Chapter Text
Peter Parker realised that he was different when he was five. He was shopping with his parents, and instead of being like the other girls and going straight to the pink dresses and purple skirts, he walked straight over to the boy’s section. He didn’t want dresses or pretty colourful things like the other girls, he wanted trousers and shirts like the boys.
Peter Parker realised that he liked having a boy’s name when he was six. His parents had died a few months before and he was playing a male character in the school production. At the time he forced himself to hate it when the girls complained at their boy parts, but when he went back to his girl’s name afterwards, he felt sick.
Peter Parker realised that he was trans when he was eight. He’d never heard the term ‘trans’, but when he was accidentally referred to as ‘him’ by a teacher it lit up his entire world. He asked Ned to call him ‘he’ and ‘him’ instead, and whenever he heard himself be called those pronouns he felt warm and safe and happy. Ned, who’s uncle was trans, told him about the label, and that’s when he realised that he was a boy.
Peter Parker came out to May and Ben at ten. They smiled and hugged him and said that he was their special little boy. That was the day he cut his hair and changed his name to Peter. And it was the happiest day of his life.
And Peter was proud to be a trans man.
The only problem? Well…there were a few problems.
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Peter climbed into his bedroom through the window like usual, red and blue suit clinging to his body comfortably. He crept across his room, casting a quick glance at the clock on his wall and deducing that May would already be asleep.
His room was dark, but Peter knew his way around. Carefully, he shut his window and walked over to his closet, ready to pull out a hoodie. He could feel binder tight against his chest, and silently cursed himself.
Peter wasn’t supposed to wear his binder whilst out as Spider-Man. He wasn’t supposed to wear it whilst doing exercise at all, but how would he be Spider-Man if he had boobs? Besides, the skintight suit would show his boobs too much, and that wasn’t something Peter would ever be comfortable with. He couldn’t wait until the day he saved enough money to get top surgery.
The teen cast a glance to the jar of money on his bedside table, illuminated by the moonlight enough so that ‘surgery savings’ could clearly be read on the side of it. The jar was pretty full by now, which made Peter smile, it wouldn’t be too long now. It was a stroke of luck—rare for Peter and his Parker Luck—that Tony hadn’t seen it when he first came to the apartment. The man had walked straight past it, giving Peter enough time to throw it into the closet when he grabbed his suit.
That was another thing. Tony didn’t know yet. If he did, Peter was sure the billionaire would have found a way to invent a binder capable of being worn during sports. That would be a big help.
But the problem with coming out to Tony? Peter was pretty scared that Tony might be homophobic or transphobic. Every time Peter mentioned LGBTQ+ things, Tony was always quick to change the subject. Every time that happened, Peter was sent back into the rabbit hole of ‘holy crap is Mr. Stark homophobic?’ and ‘he’ll never accept me for being trans.’
So for now, no coming out to Tony. The only people who knew were May, Ned, MJ, his teachers and classmates, and Natasha Romanoff.
Natasha only knew because it turned out that she was trans too, a fact that Peter was over the moon to find out. He was the only one to know too. He’d had a bit of an incident at the Tower—which Tony bought back when the Rogue Avengers moved back in—and tried to find a tampon in Natasha’s room, only for the spy to come round the corner and say she was trans and didn’t get her period. She then guided Peter to Wanda’s room for some tampons instead, and promised to keep Peter’s secret as long as he kept her’s.
But the point is, Tony could not know. At least not yet.
Peter sighed and slipped his suit off with practiced ease before throwing it into his wardrobe and shutting the door quietly. He looked into his mirror at himself in boxers and a binder. A few bruises littered his body, but other than that he was okay. Or as okay a body could be for a guy only newly started on T.
For a while Peter had hated looking in the mirror, even when he had his binder on. The way his shoulders were too narrow, his collarbone was too delicate and defined, his hips too wide and waist too thin, curves too visible, the way there was a slight bulge missing from between his legs.
But now, after months working out and starting T, he was growing more comfortable. His shoulders were getting broader, his muscles hid the feminine figure quite a bit, his waist was wider, and there still wasn’t a bulge between his legs but he was comfortable with that now. Or at least he was more comfortable than before.
Peter let out a breath and winced when his rib sent a burning pain shooting through his side.
“Shit,” he breathed. Peter carefully lifted his arms and pulled off the binder to reveal a purple mark where his ribs were. “Not again,” he whispered under his breath.
