𝐏𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐞𝐫 𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐭 𝐁𝐨𝐨𝐤

Happy New Year*

Parings → Peter Parker x Stark! Reader

Warnings →SMUT, 18+, Adult content, Alcohol use, Oral, Nudity, Hangover, Parent interruption, Awkward humor, Stark family chaos

Summary →Tipsy best friends confess, hook up, crash naked together, then face brutal hangovers and Tony Stark walking in uninvited morning.

-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-

The Compound was quieter than usual.

Too quiet.

Most of the team had gone out for New Year’s celebrations—flashy parties, loud music, champagne you’d pretend to like. You’d passed on all of it. So had Peter.

Your room smelled faintly like vanilla and laundry detergent when you shut the door with your heel, hands very obviously full.

“Okay,” you muttered to yourself, grinning. “Mission accomplished.”

The bottle of vodka clinked softly as you set it on your desk, followed by two mismatched glasses you’d stolen from the kitchen. You’d felt ridiculous sneaking it up like a teenager when you were very much an adult, but old habits died hard—especially when your father was Tony Stark.

You were still unscrewing the cap when there was a knock.

A Peter knock. Hesitant. Uneven.

You smiled before you even opened the door.

He stood there in a hoodie, hands shoved into his pockets, curls a mess like he’d run his fingers through them one too many times.

“Hey,” he said, voice soft. “Uh. Happy New Year.”

“Happy New Year,” you echoed, stepping aside. “Come in before my dad decides to invent x-ray dad vision.”

Peter snorted as he slipped inside. “Yeah, no, I don’t need Tony Stark knowing I exist right now.”

The door shut behind him, sealing the room into its own little world.

His eyes immediately flicked to the bottle on your desk.

“…Is that vodka?”

You winced dramatically. “Allegedly.”

His mouth fell open. “You smuggled alcohol into the Compound.”

“I am a rebel,” you said solemnly. “Also an adult woman.”

Peter laughed, that bright, helpless laugh that always made your chest feel warm. “Wow. I feel honored to be included in your life of crime.”

You poured without measuring. Bold. Reckless. Tipsy-you was future-you’s problem.

You handed him a glass. “To surviving another year.”

He clinked his glass against yours. “To… not dying. Always a good goal.”

You both drank.

It burned. You coughed. Peter definitely gagged.

“Oh my God,” he wheezed. “That’s—why do people enjoy this?”

“They don’t,” you said, eyes watering. “They just pretend.”

You collapsed onto the edge of the bed, laughing, and Peter followed, sitting close enough that your knees brushed. Too close. Not close enough.

The second drink went down easier.

The third… easier still.

Your room grew warmer. The lights felt softer. Peter’s laughter lingered longer in the air. You noticed things you always noticed but tried not to—how his shoulder pressed into yours now, how his fingers kept tapping nervously against his glass, how his eyes kept flicking to your mouth when you spoke.