Hey girlyyyyy
You know I enjoy some recreational marijuana so could I get some pothead!Reader X tasm!Peter and/or Bucky content plssss
-Pao ☄️ (I don’t remember what my old anon name was lmao)
in addition to this ask: can we get more insight to tech bro Pete and his best friend? Literally whatever you wanna write for them I'm obsessed less pothead reader and modding it for techbro!peter x bestfriend!reader
the three times you denied peter's offer to smoke, and the first time you accepted it (three times you denied peter's offer is within the first 6ish months of being friends with peter, than the first time accepted is after casual)
A/N: this turned out way longer than it should have been (~4100 words) so i didn't write the full smut
tw: substance consumption (weed, alcohol), messy relationship/situationship, implied smut, sex under influence, peter's nickname for the reader is daisy (and pretty girl), peter jumping off a building
Nothing about Peter Benjamin Parker would read as a 23-year-old tech engineer and Oscorp's leading consultant. Yet, he was. Despite the barely grown-out bleached hair, the constant bouncing of his leg, the maroon hoodie adorning his body, and the blunt tucked securely behind his ear - This was the Peter Parker that Gwen had told you so much and so little about.
Gwen. Lovely, well-intended Gwen, who was determined to be friends with you the moment you told her you just moved to New York. Her bright smile split her face, eyes practically sparkling as she welcomed you to the city and subsequently demanded you go to dinner with her so she could show you the best pizza in town.
In her defense, the pizza was good.
After the first day, it was a weekly thing. Even if you wanted to say no, you couldn't. Just like you couldn't say no when she invited you to a little hangout at her friends' apartment. The nail polish you put on the night before was losing the battle to your nerves, anxiety plucking at the edges until they were all chipped as you stood stiff in the large kitchen.
Voices ran like static television, your mind trying to place puzzle pieces. The shorter of the two men was Harry Osborn, the owner of the condo you currently stood in, not an apartment. The vast walls were bare save for a handful of art pieces probably worth your months salary, the kitchen was sleek, and the windows gave the most gorgeous view of the city you'd seen so far.
Then there was the darker-haired girl who came in a few minutes after you. "M.J. finally, you decide to show up," Harry's voice had teased the moment the door was open, pulling your attention to her and clicking a piece into place.
It would have been really nice for Gwen to show you pictures of everyone before arriving, or even better, introduce you to everyone.
How long has it been of you standing at Gwen's side, eyes looking around owlishly as you took in your surroundings? 5 minutes? 10? 30?
"Gwen," Peter's voice easily cut through the chatter of his friends, his leg going still, chin pointing down as he caught the blonde's eye from across the room. "Throw that poor girl a bone and introduce her. Y'been here for 12 minutes and she's standing there like your shadow."
A sigh fell from your lips, eyes going wide for a moment before looking over to Gwen. Apparently that was the right reaction, because everyone started laughing.
"Oh. My. God." Dramatic, as always, "I am so sorry. Guys, this is the girl I've been telling you about."
It felt like an icebreaker on your first day of high school, or more accurately like Cady Heron on her first day of real school except the people here were actually nice and actually wanted to be your friends, right? Maybe.
Somehow, you missed Peter standing up and moving about until he was in front of you, pulling the blunt out from behind his ear. Despite the frat boy look to him, he smelled of cinnamon and amber, like you just stepped into a bookstore warmed by candles, and not at all like weed or booze or axe body spray like you were expecting.
"Wanna smoke? Help ease that anxious brain of yours?" His voice was smooth like warm honey.
"I'm good, thank you, though." It was tempting; it would help, but you also don't really know these people yet.
There was a beat of silence, his eyes scanning you for a moment. It was like he was analyzing you, every strand of hair and texture on your skin, until his gaze landed on your phone that you were flipping over in your hand, the flower design of your case visible every other movement. "Daisies." It was a statement more than a question.
"Oh?" You followed his gaze to your hand before looking back at him to see his eyes were on yours again, "Yeah, daisies."
