Request: memory loss of Peter, blurred flashbacks, memories of Tony and Spiderman, visiting Bruce Banner.
Summary: When the unknown influence of Jean Gray starts to bring memories back to you, who better to consult than your dad’s best science partner, who Peter also happens to be visiting…
Warnings: mentions of death, implied Jean Gray influence, implied possession.
Pairing: Peter Parker x Stark!Reader
Word Count: 2.6k AO3 Link Other Spidey Fic
A part of you felt missing. For so long you’d assumed it was due to the passing of your dad, but recently there was something more beneath it, something that was clawing its way to the surface.
You had questions. Ones that didn’t have simple answers. Ones that would circle through your mind in an endless loop until you’d spend every waking moment trying to figure them out in typical Stark fashion.
You’d spend sleepless nights thinking and then sketching and then engineering to find solutions to the things that should never be solved - life and death.
Your dad may have invented time travel, but he was smart enough to prevent it being replicated.
He knew humanity too well.
He knew you too well.
That didn’t stop you dwelling on what could’ve been.
Once you’d accepted that the past stayed past and the dead stayed dead, you began preparing for new threats, studying the gauntlet prototypes and trying to reconnect what once was of the avengers.
Trying to continue his legacy.
It wasn’t a simple task.
The ones who were alive weren’t all eager to interact with you. They looked at you distantly like they were staring through a ghost.
Others weren’t around anymore. Off-world or…
You didn’t like to think about it.
Your childhood was filled with faces you’d never see again. Heroic figures who failed to save your father and were wrecked with guilt at the mere thought of you.
You were 16 when he died. Old enough to want to fight, but too weak to do so. You’d tried but they promised you they’d look after him for you.
Promises didn’t mean much anymore.
Promises were made by desperate people looking only to appease. Not out of certainty and not something to trust.
You were still weak now - emotionally, at least.
The nightmares tore through the little sleep you got. They’d become worse recently. It felt as though there was a presence trying to invade your mind, scraping through memories and orbiting around one hero.
Spider-Man.
You’d wake up in a cold sweat after seeing his red suit dissipating in the arms of your father with a distorted cry. Or your vision would double with blurred figures of him standing on the Statue of Liberty as the sky swirled with impossible colours.
After each occurrence, you’d note down the details you could remember, trying to decipher the pained images.
Then you noticed a pattern - he never wore a mask in your nightmares, which was strange because you’d never seen him without one.
You’d spent time with him in the compound years ago, but he’d never removed the mask.
It stopped making sense after a while.
If he didn’t take off the mask, why could you remember dinner with Spider-Man? Laughing around the table with the Avengers when he’d come to visit.
It would’ve been unfathomable to have spent so much time together without once catching a glimpse.
And your dad trusted him. He was one of the few non-avengers allowed in the compound.
Everything you knew about him was fragmented, but you had this overwhelming feeling he was important.
The more you fixated on it, the more your dreams began to be consumed by him, until it moved into your waking hours.
That was when you knew something had to be done.
After weeks of trying to fight through the headaches and insomnia to figure out what was going on, you decided you couldn’t do it alone.
You figured that the best person to go to for any unusual changes or mental problems was definitely Dr Banner. He was one of the few Avengers that stayed local the last few years and had experience with all sorts of problems.
It wasn’t the first time you’d bothered him and it wouldn’t be the last. (and he’d never admit it, but he didn’t mind it all too much.)
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺
As you stepped into the classroom, you noticed a few eyes on you, but nothing as bad as what Tony used to get. Pepper and Happy had kept you as shielded as possible for a Stark to be in the outside world: no interviews, few news headlines, and no dramatic speeches like Tony always did.
When Dr Banner spotted you in his class he distinctly paused. Once he’d accepted it, he offered a polite wave of acknowledgment before beginning.
He spotted Cindy Moon with her hand up once again. “Is this a question about physics or another one about the Avengers?”
He could tell by the look on her face it wasn’t about physics. “Alright, let it rip Cindy.”
“If Thanos was so worried about overpopulation, why didn’t he use the magic glove to make more food?”
You winced at the question having not expected this topic in the lecture.
It took every bit of restraint for you to not snap back. To not declare that Thanos was a maniac whose ideas had so little thought and concern-
Dr Banner cut off your mental spiral and diverted the focus to something less sensitive. Not so eager on the talk of Thanos with you in the room.
“Want to answer that for me, Russ?”
…
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺
Once the class was over, you made your way swiftly over to Dr Banner, eager to ask your questions.
