, baby? I think you have been. Prolly been thinkin' about this dick messing you up since last Tuesday, huh?"
'Shut the fuck up,' is what you want to say, but all that comes out is a garbled, lewd moan when Peter thrusts just right, effectively clearing your head and crossing your eyes.
"Hah, shit—pussy's too fuckin' good today. So wet 'an tight, sucking me so fuckin' good... Damn, girl—you might make me bust soon." Peter drawls, big hands grasping the globes of your ass and spreading them just so, so he can watch as his cock spears into your sweet cunny.
Sharp panic slices through your fucked-out head at his filthy words.
"No, don't—! Ahh—y-you have to pull out, Peter—can't—not inside t-this time."
With your head down, you can't see the harsh scowl that mars Peter's face when you say the words 'pull out.' Peter's fingers dig ever so subtly into the flesh of your ass, almost as if he's giving you a small punishment for suggesting such a thing.
"Relax, babe, I ain't that close." Peter scoffs, though the sharp twinge in his balls tells him otherwise.
He wasn't lying when he said your pussy is too fucking good today—wetter than usual, with fluid so sticky-slick that it forms strings that connect his smooth abdomen to your thighs and ass every time he pulls his hips back.
Not to mention how hot it was inside you, metaphorically and literally. It felt like Peter was fucking into the physical form of lava, sans the literal melting. And the way you clamped around his cock? Fuck, it was enough to have his head rolling back and eyes crossing.
Peter isn't some prebuscent, acne-addled fifteen year old with sub-par sex education; he knows exactly what your current state means.
And it is so fucking hot, knowing that every thrust of his leaking cock into your depths runs the risk of impregnating you with his spawn.
You, however, don't seem to share his enthusiasm for it. Your fingers twist in his sheets, and you nearly try to crawl from him, "'m serious, Peter—y-you need to pull out, I fucking mean it—"
His thrusts turn a little rougher, more pointed, slamming into your sweet spots with the sole intention of getting you to shut up.
"I get it. I'll pull out, Jesus." Peter hisses, and it's enough. You melt back into the pillow, eyes fluttering and moans spilling into the fabric, nearly drooling from the sudden abuse to your g-spot.
It feels so fucking good that you quickly lose yourself, your fertility completely melting from your brain in favor of jumbled thoughts of fuck, he's so big, he's fucking me up, harder, faster, fucking use me, I'm gonna come—
"Fuck, do you even know how fuckin' pretty you sound—mmmm, fuuuck!—saying shit like that?" Peter suddenly cuts off your string of thoughts—no, words—cock kicking up inside your mushy walls. "I'd swear you're tryin' to make me come with that shit."
You can't even be mortified by it. You feel too good, and there's that familiar knot building inside you. Every slide of his cock into you just tightens it, his grunts and groans just adding more pressure to something that's already almost too heavy.
Fuck, you just want to come. Scratch that. You need to come; all over his glorious fucking cock that's fucking you so good.
"Then do it, baby. Yeah, c'mon, you can do it—wanna feel you, sweetheart. Jus' give it t'me, fuck—"
Peter re-positions, one hand planting itself on the bed beside your head for stability, and your muffled moans morph into something far more pornographic.
He's hitting you so impossibly deep now, like he's trying to break through to your womb—and when he slides his arm down and around your neck for the leverage to fuck you back on him, you lose it.
Your squeal of 'cooooomingg—' gets swallowed by praises from Peter when your pussy clenches around him, gushing up his cock and soaking your cum into his mattress.
"Yesyes, good girl—fuck, mhmm—keep comin', baby, c'mon—let it out, pretty girl, I've got you—fuck, y'feel so good coming around my dick like that."
Normally, Peter would fuck you nice and deep through the waves, kiss your skin and lap the sweat, pepper you with praises and hold you until the high cleared out and you stopped trembling—but right now, he didn't have the patience for it.
Feeling you come was the catalyst for his own undoing, and his hips moved on their own. Fast, short strokes that put most of the friction around his sensitive tip, and before Peter knew it, his lips were next to your ear and he was almost there—
"Gonna come," he squeezes out, and when you start to sputter he tacks on, "fuck, I'll pull out, I remember—hah, oh fuck, baby, s'good, almost—ungh—shit, okay, I don't think I can—'m'sorry, you're gonna have to take it, okay?"
Peter can't really decipher your little half hearted protests through the white static in his ears.
"Fuck, coming! Take it, baby, shhhh—no, no—s'okay, baby... yeah, fuck, milkin' me s'good... 'm fillin' up your pretty pussy, baby—yeah, it feels so good, doesn't it? Yeah, your body wants this, I know it does."
As always, Peter isn't even wrong. Your pussy is slurping up his cum gladly, practically wrenching it towards your womb; and the heat of it is enough to have your gut sparking with sharp arousal. You're really not even that concerned about the risk anymore. It feels too good to be concerned about it.
As for Peter? He wasn't even a little concerned to begin with. He was at peace with his decision—after all, there's a reason you're the only girl he's ever raw-dogged before in his life.
a/n: um, acc idk abt this one.. its my first attempt at like, putting more depth into my smut?? if that makes sense?? critiques would honestly be so so so appreciated bcs by golly i've never written smth like this and i feel outta my depth 😭
tag𝓵ist @mayhemi @triciawritesstuff @therealcap @vannyswims @fawnphile @she1983 @ynstark @emmiegirl @jaydennicole @meeemuirs @hyacinthusflowernymph @knowleeyo if i forgot to add u, or if u would like to be added/removed pls lmk! ♡
⭐︎ warnings: nsfw, smut, college setting, inaccurate depictions of arachnology and entomology, established relationships, fluff, rough p in v, porn little plot, breeding kink, mask stays on, dirty talk, inappropriate use of webs (bdsm), soft dom!peter
⭐︎ word count: 4.2k
⭐︎ a/n: this literally came to me in a vision right before bed and i woke up like a sleeper agent and got to work. kinda proofread so we kinda die like men
synopsis:
You're an overworked entomology student trying to finish a report on spiders and their mating cycles. At the same time, Peter Parker is undergoing strange, ravenous arachnid changes in his body. Lucky for you, Peter also happens to be your boyfriend.
← previous fic | marvel masterlist
Another rainy evening results in you staying cooped up in your dorm, eyes heavy despite being dosed up on caffeine, the warm lamp light on your desk ghosting over your laptop screen and papers in a golden blur.
It’s that point in the semester where the weather is getting colder, the stakes are getting higher, and everyone is cramming to memorize fifteen weeks of school work in one night. For you, an Entomology major, your current ball and chain is a thoroughly written report on arachnids, their mating cycles, and their habits.
The sound of the rain thumping against your windowsill makes it hard to focus. But it’s not just the rain that tears away your attention—it’s the fact that your boyfriend, Peter, is out doing God knows what on his exam night. He assured you he would be back no later than ten, but one quick glance at the clock tells you he’s late. It reads 12:45 AM.
You’re eager to reach for your phone and shoot a quick call to Evie, but you try your best to resist so you don’t get in the way of his typical superhero duties. As the minutes tick by and your daunting report burns bright on your screen, your worry gives way.
With a sigh, you sit up straight in your chair and snatch your phone. As you’re dialing his suit, a hard crash against the window makes you gasp and jolt in your seat.
As if he knew you were about to call, Peter is right there.
He quickly slides your window open and sneaks in smoothly—drenched in rain and panting hard.
“Christ, Peter!” You try to will away the adrenaline from the scare. “You told me you’d be back at ten. I was just about to call you—”
Peter nearly collapses over your desk as he tries to hold himself up, scattering your research papers. Normally, you’d give him a lecture for messing up your study station, but as worry washes over you, you don’t even glance at the pages you’ve slaved over for the past twenty-four hours.
“Peter? Peter, look at me—what happened?” you hurry over to him, your hands cupping his cheeks through his mask.
His suit is soaked through, cold rain pooling on the floor, but despite the chill, his body radiates a feverish, unnatural heat. His breathing comes in hard pants and desperate gulps. He rips his gloves off harshly and tears at the neck of his suit.
“I—I don’t know,” he rasps, his voice strained as if he’s trying to swallow down a growl. “Something’s wrong. I—I’ve been feeling like this for days, and I thought it was just a fever—but then I started producing my own webs, and I—”
“Okay, okay, just breathe. Help me get you down.”
You wrap one arm around his waist and guide him toward your bed, but the contact makes him hiss sharply, as if your touch hurts him. You quickly help him undress out of the rest of the suit, eager to examine him for any injuries.
He lies before you in just his underwear—and as you scan Peter’s muscular frame, you notice nothing unusual except for a strange pulsing in the veins at his wrists.
“Peter,” you frown, eyeing him up and down to make sure you haven’t missed anything. “You’re not injured—are you?”
“No,” he reassures through ragged breaths. “No, I’m not injured—it’s just—I don’t know, everything feels so warm and I—”
“Here, let me help you remove your mask.”
Without warning, you lean over his body and reach for the hem of his mask at the base of his neck. He gasps sharply the moment your fingers graze his hot skin. “No! Don’t touch it!”
His hand shoots out and clasps your wrist tightly, making you wince. He has never grabbed you like that before.
Peter, realizing what he’s done, loosens his grip on your wrist just slightly.
“Crap—I’m sorry. I just… don’t remove it, okay?” He pants heavily. “My eyes—they’re pitch black. I’ve never had this happen before, and I don’t want to scare you.”
A line creases between your brows in worry. “I could never be scared of you.”
“I know, I know,” he sucks in a deep breath, the pillows rustling as he turns his head toward you. You can’t see his face, but his voice betrays his pained expression. “Please don’t remove it. Not yet.”
“But what if you’re injured?”
“If I had a head injury, I would tell you.”
You search the white lenses of his mask, but eventually, you give in with an exasperated sigh and slowly lower your hand from his neck. Peter doesn’t let go of your wrist; he intertwines his clammy fingers with yours.
With a solemn expression, you cup your free palm over his knuckles while holding his hand.
“Peter, what’s happening to you?” you ask softly, kneeling beside him at the edge of the bed.
He swallows hard, his neck flushing a deep, embarrassing shade of red where his mask pulled up.
“It’s hard to explain,” he stammers, his lenses focusing on the ceiling of your warmly lit dorm room. “For the past few days, my body’s been feeling restless. It’s like every single instinct I have is screaming at me to do something, but my brain couldn’t figure out what.”
His hand—the one that isn’t holding yours—clenches into a fist, the veins and muscles in his forearm popping with frustration.
“And then tonight,” he continues in almost a bashful whisper, “I started producing my own webs. Like Peter Two did—” He turns to you real quick. “You remember Peter Two, right?”
You nod. He looks back up at the ceiling.