"They're cute flowers." His comment was nonchalant, hand reaching in his pocket and pulling out a lighter before he took a few steps back, turning to head towards the balcony entrance. "Let me know if you change your mind."
Thursday night dinners quickly turned into Thursday night drinks. So maybe Gwen's friends did actually like you, or at least didn't hate you.
The bar was always so warm and inviting, a little slice of tranquility that was golden lights and friendly bartenders amidst the cold, concrete jungle that was New York City. Situated on the border of Brooklyn and Queens, and somehow almost directly in the middle of all of your respective homes.
The week had been long, and honestly, both you and Gwen were dreading the idea of coming out tonight. Shared sighs of exhaustion during lunch that were now completely forgotten amongst the group. It was easy to forget why you were tired when M.J. spent the better part of the evening airing out Harry and Peter's relationship fails, the stories ramping up more and more each go around. They must have done something to tick her off before Gwen and you got there from the firm.
"Okay, so have neither of you had a real relationship?" The question slips from your lips before you press the rim of your glass to them, sipping at the contents. You weren't trying to get drunk, not with another long day tomorrow.
The question causes everyone to go silent for a moment, M.J.'s eyes darting from Peter to Gwen before Harry pipes up. "Well, of course we have." His tone is defensive, but there's a curl to his lips and uptick in his words, "Last person I dated wasn't ready to come out, so we ended things. Dated a few other people since but nothing serious. Gwen hasn't been in a relationship since Oxford, Peter hasn't been in a relationship since Gwen -"
"Harry-" M.J. hisses out.
Gwen sighs, her forehead coming down to rest against her hand for a moment before she looks around, that tight look she has with a demanding client adorning her usually soft features. "She knows Peter and I dated in high school-" when she looks at you, her eyes soften again, "We just usually don't talk about it-"
"Because when it gets brought up it's the topic of conversation for weeks." Peter finishes her sentence with ease before picking up his beer. The clink of his empty glass against the table signals the end of his drink and the end of the night, even if it's not spoken.
"Well, if it helps, my dating history isn't much better. I've seen it all. The liars, cheats, and thieves. Oh, and a Republican." You offer before following suit on Peter's action and moving to stand out of the booth.
There's a chorus of reactions, the lightness edging its way back into the conversation. The rogue commentary is met with smiles and half-hearted reactions as the five of you make it out of the bar, the sun barely setting behind the buildings. It really was an early night.
Normally, by now, the sun is far past set, and Gwen is orchestrating the drive home on her phone to see if any roads are closed off. Harry, being the saint that he can be when he wants, would usually drive you home before dropping Gwen and MJ off at their shared apartment and going home himself, even though you live in the opposite direction from them.
But tonight? Well, this evening is nice. There's plenty of daylight left to light your way, and the warm spring air doesn't nip at your skin the way it has been the past few weeks. Your apartment is only a few blocks north.
"I'll walk home tonight, Gwen," you say just as you see her reach for her phone.
The look on her face is as if you just insulted her, blonde brows furrowed and lips slightly parted. "What? No. Harry can drop you off like normal."
You shake your head, tucking your hand into the front of your trousers. Sure, work clothes weren't the most ideal walking attire, but at least you wore flats today and not heels. "No, no. It's fine. It's nice out, I want to walk."
With the way the other three are looking back and forth, a bystander would think there was a tennis match going on. "I'll walk her home," Peter offers, her hands fiddling within his sweatshirt pocket. "Harry said it's not much different than the route I would take home."
Gwen's shoulders relax at that, her lips twitching with a smile, "You sure?"
"Yeah, yeah. Won't let anything happen to Ms. Daisy, I promise."
Your eyes roll before you even realize you're reacting, which causes Peter to laugh. "Don't give me that look, now come on before Momma Gwen changes her mind."
