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Chapter Text

Peter Parker had faced plenty of apocalypses: alien invasions, zombie dimensions, and that one time he mutated into a giant spider and convinced a rat cult not to worship him.

But this? This was something else entirely.

None of it prepared him for the Dad Joke Apocalypse.

It didn’t begin with a bang. No sky splitting open. No demonic chanting or dimensional rupture. Just a Tuesday morning in Queens. And toast.

The Parker kitchen, small and slightly crooked with the stubborn charm of a New York apartment, smelled faintly of burnt crumbs and existential dread. Peter hunched at the counter in mismatched socks and a holey hoodie, staring at the toaster like it owed him money. The appliance wheezed and clicked, trying its best, which made one of them.

Peter rubbed his eyes. He’d been home for six hours. Six. Between the alien biotech mess in Midtown and helping Kamala Khan chase a gremlin with a jetpack, he’d earned this toast. Deserved it. Needed it.

Then came the noise.

A faint squeak. A muffled thud. And—God help him—the distinct sound of someone opening the kitchen window from the outside.

Peter didn’t move. He didn’t look. He just exhaled slowly through his nose.

There was only one person it could be.

“Why are you breaking into my apartment,” Peter asked, voice flat, not turning his head.

A pair of hands slid through the window, followed by a shirtless Wade Wilson, dangling like a chaotic marsupial. He wore taco-patterned pajama pants, a Hello Kitty sleep mask as a headband, and an unreasonably wide grin.

“I brought syrup,” Wade said, holding up a half-empty bottle like an offering to a toast deity.

Peter blinked. He wasn’t ready for this. Not physically. Not emotionally. Possibly not legally.

Wade twisted around, dropped to the floor with a clatter, and landed in a crouch that would’ve been cool if it weren’t for the squeak of his glittery bunny slippers.

Peter turned back to the toaster. His toast was smoking. Of course it was.

“Get out.”

“I can’t,” Wade said, inching toward the counter with the intense focus of a raccoon preparing to ruin someone’s day. “This is fate. You, me, breakfast—comedy.”

Then, with no warning whatsoever, he leapt forward and snatched one of the slices of toast as it popped up. Syrup sloshed onto the counter. Peter barely rescued the second slice before it met the floor.

Wade stared at him with shining eyes.

“Hey, Petey,” he said, already vibrating with anticipation. “What do you call fake spaghetti?”

Peter froze.

“No,” he whispered. “Please. Don’t.”

But Wade was already screaming.

“AN IMPASTAAAAAA!” he bellowed.

Peter sighed, feeling the weight of the world bearing down on him. He was so close. So close to just… having toast.

Then, the toaster gave its last, defiant wheeze, and Peter muttered, “I just want toast.”

A faint squeak of a chair… followed by an unsettling silence.

Then, in a blur of glitter, Deadpool appeared in the kitchen like some kind of deranged culinary vigilante, two spatulas in hand and a wicked grin on his face. “PUNISH ME DADDY!” he screamed for no reason at all.

By the time Peter made it out of the kitchen and into something resembling a new day, he’d already endured syrup in his socks, a shattered coffee mug, and Wade singing Mambo No. 5 but with the names replaced by types of pasta.
He forced Wade out of his apartment, while Deadpool screeched like a hyena being squashed by a runaway Zamboni.

Peter figured the worst was over.

He was, as usual, wrong.

That afternoon, while working in the small, cluttered lab space Tony had gifted him, Peter was hunched over a half-assembled web fluid dispenser, lost in thought as he tried to make sense of the mess in front of him.

Then came the sound of polished leather shoes on polished floors. It was unmistakable, and it made Peter's stomach churn with a familiar dread.

Not now, he thought, already bracing himself for impact.

Tony Stark entered like he’d personally invented gravity, and the rest of the world was still waiting for permission to fall at his feet. His smug grin was the only thing in the room more overinflated than his ego.

“Underoos,” Tony said, voice dripping with that smug, espresso-fueled ease of someone who hadn’t seen a boundary in years, “Don’t trust atoms.”