“Anyway, the webs weren’t strong enough to control at all. It felt… almost painful. It wouldn’t stop spurting out. There’s also this feeling in my gut— like I’m hungry.”
The white lenses of his mask narrow in embarrassment. “And I don’t mean for food,” he mutters, shifting his hips awkwardly until the bed creaks. “My body was screaming at me to come back to you. To feel your touch, to hear your voice… and now that you’re here, my skin burns every time you touch me, but I don’t want you to stop. I feel like I’d die if you did.”
You hum softly, your fingers stroking over his knuckles as your eyes rake over his body once more. Without even looking at you, Peter can feel the weight of your gaze—and fuck, it’s heavy. You’re his girlfriend, and you’ve seen him through all his ups and downs, but for some reason, this feels completely different.
His body is tense, his skin is burning hot, and his heart is beating erratically. The longer you stare at him, the longer you stroke your fingers against his hand, the more he feels an unmistakable ache in his groin.
Before he knows it, his underwear begins to tighten, revealing a prominent, pulsing bulge right in front of you—begging for your touch to move from his hands to somewhere much lower.
You swallow hard, your face heating up instantly at his size.
Your mind—trained by months of endless lectures, lab practicals, and late-night readings—slowly begins connecting the dots. The feverish body temperature, the blacked-out eyes, the hyper-fixation on your presence, his restlessness, the involuntary production of silk, the sudden surge of physical arousal—it isn’t just a random mutation spike.
It’s textbook arachnid behavior. It also happens to be exactly what you’re writing your report on right now.
“Peter,” you try your best to pry your eyes away from the space between his legs. “You’re in an ultimate molt cycle.”
Through the white lenses of his mask, he squints at you in confusion. “A... a what?”
“Ultimate molt,” you repeat, pushing yourself off the floor so you’re sitting at the edge of the bed. “In mature male spiders, the final molt signals sexual maturity. Their bodies undergo a massive physiological shift. They stop eating, their metabolic rate and temperature skyrocket, and their brain gets overtaken with one goal in mind.”
Peter swallows hard. “And what’s that?”
“Um,” you say, sheepish. “Reproduction.”
His head slumps back onto the pillow with a small thud. “Oh, God.” He shuts his eyes, trying to steady his breathing. “I’m pretty sure you’ve explained this to me before.”
You squint at him. “I did. During the beginning of the semester. I also told you this was something you should keep in mind—but you insisted that none of it actually applied to you.”
Peter doesn’t say anything, but you can already see the smug grin sitting behind his mask.
“Anyway,” you quickly glance down at his erection before continuing. “When a male reaches this stage, his silk glands change. He builds what’s called a sperm web—a small, specialized sheet of silk where he deposits his genetic material so he can charge his pedipalps.”
“English, please.”
You roll your eyes. “Your body is trying to build a sperm web, Peter. Your spider DNA is hitting its final maturation phase, and your bloodstream is swimming with reproductive hormones.”
“And the only way to fix it is by…” Peter drawls.
He already knows the answer, but the way he dances around the words makes it clear he’s trying to get you to admit it out loud. You can’t believe that even in such a vulnerable situation, he still manages to find a way to tease you.
“Having sex,” you finish, a shy expression creeping onto your face.
A silence settles between the two of you—a silence filled with so much tension that most people wouldn’t consider it “normal” for a couple.
The few times you and Peter had sex, it was gentle, intimate, and respectful. It always involved him whispering sweet nothings into your ear and making sure your pleasure came first. Even without saying it aloud, you both know that if you were to do it right now, it would be entirely different. Peter isn’t even sure he could control himself.
You clear your throat, trying to break the tension.
“Well—that’s what I’ve been writing my research paper on. Male spiders can get extremely aggressive at this point in their lives, so scientists are trying to find remedies that don’t require a female partner,” you explain, slowly prying your hand away from his and standing up from the bed. “If I check my references, I might be able to find something that can help you—”
Peter’s whole body tenses. With your touch gone for even a millisecond, he feels like he’s starving. Before you can step away, he stops you with a firm grip around your wrist.
“No,” he breathes roughly. “Get back here.”
With a harsh tug, he pulls you back down onto the mattress. “If having sex is what’ll solve this,” Peter rasps in a low, hungry voice, “then that’s what we’re going to do.”
Warmth spreads rapidly across your face and down your neck. You look down at him, reaching to gently cup the side of his masked jaw. He shudders.
“Peter… look at me,” you whisper softly, your voice trembling just a bit. “I’m always going to want to help you. Always. But… is this something you actually want?”
Peter’s body tenses—not because of anything you said, but because your touch feels like throwing gasoline onto a roaring flame.
“More than anything,” he breathes out, his hand blanketing yours to keep it there. “Every cell in my body is begging for you.”
His white lenses stay locked on your eyes as his hands move down to his waist. Even just lying in his underwear, he feels restricted. Contained. His body screams at him to get rid of it. He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers and shoves them down his legs, kicking them aside.
Freed from the restraint, his length springs heavy and hard against his lower stomach, so swollen it looks almost painful. The dark tip is already glistening, leaking a clear, hot bead of pre-cum. His whole body twitches at the release of pressure, a low groan escaping his throat as he guides your hand down to his hip.
You’ve touched him plenty of times, but tonight, even the simplest graze of your fingertips feels like nothing he’s ever experienced before.
“It hurts so bad,” he whimpers behind his mask. “Please… I need you to ride it.”
His cock twitches, his balls sitting heavy and full between his legs. You swallow hard, clenching your thighs together. You’ve never ridden him before, and the thought of doing it now—when he needs it most—makes you feel self-conscious.
“Peter, I’ve… I’ve never—”
“I know,” he reassures, though his voice strains painfully, like he’s fighting to hold back. “Just try your best, okay? I know your body can take it. I can smell how wet you are.”
His spider sense is buzzing violently. He can hear the uneven thump of your heartbeat, feel the heat radiating off your skin, and smell the scent of your arousal filling the air—sweet and intoxicating, driving every instinct in his blood wild.
His masked head tilts up, white lenses expanding slightly as he watches you straddle his hips.
Hovering over him, you reach for the hem of your shirt. You pull it over your head and cast it aside, followed by your sleep shorts, until you’re straddling him in just your underwear.
Peter lets out a trembling exhale. His large hand wraps around the base of his cock, his hot fingers closing tight over himself. He begins to stroke lazily—up and down in long drags that make his hips roll for more. The wet slicking noise of his pre-cum against his palm echoes in the quiet room.
“Fuck,” he groans. Through the white lenses of his mask, you can tell his gaze is glued to you, tracing every curve, watching every move. “Look at you… you’re so pretty.”
Emboldened by how much of an effect you have on him, you discard your panties, baring yourself completely. You settle yourself back over his hips, positioning yourself right above him. Peter’s hand rests at his base, holding his cock steady as he watches you slowly lower your body until the tip presses against the tightness of your entrance.
A choked, almost sobbing sound breaks from his throat.
Control yourself, Peter tries to remind himself. He thought he had it handled, but his senses are louder than ever—telling him to grab your waist and drive you down in one ruthless pull.
“Oh, God,” he curses, tossing his head back against the pillows as you sink deeper.
You stop halfway, your face flashing with worry. “Is this hurting you?” you ask. “We can stop.”
Peter feels like he’s going insane. His hands fist the blankets beneath him, because he doesn’t trust himself to touch you right now.
“No,” he hisses. “It only hurts because I’m not inside yet. Don’t stop. All the way in, baby. You’re almost there.”
You take a deep breath, resting your hands flat on his broad chest to steady yourself. You push your hips down, taking the remaining inch of his girth until your hips flush against his. The stretch is dizzying, making your heart take flight in your chest.
Peter’s cock sheathes hot inside you, twitching as it savors every surface of your tight walls.
You can’t make out his expression past the mask, but from the way his head is thrown back and the veins pop in his forearms as he grips the bedsheets, it’s clear he’s about to lose his mind. You tilt your head back with a soft breathy sigh, letting your hips roll against his in a slow, testing rhythm.
The movement alone drives his heightened senses over the edge.
Whatever thin thread of restraint Peter was clinging to snaps entirely.
With a sharp hiss, his hands shoot out from the tangled sheets. His large hot palms slam against your bare hips, his long fingers digging into your skin with an inescapable grip—holding you tightly in place as his primal instincts take over.
“I can’t—I can’t wait,” he rasps painfully. “I’m sorry, baby, I need it now—”
Without giving you time to answer, his hips snap upward in a ruthless thrust that sends a gasp flying from your lips. Before you can even catch your breath, he sets a punishing pace from underneath you, using his grip on your waist to guide your body up and down his length in hard, unrelenting pistons.
The wet slap of skin meeting skin echoes loudly through your dorm room. You feel his chest heaving against your hands while the white lenses hide the obsession behind his pitch-black eyes. It’s a good thing he kept the mask on—because with the way his cock is kissing your womb, he knows his eyes are crazed.
“Oh, God! Peter!” You cry out, your tits bouncing with every upward thrust of his hips.
“Fuck—fuck, you feel so tight,” Peter groans.
He lifts his hips, bridging his back so he can thrust deeper, angling his length so every hard drive grinds right up against your most sensitive spot. Your vision swims as he ravages you from the inside, a tight, coiled pressure building deep in your lower belly.
The pleasure is overwhelming, yet it’s still not enough for him. His cock needs to drive even deeper—until your wetness coats his entire length from tip to base, until both of your juices combine into a thick sheen right where his brunette curls rest at his pelvis.
He wants to make a mess out of you, to see you crying his name and begging to be filled.
Filled up…
The idea of it makes Peter go crazy.
Peter sits up fast, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you to his chest before you can even blink. Your positions are flipped as he hovers over you from behind.
His knees bracket your thighs while his chest presses flush against your spine. You gasp at the sudden shift, his hands wrapping firmly around your hips to pull you back against his cock as he aligns himself once more.
“Peter—” you cry out, your voice muffled into the mattress. It smells just like him.
“Stay right there,” he growls into your neck, his hot breath searing your skin. “Don’t move.”
He’s got you in a perfect position—face down, ass up, completely bared and vulnerable for mating.
He’s never had you in such a vulgar position before—all of your lovemaking before was face to face so he could see every whimper and tear that spills. But in this position, the angle is even deeper. Your back arches perfectly. His cock finds your entrance again, and with how wet you are, he finds no trouble burying his cock all the way back inside you, a harsh grunt breaking from his throat as your tight walls clamp around him. His hands dig into your hips, locking you in place as he begins to pound into you from behind with a speed he’s never used on you before.
“Oh!” you cry into the pillow.
Every thrust pushes you forward into the sheets, the wet, slapping sound of his hips against yours filling the air alongside his groans.
“I feel so backed up,” he grunts so quietly, it’s like he’s speaking to himself. “This feels so good—gonna dump it all inside you. Make me feel better.”