The walk towards your apartment is quiet at first. It felt natural asl you two turned the corner, blocking the view of the bar as you trekked along. Peter's hands finally came out of his pocket, bringing a little black box to his lips before he stopped his movements and glancing at you. "You okay if I take a hit?"
You glanced up at him, brows furrowing and lips pursing. "Yeah - yeah, that's fine."
He smiled softly before taking a small breath of the vape, offering you the device after he did. "It's weed." He stated, "Not nicotine. Do you want a hit?"
Your fingers twitched ever so slightly, before shaking your head, "No, I'm okay. Thank you for offering. And asking."
Peter nods before tucking the little box back into his pocket. "Thank you for changing the subject earlier."
You're not entirely sure how they convinced you to climb 20 stories and sit atop the roof of Harry's condo building. There was maybe a promise of good stories, good pizza, and the most amazing view in NYC, but even with all the good you couldn't get over how far down the ground was. If any of you tripped...
The summer air was sticky at this point, but thankfully, the dark, vast night sky was offering a much-needed reprieve. Specks of white were dotted along the ink, not the most stars you've ever seen, but the most you've seen since moving here. Looking up was an easy way to distract you from what was below.
You could hear the others chattering away, a few feet from your more than safe spot on the roof. Gwen and M.J. sat in foldable lounge chairs, Harry between them and Peter pacing in front of them as he sparked his blunt. There was a small table that held the pizza and drinks they set up before you got here.
"Hey!" Peter's voice drew your gaze to them again, his hand waving you over.
With a deep breath and a few steps that felt like molasses, you stood behind Gwen, who was peering up at you from her seat. "How are you guys not scared out of your minds up here?"
Gwen's laugh sounded as if it was floating through the air, "You get used to it, I promise." She looked back at the others before looking up at you again. "Peter has something he wants to tell you."
There was a wave of something that ran through you, maybe a horde of butterflies or maybe a tsunami of dread. Catching his eye, you couldn't miss the mischievous glint in his. He took another hit of his blunt before taking a step back towards the edge, and another another, and another.
Each step he took was making your hands clammy, heart beat faster. You didn't even hear Harry's complaint of Peter's dramatics as Peter took the last step up onto the ledge and fell backwards off it.
There was a rush of white noise. Your legs moved to take a step towards the ledge, but then Gwen grabbed your arm, stopping you from going more than a foot ahead of her. Just as you're about to turn to her, you see Peter bouncing back over the ledge, a thick, rope-like string from his wrist to the edge of the building and the blunt in his free hand.
Just as you registered that he was there and very much alive, he was registering the sheer panic on your face and the racing of your heart. He was quickly moving towards you, a broken laugh falling from his lips. "Woah, okay, hey. Take a deep breath, 'm alive."
The rambling of Peter's voice cut through the waterfall of white noise in time for you to hear Gwen pipe up with a "I told you that wasn't a good idea, should've told her, then showed her."
The hand that had been connected to the now disintegrated rope was rubbing the back of his neck, the light flush adorning his cheeks was a rare sight in all the months you'd known him. "Okay, yeah, Gwen, you were right. I thought I would be fun, ya know a 'ha gotcha' moment."
"You can't 'ha gotcha' after jumping off the building." Your fear quickly turned to anger, having erupted and quickly simmered down as you watched Peter's face grimace just the slightest.
There was a beat of silence before Peter sighed. "Just take a deep breath, daisy, kay? Calm down a bit. I'm not dead." He looked around for a moment before his eyes landed on the blunt, "Do you want a hit? May help with the nerves," He offered, sounding genuine.
You shook your head no, moving to sit at Gwen's feet. "No, I - God, you asshole! You scared me half to fucking death." You could hear the snickering behind you. "I want you to explain what the hell was all that." Your hands were waving around nearly comically, brain still trying to process what was going on.
"I- well," he chuckled softly. "I'm Spiderman."
Movie nights at Peter's were a rarity. Really, anything at Peter’s place was a rarity the entire five years you’ve been friends. Living with Aunt May limited what he could do, always stuck between not wanting to disrespect her with his rowdiness or there being some sort of renovation going on.
