venus parker 🛼🐰🍭 @peterparkersgirlfriend1 - Tumblr Blog

Jun 28

One Way Or Another. | Chapter 4

╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ Villian! Dark! BND! Peter Parker x Stark! Reader

╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ Peter Parker once had everything he ever wanted. Now, he is out for blood one way or another. Nothing will stop him from making Tony Stark pay, starting with finally taking and ruining you for himself.

╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ SMUT!!!

╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ A/N: Sorry for such a long hiatus! I'm finishing up my Bachlor's degree! Get ready for a wild ride, I have so many twists and turns planned for this fic 💘

When the clock finally blinked at 3:00 a.m., the silence in the loft turned suffocating. You’d been pacing for nearly an hour, nerves frayed, mind looping the same thought:

You could tell them about the back of the photo. You should tell them.

But you didn’t.

Because you knew exactly what would happen if Peter found out you’d gone right to the Avengers. He’d push harder. Press closer. Become ten times more relentless. You could already picture the storm brewing behind his eyes.

So instead, you tucked Ben into bed, locked the door, and drifted through the loft you once shared with Peter. The same space that still held echoes of laughter, warmth, and a version of him that no longer existed.

The place felt different now. Hollow.

Waiting.

Agonzing.

You stood in the dark, arms wrapped around yourself, staring at the bolted windows. Every latch was secured. Every sensor armed. Every precaution the Avengers had layered on top of each other like armor. And none of it mattered.

Not when Peter had outsmarted every safeguard so far. Not when he could build something new in an afternoon if he wanted to. Not when he knew this loft better than anyone.

At 3:15, the air shifted completely. A prickle crawled up your spine. That instinctive, primal warning that something was wrong. Your breath hitched as your eyes adjusted to the dark.

And then you saw them.

Two pale shapes in the shadows. Not a silhouette. Not a figure.

Just the whites of someone’s eyes.

Wide. Unblinking. Watching you.

“You’re alone,” he breathed, the words slipping out like a secret he’d been holding on his tongue for hours.

Your pulse stuttered.

“Isn’t that what you were practically blackmailing me for?”

Peter tilted his head, studying you with that too gentle fascination that always made your stomach twist. Then came the smirk, slow, devilish, familiar in a way that made your chest ache.

“That’s what I was hoping for, my love.”

He stepped out of the shadows, and only then did you see what he was holding.

A book.

Worn edges. Softened spine. The exact copy of Sense and Sensibility you used to read curled against him during your first winter together. The one he used to tease you about for annotating like it was a sacred text.

He held it out like an offering.

“I brought this back for you,” he murmured.

You didn’t move. You couldn’t.

Peter crossed the room with quiet, deliberate steps, as if he’d walked this path a thousand times, because he had. He sat on the edge of the bed like he belonged there, like no time had passed at all.

And then he did the thing you hated most, the thing your body remembered before your mind could protest. He leaned in. Warm. Familiar. Careful. His shoulder brushed yours, and instinct betrayed you. You curled toward him, just slightly, just enough for him to feel it. Just enough for him to smile.

He exhaled softly, almost relieved, and rested his cheek against your temple. His arm slid around your waist with the ease of muscle memory.

You cursed yourself silently.

He kissed your forehead, feather light, reverent, devastatingly tender.

“I don’t want to fight with you,” he whispered. “I never did.”

Your breath caught.

“I just want you to let me be the best husband I can be to you,” he murmured, voice warm and heartbreakingly earnest. “And the best father to our Ben.”

His fingers brushed the spine of the book in your lap.

“We were good once,” he said softly. “We’ll be good again.”

“Peter… let’s calm down,” you whispered, wiping your cheeks with the back of your hand. “Let’s just… talk.”

He stilled.

Not tense. Not angry. Just… waiting.

“Talk about what?” he asked softly. “About how your dad let May di-”

You flinched, and he stopped himself, jaw tightening for a fraction of a second.

“About how he’s been keeping you away from me?” Peter finished instead, voice low, wounded, almost childlike in its confusion. “And our baby?”

“Peter,” you breathed, “I don’t agree with how my dad handled it. I don’t. I will never forgive him for what he did to May. It bothers me every damn day.”

His eyes flickered, a tiny spark of vindication.