He really needed his top surgery soon or he was going to end up with broken ribs again. The first time he went out as Spider-Man he didn’t use his binder because it had grown too small for him and he was waiting for another one, so he bound his chest with bandages, only to end up breaking one of his ribs really badly. Now he never used bandages or tape anymore, just his binder, which meant he occasionally had trouble breathing after strenuous patrols, as well as the occasional cracked rib.
Peter threw his binder under his bed and pulled on his hoodie. It was oversized and perfect for night when he wanted a break from wearing his binder or sports bra. He once again looked to the mirror and smiled lightly at the sight that the hoodie covered his boobs well.
He quickly brushed his teeth and checked his phone before climbing into bed, and fell into a restful sleep.
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“Kid, wake up.”
Peter groaned and buried his face in his pillow. It was too early for Ben to wake him up, he wanted to sleep more- wait, Ben?
“Jesus you’re lazy, get up, Pete.”
The teen opened his eyes and stared up at the man in front of him. Through blurry eyes Peter couldn’t make out who it was, but he only knew two men who called him ‘kid’. One was Ben, and if this wasn’t Ben, then that meant-
“Mr. Stark!” Peter exclaimed. He dived for his bed covered and pulled them up so that they covered his chest, then mentally slapped himself, because that didn’t seem suspicious at all.
Tony raised an eyebrow at him and Peter stared back with wide and now alert eyes. There was a brief moment where the two just stared at each other, before Tony chuckled awkwardly and sat down on Peter’s bed.
“Mornin’ kiddo,” the man said, smiling warmly.
Peter shuffled into a sitting position, hunching over and pulling the covers up to his shoulders to hide his boobs. “Uh, good morning?” he squeaked.
“You really sleep a hell of a lot, don’t you kid?” Tony laughed. “I thought you’d be one of those teenagers who’s always up and about in the mornings.”
Peter chuckled, and hoped that it didn’t sound as nervous as it did to his own ears. “Y-yeah, I guess I just stayed up too late on patrol last night, I don’t usually sleep this long.”
Peter didn’t even know what time it was, but his mind was too focused on don’t let Tony see, don’t let him know, to realise that.
Tony leaned over and patted the teen on the shoulder. “More like staying up too late watching Star Wars, if I know you, which I do,” he said proudly. “But, down to business, huh?”
“Yeah, yeah, I am kind of confused about why you’re in my room right now,” Peter breathed, staring at Tony through slightly squinted eyes. He shuffled and made sure that the covers were definitely hiding his breasts.
Tony stood up and clasped his hands together in his usual dramatic fashion. “I need your help.”
Peter blanched. “You need my what?” He let the covers drop down a bit in his surprise.
“Your help,” Tony repeated with an amused smirk. “The others are currently downtown fighting a guy with a fishbowl head and illusion technology, and Bruce and Steve are both already out. So, come on kiddo, no time to lose.”
As quickly as possible, Peter flung off his covers and rushed to the bathroom, hunching over as he did so that Tony wouldn’t notice anything. He slammed the door shut behind him and ran from place to place in the small bathroom—toothbrush, deodorant, face wash, bind—
Peter’s eyes went wide. “No, no, no, no, no, no,” he muttered. “Shit.”
He had left his binder under his bed. Right where Tony was.
The teen took a few calming breaths. He could just go out and say that he needed to change to get Tony to leave the room so he could grab his binder, easy as that. But what if Tony saw it? What if Tony was looking at it right now and Peter was just in here panicking about the exact situation he was currently thinking of?
Peter sucked in a ragged breath. “Calm down, you’re fine,” he whispered under his breath. “Tony won’t find out, it’s fine.”
After a moment his breathing returned to normal and Peter steeled himself to open the door.
Only to find exactly what he didn’t want to see.
Tony was knelt down on the floor, his hand stuck underneath Peter’s bed, and was looking underneath as if searching for something. Peter just stood there and stared, his mind racing.
It wasn’t until Tony turned and looked at him that Peter snapped out of his panicked daze. “You alright, kiddo?” he asked, his smirk amused but his eyes showing that soft concern that Peter was seeing more and more of.
Peter sucked in a breath and crossed his arms over his chest, feeling like Tony was staring straight at it. “Yep,” he said smoothly. “Yeah, I’m great. What’re- uh, what’re you doing?”