Peter’s balls slap against your folds, obscenely hot and heavy. It’s in this moment that you realize what exactly this is. He has you in the same position you’ve seen in countless textbooks during your studies.
During spider mating, the male must align his pedipalps with the female’s epigyne for a successful sperm transfer.
Peter is going to breed you.
A low growl escapes him when his cock hits a particularly sensitive spot. Your walls, tight and rubbing against the underside of his cock, drive him insane, his muscles tensing as he throws his head back in pleasure. He’s sweating profusely under the mask, almost making it harder to breathe, but he doesn’t care. His body screams for something else, and as his cock pistons in and out of you, accompanied by your moans and cries of his name, he feels himself getting close.
His girth makes your eyes roll back, an overwhelming cry tearing from your throat. Instinctively, you scramble your legs and arms for purchase, trying to get into a more suitable position, but in Peter’s blacked-out eyes, he thinks you’re running away.
A disapproving groan vibrates in his chest as one hand releases your hip to grab your wrists, pinning them behind your back. His legs wrestle against yours to keep them still from behind. Then, he shoots out a web—an organic, self-made web that slings around your wrists like a band, and then another to keep your ankles pinned, effectively keeping you in place.
“Almost there,” Peter grunts, his sweaty chest pressing up against your bare back as he ruts into you. “You’re doing so good for me, baby. God—my balls are so full, I needed this. Just stay like that—let me fill you up.”
His hand moves to the back of your neck, his palm resting gently over your nape to press your head into the pillow.
“You’re trapped,” he rasps, his voice deep and gravelly. You have never heard him talk to you like this before, and the filth of it makes your body clench with desire. “Look at you… bound up, completely wide open for me. You can’t get away.”
His hips snap forward to bottom out inside you, it makes your heels twitch against the web binding your ankles.
“You’re gonna take all of it,” Peter grunts, the words coming in shallow bursts against the shell of your ear. “Every single drop. I’m gonna flood you so deep you’ll feel me inside you for days… make sure everyone knows you belong to me. My sweet, beautiful mate…”
The biological urge to plant his seed, to mark you, and to fill you until you overflow turns his pace crazed.
The wet slapping of his pelvis against your rear sings like a song in the room, mixing with the strained, needy whines escaping your throat. His cock swells inside you, pulsing and stretching your walls to their limit. It’s more than you can take, and you feel yourself getting close.
“Peter—! I’m—I’m going to—” you cry out, your chest heaving against the bed.
“Come for me,” he commands, his fingers tightening gently on your neck as his thrusts turn short, vicious, and frantic. “Clench around my cock and take it. Breeding you, baby… I’m breeding you.”
Your mind is hazy with an overwhelming sense of desire. His words, the position—it’s like a whole new side of Peter you never knew existed, and your body is enjoying every second of it.
You cry out his name, your body twitching as your pussy clenches around his shaft, milking him for every drop. Peter’s muscles pull taut at the sensation, his forehead pressing into your damp shoulder blade as his balls draw tight against your entrance.
One pulse, then another, and your womb fills with his cum.
Thick, scorching floods of semen pump deep into your core. Spurt after heavy spurt fills you past your capacity, the force of his release so strong his entire frame shakes violently, his breathing erratic as he buries his face in the crook of your neck.
His instincts move his body on command. Just like a spider aligning with the epigyne, he pulls out quickly and spins you around so your back hits the mattress. He spreads your legs, positioning himself between them as his cock slaps heavy against your lower belly, letting the rest of his cum seep onto your skin.
He groans incoherently as he watches his body mark you, holding himself at the base and smearing his seed over your stomach with his tip.
He stays above you for a long moment until you both catch your breath. Finally, he sits back on his knees.
His cock, now half-limp, slaps against his stomach lazily as a trickle of his seed drips down your inner thigh and lower belly. He slumps onto the mattress, but wastes no time pulling you in close against his chest.
He doesn’t even know where to begin. He’s never allowed himself to take you so vulgarly—almost monstrously. Now, he’s terrified of removing the mask; he doesn’t want you to see the burning shame etched on his features.
Peter’s hands cradle your back, his chin resting gently against your sweaty temple. He tries to muster up an apology, maybe say something along the lines of, “I don’t know what took over me.” Because truthfully, he didn’t.
But then your laugh comes first—soft, raspy, and utterly spent.
“You know what female spiders do to their partners after they’ve finished mating?” you ask into his neck.
Peter stiffens. “What?”
“They eat them.”
Peter tries to remember if you had anything to eat before he got here. “Oh.”
📝 idk what to say. if you've read my first peter parker fic, i felt like i just put on an evil mask because this is a complete 180 twist from my last story. again, i only proofread like half of it and got lazy, so i apologize for any mistakes !!
if you've made it this far, as always thank you so much for taking the time to read my work. interactions are always appreciated, I love reading every bit of them!
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summary: peter’s new arachnid senses often leave him disoriented—hibernating and waking up in places he doesn’t recognise. it’s a small problem, one he's willing to deal with on his own, till he wakes in your apartment with his arms wrapped around you.
pairing: peter parker x reader
content: no bnd movie spoilers (feel free to read if you haven't seen bnd), FLUFF, clingy! peter parker, comfort, light banter, arachnid! peter, peter goes through it, yearning
Peter hates most of the new developments that arrived with the enhanced levels of his arachnid half—and migraines are definitely top of the list. Particularly the ones that start early in the morning, muffling his senses and rendering him a zombie slob for the entire start of the day. He stirs in his sleep, a soft, pounding ache burrowed in the back of his skull. It's an irritating sensation, one he's already grown familiar with, worsening the overheating, the sensitivity that comes with his overloaded senses, the pull of nerves behind his eyeballs.
His nose burrows deeper into a comforting scent, arms tightening around something soft. Letting out a dragged sigh, low against his throat, the pain fades into something barely noticeable. A sort of relaxed relief that hasn't hit him in years, with his entire body growing slack and heavy, the kind that only comes after a restful sleep. One he hasn't achieved since—his gaze peers open, blinking heavily as his eyes adjust to his surroundings.
The first thing he catches sight of is a familiar bundled sight of hair, and the curve of a shoulder. He must be dreaming. The sunlight stings the sensitivity of his eyes, and he blinks harsher in an effort to recollect himself. His brows furrow as he loosens a hand, parting from his tight grip to run his fingers gently over the loosened hair.
He wasn't dreaming. Somehow, he was laying in your bed, hugging you like an oversized koala.
"What?" He mumbles, the word falling soft out of his cotton mouth.
You stir slightly in response to the grazing of his touch, and it kicks Peter-Tingle on high-alert that this was not a figment of his imagination. He's quick to un-hand you, scooting backwards towards the edge—and tumbling harshly onto the floorboards with a loud thump, snatching the sheets with him.
The noise echoes in his eardrums, curls splaying out over the floorboards, and Peter is completely frozen. In absolute cold, drowning terror, he watches you stir fully, turning around and stretching at your limbs—a dissatisfied frown perched in your lips at the sudden loss of warmth.
What has he done?
"Spider-Man?" You mumble, voice groggy, almost muffled as your nose dips deeper into the pillow, the one he occupied seconds ago.
Your gaze finally peers open, one palm coming to rub at your undereyes—before meeting his own widened, nearly terrified expression.
"You're awake." You state, as if his existence within the walls of your apartment is a daily, common occurrence. Even if he hasn’t stepped foot into his most favourite apartment, in years. "Hm, you've got brown eyes, who would've thought?"
Why is he here? Why are you so calm about this?
“I’m—so, so sorry.” His words fumble over each other, ears reddened at the tips. Feeling awfully exposed, he wraps his arms around his knees as he lifts himself into a sitting position, caving in on himself as he averts his gaze. “I don’t know why—or how—oh god. Was I hugging you? How did I even—I’m so sorry, I swear I have no clue on how I ended up here.”
Worse, he wasn't wearing a mask. Or much of anything really, aside from an old t-shirt, and Hello Kitty shorts that barely fit his thighs. As his fingers grip at the edge of the shirt, running over the hem, it hits him that these are his clothes. Ones he never stole back from your place, that he had merely assumed was lost to time.
Nothing could have prepared him for this situation, no prep-time or warnings from E.V.I.E.. He didn't have the protection of being Spider-Man and the mask that's become his second skin. No, he had landed bottom-first as bare-faced, shell-shocked Peter.
"You really don't remember how you got here?" You question, lashes fluttering shut as you struggle to stir awake. "Damn, I was wondering if you could tell me."
"No—I swear, I completely blacked out." He scrambles for a response. "Next thing I knew, I was in your bed—I can't believe I just said that."
Running a hand past the bridge of his nose, he hides pathetically behind his fingers, his best attempt of a mask against the chaotic churn of nerves bundling through his gut. He had promised to keep you safe by staying as far away as he could—aside from the daily checking of your social media pages and the occasional swing down your usual coffee shop just to see if your favourite order remained the same, but this? How was he ever going to forgive himself for it?
He hears shuffling, in the normal sense and not the heightened echoes he’s used to ever since his arachnid side started spinning out of control. Strangely, his senses have been dialed down to normal since he regained consciousness—and he can’t dumb it down to just a good rest. It has to be cause of you.
His lashes flutter against the pads of his fingers as he meets your gaze through the gaps. You face him head-on, sitting cross legged right in front of him, head tilted in innocent curiosity.
“You’re a cuddler.” You hum in acknowledgment.
He was genuinely going to be the first Spider-person to ever die of shame, not that he's met many, but he's sure Peter 1 and Peter 2 have never unknowingly climbed into the bed of their special someone because they couldn't control their own DNA evolution. A low sound escapes his throat, clenched through his teeth—completely at a lost for words.
He has no clue on what he’s supposed to do, not when there's no routine or steps to fall back on. Be Spider-Man (Mask's gone). The man the city actually wanted (One who preferably doesn't have panic attacks wearing Hello Kitty pants). Stay far away from his previous life (Scored a huge FAIL here). Get flowers for May (Done). Scroll through your social media pages (..Done). Feel the thrumming vibrations of the washing machine after patrols (Skipped, was too nauseous). Rinse and repeat.
There’s no coming back from this, and it wasn’t even in his control. He hadn’t meant to find you. The last thing he could recall before passing out in his apartment was—he had just wanted to go home. He swore that was all he intended.
“Hey.” Your voice, soft and warm, finally coaxes him out of his thoughts. He hadn’t even realised just how tight he had been clenching his eyes shut—as his gaze takes a few seconds to adjust back into colour with you in his full view.
Slowly and gently, your own fingers raise to pry his away from his face. He’s sure he has hand marks all over his skin, but you look at him with such a soft expression—he nearly keens.