“But you,” you continued, voice cracking, “you just— you left me. You left me alone! You left me pregnant! You left me terrified. You left me with nothing but a note and a mess to clean up!”

Peter blinked slowly, like he couldn’t understand why you were upset.

“Darling,” he murmured, brushing a tear from your cheek with the back of his knuckle, “I never left.”

Your breath hitched.

“Not once,” he whispered.

He leaned closer, forehead brushing yours, his voice warm and heartbreakingly sincere.

“I just had to build my empire.”

Your stomach dropped.

“So I could provide for you,” he murmured, thumb stroking your jaw, “and for our baby.”

He smiled almost perfectly, soft, dreamy, almost proud. Maybe he was proud.

“You deserved more than what I was then. I had to become someone worthy of you. Someone who could give you everything you ever wanted.”

Your tears fell even harder.

“Peter,” you whispered, “I didn’t want an empire. I wanted you.”

He shook his head gently, like you were a child who didn’t understand yet.

“You wanted safety,” he corrected softly. “You wanted stability. You wanted a future. And I built one. For us. Finally!”

His hand slid to the back of your neck, warm and familiar. “I did it all for you,” he whispered. “Every second. Every choice. Every fucking sacrifice.”

He kissed your forehead again, slow, reverent, devastating. “You just have to let me show you.”

Your breath hitched as the tears finally spilled over. “Peter… stop,” you whispered, voice cracking. “Please. Stop it.”

He froze for only a heartbeat, then his whole expression melted into something unbearably tender. “Oh, my baby… stop it,” he murmured, brushing your tears with his thumb. “Stop crying. I’m here now.”

His voice was soft, soothing, the exact tone he used to use when you’d come home from a brutal exam or a long shift. It made your chest ache in a way you hated. He pulled you closer, tucking you against him like he was shielding you from the world.

“I know what’ll get you,” he whispered into your hair, almost giddy with the sudden thought. “The little suburban cottage in London we always talked about.”

Your breath caught. “You know I own properties in London now,” he said, like it was a surprise he’d been saving for you. “A few, actually. But the cottage… that one’s special.”

You shook your head, tears falling harder. “Peter, please—”

“It’ll be perfect,” he continued softly, brushing your hair back. “Don’t worry. Let me take care of you. No more courts. No more hearings. No more people telling us what we can or can’t be.”

His forehead pressed to yours, warm and steady.

“Just Mr. and Mrs. Parker,” he whispered. “Just us.”

Your heart twisted painfully.

“No,” you breathed.

He blinked.

Softly. Slowly. Like he hadn’t expected that word to exist between you.

“Why not?” he purred happily as his lips ghosted over the shell of your ear. You shivered in his arms, inching closer to him. His hand slid from your cheek to the nape of your nape, gently tugging on your hair to reveal your throat. A gasp escaped your lips and suddenly you were at a loss for words. He focused on your neck and his lips instantly found that mark, that he knew you loved so much. “You’re so tense, my love.” he sighed, soaking up your close proximity at last. He began peppering deep kisses along the column of your throat. “Let me take care of you, hmm?”

“Peter, cut it out!” you snapped, pushing him off you, far more gently than you should have.

He stared at you, wide‑eyed, stunned… and then his lips curved into a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“You know,” he hummed thoughtfully, “you could go back to school.”

Your stomach dropped for what seemed to be the tenth time within the last ten minutes.

“You could get your Master’s degree. You always wanted to, sweetheart. I know you did.” He stepped closer, hands settling on your shoulders, turning you to face him fully. “Oh, it would be just lovely with your Bachelor’s. You’d be so accomplished.”

He smiled, too bright, too certain.

“Come on, Y/n. Think about it. We’ll move to London, move into our dream house… you can go to class in the morning and come home to hang out with Benji. I’ll come home from work—”

“I only call him Benji.”

“I’m his father,” Peter said calmly. “I can call him whatever you call him. He’s my blood, Y/n, whether you like it or not. Your body is changed permanently because of me, whether you like it or not. I’m your husband, whether you like it or not.” He spat at you.

Your breath caught. “Peter, I’m going to turn on FRIDAY if you don’t calm down.”