Tonight, Aunt May was somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic on a cruise and thankfully just the basement had construction plastic covering it, which prompted Peter’s suggestion of a change from the typical Thursday bar night to his place. The cozy little townhouse in Queens always felt like home; Pictures of Peter through the years and extended family members who none of you had met, knick knacks and art strewn everywhere, Aunt May’s hand-knitted blankets laying across the back of the couch.
Everytime you were in here, you didn’t want to leave. Tonight was no exception.
The movie was long over, Harry, MJ, and Gwen having left about 10 minutes ago, and you offering to stay behind to help clean up the mess of food containers and empty drinks. Peter was humming softly as he gathered the trash from the living room, his voice breaking through the show playing idly in the background.
Weirdly, warmly domestic.
Just as you could feel Peter’s warmth behind you, his humming dying down as he entered the kitchen you had finished up the few dishes, cutting the water off. “Thanks for your help,” his voice was softer, the way it usually was when he would walk you home.
“Of course,” your tone matching his as you turned around, taking the hand towel he handed you.
Silence settled between the two of you for a moment, his whiskey eyes warm, crinkling as he smiled. His slight stubble was more noticeable in the brighter light of the kitchen, a few gray hairs shining like glitter against the dark chestnut color at his temples. Was it the bottle of wine you shared with the girls or him making your chest warm and bubbly?
“I’m gonna go roll up,” his voice was that warm honey tone again, “Then, I’ll walk you home, ‘kay?” Peter’s hand hesitated at first, but once you nodded he reached up, tucking a loose piece of hair behind your ear. The heat in your ears hit before the dryness in your mouth, Peter thankfully turning out of the kitchen just as you took in an unsteady breath.
Cinnamon and amber, the scent that was so undoubtedly Peter, sat with you in his absence. It had been months since that first time, but something about the way he looked at you tonight made it feel like just yesterday his lips were on yours.
He returned a few minutes later, stupid blunt tucked behind his stupid ear and a stupid crooked smile on his stupid lips. “Wanna smoke before we go?” He asked as usual, he always asked. Nearly five years of you saying no and he still asked. Except this time, you hesitated, and that hesitation caught Peter by surprise.
He pulled the blunt from behind his ear, rolling it between his fingers a few times, “I know you smoke on occasion,” he shrugs, “It’s why I always offer. But if you’re not comfortable, you don’t have-”
“Yes,” you answered, cutting off his rambling. Your hands came behind you to hold the count, bracing yourself as Peter took the tiniest step closer to you.
“You sure?” His voice was hushed, eyes searching your face for any hint of hesitation.
“Yeah.”
Before you can even process, that warm, anticipatory feeling tingling at your skin is being brushed away by a breeze in the late summer air with Peter leading you onto the back porch. It was dark, save for a string of lights strewn across the edge of the awning and the light coming out from the kitchen door window, and surprisingly quiet with the exception of passing cars on the street opposite the house.
He didn’t even bother pulling chairs up, bringing the blunt to his lips and sparking it the second the door was shut. The glow of the lighter bathed him in warmth like a campfire, highlighting the flutter of his lashes and purse of his lips as he took a breath in. He pulled at it a few times, making sure the burn was even. Once satisfied with how the end singed with red, he turned it to you to take.
Without even thinking, you didn’t bring your hands up to grab the blunt, instead leaning forward to put your lips to the end of it while he still held it. The paper tasted of chocolate, though the mint of his chapstick was evident and far more intoxicating than the hit you breathed in. Slow and steady, small as you tested the waters, eyes fixed up as you did.
“Fuck,” the sound was barely audible through his parted lips, the flush on his face barely noticeable in the near darkness. You could sense it more than you could see it, “Don’t look at me like that.”
The smoke fluttered around your face as you breathed out, eyes wide as you held his gaze. Despite the smoke, you could feel your mouth water, chest tighten with anticipation. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” That was a half lie. You knew you were looking at him the same way you did all those months ago, testing the waters, seeing if the option was available.