“I got you. You're safe.” You reassure, repeating it as a mantra. “You’re safe here.”
His Adam’s apple bobs harshly, and he feels the tightening of his chest nearly burst at the seams. God, he missed you. All he wanted was to hug you, and tell you he was sorry—for all of it. That he hadn’t gone a single day without wanting to hear your voice, to be exactly where he was right now—that this was all he needed if he wasn’t so weak. If he wasn’t cursed.
“Sorry.” That’s all that comes out, a croak in his voice that he failed to swallow back.
Your lips quirk into a soft smile, and you look like home. He feels his muscles physically deflate in tension at the sight, something no inhibitor or invention could ever replicate. His life has been spinning out of control, and you've just set the needle aside without even blinking.
“You’re all good, Spidey.” Your voice is warm, comforting. “Aside from hogging the blankets, it wasn’t half-bad for my first sleepover with a vigilante.”
His lips part, a laugh caught in his throat—half shattered, half hopeful.
“Could you—I don’t know, explain to me what happened?” He raises his hands, gesturing to your apartment. “I can’t believe I lost control—I don’t remember anything.”
Your lips part, a small grin tucked between your lips. "If you insist."
A loud crash resounds behind you, kick-starting your frightened senses. Head whipping to the window, you spot your window ledge shoved half-way with brutal force, and a body covered in deep reds and blues on your wooden floorboards.
"Holy shit." You mutter to yourself, skillet pan still in hand, the oil coating its surface bubbling into tiny pops.
Spider-Man is in your living room. Spider-Man is spread out across your floorboards, seemingly knocked out cold, in your apartment.
Another sizzling pop snaps you out of your stump, and you realise the collapsed vigilante is your responsibility. Your fingers fumble to switch off your stove with a click, skillet haphazardly placed over the stove burner—apron still hanging around your neck as you rush towards the body. God, you hope it wasn't an actual body.
"Spider-Man?" You call out tentatively, and you're struck by how his body moves in response, the stretch of his back with that familiar logo disappearing to reveal a mop of dark brown curls.
He wasn't wearing a mask. You didn't know what you expected from a hero who seemed nearly indestructible on the news, even when in the process of being smashed into buildings by tanks, but Spider-Man looks much younger than you expected, ahead of you by at most a couple years—bearing a youth that is almost frightening.
He certainly did look battered. Bruises littered his cheek, as if he had slammed himself into bricks or concrete on the way, before he had landed himself in your apartment. Dark circles pooled as a dark shadow under his eye-bags, and his hair was a wet, clumped mess from the rain.
You didn't know where to begin—if you were even allowed to touch him to check if he's hurt, or to call a professional. Did the professionals even know who he was, of his true identity? What if you doomed New York City's most beloved vigilante to his fate, just because you made the wrong call?
Your knees meet carpet, hands trembling in indecision and nerves, coming to rest on his shoulder. At your touch, a hiss escapes his lips and you immediately snatch your hand back, clutching it at the wrist. Who were you kidding, you were the last person equipped to save a person's life—much less a hero's.
You rise halfway, head swinging around to locate your phone—when you feel an insistent pull of your apron, tripping you back to land on the carpet.
"Don't go." He whispers.
Your gaze snaps back to his face, and find his eyes open. Or at least, that's where his pupils should've been. He must be half-unconscious, with the way his eyes are blown into a darkened void, lips parted in some sort of daze.
"I'm going to get help." Your words form despite the panic arising in your chest at the state of him. Is this poisoning? What else could explain the blackened sclera, the way darkened veins coated his skin in an almost bluish-purple. "I'll be right back." You promise.
He shakes his head, almost insistently stubborn, jaw clenching in panic. "No, don't go." His grip tightens almost instantly, and you're swept by his abnormal strength with a sudden tug, tumbling on top of him. "Please."
You freeze, feeling the wet raindrops from his suit seep into the cotton of your apron. Before you even have a chance to push yourself off, his arms wrap around you protectively. Squashed between his broad chest and the tight grip of his hold, your nose is buried into the crook of his shoulder. You smell fresh detergent, sweat, and something so achingly familiar—it churns your senses into mush that it takes you a few seconds to register.
He's shaking, and almost feverishly warm.
"Spider-Man." You plead. "Listen to me. You don't look good. And I do not want a dead Spider on my conscience, so please—you have to let me go so I can find some professionals, just someone to check if you're alright."
His touch is a sizzling heat as the warmth envelopes you, almost like a weighted, heated blanket.
"No. Stay." He pleads. "Please, I don't want—I just need you."
He sounds so exhausted. Why wouldn't he be? Before he had suffocated you into this strange circumstance of a hug, his entire face had been dull in colour, sweat pooling at the curls over his forehead, and he just looked—fragile. Completely unlike the hero of the city you're used to seeing on screen, whether it be receiving the keys to the city or those cheerful quips that make its frequent rounds through the internet when he swoops in to save the day.
"Spidey." You call him gently, trying to think of how to persuade him. "—I won't leave you alone, I promise. Just let me get up, to at least fetch you a change of clothes. You're soaked."
The seconds passing by without a response, or the loosening of his muscles, feel like the longest beats of your life. Your own heart thumps along with the rise and fall of his chest, waiting with bated breath.
"Promise?" He murmurs weakly.
"I promise." You whisper. "I'm not going anywhere."
You feel the slow release of warm breath against your skin, the way his fingers tremor over the small of your back. Something in him relaxes just enough, and his arms give in, thumping heavily at his sides. You rise instantly, palms pushing at his chest and falling back onto the carpet. Feeling the wet residue of the rain coat your apron, and the side of your cheek that had been buried in his shoulder—your cheeks grow impossibly hot.
You need to snap out of it. He needs clean clothes. Yeah, that's a start.
Stumbling in your step, you rush towards your wardrobe—digging through the unorganised mess for a bag of clothes you had kept hidden in the most corner nook. One you hadn't thrown out since your first discovery of its existence, containing Hello Kitty shorts, some old, faded T-shirts—choices you would've never purchased for yourself but had for as long as you could remember.
You had run through a list of reasons for its existence, seemingly packed for an overnight guest. Maybe from that house-warming party you had thrown once before deciding you much preferred your space being reserved for only you, and someone had left their clothes mistakenly. Despite whatever plausibility or excuse—you never found the strength to throw them away. Even when you had every reason to, your mind instinctively buries the thought and the bag remained exactly where it was, kept in a zip-locked bag for it to be used by someone.
Apparently, today was its much-needed day.
Hoisting the bag over to the living room where he still laid, cheek pressed to the carpet, you’re relieved that the tension that previously consumed his expression has faded somewhat, with his lips parted slightly in slow exhales. His body seemed to be recalibrating, instinctively calming down right in the centre of your home.
Your hand comes to rest on his cheek, tapping it gently. Although his eyes with that dark void don't open, a low rumble escapes his throat—convincing you that he's still somewhat conscious.
"Hey, Spidey." You whisper. "I brought some clothes. Do you have the energy to change?"
He doesn't respond, and you poke your tongue into your cheek, analysing the length of him with dawning dread. It's no big deal, you just have to peel off this ridiculously tight suit with no zipper in sight without making it weird, and attempt at successfully pulling a T-shirt over his head.
Making your choice of a 'I Survived My Trip To NYC' graphic tee found at the top of the pile inside, your gaze switches back to the sprawled vigilante. From how heavy his arms had been earlier, rendering you immobile when pinned under them, you wouldn't dare make the mistake of assuming his weight would be easy to flip over. You could attempt to at least expose his back for you to take off that suit—assuming the costume even had a zipper.
Your long calculation apparently does the job for you as Spider-Man senses you near, and his arm curls protectively around your thigh, burying his nose into the crook below your knee. Your entire body stills, a tight grip over the tee as he gently rests his head over your knee, the soft texture of his curls brushing goosebumps against your skin. HIs body turns just enough to expose the expanse of his back—and the sight of a hidden zipper beneath that familiar symbol is a good sign.
Okay, sure. You could work with that.
He was ripped. You should've expected that, but the slow rise and fall of his chest expands the muscles across his exposed torso. You force yourself to tear your gaze away from the sight, reassuring yourself that your eyes were purely looking for possible injuries. You wouldn't go that low to check out a vigilante who was passed out in your living room.
Your fingers press into the sides of his cheeks, maneuvering his head so you could fit the opening of the tee over his head. Curls run through the white fabric before landing over his shoulder blades. It's strangely intimate, the way he's easily pliable in your hands—trusting you so completely. His lashes flutter once every few seconds, but he remains exactly where he is, body wrapped almost completely around yours—acting as a human barrier to you and the outside world—as you dress him in something soft and clean.
He's not supposed to be here, and you're not supposed to feel this protective over a stranger who dresses in two primary colours. Yet, seeing him at rest—makes you feel calm. The quiet of the apartment is a low hum rather than the empty chasm you’re used to, and your fingers run through his hair almost habitually.
You can't just leave him on the floor. There's also the latter half of his suit you don't want to deal with.
"Spidey." You whisper.
He lets out a low groan, wincing as his eyes shut tighter—burying himself deeper into your skin.
"No-no." Your hands come up to gently cup his cheek, coercing him.
His lashes part, and you're met with that same, expansive void, finding your own reflection in his gaze. He's still not quite himself, you believe—but he is able and willing to listen to you.
"I need you to put on these shorts." You gesture to the Hello Kitty pants you laid out for him. "Then, I need you to come to bed."
His brows furrow, lashes fluttering slowly as he processes your request. "Bed."
"Yes." You repeat. "You're exhausted, and I'm not leaving you on my floorboards. It's not too far, so please—help me out a little, Spidey."
His gaze doesn't blink, but you feel the shift in his muscles at your command. He stumbles as he raises himself, body slumping into you—but you steady him with your own grip. His nose buries itself once more into a crook to inhale your scent, this time being your shoulder.
"Okay." You mutter. "That's progress. Come on, up."
It takes you a couple minutes, mostly because he clings to you with every step and he is made of heavy weight. Whatever they feed the heroes of New York, it was clearly something out of limits from your measly grocery bill. By the time he managed to slip himself into those Hello Kitty shorts while you kept your gaze heavily fixated on the ceiling, making sure only to look when the waistband was tight around his torso, it wasn't long before he tripped himself face-first into your blankets. Your own body collapses beside him—equally tired as he is.
You attempt to form a pillow fort in your daze, a barrier of sorts. More for him than you, as you're sure in the morning once this side of him disappears—he'll have a much different reaction to waking up in an apartment with a stranger he doesn't know.
It gets demolished within seconds.
As if the pillows have formed a personal vendetta against him, they're thrown aggressively onto the floorboards. Your hand reaches out to grab them because you had just put them in the laundry—but your wrist is snatched too and you're tugged into his embrace.