“And do what?” he chuckled softly. “Have Daddy come in here and save you? Steve? Bucky? Nat? Wanda? All the Avengers? Maybe you’ll call the damn Guardians down from space. It’s been a while since I’ve had a beer with Drax and Rocket. Maybe Vision can come in and write up some more bullshit papers about how to interfere with our marriage!”

“Why did you come, Pete?” you snapped, voice cracking. “Are you just here to fuck with my head more?”

Peter didn’t flinch at your words. He didn’t bristle. He didn’t snap back.

He just… stopped.

The smile stayed on his face, but something behind it went quiet, like a light switching off in a room you didn’t know he’d been standing in.

“Is that what you think I’m doing?” he asked softly with a chuckle.

Not offended. Not hurt. Just… curious. Too curious.

You swallowed hard. “Peter—”

He lifted a hand, not to touch you, just to silence you. And the gesture was so familiar it made your stomach twist.

“No, really,” he murmured. “I want to understand.”

His head tilted the slightest degree, eyes narrowing in a way that made your pulse spike.

“You think I came here to play games with you.”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out.

Peter’s smile widened, not warm, not cruel, just knowing. Too knowing.

“That’s how far they’ve gotten into your head,” he whispered. “That’s how much they’ve twisted things.”

He took one slow step toward you.

“You think I’m the one manipulating you.”

Another step.

“You think I’m the one confusing you.”

Another.

“You think I’m the one hurting you.”

He stopped just close enough that you could feel the warmth of him, but not close enough to touch.

And then, in a voice so soft it barely existed:

“Tell me who taught you to think that.”

Your breath hitched.

He waited.

Still. Patient. Expectant.

Like he already knew the answer. Like he was waiting for you to say it out loud.

“Was it Daddy?” he asked quietly.

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t. The silence stretched between you like a wire pulled too tight and was beginning to spilt open.

Peter chuckled. Soft, disbelieving, almost fond. “Y/n… do you remember what you first said to me? Back in my old, shitty apartment, when we first started dating? It was right after the first time we made love, we were all cuddled up under the sheets.”

You swallowed hard. “I… said a lot of things, Peter. I was blinded by your facade.”

He perked up at the jab, a tiny flicker of surprise. He smoothed it over instantly, refusing to let it land.

“No,” he murmured, stepping closer. “You said that when you were with me, you finally felt like your own person. You said you could breathe. You didn’t have to worry about the Avengers hovering over you.”

He bent down, gently taking your hands, not forceful, not aggressive, just heartbreakingly familiar. He lifted them to his lips and pressed a soft kiss to your knuckles.

“You trusted me,” he whispered. “More than anyone.”

His eyes lifted to yours, warm, earnest, way too sure of himself.

“And I never forgot that.”

Peter’s smile brightened suddenly, like he’d just remembered something wonderful.

“Why don’t we take a trip to Florida?” he said lightly, as if the two of you were still planning vacations on lazy Sunday mornings. “I know that the space shuttle is lifting off in May. Remember how we always talked about that?”

Your stomach twisted. Of course you remembered. He remembered everything.

“We could make a week out of it,” he continued, voice warm, coaxing. “Hit a few theme parks. Show Ben some new things. Catch some sun. You always wanted to do that.”

He said it like it was the simplest thing in the world. Like nothing between you had changed. Like he hadn’t broken your life open and walked away from the pieces.

You stared at him, unable to speak.

Peter’s eyes softened, almost glowing with that familiar, dangerous tenderness.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he murmured. “Doesn’t that sound nice? Just us. A real family trip. No courts. No Avengers. No one telling us what we can or can’t do.”He reached for your hand again slowly, deliberately, giving you time to pull away.

“You used to dream about things like that,” he whispered. “And I remember every dream you ever had! Now, I’m going to make them all happen.”

“Florida isn’t happening,” you say, voice steadier than you feel. “None of this is fucking happening!” you cry.

For a moment, Peter just looks at you, really looks, as if trying to decide whether you’re joking. Then something in his expression shifts, subtle and sharp. “Why are you doing this?” he asks softly. “Why are you pretending you don’t want the things you used to beg me for? You used to look up to me with those gorgeous, gorgeous eyes… especially when you were all fucked out by me.”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Your silence hangs between you like a warning.

Peter’s eyes warm with a strange, unsettling relief.