Peter didn’t look up, already too tired for this. “I’m begging you. As a friend. As a human. As someone who once had dreams,” he muttered, half-expecting Tony to ignore him.

Tony finished with a flourish. “They make up everything.”

Peter set his wrench down, his movements slow and deliberate. He turned to face him, eyes already narrowed in a mix of annoyance and resignation. “You think this is a game?” he asked, voice flat. “I have a flamethrower, and no boundaries.”

Tony didn’t even flinch. He picked up Peter’s screwdriver like a stage prop and turned it over in his hand. “Heard Wade’s been testing some material on you.”

Peter groaned. “Is that why you’re doing this? Please don’t. Wade is like… infectious. Like a disease made of glitter and red flags.”

“Exactly,” Tony said, pointing at him like he’d just cracked the code to humanity’s deepest mystery. “Deadpool’s not owning the dad joke game. I was dropping puns before he was a science experiment in red pajamas.”

Peter turned back to his work, not caring anymore. “Wade’s not even good at them. He just… never stops.”

Tony’s grin widened. “Even better. I’m a controlled burn. Wade’s a chemical fire. This is an experiment. You’re the control group.”

Peter stared at him, horrified. “I’m not even in the study!”

But Tony was already gone, humming—probably Uptown Funk —as the lab door slid shut with a hiss that sounded suspiciously like doom.

Peter stared at his half-finished project, a sinking feeling in his gut. He sighed.

And so, it began.

The Pun War.

It started slow. A joke here. A pun there. Wade calling out during patrol to yell, "I have a BONE to pick with you!" before tossing a full skeleton from a second-story window. Tony slipping post-it notes onto Peter’s web shooters with messages like, "You’re my web-solution to all problems."

But soon, the floodgates opened.

They weren’t just telling jokes anymore. They were competing—like two overly dramatic theater kids who had just discovered stand-up comedy was a weapon. Every waking moment of Peter Parker’s exhausted, over-caffeinated life became their battlefield. No safe zones. No truces. No mercy. Just an unrelenting barrage of puns.

Three Days Into the Pun War, 7:00 AM, Parker’s Kitchen

Peter had dealt with worse. Probably. Maybe.

He kept telling himself that as he shuffled into the kitchen on a cold, grey morning, hoodie half-zipped, hair a static-charged mess. His eyes barely opened as he moved on autopilot, hunting for caffeine, carbs, and the ever-elusive peace.

No such luck.

At exactly 7:03 a.m., Wade was already at the kitchen table like he’d been summoned by a breakfast demon. He wore a fluffy pink bathrobe over his full tactical suit, the robe cinched aggressively tight like he was preparing for battle at a spa. A tiara sat crooked on his mask. His slippers squeaked when he moved, and they were definitely bleeding glitter.

He was pouring syrup—not delicately—onto a plate of scrambled eggs with the focus and intensity of a man trying to open a portal to another dimension using only sugar. The bottle made obscene gurgling sounds as it emptied. Most of the syrup wasn’t even making it onto the food. A small lake had formed. The eggs were floating.

Wade looked up slowly when Peter entered, eyes wide and gleaming like a raccoon that had just figured out how to use a microwave and now knew fear was optional.

His smile widened.

Peter stopped mid-step. He could feel it coming.

“I only know twenty-five letters of the alphabet,” Wade announced like it was a dark family secret. “I don’t know—Y.”

Peter groaned. The kitchen door opened like a threat made of hinges.

Tony Stark strolled in with a venti iced coffee that could probably dissolve concrete and carrying himself like a man who’d slept exactly three minutes but still woke up to choose violence. Without missing a beat, he snatched a muffin off the counter. “I’d tell you a joke about construction,” he said.

Peter gave him a death glare. “Unsubscribe.”

Tony took a dramatic bite of the muffin. “...but I’m still working on it.”

Wade froze mid-bite. Syrup dripped from his fork like tears. His tiara slipped off and clattered to the floor.

He slowly turned his head.

“STARK,” he hissed, rising from his chair with the fury of a raccoon denied a trash can. “That was MY joke!”

Tony shrugged coolly. “You snooze, you lose, Wade.”