“So what are you doing here, kid?” He knew it was you approaching before he even looked up from his notes. “It’s not like we visit each other often and I know you’re not one of my students.”
“Maybe I’m just here for the physics lecture.”
Bruce let out a chuckle. “As if you need any lectures. You know what you’re doing.”
“I thought I wasn’t meant to grow complacent in my knowledge.” You retorted, throwing back words a younger you had heard.
It earned a smile.
One that saw you for the parts of Tony you carried.
“Besides I don’t know everything.” You spoke a little quieter.
“My question isn’t about physics. It’s a bit more… abstract. I would’ve gone to Strange about it, but you know how he can be.”
This caught his attention, eyebrows raising inquisitively before they settled in an uncertain frown.
“Go on.”
“I’ve been getting these nightmares, but they’re not the usual kind. They’re all centring around a figure. The more I try to focus on its face the worse it gets and it’s started happening in the day too… sort of like a splitting headache, but more like my mind is being ripped apart.”
Bruce listened carefully to your explanation, trying to figure out if it was anything he’d seen before. After all, he’d been around for plenty of Tony’s panic attacks where he was convinced he was dying. The two of you were equally dramatic.
“Have you experienced anything traumatic recently?” He asked, before correcting himself. “Anything new.”
You shook your head.
“Do you remember the first time it happened?”
“Um…” You tried to recall. “It started two weeks ago. But nothing important had happened that day, I only went to see Yelena in a coffee shop, then went home. Nothing unusual.”
Bruce hummed in thought, moving to find some paper to take a note down of your situation. As he did so he spotted a boy still hanging around from his lecture, eyes focused solely on you.
With the reasonable concern of any teacher, he had to check this guy wasn’t an absolute creep stalking the child of Tony Stark (it was unfortunately possible).
“Hey, are you waiting to have a chat?” Dr Banner asked politely, trying to gage the boy’s motive.
“Uh yeah- I just didn’t want to interrupt you two-”
You turned to look at him before being hit with the worst ache yet. You held your head, sound shrieking in your ears in a splitting cry, your eyes closed, face scrunching together.
Images flooded in, but this time they weren’t riddled with pain, but something much brighter and just as suffocating. There was laughter and legos and sunsets from rooftops, hands intertwined with the red material, tracing the texture of the web-like seams. You heard him speak, *promising* he’d find you and that everything would be okay.
Then you were back, with Bruce’s hand on your shoulder, gently stabilising you. “Hey hey, sit down.” He analysed your symptoms closely. “Did it happen again?”
You nodded as best you could. You were unable to see the concern adorning the face of the boy who stood braced to help, still halfway across the room.
“I’ll call Pepper to send a driver to take you home.” Bruce suggested.
“No- Going home won’t fix this. I need a solution!” You protested, which didn’t shock Bruce. Always too eager to have answers immediately and unwilling to rest until you get some.
“You need to rest. I’ll gather some research and keep in contact, okay?” He never had before, but there wasn’t much you could do to argue as it still felt like a hammer was descending on your skull.
As Banner was occupied calling your mom, the boy cautiously approached.
“Um- hi. Are you okay?” His eyebrows furrowed together in concern.
“Mhm just a headache- It’s easing up.” You assured politely, still rubbing at your temples in the aftermath.
You expected a reply, but after the prolonged silence you looked up at the boy only to find his eyes already on you.
If it were anyone else you’d have been startled, but for some reason you could only find yourself staring intently too.
He looked familiar.
He sounded familiar, although he hadn’t spoken much.
“Do I know you?” It felt like an odd question to ask. One that you should’ve known the answer to.
“No uh- I don’t think so.” He shook his head lightly with an expression you couldn’t pinpoint.
It had more emotion than it should have for a stranger.
You felt like you were going crazy.
Like the blurred face from your dreams had jumped alive and was assuming the identity of those around you. It was like he was speaking with the voice that haunted your every moment.
Maybe it was evolving from a dream to a hallucination?
*Something’s wrong.*
“What is it?” He asked.
“Huh?”
“You said something’s wrong.”
“Oh.” You’d spoken aloud. “Nothing’s wrong.”
He looked at you incredulously. “I can tell when you’re lying.”
He said it like he knew you.
“How?” You looked at him suspiciously.
“Because you’re a terrible liar.” He laughed. He didn’t need to know you to see that, but he did.
“I’m injured here and you’re criticising me. It’s unfair.” The reply felt so natural.
“Mh sounds dramatic for ‘just a headache’.” He quipped before softening up again. “So which is it?”