“There it is,” he whispers. “That look.”

You swallow hard, forcing your voice out. “Why Florida, Peter? Why now?”

He blinked, surprised you’re questioning him instead of reacting happily, instead of hugging him, instead of falling into the script he clearly expected.

“Because it was ours,” he says simply. “Before everything got… complicated.”

He steps closer, lowering his voice, the nostalgia in it almost suffocating.

“You used to talk about watching a shuttle launch like it was magic!” He spat. “ You used to plan which rides we’d take Ben on someday. You used to fall asleep on my chest talking about sunshine and freedom and getting away from everything!”

His gaze sharpened, it was not not cruel, but intent, certain, unshakeable.

“I’m reminding you of who you were,” he says quietly. “Before they brainwashed you to be afraid of me.”

Your breath hitched, but you forced yourself to stand your ground.

“I’m not afraid of you,” you whispered.

Peter’s smile returned, slow, knowing, unbearably patient.

“No,” he murmured. “You’re afraid of upsetting your perfect little rescue team.” The nickname slid off his tongue with a soft, mocking sweetness, like he was savoring the words just to tear them apart. He watched your face carefully, eyes narrowing with quiet satisfaction when you stiffened. “That’s what this is, isn’t it?” he whispered. “You’re not saying no because you don’t want Florida. You’re saying no because you’re terrified of what your perfect little rescue team will think.”

His voice dropped even lower, warm and devastatingly sure. “You’re afraid of disappointing your heroes.”

He stepped closer, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him but not close enough to touch.

“But you forget something,” he murmured. “You were mine long before you were theirs.”

He lifted his hand, just enough for his wedding band to catch the light. Peter watched your reaction like he’d been waiting for it. He let the ring drop back to his side, eyes never leaving yours. “No matter how good of friends you are with Wanda,” he continued, voice dipping into something almost amused, “no matter how much her little boy toy is helping you out with these papers…”

He stepped closer, slow and deliberate, like he was approaching a truth you’d been avoiding.

“I will win,” he said simply. “I always win.”

“You know why?” he added, almost conversational. “Because I’ve already put a million on the line.”

Your stomach dropped.

“I’m paying Matt a million dollars,” he said quietly. “A million, sweetheart. Do you understand what that means?” He tilted his head, studying your face with unsettling calm. “I don’t lose.” He thoughtfully hummed. “I’m willing to go into billions for you. I don’t care if I have to spend every penny I have, Y/n.”

Another step. Another inch of air was stolen from the room.

“But,” he murmured, “we could put a stipulation on this now… if you want.”

His eyes glinted, not with anger, but with the terrifying confidence of someone who believes the ending is already written.

“You and me,” he whispered while gesturing between the two of you. “We can decide how this plays out.”

You froze. Your mind spun in every direction at once, thoughts piling over each other so fast you couldn’t grab a single one. You tried to speak, tried to force something out, anything that might break the pressure building in your chest.

You drew in a breath, ready to blurt out whatever came first.

Peter caught it instantly.

He saw the shift in your eyes, the way your lips parted, the way your breath hitched. And he twisted all of it into the meaning he wanted.

Not fear. Not shock. Interest.

“See?” he whispered. “You’re thinking about it.”

His voice was soft, almost gentle, but the certainty underneath it made your stomach tighten. He stepped a little closer, slow and deliberate, like he was approaching a conclusion he’d already written for both of you.

“That’s all it takes.” he murmured.

You stayed frozen, caught between instinct and disbelief, and he read that silence like it was proof.

“You don’t want to consider it,” he said quietly, “but you are.”

He tilted his head, studying you with that calm, unsettling focus that made it impossible to look away.

“And that,” he said, barely above a whisper, “is how I know I’m right.”

Your breath hitched, and he watched it like it was the single most important thing in the world.

“We’ll start over in London,” he said, his voice soft and certain. “It’s perfect timing. It’s always been our dream, hasn’t it? A clean slate. A place that actually feels like us.”

Your stomach twisted hard. “Peter, don’t—”

He kept going, lost in the sick picture he was painting.

“You’ll get that damn degree,” he repeated. “You’ll spend your afternoons with our son. You’ll take him to the park, to the museums, to the little cafés you love. You’ll finally have space to breathe.”