You land back into the sheets, cheek smothered against his chest, and there he goes again, wrapping himself around you like a cocoon.
Here in your bed with his arms wrapped around you like you're his only anchor, brows furrowed tight—Spider-Man looked so human. Soft, and incredibly vulnerable. His arm still grips limply onto you even if you can feel his consciousness fading, as if the lack of contact would have you disappearing completely from his reach.
"Those pillows were meant for you, y'know." You mutter, unable to hide your amusement.
His lips curl into a stubborn pout. "Don't want them." He grumbles, words nearly incoherent with the small parting of his lips. "In my way."
You snort softly, before noting the dirt that coats his cheeks. With such a close proximity, you see everything. The soft lines at the corners of his eyes, the bridge of his nose, and just how beautiful he was.
"You've got dirt on your face." You whisper softly. "I should help you with that."
His grip tightens considerably, and you're dragged up so close to his face that your noses nearly bump into one another.
"Okay-okay. I'm not going anywhere." You feel the need to remind him, hand slowly lifting to press against his bruised cheek.
If the press of your finger-pads against the bruise was painful, he didn't show it—only burrowing his face deeper into the curve of your palm, a relieved sigh escaping his lips. The crease between his brows finally unfolds, and the years coated on his expression fades with it—leaving him looking impossibly young.
"Smells like you." He grumbles lowly, pressing the tip of his nose deeper into your palm.
Your heart skips a beat, traitorously even when you're sure he won't remember any of this by the morning.
“Do you have anyone?” You ask gently. “Someone I need to call?”
It’s heart-breaking, the way he immediately shakes his head, his curls ruffled against the sheets. For someone so beloved by the city, even in such a weakened state, he still believes that he has no one.
"Why are you here?" You murmur more for yourself, gazing openly over the fanning of his lashes over his darkened circles.
If it weren't for the expansive heat seeping from his broad chest through the cotton tee you tugged over his head, you would've believed yourself to be in the thick of a sweet, non-sensical dream.
You expect him to be fully asleep, but you hear it, low and almost inaudible. "Home."
Your heart tremors, barely able to comprehend it. "What?"
His words grow muffled against the sheets, the mess of his curls sinking deeper into the pillows—but you hear it. “Wanted to come home.”
Peter watches as you wring a cloth of its excess water over the sink, and the familiarity is dangerously luring. How many times has he sat here on your couch, watching as you prepped a medicine kit or a towel after his patrols? It’s almost unfathomable how quickly the new routines, rigorous with repetition and duty, all that control—that responsibility that leashed him tight falls apart the second he is in your proximity. Where old overpowers the new, because there is nothing he craves more than this. The past—the memories that became more present than reminder, when his own life had pressed ‘pause’ the moment he lost you.
He should’ve insisted on leaving when you offered to clean up the dirt that still coated his face. He should’ve shattered the hope that gleamed in your eyes when he gave you the barest nod, knowing how dangerous that fleeting belief could be when his own had never held value.
He did none of what he was supposed to do—and he didn’t even have the gull to feel ashamed for it, taking in the sight of you with unconditional hunger, absorbing every trace of movement and the way your voice resonated in the hearth of your home. He belonged in your life once, the same way the remains of his old t-shirts were kept in your wardrobe, or how the bathroom door still has the replaced hinges he fixed once on your third home date. There’s him all around, and the sight was its own guilty pleasure that the universe hadn’t completely stripped away the parts of him that used to exist in your life.
"You didn't do anything." You reassure him from across the kitchen counter. "Trust me, when you showed up in my apartment—you weren't in a state of anything other than being near-collapse."
His expression contorts. As if he needed more reasons to hate these new changes to his body—messing up all that is predictable. Predictable is good. It's safe. What isn't within even the remote levels of safe, is forcing you to look after him the entire night because he isn't even in control of his own body.
You stop in front of him, brushing some magazines and half-littered candy wrappers to the side as you sit on the coffee-table, knees brushing against his.
"Breathe." You murmur softly, eyes crinkling with a soft teasing expression.
He hadn't even realised he was holding his breath, being so close to you that it makes him feel faint. Oxygen swoops back into his lungs, his chest rising and falling as he stares at you openly with his mouth slightly gaped.
The cloth in hand raises to press against his cheek, and he feels the slight sting of its cool temperature against the warmth of his skin, the bruise above his cheekbone.
It doesn't truly register for him, not when you're staring at him so keenly he feels the need to ask. "What?"
"I just didn't expect Spider-Man to be so—" You struggle to find the words. "Human. I don't know. I suppose that sounds stupid, but you could pass by me in a coffee shop and I'd just sum you up as a cute stranger I'd never see again, not an actual crime-fighting vigilante."
The two of you were together, so it shouldn’t have struck him with elated surprise to hear it, but the admission that you still found him—he feels sixteen again, taken back to when you had first pressed a kiss onto his cheek and he understood immediately on what it meant to fall in love so completely that you could never look back.
You're too focused on dapping the wet cloth to notice his widened gaze, or the way he swallows dryly—licking at his lips. "You think I'm cute?"
"I mean—this entire time, I half-expected Spider-Man to be at least half-spider. Plus, I have eyes." You tease, your fingers gently brushing the wet cloth over the darkened soot across his cheek, rubbing off the marks. "I meant to do this last night, but you kept protesting when I tried to leave the bed. Clinging onto me—"
"Okay, okay." He raises his hand, catching you by the wrist. He's definitely flustered now. "I don't need to hear the details. I believe you."
You snort softly. "Thought you wanted the full story."
"Yeah, summed up—minus the details." He splutters. "I'm already dying inside from shame, and I've definitely ruined my impression with you forever."
"That's not true." You hum.
He blinks slowly, processing your words.
"There's no shame in reaching out for help, hero or not. I know you’re under a lot of public scrutiny but—it doesn't change who you are, y'know? You're deserving of support, just as much as everyone else. Even if the world expects you to be a hero—" You state. "You're still a person, and it seemed like you really needed someone."
He stiffens, jaw tightening as his eyes avert from yours to pinpoint his focus elsewhere—anywhere but you.
"You're not just someone." He mumbles lowly.
The press of the cloth against his cheek falters. "What?"
"You're—" His voice trails off, jaw clenching tight. “You weren’t scared of me?”
He understands how he can get when he loses control. The way his vision blacks out, and how his mind caves into silence—with his body moving on instinct rather than command. The reflection of a monster in the mirror, everything he swore not to be. The version of him that snuck into your apartment, clinging onto you as a lifeline—was stripped of the rules and promises he had made to keep everything together.
It was him at his most selfish—doing what his instincts pleaded—no, begged for him to do, and he had caved in for all of it. That's why he's here, and why you're staring with an expression he didn't dare uncover.
“I think you’re a lot more scared of yourself right now than I am.” You answer truthfully. “You were in a lot of pain. The last thing I would be was scared, when all you needed was someone to look out for you. Even if it's just for a little while.”
"I—" What is he supposed to say to that? That you're right on, and you've always been even without knowing who he is, and that he's been losing himself ever since he lost you? He swallows thickly. "I haven't been myself lately."
Your fingers tighten imperceptibly, grounding him. "You're still you, maybe you've just been putting aside what reminds you of that. I'm no vigilante, but working yourself to the bone and collapsing in a stranger's apartment—I think that's a signal for a horrible work-life balance."
"I have been resting." He argues. "I get enough hours, I have proof."
"Yeah, that's definitely why you slept like a log last night."
His lips part, gaze finally meeting yours, staring at you wordlessly. Eventually, a laugh escapes his lips, deepening the lines near the corners of his eyes. It's a little sad, and you wonder just how much he had to carry on his own—for a laugh to sound that broken.
"This is hard. I'm not supposed to—" He mutters, and that's the closest thing to raw honesty that you've pulled out of his mouth. "You're way too good for me."
Your smile deepens, and your fingers trace gently over his cheek where the bruise was finally fading. That must've been the mistake of it—the familiarity of muscle memory after a long patrol. He leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek in thank you.
It’s only when he spots your frozen expression that he realises what he's done.
"I was not supposed to do that." He mutters to himself, widened eyes locked onto the spot where he left the kiss.
You blink, and he follows the movement—staring at each other in complete silence. His expression contorts, and you can't help the giggle that bubbles out of you.
"That was—wow." You choke back on your laughter. "I think you're running out of things you're not supposed to do, Spidey."
His own gaze crinkles into a smile, abashed. "I'm sorry, I just—I wanted to thank you. It was out of habit."
"Habit—you crash into people's apartments often and give out these free kisses?" You tease. "Is it part of the job description?"
He shakes his head immediately, terrified by the suggestion. "No—no. I swear this is my first time ever doing anything like this. I got the habit from my aunt, she used to—um..."
His expression dampens considerably. "Kiss my cheek for good luck."
Your gaze softens. "She sounds sweet."
"Yeah." His laugh churns awkwardly with a wince. "You would've loved her."
You watch him, and you sense it again—that chasm that ran deeper than the surface of his winced smiles. The way he shook his head when you asked if he had anyone, and even now, the way he fumbled with his fingers as if he didn't quite know what to do with himself in your gaze—and how he hadn't suggested once since waking up that he wanted to leave.
He was waiting, the way one waits for permission to exist in a room when they haven't been invited in one for years.
"Spidey." You call out.
He whips his head to look at you, pupils still widened in some perpetual disbelief, over the fact that he was in your apartment—that you were right in front of him.
"I'm going to make breakfast." You start, not leaving room for argument. "And you're going to help me."
He blinks once, then twice in astonishment. He swallows dryly. "O-Okay."
Your smile loosens into something reserved for a vigilante you had stayed up all night checking his temperature for.
You find that Spider-Man is pretty good in making pancakes, and that he easily maneuvers himself around your kitchen as if he had already memorised the layout. Of where your favourite mugs are, and how he didn't question twice when taking out the ice-cream tub without you needing to say it.
You could narrow it down to Spidey-senses, or whatever theories that's come up on your feed for his inhuman capabilities—but could it really just be that? Could his super-human abilities be the only reason behind why the warm hazel of his eyes light into the tiniest fireworks as he watches you scourge on your pancake, smiling at him with butter at the corner of your lips—as if the sight of you eating breakfast was the most beautiful thing he's ever seen?
Or why he picked you as his destination for home, or the slip of his tongue on how you meant a great deal more to him than just a someone who so happened to let him stay the night.
You have so much to uncover, but for now, he's just a boy in a NYC graphic tee that’s his exact size, and fluorescent shorts that do nothing for his thighs. He catches your gaze on his peculiar outfit, and his own lips purse in amusement.
"Any reason for the outfit choice?" He murmurs, a knowing smile covered by his fist as he rests his chin over his wrist, head tilting slightly as he gazes at you. "It's inventive."
