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roger--that · 2 years

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𝐬𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐝 𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐭 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: peter parker x stark reader

𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬, 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝! 𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐋/𝐑𝐄𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐓 𝐀𝐍𝐘 𝐎𝐅 𝐌𝐘 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐊𝐒!

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: sfw, implied public sex (both characters are of age) - sorry for any missed.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 1.3k

Dear Super Secret Boy Band,

Heavy breathing, weakening knees. Hands sliding up your shirt, fingers brushing your stomach, shivers.

This is just an e-mail to remind everyone of a couple of office rules. Nothing major, all we want is to make sure this stuff is followed.

Eyes closed, gasps held, lips mouthing against throats with encouraging moans. A darkness that hides sweat-glazed foreheads, clenched hands in blankets, warmth.

First off, no food deliveries directly to the compound. Any orders must be sent to the security hut and then picked up.

Muscles tensed, groans, kisses sloppily trailed from collarbone to lips. Jeans kicked off and discarded to the floor.

Second, a request must be made to take equipment out of the building for non-Avenger related purposes. This is for the safety of the very expensive equipment.

Muffled moans, giggles, teeth on the bottom lip grinding down. You slide your legs together, ankles locked his back.

Third, if you don't want your food stolen from the fridge, it must be labeled with your name. House rules say all unclaimed food is free game.

So warm, so sweet, so good. The warmth, the hair ruffled, the necks bruised. Slow hands intertwining and voices calling in unison.

All of this is clearly stated in the official rules. Come on, guys. Be on time, and no co-worker relationships. It's all pretty standard.

Thanks,

Tony Stark

"I don't understand. Did they find out?"

Shaking your head, you began to bite down on the inside of your lip. "My dad wouldn't have sent an email, he wouldn't have called us out like that. It would have been a private meeting."

Peter shook his head and pulled himself out of the chair in their shared office. He moved to the window with long, worrying steps and stared out, quiet. Your fingertips kneaded, nervously, onto the beanbag chair; you dared to invade the subject and disrupt the functioning of his mind.

"What do we do?"

Rhythmically, his knuckles rapped on the window as if they were attempting to pound a cure out of the smudged glass. "I don't know."

You hated it. The sensation of hanging over a precipice, literally waiting to tip you over the brink with a gentle breeze. They were teetering.

Originally, you recalled Peter asking you out, humbly, obviously delighted when you had said yes. Dinner dates evolved to long walks, a hummingbird in your chest that you wished would never go anywhere, paralleling the relentless climb of emotions every time you saw him.

You was reminded of Peter's random bouts of stereotypical romance by a vase of flowers on the bedroom dresser, as few as they were, for he was all about cliché deeds. He traced his thumb over the windowpane, causing your wrist to breeze with phantom touches.

"We could tell him," you suggested, concerned by his uncharacteristic stillness. "I don't know, my dad might make an exception."

"I don't think so." He gestured to nothing with one hand, a usual conversation accent with him. "They're obviously trying to crack down on us a little, it wouldn't go over well."

He was right, because he was, of course. Their brains were functioning almost the same way, and you had drawn that conclusion. However, it was different to see his thin lips going across it, followed by a furrow of a brow over rich brown eyes. You didn't want to say what would follow inevitably, you didn't want to imply the chance, but by the way, Peter's back kept tense and relaxed, as if he was dreaming about planning for a blow himself.

"So, I guess we'll call a rain check on dinner tonight," speaking lightly, you hoped that the hint of humour would break down this brick wall Peter had built up.

The masks could always be pulled back, revealing an intriguing tidbit or sliver of a previously concealed character. That was something that you had always loved that about him. The willingness of Peter to chameleon from boisterous funny guy to serious critic, very close to your own world outlook, offered their levels of relationship to focus on.

He didn't pick up the bait, letting the joke fall flat, the silence was almost resounding around the empty room. Almost everyone had gone home already, teasing Sam on the way out because he was one hundred percent the culprit of all the stolen food complaints.

"What do you want to do?" Peter asked, softly, with his eyes tracking the sluggish progression of the outside traffic.

You swallowed against the lump in your throat. "There's not that many options." They were dancing around it. Finally, he turned away from the large window, and stood there, gazing at you, his arms hanging loosely from his side. Uncertain.

"So, I guess this is it?" He phrased it like a question. For a second, you pondered, considering how blocked from all directions they were, then nodded. Peter has his gaze fixed on you. A breathy chuckle fled from your throat.

"Good thing we weren't going long."

Four months. Not quite a drop in the ocean as compared to the rest of the time. But during those few short months, you had fallen for him, and you had fallen hard. It was inevitable.

Don't think about his stupid, warm brown eyes, don't do it. I swear to God.

"Yeah," he agreed. "This could have gotten really messy." He ran a hand through his hair, and started to edge towards the door. "I'll, uh, see you around?"

You smiled sadly. "Yeah, see you around."

It was less than an hour later when you saw him next.

Your dad had decided to call a full team meeting in the main conference room.

Out of fear that they would connect with his, you did not dare to cast your eyes upwards. Distracted, you fidgeted with the sleeve on your shirt, reminiscing of how it reminded you of Peter.

On your second date, you wore this outfit. A quick brunch where, at the end of the meal, he admitted that the entire time there had been chocolate smudges on the corners of your mouth. In revenge, you thwacked his shoulder, blushing before he said it was funny.

In those unique romantic moments, he occasionally called you sweet, voice landing lowly on your ears. It made you feel almost as treasured, just as Peter would pronounce your name so naturally as if you were born to rest in the curves of his tongue.

From under the table, you felt a hand brush yours.

Glancing around, you saw that the conference room was now empty, the rest of the team had spilled out into their respected areas of the compound - she had missed the whole meeting.

You glanced down to see Peter grasping your fingertips softly. The shell of your ear was struck by his breath.

"Storage hallway," he said softly. "Second closet on the right at 2:00."

2:04

Your back hit the wall, legs wrapping around his waist, thudding in the dim room. Peter's hips pushed roughly against yours.

Nothing felt better than the comfort of Peter's grip on your legs, your shirt pulled up around your waist. Your fingertips raced through his hair, instinctively knowing where to grasp, feel, catch, even in the black pitch, insistent lips trailing over your cheek.

"You know," Peter muttered, hands sliding to your rear and grabbing to support you better, "we might be able to take advantage of our fairly oblivious friends."

You giggled at the enticing idea until he made sure that your lips were left with nothing so coherent.

#peter parker #spiderman #tomholland #marvel #fanfic #peter parker x reader

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