“Fine.” You breathed. “I don’t feel great, but what’s it to you?”
“Oh- nothing, I’m just a… concerned classmate.” He murmured.
Yep. Classmate. You definitely go here. So does Peter. Neither of you are lying to each other or undercover in the exact same place. You’re both students at whatever collage this is…
“That makes complete sense.” No more questions; it wouldn’t be good for either of you.
“So, are you gonna tell me your name, concerned classmate?”
He hesitated. Long enough for you to question if he’d forgotten his own name.
“Ned. Ned Leeds.”
Hm.
“You don’t look like a Ned.”
He shrugged bashfully. “Well I didn’t choose the name.”
You offered him a polite smile and introduced yourself in return. He nodded and you wondered if he’d heard of you.
“So… Ned, you’re wanting to speak to Dr Banner?” You interrogated.
“Yeah- I have some questions.” He seemed nervous for some reason. “About physics.”
“Oh well he’s the best physics teacher and scientist I know, so I’m sure he can help you with whatever it is.” You smiled.
“I hope so.”
Bruce returned to let you know the car was almost here. You thanked him and said goodbye to ‘Ned’, looking back one final time before you left.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺
You couldn’t stop thinking of him after that, replaying through the interaction as if answers could be found in it.
That voice.
Why did it turn into his voice?
Was that his voice?
Was Spiderman some random guy in Dr Banner’s class?
It wasn’t making sense.
You decided that you needed to test your hypothesis as any good scientist would do. To do that, you’d need to meet spiderman and unveil his identity - not publicly of course - for your own sake.
Everyone knew the best way to find spiderman, was to be in (or become) *danger*.
And since you’d lost his number and nobody you knew seemed to have it, you needed to take quick action into your own hands.
Going against everything your mother had ever taught you, you planned your victimisation.
It’d be simple in New York. You could basically stand in the street and wait for the crime to come to you!
If you’d been of a more sane mind at the time, you’d have realised how terrible of an idea this was. However, after weeks of sleep deprivation and super-powered headaches, you didn’t know much better.
You chose the wrong day to put yourself in danger, but how were you to know that a traumatised mind-controlling mutant with powers of possession would be walking around!
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺
“You idiot! What were you thinking?” You heard the voice echo out as you faded back into consciousness. Snapping back to reality far too fast to process it all.
“I knew it! I wasn’t going crazy. It’s you!” You half-yelled, voice still recovering from what seemed like screaming?
“Is that what all this is about? Figuring out who I am?” He seemed mad. Not just that - exasperated and a bit bloodied even visible over the suit.
You then realised you weren’t where you thought you were. It was windy up here. Once you took a look around, you realised all the buildings didn’t seem so tall because you were on a rooftop. With a very unhappy spiderman. But a real one. Not a dream one.
“You almost died!”
“Wouldn’t be the first time.” Was all you could manage, trying not to worry too much about whatever just happened that you couldn’t remember.
“No you don’t get to act so unconcerned about this! You always do this!” He seemed so frustrated, the eye plates shuttering and widening in emotion.
“What?”
You frowned.
He paused. Taking a step back as if he’d just realised what he said.
“I don’t remember ever doing anything like this before. We only saw each other at the compound, right?”
“I just meant- you were always trying to run towards the danger.” He tried to save it with an explanation. Not willing to tell you that a stunt like this was exactly what got his identity revealed to you the first time.
He should’ve known when he saw you at Banners.
“No there’s something else. There’s something you’re not telling me. It’s been plaguing me. And I need answers.” You stepped towards him, footing a little shakey from whatever incident had occurred.
“C’mon. Just tell me. We were friends right, once?” You hated that you had to ask.
He breathed. “Yeah… We were friends.”
You reached for the curve of his neck, finding the edge of the mask, slowly enough that he could move away at any moment. Enough that it was still in his control if he needed it to be. The movement felt too familiar.
“Why does it feel like I’ve done this before?”
He went to speak, but you didn’t trust it, halting your movements ever so slightly.
“I want the real answer, Spidey. Don’t bullshit me.”
He sighed, feeling the mask be lifted off his neck.
“You have done this before. We have.” He spoke with little power, quiet and a bit hesitant.
“…So why can’t I remember it?”
AUTHORS NOTES:
Lmk if anyone wants a part 2 cause I have plans… I’m also taking more requests.