“I WAS SAVING THAT FOR BRUNCH, YOU CHROME-PLATED CAFFEINATED CORPORATE CHUPACABRA!”

In one fluid motion, Wade vaulted onto the counter, syrup flying. He brandished a whisk and a banana like dual swords.

Peter backed up, hands in the air. “Nope. Absolutely not. I am not surviving another food fight. I just want toast.”

Wade pointed the banana at Tony like a wand of vengeance. “I will burn your soul into a soufflé, you caffeine-scented war criminal. I had plans for that joke. I had music cues. ”

Tony took another sip of his coffee and smiled. “Guess you’ll just have to build a new one.”

Wade let out a sound that could only be described as emotionally unstable kettle-screech.

Peter pressed both hands to his temples, already regretting waking up. “You both need to leave. Right now. Or I swear to God I will open a portal to hell and push you through it sideways. ”

Neither of them moved.

Tony smirked.

Wade started humming Ride of the Valkyries .

Peter knew—deep in his bones—this was only getting worse.

2:14 PM, Stark Tower Elevator

Peter stepped into the elevator, desperate for thirty seconds of peace.

Three seconds later, Tony appeared beside him with another coffee and the kind of grin that promised immediate suffering.

“Did you hear about the claustrophobic astronaut?” he asked.

Peter didn’t answer. He stared at the numbers above the doors like they might offer salvation. “He just needed a little space.”

Peter’s jaw clenched. He exhaled slowly. Maybe, just maybe—

A soft clunk from above.

The ceiling panel popped open. Wade dropped halfway in, hanging upside-down like a raccoon-bat hybrid, cradling a dead AA battery between his fingers.

“I gave all my dead batteries away today,” he whispered.

Peter shut his eyes.

“They were free of charge .”

Peter screamed, loud and long. “WHAT CURSED IKEA NIGHTMARE ASSEMBLED YOU?!”

10:42 PM, Parker Apartment

Home. Finally. Alone. Maybe safe.

Peter tiptoed into the kitchen like it was booby-trapped. He reached into the fridge for orange juice.

And froze.

Wade was. Inside the fridge.

Not a metaphor. Not some weird vision after too much coffee.

Wade was literally curled up on the bottom shelf, wearing a face painted like a mime who’d just lost a very sad, very weird street performance competition. He was clutching a half-eaten popsicle like it was the last hope of humanity, and staring up at Peter with the kind of expression reserved for cursed animatronic clowns and rejected carnival mascots.

“What’s brown and sticky?” Wade asked in a deadpan whisper.

Peter stared. “No.”

“A stick,” Wade whispered, and winked.

Peter shut the fridge and left the apartment without his juice, or his will to live.

The attacks came at all hours. Tony started scheduling J.A.R.V.I.S. to deliver hourly puns in different robotic accents. Wade left hand-written jokes under Peter’s pillow. At one point, a skywriter spelled out “WEBHEAD, I WOODEN MISS YOU – YOU’RE TREE-MENDOUS!” over Midtown.

Nick Fury issued a cease and desist.

They framed it.

By week three, Peter’s nerves were frayed. His eyelid twitched every time someone cleared their throat.

He had stopped responding to his name.

He had learned to fear silence, because it meant they were planning something.

And worst of all—deep beneath the exhaustion, under the groaning and the sarcasm and the thousand-yard stare—Peter started noticing something even more horrifying.

Some of the jokes?

They were starting to make him chuckle.

Just a little.

Just enough to feel like betrayal.

No. He was strong. He was cool. He could still hold the line. He could still be the guy who didn’t drop dad jokes like radioactive hot potatoes.

Peter squeezed his eyes shut, trying to will the cursed thought out of his head. But it was there, growing louder, like the echo of a dead joke that couldn’t be unheard...

And before he knew it, the words were coming out of his mouth: “I used to be addicted to the hokey pokey…”

He looked at MJ forlornly.

“But then I turned myself around.”

Silence.

MJ’s coffee went airborne, making a perfect arc before slamming into the floor with a wet splat .

Peter’s face twisted in horror. What had he become?