"Oh—" You blink. "I don't know. I kinda always had them. They don't belong to me, but I just didn't see a need to throw out free clothes."
Your lips quirk up, teasing. "Suits you though. Think you'll keep it?"
He shrugs. "I don't know. I think I'll have to return it."
"Why?"
"So I can borrow it again." He suggests slowly.
You stare at him, unable to hide your growing grin. "Smooth, Spidey. Real smooth."
His gaze lights up. "Better than the cheek kiss?"
"Tons better. You could try it again—I'll see if I can adjust the scores." You tease.
"Really?" He stutters, akin to a flustered high-schooler.
"Yeah, but you'll have to tell me your name." You gesture with a point of your fork. "Can't go around giving free kisses without ID."
You meant it as a joke. You're no expert in superhero protocols, but you're sure the codenames meant no personal information spilled outside their work-life. Even when you've already seen his face, and shared a bed with him, and let him take your second favourite mug though he can't possibly know that last one. There's lines you've certainly crossed, but his name?
You part your lips to take back your impulsive request, to brush it off—only to find genuine consideration forming in his expression. Your smile falls slack in wonder. No, he wouldn't. He couldn't possibly.
Yet, he looks at you, almost peering deep into your soul. He looks at you as if he knows you, all boyish and unguarded. Whatever he sees, past the bed-hair and ice-cream smothered lips—it's worth it to him. It's worth something honest, and sacred—a truth he'll never be able to take back. It's a genuine, soft thing—a precious smile that lifts his lips, one you have no idea how brave he is for keeping. He has made his choice, and you're a part of it, always.
Peter looks at you, and he sees the only present he'll ever want. Past spells and starting-overs and stupid choices—at the centre of it all, it all becomes so simple. You—who his body sought out of instinct, who inhabited his mind with your own personal island, who had taken his heart from the first time he saw you. You're home, and no rules or lines drawn could've stopped him from returning back to you. His everything.
"Peter. Peter Parker."
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Operation: Hangout In Peace | Peter Parker x Fem!Stark!Reader
SUMMARY: When you start dating the intern, Peter Parker, your dad enforces a list of rules for when he comes over. In order to ensure the rules are followed, you two must be babysat at all times, meaning the team circles in and out of who’s on monitoring duties. When you sneak out to hangout with your boyfriend without your father’s permission, the entire group of the world’s mightiest heroes are sent out on one major mission. Finding you…until they find out you’re building legos…? Tony begins to question his parenting. Perhaps a heart to heart conversation will help (it won't).
A/N: Consider this a part 2 to Dirty Little Secret :)
WARNINGS: Og tower fic so yes you have Wanda’s powers but purple, Clint is in the vents, Thor has poptarts, Steve is so incredibly corny (he uses ‘Gen Z lingo’), reader and Peter want to kiss in peace, sassy Peter
WC: 5.9K
Main Masterlist!
Being the daughter of Tony Stark had its perks, but it also had its drawbacks.
For one, you weren’t allowed to have a boyfriend. But when you went out anyway and started dating the new intern, who turned out to be Spider-Man, your dad realized there was no stopping you.
So, he set ground rules. Such a curfew, monitored hangouts, and so much more to the point it felt like your boyfriend wasn’t even your boyfriend.
The only alone time you ever got was at school, and even then you weren’t alone with the thousands of students and hundreds of staff.
When you did hangout one on one, it had to be monitored, either by F.R.I.D.A.Y. or another member of the team.
You preferred F.R.I.D.A.Y. because it was far less embarrassing and you could be alone in your room, but the door had to be open. She’d warn you guys to keep space between you when you’d lay in your bed, watching a movie. As soon as Peter’s arm even dared to wrap around you, she’d beep and tell him to remove his arm or else lethal action would be taken.
Peter would pull his lips into a tight line and cross his arms over his chest with a huff, no longer even interested in the movie on the laptop.
Out of all the babysitters who’d been tasked to watch the two of you, you and Peter learned who you liked best and who you despised the most.
You both mostly liked it when Natasha was in charge of watching you.
She’d let you both go into your room with the door shut because truth be told, she didn’t care.
On one occasion, however, she was banned from ever watching you two again.
The door to your bedroom was shut, the first rule already broken. Music played softly from behind the door and Natasha was sitting in the living room, legs kicked up on the coffee table, book in hand.
She checked her watch, noting that there was about another hour before Tony got back.
Unfortunately for her, you, and Peter, he was coming back earlier.
In your room, Peter sat at your desk, fixing his web shooters as you sat on your bed finishing up some homework.
Peter called you over to get your opinion on the altered design. You shot out of the bed and walked over, leaning against the desk beside him as he explained it.
You smiled. “Web grenades,” you said in awe. “That’s super cool, Peter.”
Peter’s face warmed up. “You think so?”
You nodded. “Yeah.”
The room went quiet, the only sound being the music.
Peter slowly leaned in as did you. Your eyes fluttered shut, nose brushing against the tip of his when-
“Parker! Out! Now!”
Peter jumped back, the desk chair falling from beneath him. He hit the floor with a loud thud, panic racing through his body.
Your eyes widened, seeing your dad in the doorway who looked like he was about five seconds away from shooting him with his repulsor.
“Mr. Stark! I-”
“Save it,” Tony lectured. “Get up and get out of here.”
Peter almost tripped trying to stand up. He grabbed his stuff and tugged his shoes on, the laces untied. He was about to leave, but stopped.
He raced over to you. “Bye! See you tomorrow!” He pecked your cheek, earning him a near death sentence.
“Oh, you little shit!” Tony yelled. “I swear, I’m gonna-!”
Peter yelped, racing out the door where you found Natasha giving you an apologetic look.
After Natasha got fired from babysitting duties, she was replaced mostly by Bruce who still gave you and Peter space, but ensured there were still boundaries that Tony wanted.
You were no longer allowed to have the boy in your room, but Bruce allowed it, so long as the door was open.
He’d swing by and check in on you both every once in a while, asking if either of you were hungry or needed anything.
The first time he babysat you both, he came by to check in on you and found you both sitting on the floor going through Peter’s comics.
Peter was flipping through one, yapping your ear off about it as you rested your head on his shoulder.
Bruce stood in the doorway for a moment, a small smile on his lips. He cleared his throat and immediately you both jumped back, pretending that you weren’t so close.
“Don’t worry,” Bruce said. “You don’t have to worry about me telling Stark,” he laughed. “I was just going to order a pizza. What kind do you kids want?”
And that was the moment you two started to prefer it when Bruce was on patrol.
Then, there was the worst of the worst.
Sam and Bucky.
The first time you realized they were the ones on watch for the day, you told Peter to just not come over.
He insisted on coming over because he wanted to ‘spend time with his girlfriend’, which he unfortunately ended up regretting.
For starters, they heavily enforced the rules. You and Peter weren’t allowed in your room under any circumstances.
You had to sit on the couch, at least two cushions apart while Sam and Bucky monitored from the chairs directly across from you.
It was so incredibly awkward for two teenagers, but they seemed entertained by it.
At first, neither you nor Peter spoke, you just glared at Bucky while Peter stared at the floor, too nervous to meet the gaze of either men.
And it stayed like that for about twenty minutes until Sam spoke up.
“I don’t get it,” he said. “Why do you two want to hangout so bad if all you do is sit in silence? Aren’t you gonna do something?”
“What are we allowed to do?” you asked. “I feel like I’m in prison on a monitored visit.”
Bucky shrugged, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest. “Talk, watch something, play with those stupid legos you guys like,” he suggested. “I don’t know. Just stop staring at me, it’s getting weird now.”
You rolled your eyes, shaking your head. “This is ridiculous,” you grumbled.
Peter turned towards you, trying to make the best of the situation. “I was talking to Ned about Homecoming and we were thinking that-”
“No,” Bucky interrupted. “Absolutely not.”
Peter pressed his brows together, slowly turning to face Bucky with narrowed eyes. “What?”
“No,” Sam chimed in, shaking his head. “Nope.”
You blinked. “No, what?”
“No!” Bucky and Sam shouted at the same time as if it were obvious.
Peter sank back into the couch, face flushed pink.
You pulled your lips into a tight line, shifting awkwardly.
If you could blow up the entire tower as revenge, you would. You couldn’t understand why your dad had these stupid rules in the first place and you certainly couldn’t understand why Sam and Bucky felt the need to even enforce them.
You supposed they just enjoyed watching you and Peter suffer.
It was dead silent again until you made a suggestion.
“Wanna watch a movie?”
Peter’s eyes lit up. “Yeah, sure!”
You got up and grabbed the remote, turning the T.V. on. You and Peter both settled on Star Wars and before you could even hit play, Bucky snatched the remote from your hand.
“Hey!” you exclaimed. “Give that back!”
“We’re not watching that,” he said, exiting out of the screen. He stood beside the couch, right where you were standing, one hand on his hip as if he were watching an intense match of Sunday night football. “We’re watching something else.”
You groaned and threw your head back. “You know, you don’t have to watch it if you leave.”
“And leave you two alone?” Sam chuckled. “No way.”
Bucky clicked a few buttons and suddenly a new movie was playing.
“What the hell is this?” you asked as both men moved their chairs to either side of the couch.
“A real movie,” Bucky said plainly, and suddenly you recognized the movie he had played on numerous occasions.
Some old war movie from what you thought to be a hundred years ago. It probably predated the dinosaurs which was when you thought Steve and Bucky were born.
“I don’t wanna watch this,” you whined. “Put it back on Star Wars.”
“No,” Bucky said. “Now be quiet and watch. This is important historical stuff.”
Your jaw tightened as you side eyed him from beside you. You turned your gaze to the screens and immediately started to grow bored.
You were about thirty minutes in and Peter was starting to grow antsy too.
He glanced over at you and you smiled softly at him.
His fingers slowly slid across the cushions, yours doing the same until you met halfway.
Your fingers intertwined with his as you both looked back to the screen.
It stayed that way for about two minutes because Sam glanced over to check on you. He leaned forward in his chair and did a double take before he shot up from his seat.
“Oh, hell no!”
Sam and Bucky forced you both apart and ended up kicking Peter out, telling an over exaggerated story to your father about what happened.
And that was when you decided you hated them as babysitters.
Wanda and Loki came along and because of their powers, they always knew what was going on, no matter how sneaky you thought you were, which started to grow annoying.
Wanda didn’t necessarily care what you were doing, but she did start to care when all she could hear was the sounds of you two kissing behind closed doors. That was when she said you weren’t allowed to kiss anymore.
Loki told the entire tower a long while ago that he ‘despised the Stark witch with purple powers’, so naturally when he came along, it felt like you were under house arrest. Sometimes Peter could try to sneak a kiss from you and end up blasted twenty feet away from you. Other times, Loki wouldn’t even let you look or speak to Peter.