The teen stopped himself from rushing forwards when Tony again turned and began feeling under the bed again. “Looking for your suit,” Tony replied, voice slightly muffled. “I noticed you didn’t have your trapdoor anymore so I thought it might be under here.”
Peter cast a quick glance at his ceiling, Tony was right, the trapdoor had been covered a few weeks ago by a Star Wars hanging of the Death Star. It was so that May was more reassured that Peter wasn’t hiding anything from her again. It was also a pretty obvious hiding spot for the suit, not that his cupboard was much better but it was the best he had.
“No,” Peter told Tony as calmly as possible. At the thought of his binder, Peter grew suddenly much more aware of his breasts, and with it came a nausea he only got when he thought about his female body. “No, the suit isn’t under there. There really isn’t anything under there so you can stop-”
“Peter.”
Peter froze. He swallowed thickly. Tony never called him Peter. It was always ‘kid’ or ‘kiddo’ or ‘Pete.’ Never Peter.
He saw Tony tense up and slowly—excruciatingly slowly—leaned back to sit back on his knees. In his hand, held aloft and by two fingers as if it were something disgusting, was Peter’s binder.
Peter felt his breathing pick up, but despite it he squeezed his arms around his chest even more. In two, three, four, out two, three, four, in two-
“Peter,” Tony’s voice sounded again. Peter’s eyes snapped to the man’s, and he couldn’t help but pick up on the way Tony was looking between him and the binder with an unreadable expression. It was almost blank, but there was something in his eyes that Peter just couldn’t work out.
“Yeah?” Peter squeaked quietly, trying to prolong the inevitable. An excuse, I need an excuse, he thought quickly.
“Why do you have a binder?” Tony asked, voice flat and emotionless.
Peter sucked in a shaky breath. “It’s- it’s my friend’s,” he lied, voice wobbly. “He came round the other day for a study session and had to- to take it off, because he couldn’t wear it for longer than about nine hours. He left it here by accident and- and I forgot to give it back to him.”
Tony stared straight at Peter for a few tense minutes, during which Peter could just feel everything. The way his breasts were squashed against his skin by his arms, the way his hoodie sat on his hips that still stuck out too much, the way his thigh tingled where he took his T injections.
Tony stood up, binder still in his hand. “You’re fine with that sort of stuff?” he asked, eyebrow raised. Usually that action felt familiar to Peter, this time it felt threatening.
“Y-yeah,” Peter admitted quietly.
Tony stared for a moment, before throwing the binder onto Peter’s desk. “We should get to the mission, kid,” he said suddenly, clapping his hands together and letting his usual smug smile break across his face. “Can’t let fishbowl guy get the better of us, huh?”
Peter hesitated a moment. Tony had changed the subject again, like he always did. “Yeah,” he replied, faking a bright tone. “Let’s go!”
He tried to get himself excited, but he felt the urge to glance at the binder and couldn’t stop feeling the wrongness of his body. The idea of putting on a skintight suit made Peter feel sick. Maybe he could put on his old suit? The first one with the hoodie? It was pretty wrecked but it was wearable.
Tony smiled warmly and stepped forwards to ruffle Peter’s hair, unaware of the boy’s inner panic. “Get your suit and let’s go, I’ll wait outside.”
Peter watched as Tony crossed the room and left, closing the door behind him. The teen waited a few seconds to hear the footsteps retreat and the sound of Tony and May talking before the shutting of the front door, before then launching himself straight at the binder.
He ripped off his hoodie in a rush and pulled the binder on so violently that his ribs screamed at him in protest. Peter drew in a deep breath to calm himself before adjusting his breasts and looking in the mirror.
He turned to the side. He turned to the other side.
And he marvelled at the flatness of his chest.
Peter sank to the floor and felt the sudden urge to cry. That had been too close, way too close, and the sudden dysphoria attack left him too tired to do anything. He just sat there, crumpled on the floor, for at least three minutes before struggling to his feet and pulling out his suit.
Peter pulled on the suit slowly, then looked in the mirror and smiled a little. He didn’t look as bad as he thought he would. His chest was flat, and that’s what was important at the minute. The other things were problems for later.
He took one last deep breath, a warm feeling spreading through him when he felt the binder against his chest, before pulling on the mask and jumping out of the window.