Before he could recover, Tony Stark burst from behind the couch like a man possessed by all the cringe in the universe.

“YES! THAT’S MY SON!” Tony crowed, pumping his fists like he’d just invented the pun itself. “Finally! The legacy lives on!”

From the window, a glitter-bomb explosion announced Wade’s grand entrance. He rappelled in, wearing a neon pink tuxedo covered in sequins and carrying a sombrero full of fake mustaches.

“I KNEW YOU HAD IT IN YOU, WEB-BOY!” Wade yelled, flinging fake mustaches at Tony like ninja stars. “I AM YOUR REAL DAD NOW! WHO WANTS TACOS?!”

Tony snorted, dodging a mustache and pulling out a pair of sunglasses that shot laser beams. “ Please. I am Iron Dad, the one true source of all cringe. Step aside, glitter goblin.”

Wade landed in a dramatic crouch, wielding a spatula like a weapon. “Oh yeah? You might have the tech, but I have the tacos, the terrible puns, and the emotional blackmail.”

Tony smirked, pulling out a dad-joke megaphone. “Did you hear about the kidnapping at the playground? They woke up.”

Wade’s eyes narrowed. “Kidnapping? I own kidnapping! But you—”

“I own the fake noodle joke,” Tony snapped, pointing a finger like he was laying claim to intellectual property.

“ Impasta? ” Wade gasped, clutching his chest like he’d been personally betrayed. “ That’s my magnum opus, Iron Fraud!”

Peter buried his face in his hands. “I need new father figures.”

MJ, dripping coffee and regret, muttered, “You need new everything .”

The two dads circled each other like glitter-covered gladiators in a pun-fueled cage match, trading groan-worthy one-liners like weapons.

The room reeked of desperation. And syrup. And maybe cheese.

Peter closed his eyes and whispered the one thing he still believed in:

“Peace.”

THE END

Or maybe it wasn’t.

Peter exhaled like a man surrendering to gravity itself.

“I’m reading a book on anti-gravity…”

Pause.

“…Still can’t put it down.”

Somewhere in the distance, Wade let out a single, glittering tear and whispered, “That’s my boy.”

Peter didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. Just stared at the ceiling like it had betrayed him.

Chapter Text

Avengers Tower had survived cosmic calamities, galactic invasions, and even a Hulk mid-protein-shake meltdown.

But tonight, it faced a threat far worse.

Pun Density.

Peter Parker slumped in a metal folding chair like a man waiting for the end times. His brain? Pudding. His soul? Toast. A clipboard rested on his lap with a single bleak note:

“God is dead. And Dad Jokes did it.”

Before him stood two living cringe disasters—armed not with weapons, but weaponized wordplay and zero shame.

Iron Dad vs. Dadpool.

Round One: Delivery

Tony Stark stepped forward like a shark in a paisley tuxedo, sunglasses still on indoors at 7 PM, bourbon in hand.

“I used to play piano by ear,” he said, voice like an expensive car commercial.

Pause.

“Now I use my hands.”

No smile. Just a sip. Like he’d just committed a crime and gotten away with it.

Peter gagged quietly.

Then—

BOOM !

The ceiling vent exploded in a burst of glitter and ill intent. Wade Wilson crash-landed in a pile of Tony’s imported protein powder, a human glitter grenade of chaos.

He wore tactical pants, a shredded pink tutu, a cropped tank top that read “#1 Cringe Daddy,” and squeaky Hello Kitty slippers. His bandolier was loaded with gummy worms and ketchup packets.

He rose like a cursed phoenix, eyes wild.

“HELLO, NIGHTMARE CHILDREN!” he howled. “I’ve returned from the meme graveyard to haunt your dreams and destroy your dignity!”

He pulled out a cheese stick, locked eyes with Peter, and peeled the plastic like it was a dissection.

Then he licked it.

Twice.

Slowly.

“Why are you like this?” Peter whispered.

Wade’s voice dropped to a whisper.

“Just found out I’m colorblind.”

Pause.

“The diagnosis… came out of the purple.”

Silence.

He crushed a ketchup packet in his hand like it was a stress ball from hell.