Your pulse spiked. “Stop. I’m not— I don’t want—”

He didn’t even flinch.

“And in the evenings,” he continued, “I’ll come home, you’ll be cooking dinner in that adorable apron of yours. We'll sit down together. No noise. No chaos. Just us. The way it should’ve always been. I’ll get to throw the ball in the yard with Ben and you’ll do something menial like pottery or read.

“Peter, listen to me. I don’t want this! I don’t want any of this!”

He smiled, small and unsettling. “If you want,” he said, “we can go shopping this week when we arrive. I’ll get you a whole new wardrobe for London. Whatever you want for the next year. Any style. Any look. You’ve always deserved that.”

You stepped back, breath shaking. “You’re not hearing me.”

He tilted his head, studying you with that new, calm, eerie focus that made your skin crawl.

“Ben will start school in a couple of years,” he said quietly. “That gives us more than enough time to settle in. To figure out what comes next. That'll leave us with more than enough time to even have another… little bundle of joy.”

Your throat tightened. “Peter, please stop.”

He blinked slowly, like he couldn’t understand why you weren’t smiling with him.

“Why are you acting like this?” he asked softly. “I’m talking about our future.”

“This isn’t our future,” you said, voice breaking. “This is you talking to someone who isn’t here anymore. I wanted all of this with the man I love, not a villain.”

For a moment, something flickered in his expression. It was somewhere between both confusion and disbelief you initially had thought. But looking back, it was something much darker.

Then he stepped closer, his voice dropping to something almost tender.

“I won’t deny your heart anything, my love,” he said quietly. “Not one thing. Just… let me in again. Don’t believe the lies.”

Your breath caught, sharp and terrified.

And he watched it like it was hope.

“Did I ever hurt you?” he asked quietly. “Did I ever fail you? No. Did I ever lay a hand on you? No. Even when I wasn’t there in person, I was still watching out for you. I did everything for you. I kept an eye on you because I cared.”

“Peter, stop,” you said, louder this time, the words breaking out of you before you could think. “You’re twisting everything. You’re talking like I’m agreeing with you, and I’m not.”

He blinked, confused, but you kept going, voice shaking.

“I don’t want London with you,” you said. “I don’t want family dinners or wardrobes or whatever fantasy you’ve built in your head. That’s not my life anymore.”

Your hands trembled, and you curled them into fists to hide it.

“You say you watched out for me,” you said, breath uneven. “But that’s not comforting. That’s not love. That’s not normal. It scares me.”

His expression flickered, but you didn’t stop.

“You keep talking like you know what I want,” you said, voice cracking. “But you don’t. You don’t hear me. You’re not listening to anything I’m saying.”

Your throat tightened, panic rising fast.

“I’m not letting you rewrite my life,” you said. “I’m not letting you rewrite everything I've built these past three years! You can’t take that from me!”

You stepped back, heart pounding so hard it hurt.

“Please,” you whispered, “stop pretending this is something it isn’t.”

He lowered himself again, slow and careful, settling on the floor in front of you. His head rested lightly against your knee, like he thought the gesture alone could smooth everything over.

“Okay,” he murmured, voice soft. “Okay, honey. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. Let’s just… calm down for a second.”

His tone was gentle, almost tender but it didn’t land the way he thought it did.

You stared past him, jaw tight, eyes burning with frustration. The moment he tried to soften the air between you, something inside you recoiled. You rolled your eyes, sharp and exhausted, but he didn’t see it from where he was.

He felt the shift, though.

“Fine,” he said quietly, lifting his head just enough to look at you.

You exhaled hard, rubbing your palms against your thighs, trying to steady yourself.

“Peter,” you said, voice low but firm. “You can’t just… do that. You can’t act like everything’s okay because you say sorry in a sweet voice.”

He blinked, taken aback by the edge in your tone.

“I’m trying,” he said, still gentle, still off. “I’m trying to make this easier.”

“It’s not easier,” you said. “It’s weird. It’s too much. It’s not helping.”

The room went still again, not peaceful, not calm, just oddly suspended.

He stayed there on the floor, looking up at you with that strange mix of affection and confusion, like he couldn’t understand why his sweetness wasn’t working the way it used to.