Then there was Thor who would quite literally sit between you two on the couch, telling stories about his life as a young boy on Asgard while smacking on an entire box of Poptarts with his mouth wide open.
And then there was Vision who took his job incredibly seriously, making the tower feel like a prison.
Steve came around every once in a while and ran the place like the damn navy, enforcing rules left and right like his life depended on it.
Then there was Clint…
One time he pretended not to care what you and Peter did, which resulted in you both in your room with the door shut. You were in the middle of a pretty intense game of Mario Kart when Clint came plummeting through the vent, straight into your room.
He was spying on you both through the goddamn vents!
Soon enough, you and Peter came to the realization that the only way to actually be able to spend time with one another would be to sneak you out of the tower.
So, you used your genius little Stark brain to disable F.R.I.D.A.Y. and disengage all defense systems at your bedroom window.
It was half past midnight and no one ever came by your room that late.
Now was the perfect time to head out.
A soft thud hit your window and you smiled, seeing a masked hero waving at you on the other side, the little spider lenses conveying excitement.
You opened up and your window and your boyfriend landed inside your room with quiet, practiced ease.
“Hi,” he whispered, cheesing from under his mask.
You smirked. “Hi.” You walked over to him, and his hands found your waist. Your fingers came up and lifted his mask just above his nose, pecking his lips quickly before pulling his mask back down.
Peter’s face flushed pink. “Are you ready?”
You nodded. “Yeah, just need my jacket,” you whispered, heading for your closet.
“Tiny Stark?”
You froze, a small gasp escaping you.
Peter glanced at you, fear in his eyes.
“Yeah…?”
“You okay?” the voice you recognized as Thor yawned.
“Yeah.”
…
…
…
“Is someone in there? I thought I heard you talking.”
“I’m…I’m on the phone. With- with uh- MJ.”
…
…
…
“Makes sense. Night.”
“Goodnight.”
You stood there for a second, listening to Thor’s footsteps head back to his room. You let out a sigh of relief.
“Let’s get the hell out of here.”
You grabbed your coat and slipped it on. Peter held his arms out to you, and you wrapped your legs around him, arms wrapping around his neck.
He climbed out of the window and shut it quietly.
“Ready?” he asked.
You swallowed hard, shutting your eyes. “No,” you replied honestly. “Just go.”
Peter jumped off of the side of the tower, flicking his wrist, a line of web catching onto the neighboring building.
“Holy shit!” you exclaimed, freaking out. You gripped onto him tighter, squeezing your eyes shut as your stomach dropped with each and every swing.
“It’s okay!” Peter chuckled. “I’ve got you!”
“What the hell!” you exclaimed, nails digging into the back of his suit. “How do you do this?!”
Thankfully the swing to Peter’s apartment wasn’t too far. He landed on the window and opened it, helping you inside.
You climbed in and gasped, clutching your stomach as he climbed inside, shutting the window.
“You okay?” he asked, yanking his mask off and tossing it aside.
You let out a shaky breath. “Yeah…I don’t know how you do that without throwing up,” you grimaced.
Peter chuckled. “Wanna build legos without getting yelled at?” he asked, already making his way over to his stash.
“Yeah!” you beamed.
⋆✴︎˚｡⋆
Little did you know before sneaking out, Tony couldn’t sleep. He was up late at night down in the lab, tinkering as he always did when his mind wasn’t at ease.
He’d been hearing all about how you and Peter were breaking rules left and right and how the babysitting situation with Loki had gotten so out of hand that Peter refused to come over anymore, much to your dismay.
Nat had gotten into Tony’s ear about letting you be a teenager and have your boyfriend over without overbearing you two. There was no issue with ground rules, the issues stemmed from how ridiculous they were.
With a loud clank, Tony stropped his screw driver and pinched the bridge of his nose, realizing that he should probably talk to you about it. “F.R.I.D.A.Y., check to see if the little Stark is sleeping.”
“Checking in on Stark Jr.”
Tony started mumbling to himself about how stupid the whole situation was. He couldn’t understand why you had to choose Peter of all people and he couldn’t understand why you even wanted a boyfriend.
Not too long ago you were ranting about how stupid boys were but as soon as Peter came into your life, you only ever wanted to be around one person, which was him.
“I am unable to contact her through her bedroom. It would appear that all communication systems have been disabled in her room and that all defense systems outside her room have been disengaged.”
Tony blinked, nodding his head as he was both impressed and shocked that you’d do such a thing.
Then again, you were his daughter.
“Huh…” he muttered to himself. “Give me playback on Parker’s suit,” he said, pushing his rolling chair across the floor to his monitor. Immediately, he put two and two together. You and Peter were up to something.
“All recording systems inside of the suit have also been disabled.”
Tony stared at his reflection in the monitor, his finger hovering over the power button. “Those little shitheads…”
Tony leaped up from his desk. “Gather the team, would you? We’re going to find them.”
⋆✴︎˚｡⋆
Peter had changed out of his suit into pajama pants and some nerdy t-shirt Ned gave him for Christmas. You were sitting on the floor across from each other assembling legos, the Imperial Star Destroyer to be exact.
Peter was babbling on and on about the small missions he had been taking to save the city, ranging from saving a cat from a tree and helping an old woman cross the road.
You couldn’t help but to smile at how excited he was to save people. It was absolutely adorable.
You snapped a couple of lego pierces together and giggled as he mimicked bank alarms going off, and flicking his wrist as if to show you how he swung in to save the day.
Little did the two of you know, outside, the entire team of heroes were on high alert searching for you.
“I’ve got eyes on the target,” Clint said through the radio.
He was perched on a building across the way from Peter’s apartment, an arrow aimed right at the window.
“Where?” Tony asked almost immediately.
“His place.”
“Well, what are they doing?”
Clint chuckled. “Building…legos.”
Loki’s laugh echoed through the comms. “You mean to tell me this idiot mortal flying around in a bucket of bolts dragged us all out here to look for his offspring who’s building legos?”
“She seriously snuck out to build goddamn legos?” Bucky scoffed over the comms. “Real fine parenting, Stark.”
Nat hummed. “Weren’t you the one who told Tony her and Peter were breaking all the rules while you were on babysitting duty?”
“Because they were,” Sam interjected. “They were holding hands.”
“What’s so bad about hand holding?” Bruce asked with an awkward laugh.
“You know,” Thor’s voice boomed, making Clint wince and take his ear piece out, still able to make out everything Thor was saying. “Back on Asgard, there was this myth that said if you held hands with your lover for an extended period of time, nothing in the cosmos could tear you apart.”
“Well, I’m about to tear them apart,” Tony announced. “I’m going in.”
“Why?” Wanda asked. “They’re not doing anything harmful.”
“Stark loves control,” Steve retorted.
“Uh…” Nat trailed off. “They both told me that you pulled out a tape measure to make sure they were three feet apart. Sounds like you’re equally controlling.”
“Structure isn’t control.”
Tony landed on the building beside Clint who was putting his ear piece back in. “How long have they been building legos for?”
Clint shrugged. “Since I got here.”
Tony watched through the window as Peter carefully took the pieces you assembled and clicked it to the ones he assembled.
Peter smiled and put his hand up, high fiving you.
Tony flinched, catching his breath. “Can you stop doing your spy shit on us? You’re gonna give me a damn heart attack.”
Clint only chuckled, completely used to Nat sneaking up on people.
“You’re going to give yourself one if you keep losing your mind over every little thing she does,” she said.
“Can we go home now, or what?” Loki asked over the comms. “I’m losing my eight hours of sleep.”
Before Tony could say something snarky, Nat spoke up. “Yes, you can all go back. Stark thanks you all for your help.”
“No he doesn’t,” Bucky grimaced.
Clint grabbed his arrows. “I’m out. Don’t kill her, she’s kind of funny, slightly less annoying than you,” he said, placing a firm hand on Tony’s shoulder.
Tony flipped him off and he climbed down from the building.
The team headed home, leaving Nat and Tony on the roof.
Tony let out an exasperated sigh as he watched you start to put together the next pieces of the lego set, glancing up at Peter every now and then with such a loving look in your eyes.
“I hate having to watch her grow up,” he mumbled.
Nat turned to him with a small smile. “I can imagine how difficult it is, but the more you try to stop her, the more she’ll fight you on it. Like right now,” she said, motioning to the window. “She literally just snuck out to build legos. That’s insane, Tony.”
Tony groaned. “Why does she even want a boyfriend? Life was so easy when that freaking kid wasn’t here. Maybe I’ll kill him.”
“You won’t,” Nat laughed. “You like him and honestly, you should be glad she chose him. He likes her a lot.”
Tony hummed. “I guess he’s a half decent kid…”
Back inside the bedroom, Peter’s brows pressed together as he glanced out of the window.
“What’s wrong?” you asked.
Peter’s spider senses were going off, alerting him of something he couldn't quite put his finger on. “I don’t know…” he trailed off. “I feel like someone’s watching us or something.”
You glanced out the window, not seeing anything. “I don’t see anything, Peter.”
Peter got up and drew the curtains back, returning back to the floor, but instead of sitting across from you, he sat beside you.
“You don’t think your dad knows…” he whispered, as if he were lurking somewhere. “Do you?”
You shrugged. “Honestly, if he knew, he would’ve probably blasted you with a bomb by now.”
Peter’s brows rose. “How reassuring.”
You giggled and pecked him on the lips. “You’ll be fine.”
You went to put the lego pieces back together, but Peter’s hand grabbed your waist. You turned your gaze back to him. “What?”
“You can’t just kiss me on the lips like that and turn away from me,” he said sheepishly, his cheeks and nose burning pink.
Your lips curved upward as you leaned in, kissing him slowly as he melted into it.
His hand came up and cupped your face softly, lips moving against yours gently, causing you to sigh in content.
Finally, you could kiss your boyfriend in piece.
No babysitters.
No threats.
No interruptions-
“Open the curtains or I’ll send a repulsor through it.”
You and Peter pulled away, shock on your faces at hearing your father’s voice through Peter’s phone.
“What the?!” Peter exclaimed. “How did you-”
“Five, four, three, two-”
“Okay! Okay!” Peter said, scrambling to his feet and yanking the curtains open only to find Tony hovering there in his suit.
“Sneaking out to build legos, huh?” he asked, looking right at you.
You rolled your eyes. “And make out, but-”
“Don’t say that!” Peter hissed, fearing for his life.
“Open this window,” Tony demanded.
Peter gave you a petrified look before opening the window with shaking hands.
The head of your father’s suit turned to you, then back to Peter. “Take her back home. Right now,” he said.
“Yes, Mr. Stark!” Peter replied.
“And you,” Tony said, turning to face you. “You’re grounded for…I don’t know how long but you’re grounded.”