I can make deals with the devil because my dick's bigger.
warnings: Jos V, daddy issues, age gap (5y), soft!max, reader is badass/bear mama and wife, kids, harsh words :( (i mean, Jos being a dick to Max), no father figure found...
a/n: Max gives me soft, gentle vibes in these, probably bc of everything he went through as a kiddo. I could never hate him, my shayla 🥺
a/n2: after writing this... i gotta say... BITCH, I MADE MYSELF CRY?!
support me here: ko-fi✨
🔊 listening to: Father figure - Taylor swift
baby name: Noah V.
☁️🤍☁️🤍☁️🤍☁️🤍☁️🤍☁️🤍☁️🤍☁️🤍☁️🤍☁️🤍☁️🤍☁️
Max never really talked about his father.
He’d bring him up like a passing memory, always felt detached.
"He was tough, but it made me who I am.”
That’s what he always said.
And you’d smile, but inside, something twisted. Because love wasn’t supposed to sound like fear disguised as strength.
There was something about the way he tensed at sudden noises.
The way his apologies came too fast.
The way he flinched whenever Noah cried too loud.
You noticed. You always did.
And you wondered how many nights the boy he once was had cried himself to sleep thinking it was his fault.
Before all of this, before Max sat on the porch that night with that haunted look in his eyes, there had been a moment that felt like it belonged to another world.
You found out about the pregnancy on an ordinary morning. Max’s smile—half disbelief, half wonder—was brighter than any trophy he had ever won. You remembered how he laughed through tears, and how you did the same, feeling your hearts overflow. You were young, still are, but so in love.
“We’re really doing this… we’re making a little human,” he whispered, eyes still wet.
“Yes,” you said, laughing through tears. “Our little human. They're going to be so loved”
But Jos had a way of cutting into happiness like a knife.
“A girl?” he barked at Max a few weeks later when he called to tell the news, voice sharp and unforgiving. “That’s useless. The legacy needs a son. Maybe you need another chance.”
Max went still, jaw tight, shoulders stiff. He had grown up under the cold, relentless voice that measured every little thing he did (or didn't). You could see the fear flash in his eyes.
“We don’t need anyone else to decide our family,” you said firmly, stepping close to Max, your voice a shield.
Jos sneered, his gaze hard and calculating. He said nothing more, but the weight of his disapproval pressed down on them both.
Your son was a boy, strong and healthy, sleeping safely in Max's arms. He had his eyes and your hair —a perfect combination of both in such a tiny body. You named him Noah, Noah Verstappen.
Max changed during that period of time. He was present in ways Jos had never been, spent less time in the sim, celebrated his victories by kissing both of you as he stepped off the podium —admiring Noah with his little cute noise-canceling headphones— and his defeats were less bitter knowing he had two people supporting him every step of the way.
Noah was not even two, but Jos still found ways to assert himself.
“He should be in a kart already,” Jos said one afternoon, tone cold. “Two years old? That’s the age to start. Legacy doesn’t wait.”
Max flinched, unease flickering across his face. You, seeing it, clenched your fists softly, feeling the familiar surge of protectiveness.
“Not now,” you said quietly but firmly to Max later, voice steady. “At least for now, he stays out of our son’s life.”
Jos called one afternoon without warning. Max went into the house to answer, brows furrowed.
You and Noah were in the garden, laughter spilling out as he rolled a toy car over the stones.
For a moment, Max watched him, peaceful, until Jos spoke.
Feeling Max’s absence, you turned your gaze toward the house, where he was watching Noah through the glass door with a serious expression. You stood up and kissed Noah on the head, leaving him to play, promising to be back in a second.
Sliding the crystal door, you approached Max, resting your head on his chest to comfort him. Max put the call on speaker.
“You were already racing at that age. Don’t let him be soft like that.”
Your blood ran cold. Jos? and that topic, again?
The way Max’s posture changed said everything.
“Jos” you said quietly, sensing he couldn’t speak, “he’s two. He’s supposed to be soft.”
He scoffed. “That’s how weakness starts. You’ve been softening him since day one. That boy needs discipline—like his father did. And if you’re not willing to give it, maybe you’re not fit to raise him at all.”
Your jaw tightened.
“No. I’ve been saving him since day one. Both of them”
“You think you’ve fixed everything… but some things never truly heal.”
Your lips pressed together, unshaken.
“I already fixed what mattered. Both of them. And that’s enough.”
And for the first time, Jos fell silent. Even Max couldn’t move. He felt proud of you and the way you always stood up to his father. Max was a tough cookie to the world, but only Jos and his family made him weak—each for different reasons.
“You think breaking him made him strong? He became strong in spite of you. And you won’t teach our son that kind of fear.”