Peter blinked. “That’s not even how that phrase—”

“DON’T QUESTION MY METHODS, WALL-BOY!”

He threw the ketchup packet at the ceiling and vanished in a cloud of glitter and Hot Cheeto dust.

Tony took another sip. “We’re gonna need a hazmat team.”

Peter whimpered.

Round Two: The Food Fight

Tony didn’t even flinch.

“What do you call cheese that isn’t yours?” he asked with surgical precision.

“Nacho cheese.”

Peter groaned so hard it sounded like a dying goat and tried to disappear under his chair.

Wade, now on a licorice tricycle, spun past like a sugar-fueled banshee.

“WHAT DO YOU CALL A FAKE NOODLE?” he shrieked. “AN IM-PASTAAAA!”
He skidded to a halt, brandished twin katanas at the ceiling, and screamed:

“GIVE ME FUEL! GIVE ME FIRE! GIVE ME THAT WHICH I DESIRE—PASTAAA!”

He flung cold ravioli into the air, trying to catch them mouth-first while spinning on his head. One slapped Peter across the face.

Peter whispered, “I hate everything.”

Round Three: The Power Move

Tony tapped his watch. A hologram blinked on—a slideshow titled: “101 Dad Jokes to Destroy a Teen’s Soul.”

He stepped into the light like a TED Talk from hell.

“Want to hear a joke about paper?” he said.

Peter backed toward the door.

“Never mind. It’s tearable.”

The lights flickered. Somewhere, a fire alarm wept.

Wade screamed, tore off his tutu, and hurled it at Vision.

Vision phased through it silently and left without comment.

“YOU THINK YOU CAN OUT-DAD ME, YOU EMOTIONALLY CONSTIPATED TOASTER?!”

Wade howled. “WHY DIDN’T THE SKELETON GO TO THE DANCE?!”

“HE HAD NO BODY TO GO WITH!!”

Peter curled into a ball under the folding chair, whispering: “Please stop. This is a cry for help. I just want toast.”

The Final Blow

Silence.

Tony raised a brow. “You done?”

Wade panted, glitter sticking to his sweat.

Tony stepped forward like a man delivering the final shot in a war no one should’ve fought.

“Did you hear about the guy who evaporated?”

Pause.

“He’ll be mist.”

Peter groaned so hard the building shook. Wade dropped to his knees.

“He… he used the mist line,” Wade gasped. “That joke is banned in thirty-seven states.”

Tony smirked. “Guess the Dad War’s over.”

Peter collapsed to the floor, one eye twitching. Somewhere, a toaster popped. He flinched.

But deep in his soul, he knew:

This was just the beginning.

Aftermath

Wade lay twitching like a glitter-covered fish in a puddle of cheese dust and trauma. Gummy worms clung to his fingers. Ketchup dripped from his forehead like war paint. He was surrounded by the shattered remnants of a half-melted rubber chicken and an alarming amount of shredded tutu fabric.

He reached out to Peter’s ankle, wheezing like a soap opera villain on their sixth fake deathbed.

“Tell… my chimichangas… I loved them…”

Then he convulsed, flailed dramatically, and faceplanted into a sombrero full of glitter and regret.

“Wade,” Peter groaned. “Get up. You’re not dying. You just inhaled mozzarella.”

Wade whimpered, like someone canceled Deadpool: The Musical mid-tour.

Tony, composed as ever, adjusted his tie and surveyed the carnage.

“Well,” he said, stepping over the tutu wreckage, “that was emotionally scarring.”

He patted Peter’s head like a sad, broken Roomba.

“You’re on your own, kid.”

He walked out like a war criminal who forgot to file a report.

From the floor, Wade whimpered:

“I… I’m the real dad…”

Tony glanced back once, deadpan.

“Wilson, if fatherhood were measured in chaos and glitter, you’d still be bankrupt.”

He turned and vanished into the hallway.

Wade let out a keening wail, then broke into an off-key karaoke rendition of I Will Survive.

Peter curled into the fetal position, whispering to the floor, “I used to have dignity. I miss that.”

The Dad Joke Apocalypse was over.

The scars? Eternal.