⋆✴︎˚｡⋆
You were in fact not grounded.
Natasha had gotten into Tony’s ear again about letting you be a teenager and explained to him that he could set boundaries without being overbearing.
So, that’s how Peter ended up allowed back at the tower in your bedroom, but the door had to stay cracked open a minimum of three inches and you had to stay at least two feet apart from one another instead of three.
No kissing, hand holding, or hugging was allowed.
It was so stupid, but you went along with it.
Until you didn’t.
You’d leave the door cracked open and kiss Peter all you wanted, listening for footsteps. Whenever you two heard them, you’d separate and act like you weren’t doing anything.
You got away with it for a long time until Tony caught you both one day and realized that you had been breaking rules all along.
He was walking up to your room to see if you wanted some of the dinner Wanda had whipped up.
The soft hum of music played from your room and he could faintly make out one additional sound.
The unmistakable sound of two people kissing.
He slowly peaked through the crack in your door and low and behold, you and Peter were making out on your bed.
“Hey!” he shouted.
You gasped, pulling away from Peter. Eyes wide, you stuck your hand out, purple mist covering the door handle and slamming the wood shut.
Tony yanked at the door, banging on it with his fist. “You open this goddamn door, right now!”
A few seconds later, your hold on the door loosened and Tony came crashing inside, a vein or two popping out of his forehead.
You were sitting on one end of the bed, Peter on the other with a comic in his hands, acting as if he had been reading it the whole time and not making out with you.
Tony glanced between the two of you, blinking rapidly as if it would magically put you back into the position you had been caught in just seconds ago.
For a second he thought he was losing his mind until you spoke up. Then it hit him that you were messing with him.
You smirked at your dad’s face. “What?” you asked.
Tony was at a loss for words after that.
He didn’t want you to sneak around him anymore and he thought he was making the rules less strict, so he couldn’t understand why you continued to go against his word.
After a week of you and Peter pulling the same stunt, he had grown tired of it.
He went to Natasha, the only person he thought could help.
“And they just won’t stop,” he went on, pacing his lab. “I mean, it’s absolutely ridiculous.”
Nat sat at one of the spinning chairs and shrugged. “I mean…they’re just kissing, right?”
“But it’s constant!” Tony exclaimed, throwing his arms up. “And she’s only doing it to piss me off.”
“Well it’s working,” Nat laughed.
Tony sighed and leaned against the metal of the desk. “I’m going to have an aneurysm.”
Nat sighed and kicked her feet up onto the desk. “Just…talk to them,” she said plainly. “Get on their level and have a conversation. Tell them that he’s allowed over but they have to keep the door open.”
“I did!”
“No,” Nat said with a head shake. “You said they have to keep the door open and they can’t even hold hands,” she corrected. “You can’t set ridiculous ground rules and expect them to follow the illogical ones.”
Tony groaned, crossing his arms over his chest. “Can’t you just talk to them for me? You’re good at the whole…heart to heart thing.”
Growing up, your father’s father wasn’t really the greatest parent, and Tony didn’t want to follow in those steps. However, because he had a shitty father, he wasn’t so sure how to get on your level and have a conversation like the one Nat was proposing without snapping.
Nat snorted. “She’s not my kid.”
“Yeah, but she acts like you’re her mom so…”
“No Tony, you can do it.”
⋆✴︎˚｡⋆
Tony sat on the stairs just a few feet away from your bedroom, reading over the crumpled piece of paper in his hands.
Steve walked by and eyed him. “What’s that?”
Tony rubbed his eyes. “A heart to heart.”
“You have a heart?” Steve asked, earning a glare from Tony. “My fault,” he said, pulling his lips into a tight line.
Tony raised a brow, tilting his head slightly. “My fault?” he repeated. “How old are you?”
Steve smiled, pulling a small notebook out of his back pocket. “Parker and your daughter have been teaching me all the ‘hip’ lingo.”
Tony cringed. “For the love of God, don’t say ‘hip’.”
Steve flipped through his pages. “Oh! Right here…” he said, narrowing his eyes in an attempt to see better.
“Please don’t,” Tony sighed. “I really don’t have the patience for this.”
“Captain America mogs Iron Man,” Steve said proudly with a smile, shutting his book. “It basically means-”
“I know what it means,” Tony deadpanned. He swatted his hand at Steve. “Now, get out of here please. And I hope you realize no one says that in real life.”
Steve opened his mouth to say something but stopped.
Just a few feet away, Steve and Tony could hear you and Peter kissing from outside of your door and the sound of both of your soft giggles in between them.
Steve smirked at Tony’s jaw clenching. “Duty calls,” he said, nodding at Tony before taking a step past him down the stairs. He stopped about two steps below the one Tony was sitting at. “Sounds like Parker’s got rizz.”
“Literally no one says that,” Tony said, completely exasperated. “They’re setting you up to get bullied, by the way.”
Steve shrugged, waltzing down the stairs.
Tony groaned. “I hate this tower,” he mumbled to himself before standing up and making his way over to your bedroom door.
He could still faintly hear you and Peter kissing over the music, followed by your giggle.
“Peter, stop!”
“You don’t like it?”
“No!” you laughed.
Peter hummed and again, the sound of kissing ensued.
Tony shut his eyes in annoyance and knocked. “Hey…” he trailed off. “I…I just wanna talk.”
The door slowly creaked open, purple mist on the handle.
You sat on one end of the bed, Peter on the other, who gave Tony an annoyed look, which was the first time he had done so, but at this point, he was completely unaware of his expressions. He just wanted to go back to kissing you and hearing your soft laughter at his antics.
Tony shut the door and walked into your room, grabbing your desk chair and pulling it up beside your bed. “We need to talk,” he said, a slight nervousness in his tone that was a few seconds away from being taken advantage of.
“Okay…?” you said, completely unaware as to where this was going, because never in your life had you seen your father so awkward.
You and Peter shifted, moving to sit beside one another, legs criss crossed. The music still played, adding to the awkwardness.
“I wanted…” he trailed off, shutting his eyes. “I- what I- goddamn it!” he exclaimed, losing his train of thought over the music. “F.R.I.D.A.Y., kill the music, would you?”
“Stopping the music.”
Tony let out a sigh and clicked his tongue. “I was trying to say that…we uh…oh shit, uhm…” He blinked, looking up at the ceiling trying to remember the not so passive aggressive words Natasha told him to use.
Peter slowly leaned over to you, whispering something into your ear that Tony couldn’t make out.
You immediately giggled, nodding your head in agreement.
You both looked back at your father, and you tried your best to conceal the laugh coming out, but failed miserably.
Tony watched, lips parted. He glanced at you, then looked to your boyfriend who he now wanted to kill. “Alright, you know what. It’s your Aunt May,” he said suddenly, staring daggers at Peter.
Peter blinked, his heart already beating a million miles a minute. “What?! Aunt May?!”
“Yeah,” Tony nodded. “Something happened. Something bad.”
“Is she gonna be okay?!”
Tony shrugged. “I don’t know, but we should leave and get you back home.”
Peter followed Tony out of the Tower and into his car, but not before giving you a quick kiss.
In the car, he was freaking out, insisting that he should just swing to his apartment to get there faster.
“But, Mr. Stark, if I swing I can-”
“You don’t need to-”
“My aunt! What if she-”
“Relax.”
“Oh, my gosh what if-”
“Would you just put a cork in it-”
“Aunt May-!”
Tony slammed on the breaks in the middle of the road, making a hundred cars honk at him. “Look! Nothing is wrong with your Aunt May!”
“…Huh…?”
Tony lightly let off the gas, driving down the street, eyes fixated on the road. “There’s nothing wrong with your aunt,” he said, tone more leveled.
“I don’t understand,” Peter said. “You said that-”
“I know what I said and I said that because there’s something very wrong with what’s going on between you and my daughter.”
Peter’s heart sank. He didn’t want to be banned from the tower again and he sure as hell didn’t want you to not be allowed to date him.
“Oh, Mr. Stark,” he said. “I’m sorry I…I don’t know what I’m sorry for because apparently even breathing in her presence is a crime but-”
“Look, pal,” Tony said, holding a finger up in Peter’s face. “Watch that mouth on you.”
Peter sunk in his seat. “Sorry…”
“I don’t understand why you two constantly need to be kissing or touching each other,” he grimaced. “If you would behave like normal human beings, then maybe we wouldn’t need such intense ground rules.”
Peter blinked. “What’s the point in having a girlfriend if you can’t kiss her? You’re basically just friends at that point.”
“Then just be friends.”
“But I wanna kiss her!”
Tony yanked the wheel, making Peter hit his head against the glass. He parked the car on the side of the road and turned to face Peter properly.
“Do you want to be banned from the tower again?”
“No…” Peter grumbled, rubbing the side of his head.
“Okay. Then you can…date…” Tony grimaced, as if the words pained him to say. “…my daughter, so long as you don’t kiss and leave six feet between you two.”
“I thought it was two!”
“Well, it’s six now!”
Peter sat up straight, a pleading look in his eye. “With all due respect, Mr. Stark, your daughter is the best thing that has happened to me,” he said sincerely.
Tony shrugged. “Yeah, she kinda has that effect on people. She gets it from me.”
“Sure,” Peter deadpanned, rolling his eyes with a sass Tony hadn’t seen. “Anyway, my point is, I can’t just be her friend. I…I love her.”
Tony’s eyes widened as his brows rose. “You? Love my daughter?”
Peter’s face flushed pink, realizing that he had just admitted it out loud. He loved Tony Stark’s daughter. “Yes.”
Tony stared at Peter for a long while, so long that Peter was beginning to think that he was plotting ways to kill him.
“Incoming call from Romanoff,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. announced.
“Answer it,” Tony said.
“Tony,” Natasha’s voice came in sternly.
“Natasha.”
“Where are you? Where is Peter?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Oh, I’m not,” Natasha said. “But you should be.”
Tony’s brows pressed together. “Why?”
“Because your daughter and Loki are using their voodoo magic stuff to try and curse you.”
“What?! I thought he didn’t like her!”
“Turns out he does, so I would highly suggest bringing Peter back.”
If there was one thing Tony was afraid of, it was you and the God of Mischief himself teaming up to plot his demise.
“So…does this mean I can still date your daughter?” Peter asked optimistically, leaning over the center console.
“No.”
Over the line, the two could make out the voices of you and Loki.
“Lethal or non lethal?” Loki asked.
You hummed. “Which do you recommend?”
“Lethal,” he responded without hesitation.
“Lethal it is.”
Tony’s jaw dropped, eyes going wide.
“I don’t think you have much of a choice, Mr. Stark.” Peter smirked.
⋆✴︎˚｡⋆
A/N: Feel free to send in tower fic requests! I’ve been so obsessed with them again, 12 year old me would be proud