There it was. The truth. Sharp and final. You hung up and ran your hands through your hair as Noah started to cry outside.
“Are you okay, babe?” you asked Max before heading to your son.
“Yeah. Thank you, liefje,” he said, taking a deep breath—the first one since Jos had called.
“Don’t shut yourself off. You know I’m here, always” you added, squeezing his hand and wrapping both your arms around his back.
☁️🤍☁️🤍☁️🤍☁️🤍☁️🤍☁️🤍☁️🤍☁️🤍☁️🤍☁️🤍☁️🤍☁️
That night, he sat outside for a long time, hoodie pulled over his head, eyes unfocused.
The air was cool, still carrying the weight of what had happened.
You joined him quietly, no words, after tucking Noah in and making sure he was asleep.
After a while, he spoke — voice low, hoarse.
“I used to think it was normal, you know?”
He didn’t look at you, he was fidgeting with the cuffs of the hoodie.
“I thought he made me better. That he loved me in his way.”
You reached out, brushing fingers against his hand.
“Being scared as a kid isn’t love, Max.”
He laughed .
“He used to hit me. Left me at a gas station after a bad race. Hit my head so hard that the next time… I didn’t take my helmet off for four hours. Just to be sure.”
You tightened your grip, pressing your forehead against his chest.
“Max… you didn’t deserve that. None of it. And neither does Noah.”
When the tears came, they were silent. Unfamiliar. He was never allowed to cry, to show emotion.
And you held him.
Held him like the child no one ever comforted.
Held him until his breathing evened, until the shaking stopped, until the man who’d been told all his life to be hard finally allowed himself to be soft.
“You don’t have to carry it anymore,” you whispered.
“You’re safe now.”
A few nights later, you drove him out to a quiet park near the coast.
Noah had spent the whole day with Charles and Alex, and their dog, Leo. He loved dogs, so they didn’t mind staying with him a little longer.
The park was empty, no cameras, no noise — just the hum of the city far behind them.
He looked confused, but followed you anyway.
When you handed him a spoon, he raised a brow, still puzzled.
Then you took the ice cream—Cookies and Cream Häagen-Dazs—the one he didn’t really like, but had ordered on your very first date just to make you happy, because it was your favorite.
He almost laughed.
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope. You missed some things. We’re catching up.”
So he sat on an old swing that creaked under his weight, holding a spoon sharing the tub with you, pretending to enjoy it.
But you saw it — the way his shoulders dropped, the way his smile softened.
Something inside him unclenched.
“You know,” he said quietly, “I never did this. Not even once.”
“There’s always a first time for everything.” you replied.
He tilted his head back, looking at the stars.
For the first time in a long while, his chest didn’t feel so tight.
“I don’t want him near our son. I used to think I owed him everything. But I don’t.”
You squeezed his hand, warmth and pride in her eyes.
“You don’t owe him anything. You owe yourself peace.”
He turned toward you then — eyes wet.
And for once, he didn’t look like his father’s son.
He looked like himself.
When you got home, he went straight to his son’s room. Alex and Charles were already gone.
The little boy slept peacefully, one hand curled around a toy car.
Max stood there for a while, breathing slowly, as if memorizing the sight.
You joined him, arms slipping around his waist, chin against his back.
“Do you think he’ll know?” he asked quietly. “That I loved him differently?”
You smiled against his shoulder.
“He already does.”
He was never given softness. So he learned it through her.
"Father Figure" is a song George Michael released while he was still in the closet at a time in the UK when you could be arrested for having consensual gay sex in a hotel room and many gay men were disowned by their own fathers. He allowed people to believe it was about an older man creeping on an underage girl because that was actually more socially acceptable than being gay at the time.
I do not think Taylor Swift, who is as heterosexual and privileged as a woman can possibly be, is emotionally or intellectually capable of handling that piece of queer history with the care and nuance it deserves. I think it's appalling she would even touch it. I'm guessing she will strip it down for parts and make it about herself, a straight woman.
Straights: if a song by a queer artist says "love can be mistaken for a crime", please just accept that not everything is for you to take and profit from.
“Sir. You are exhibiting persistent, high-frequency caretaking behaviors toward younger, smaller, emotionally dependent team members with a history of attachment needs and a desire for proximity.“
“Are you diagnosing me with parental instinct?”
“Yes.”
“I reject your theory.”
“You can’t just opt out. That’s not how parenthood works.”
“Neither is being diagnosed with it! They’e more like parasites I can’t get rid off!”
“Do you typically make lunch boxes for parasites and tuck them into bed?”