And you sat frozen, heart pounding, wishing he’d stop trying to make the moment passionate when it was anything but.

“I’m not the enemy here,” he said quietly. “You act like I’m doing something terrible just by trying to talk to you.”

You didn’t answer. Your jaw tightened, your eyes flicked away, and the silence between you sharpened like glass.

He noticed.

His shoulders stiffened just slightly, the softness in his voice thinning into something more fragile, more defensive.

“I’m serious,” he murmured. “I’m trying. I’m actually trying, and you’re looking at me like I’m some kind of threat!”

You exhaled sharply, not bothering to hide your frustration this time. He caught it. He always caught everything.A faint crease formed between his brows, the kind he got when something didn’t fit the picture in his head. “I’m talking to you calmly,” he said, still soft but with an edge now. “I’m apologizing. I’m being honest. I’m being a good husband. And somehow that’s still wrong.”

You shifted in your seat, uncomfortable, your fingers digging into your own palms.

“Peter,” you said, voice tight, “you’re not listening to what I’m actually saying.”

He blinked, slow, defensive in a way that didn’t raise his voice, it actually became lower.

“I hear you,” he said. “I just don’t understand why everything I do is suddenly a problem.”

Your breath hitched, and he leaned back slightly, studying you with that strange, searching intensity that made your skin crawl.

“I’m not trying to hurt you,” he said quietly. “I never have. You know that.”

Your throat tightened. “That’s not the point.”

He swallowed, jaw flexing once.

“Then what is?” he asked, voice still gentle, still wrong. “Because I’m standing here trying to fix things, and you’re acting like I’m the one breaking them.”

You groaned as you pushed yourself up from the chair, the movement sharp and frustrated. You didn’t even get two steps before you froze, catching yourself, breath stuttering like you’d hit an invisible wall.

Peter’s head lifted immediately.

“Darling, what’s wrong?” he asked, voice soft, too soft, like he was afraid you’d shatter if he spoke any louder.

You pressed your fingers against your sides, nails dragging lightly over your skin as you tried to steady your breathing. You knew you shouldn’t have worn that damn bra that always seemed to drive your skin crazy at the worst times.

“I’m itchy,” you muttered, shaking your head. “Just— give me a minute.”

He blinked and nodded slowly. “You are huh?” he studied you for a moment before walking over and pressing light kisses on your collarbone. “Oh. It’s that silly bra, isn’t it?” His hands slid up against your sides, until he reached your chest. He smiled as he thumbed over your nipples through the fabric of that horribly itchy bra. “Must be terrible, my poor baby.” he said tauntingly.

One hand reaches around your back, unsnapping the clasp. With the other, he pushes up the cups, freeing your breasts. He takes one of them in his mouth just as the bra drops away, swirling his tongue around the nipple and sucking. Your hips buck up against his, and he moaned in such relief.

"You're such a darling, you know that? I’m so lucky… I’m the luckiest bastard alive." His lips ghost over the sensitive skin of your neck, his grip almost bruisingly possessive as he pulls you fully against him now. "And now, I finally plan on taking very good care of my wife," he murmurs, his voice hoarse with barely contained desire. “... And that amazing body of yours.”

“Pete, no… no, I can’t,” you said, but the words didn’t sound like a refusal. They sounded like someone trying to convince herself of something she didn’t believe.

He picked up on it instantly. His expression softened, warm and hopeful in a way that made your chest ache for simpler times.

“But sweetheart,” he murmured, stepping closer, “Of course you can.”

You swallowed, your shoulders loosening despite yourself. You hated how easy it was for him to slip into that tone. The one that made everything feel softer, safer, familiar. The one that made you forget, for a second, why you were supposed to be keeping your distance.

“You work so hard,” he continued, voice dipping into something tender. “You’re always thinking about everyone else. And all that stress from court… you’ve been carrying it alone.”

He wasn’t wrong. He saw the way your eyes softened, just a little, and his smile grew gentler.

“I think you deserve one night off,” he said quietly. “Just one. With someone who actually cares about you… and wants to listen to you and your body.”

You looked away, but not because you wanted to leave. Because you didn’t trust the warmth blooming in your chest.

“Pete…” you whispered, and you even heard the shift in your voice. The adoration you didn’t mean to let slip.