The issue was Peter always thought you were looking at him like you were trying to communicate with him.
Maybe not always like this, with lust blown pupils and softly bitten lips, but he swore he could read your mind with just a glance. If you were irritated with something Harry was saying, or overwhelmed by Gwen’s protective nature, or confused by something M.J. was explaining, he could tell. If you were looking for your water bottle but not quite needing it or starting to get hungry and needed food sooner rather than later. The way your expression brightened when you saw something that piqued your interest or the distant look when you were tired but not wanting to go home. But, that just came with being friends for so damn long. He could do the same thing with Harry, Gwen, and M.J… mostly.
Peter brought the blunt back to his lips, the light from the kitchen hitting you more and giving him the chance to see your eyes follow the movement. He took in a hit, but when he noticed your eyes still lingering on his lips, he took in a little more. He held the blunt to the side, taking a step closer and eliminating the little bit of space between you.
Just as you were about to ask what he was doing, his free hand cupped the back of your neck and was guiding your lips towards his. You didn’t need to be told at that point.
Parting your lips just slightly as they met his, the smoke sneaking its way out of his mouth and lungs into your own as you breathed it in. Breathed him in. You couldn’t help the noise that left you, somewhere between a whimper and a moan, breathy and soft through the muffling of smoke and lips.
Peter didn’t pull away until you could practically feel the smoke leaking and dissipating through the small spaces between your lips. He leaned his forward against your, eyes hooded and he watched the last bit of smoke leave your lips. Once there was no more smoke, he turned his head and took another hit, repeating the process again, and again, and again, until the blunt was nearly nothing.
He lifted his foot, washing the roach out against the sole of his shoe, never once taking his eyes off yours. There was a heavy silence, foreheads still pressed together, your hands gripping his shirt from you steadying yourself once the world got blurry.
“Can I kiss you?” He asked, as if his lips hadn’t been on yours for the past ten minutes.
“Do you really have to ask that?” You countered, hands relaxing a bit against his chest, feeling the warmth from his skin underneath the fabric.
“Just wanna make sure y’r okay,” he practically slurred out, bumping his nose against yours. “Wanna take care of you,” his lips were ghosting over yours the same way they’ve been, vibrating against you as he spoke.
“What do you mean by that?” Your voice was soft, barely recognizable to you. You knew what he meant, but with the way he was whining, sounding like he was nearly begging. You needed your foggy brain to commit that to memory.
“Wanna take care of you,” he repeated, lips trailing across your cheek, nudging against your chin and ghosting against the soft skin of your neck. His stubble scratched ever so slightly, skin warm against yours. “Wanna kiss you, take you back inside and bend you over the couch, eat your pretty pussy unt-”
“You sound like you’ve been thinking about this,” your accusation causes Peter to pause, burying his head in the crook of your neck.
The heat from his cheeks were obvious, hands coming to rest upon your hips and pulling them flush against his, letting you feel the answer before you heard it. “Can’t blame me,” he counters, softly kissing his way back up to your lips, “You’re the one who bent over the couch earlier.”
“I was handing something to Harry,” you countered with a giggle, hands dancing up his chest and over his shoulders, settling in his hair. Harry had made an offhand comment about Peter needing a haircut, the soft hair slightly curling as it hit the nape of his neck and perfect to tug at softly. The gasp that left him sent a wave of desire through every nerve ending. “I’ll make a deal with you,” this was why you didn’t smoke with him before, every inkling of doubt and anxiety gone, feeling like you were on top of the world, “You can kiss me, if I can ride you.”
The grip on your hips tightened, “You’re gonna fucking kill me, daisy, fucking hell.” Peter breathed out, pulling back just a bit to look you in the eyes. “I can kiss you, then eat you out, then you can ride me until you’ve had your fill, pretty girl, yeah?”
Who was going to argue with that counter offer?