He stepped closer, careful, slow, like he didn’t want to spook you.

“We’ll get into bed,” he said softly, “and just cuddle. Watch a movie. Something with Audrey Hepburn? Or Reese Witherspoon? Sandra Bullock maybe?

Your heart twisted. You knew you shouldn’t want that. You knew every red flag was waving. But God, the idea of sinking into something that once was, even for a night, felt like relief.

You didn’t say yes. You didn’t say no.

You just stood there, caught between the part of you that knew better and the part of you that missed being held.

“See?” he murmured. “You want to rest. Let me at least give you that.”

“Pete, n-n-no-”

He stepped a little closer, careful, like he didn’t want to break whatever fragile thing had just opened between you. “There she is. There’s my girl,” he murmured, voice warm enough to melt something in your chest. “I knew you were still in there.”

Your breath caught.

You shouldn’t like hearing that.

But you did.

He saw the way your shoulders loosened, the way your eyes didn’t look quite as guarded, and his smile softened into something almost tender.

“You don’t have to pretend you don’t want to rest,” he said gently. “You’ve been carrying everything alone for so long. Let someone take care of you for once.”

Peter’s voice dropped into that low, sinful purr that makes your stomach flip with anticipation.

"Now, let me carry you to bed.. I’ll feed you grapes while I massage every inch of this gorgeous body."

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“F-Fuck Keep going! Keep going! Oh!” You had to bite back more as the loft’s walls were only so thick, unlike Peter’s cock.

“You don’t have to be so quiet, love.” Peter sighed lovingly into your neck as he thrusted harder into you. “They’ll never know.”

You chuckled while you let him press sloppy kisses to your lips, his tongue swirling in your mouth as you moaned softly. Peter’s thrusts continued to pick up, each one hitting you in all of the right places. It was like he could read your mind and body. Although, it didn’t quite feel like Peter. Clearly, Peter had incredible stamina and speed no regular man could compare to, but it felt as though he was holding back nearly 100 times more power than he had ever shown in the past.

You tried to push your thoughts back as your eyes rolled back as he kissed your lips gently, feeling his balls slap against your clit. You were transported to the last time you were in such a position with him, 3 years ago. That night, he snuck in.

Your hands slid down his arms, tracing the shape of muscles you knew by heart. You kissed the curve of his bicep, longing and lingering, but froze when your lips brushed over something unfamiliar. Ink. A tattoo. You pulled back just enough to look at him. The room was dark, but you could see the whites of his eyes watching you, unblinking, almost glowing in the shadows. You couldn’t place it at the time, but the way he looked at you so unsettlingly should have been your first clue. “Pete,” you whispered, your voice barely a breath. “When did you get a tattoo?”

You tried to pry yourself from focusing on the intense pleasure blooming between your thighs to finally focus on that ink. You pulled back slightly to kiss that curve once more. You tried getting a better glimpse this time, but Peter twisted so you were on your back. His forearms caged your head as he thrusted right into your g-spot.

Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.

“God, love. You’re so tight…” he kissed your cheeks as the tears began to flow out of you from the intense overstimulation. You were squirming while his grasp remained tight on you, leaving you to bounce on his cock helplessly. He kissed your tears gently, each single one which made him hum in pleasure as he pounded you.

Peter grabbed your hips and led you into him, closer, and closer by the second. You felt your palms catch his ink once more.

“Trying to figure out what it is huh? … Don’t tell me you don’t know, love.”

“I-I… oh fuck.. I don’t..” You panted.

“Let me paint the picture for you love,” he chuckled into your ear, pushing you almost to the edge. “Us… fooling around at Steve’s house July 4th, 6 years ago…”

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Flashback: Steve's Brooklyn home, July 4th, 6 years prior

Steve had the whole gang over for the Fourth of July. In essence, it was a housewarming party with all of his closest friends. Scott, Carol, Vision, Sam, Bucky, Natasha, Wanda, Peter, and you. You remembered it well. Steve spent the first 20 minutes showing everyone around the house, every nook and cranny. It felt so grown up. Nat and Bucky had moved into an adorable townhouse last year, but this was different. This was a comfortable two story home. You were still sleeping in your bedroom at Stark Tower.

Everyone eventually settled into the sunken family room. The lights were dimmed slightly, and Steve had set up the entire space with decorative lights and blankets for everyone to cuddle up on. For a brief time, everyone split up. You had your period, and after you winced coming out of the bathroom, Peter noticed immediately. He was attentive as always. He carried you in his arms to one of the spare bedrooms and set you down delicately on the full sized bed. He cuddled you, rubbing slow circles between your shoulder blades, and you let out those soft little sighs he adored.

“Why don’t we just stay here tonight? I know just about everyone is going to,” Peter said quietly into your neck.

“I feel guilty about it,” you chuckled.

“Steve said it was more than okay. You heard him. Besides, it’s already midnight, and this is one of the worst nights to be out driving. Fireworks everywhere and all of those drunks on the road. It’s dangerous.”

You hummed. “You’re right. I would be terrified to battle whoever is on the road tonight.”

“That’s my smart girl.” Peter massaged your lower abdomen. “We could go out for breakfast in the morning. Get one of those fancy expensive drinks I always tease you about.”

You laughed and playfully smacked his arm. “What did I do to deserve such a gentleman?”

Peter kissed your neck, which quickly riled you up. “By being yourself, darling. I’m the luckiest bastard alive to have the most perfect girlfriend.”

Peter shifted behind you on the bed, reaching for the remote with one hand while the other stayed wrapped around your waist. The television flickered to life, the soft blue glow filling the dark spare bedroom. He flipped through a few channels until he landed on a NOVA program about constellations.

The narrator’s voice was low and soothing, talking about ancient star maps and the stories people carved into the sky.

You hummed, settling deeper into Peter’s chest. “You like this stuff, right?” you teased.

He smiled against your hair. “Like it? I live for it.”

You giggled. “Okay, professor. Then explain it to me.”

Peter shifted, propping himself up on one elbow so he could see the screen better and muting the narrator. His other hand stayed on your hip, warm and steady. “That one,” he said, pointing, “is Cassiopeia. She is shaped like a W. You can always find her.”

You smiled. You couldn’t help it. Even though you were not as knowledgeable about space, you had always loved learning about it, especially when Peter was the one sharing his wisdom. “It looks like a zigzag.” you teased him once more, hoping to get a cute rise out of him.

He laughed softly. “Everything looks like a zigzag to you these days. ”

You smacked his arm again, and he caught your wrist, kissing the inside of it before letting go. “Tell me another one,” you said. “Please?”

He hesitated for a moment, then reached over the side of the bed and grabbed his backpack. He pulled out a small notebook, the one he always carried, the one filled with equations and sketches and half finished ideas.

He flipped to a blank page.

“What are you doing?” you asked, smiling.

“Making you your own constellation,” he said simply.

Your breath caught.

He didn’t look at you. He was already sketching, pencil moving fast and sure. He glanced up at your face every few seconds, studying the curve of your cheek, the slope of your nose, the angle of your jaw.

Not in a creepy way.

Not yet.

Just… intensely.

Like he wanted to get it right.

“What does it look like?” you whispered.

He didn’t answer. He kept drawing, eyes flicking between you and the page. “Hold still, babe,” he murmured.

You froze, heart fluttering.

After a moment, he turned the notebook toward you.

A cluster of stars.

A gentle curve.

A soft line that mirrored the shape of your profile.

“It is you,” he said quietly. “Your constellation.”

You gasped at it, stunned. “Pete…I love it.”

He swallowed, eyes softening in a way that made your chest ache. “I wanted you to have something that is yours. Something no one else has.”

You traced the drawing with your fingertip in a loving manner.

“I’ll actually draw a nicer version for you, in color, when we get home.” he kissed the top of your head.

“Thank you honey, I love it..” You leaned into him, and he wrapped his arms around you again, pulling you close. Peter welcomed you clinging to him like a lifeline, now un-muting the program. The NOVA program played softly in the background, talking about stars that lived and died long before humans ever existed.

And in that moment, something settled in Peter.

Something quiet.

Something absolute.

He would remember this night forever. He knew this night was going to be imperative.

He would remember the way you looked in the glow of the television.

He would remember the way you smiled at the constellation he made for you.

He would remember the way you let him hold you like you belonged there.

He knew you were his.

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TO BE CONTINUED...

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