#tony: [pause to consider] peter: [fear] | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

lizzie-is-here · 2 years

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girls just wanna have fun

part ix- this side of paradise

“i’ll be yours if you’ll be mine”

wordcount: 5.2k

warnings: cussing, violence, injuries, mild angst, fluff, kind of sappy, my poor knowledge of computers and hacking

a/n: there’s still one more part! that’ll get posted next week, and then i’m on vacation from june 25- july 2 😌 i may post, i’m not sure, but the 11-hour car ride to florida should provide plenty of time to start the next series! i really hope u guys enjoy this one bc i speedran it cause today’s the only day this week i don’t work lol <3

taglist: @faiirybread @softasha @edgycatx @happy-nico @local-mr-frog @minimarkive @softyutae @fezco-mylove

series masterlist

“Let me get this straight.”

You and Peter sit on the couch as the entire team, plus Pepper Potts, Happy, and most importantly, Aunt May.

After much discussion, you had come to the decision that it’d be easier for Peter to break the bad news in the comfort of his own home. So, after calling the superheroes, they’d snuck in and crammed into the small apartment.

You have the poor teen wrapped up in a fluffy blanket and your arms. He’d slept incredibly shittily, only falling asleep somewhere after 4 AM. The dark circles staining his undereyes are especially prominent since you had refused to give him coffee in fear of increasing his anxiety. Instead, you’d provided lavender tea.

Tony continues. “A man named Quentin Beck found you on your patrol.” He pauses for Peter to nod in affirmation. “He knew who you were. And he wants my tech under threat of revealing your identity.” Peter sniffles.

You nod, eyeing the tightly drawn curtains and blinds. The genius thinks for a moment as the team paces, carefully avoiding bumping into each other or the furniture.

“Oh, Peter.” May slumps down onto the couch with you both, joining you in hugging her nephew.

You slip away with a ruffle of his hair, pouring another cup of tea from the stove. Quentin Beck. The name seems so familiar.

With an extra cup of tea, you return to the living room, passing one to Peter. He sips it gratefully and you sit on the coffee table. “Could FRIDAY tell us anything about Beck?” you ask to no one in particular.

“Maybe,” Steve says. “Why?” As Tony projects a few screens from his glasses you shrug.

“Quentin Beck, fired from Stark Industries, blah, blah, blah,” Clint mumbles. You approach another floating article. ‘Researcher discredited by the SVTRB (Silicon Valley Tech Review Board), founded by Dr. (L/N).’

“That’s where I know him!” you exclaim. “My dad was the one who investigated his research.” You enlarge the article. ‘Scientist Quentin Beck was found to be running unethical projects involving weaponizing drones with enhanced projections and heavily-armed artillery. Though the board considered pressing charges, they have decided to instead strip Mr. Beck from his title and licenses, as well as charging him a hefty fine.’

“Wait…” Steve begins. “If your dad led an investigation into Beck…” Bucky finishes the statement. “… he’d have intel on him. Criminal history, address, family, education.”

You sigh. “My dad’s a stickler for organization; he keeps every file.” His office. You had the keys to every cabinet, every lockbox. “The files could be there…?”

“‘Could?’” Tony parrots. You shrug. From the couch, Peter speaks up, voice spent and quiet.

“Are either of them home?”

Your parents. Gulping, you feel a sick turn of your stomach.

“I’m not sure.”

———————————————————————

You struggle to keep up the confident façade as you lead the entire group to your apartment. Heads turn in the lobby, but no one comments. Weirder things had happened in the high-end apartment building.

All of you cram into an elevator and you press the button for your floor, shuffling awkwardly. Peter still has his blanket wrapped around him. The Black Widow, famed assassin and a walking legend, is in a hoodie that looks suspiciously too large for her and Snoopy pajama pants.

When you all reach your floor and eventually your apartment, you reluctantly unlock the door, groaning internally as you hear two voices inside. Just your luck.

“Mom, Dad,” you greet, loud enough for the team to hear you. You whirl around, hissing out, “Don’t bring up the files or Beck.”

You turn back to your parents. “Um, I’ve got kind of a surprise.” Revealing the team, you watch their eyes widen.

“(Y/N), why are there Avengers in our doorway?” your mother asks. You wince.

“The internship? I told you about it back in August, I think,” you manage, throat tightening. She hums. She always hums.

Your father straightens up from the other side of the kitchen. “That doesn’t explain why they're here.” And you falter.

Luckily, Tony is overflowing with charisma. “Mr. (L/N), so nice to finally meet you. Your daughter has done such a great job at her internship, that we wanted to offer her a sponsorship for whichever college she chooses and a job with at Stark Industries, should she want to work with us.”

You freeze, detecting zero dishonesty in his tone. The offer clearly isn’t just a cover, judging by the smiles you get from the team when you glance around. It’s a dream opportunity.

But now isn’t the time to celebrate. Tony’s still talking, managing to occupy your parents’ attention for longer than you have in the past decade. So you sneak off, slipping into the office with the keys in hand.

Now, where would that file be? You scan the labels, frantically opening one of the drawers and thumbing through files. Nothing.

You have no idea how long you search before you find a drawer labeled “Investigations A-C”. You unlock it after trying a few different keys, shoving the “A” files away as you search for “Beck”.

Got it. Silently cheering and pumping your fist in a brief celebration, you tuck the file under your arm and sneak to your room, grabbing a messenger bag to slip the papers into.

When you return to the kitchen, Tony’s still bullshitting his way through the conversation, going on about the workplace atmosphere Stark Industries provided and what jobs he thinks you would be best at.

“She’d be really great at planning missions and researching what we need to know about the area, plus that’d give her a flexible schedule. She also has this great idea to start a garden at the tower to grow produce for a sort of soup kitchen,” he rambles.

Wanda nods. “She planned out the budgeting and everything.” They remembered. The whole idea was a bit offhand one night, and you almost thought they’d forgotten. But they hadn’t. Not only did they remember, but they thought it was a good enough idea to genuinely consider.

You sniffle. Tony glances over at your intrusion and you wipe your eyes before pointing to the bag clutched to your side. Quickly tying up the exchange, he claps his hands. “Well, we’d love to stay longer, but we’ve actually got some research back at the tower we need (Y/N)’s input on,” Tony says. It’s not a complete lie. “So we’d best get going.”

They hurry out the door, leaving you to linger in the kitchen. You aren’t quite sure why you’re hesitating.

“Well,” you say, straightening your posture. “I’ll be back later tonight.”

Not even a glance up. Your mother mumbles, “Bye, dear.” and your father half-heartedly waves. They don’t mention the cut on your jaw, or the fact that you didn’t come home last night. They don’t congratulate you on landing a stable job before you’ve even graduated, working with the Earth’s Mightiest Heroes.

And they don’t notice when you sniffle and slam the door. But the team does.

“You alright, kid?” Sam asks, nudging your shoulder. You nod, ignoring the actions, or rather, lack thereof, of your parents. No one seems convinced, but the task at hand keeps them from pressing any further.

But right then and there, they all make a silent decision.

———————————————————————

Back at the tower, you flip through the file. Quentin Beck has had a painfully average life, graduating at a normal pace with a normal house and normal hobbies. Until he started making weaponized drones.

On top of tracking this guy down, you also had another problem to solve. How did he learn that Peter was Spider-Man? You suspected it had something to do with his tech, seeing as Tony’s could identify people from dozens of feet away.

The billionaire was currently using satellites in an attempt to locate Beck, to no avail. May, Pepper, and Happy were speaking in hushed tones, casting worried glances at Peter every now and then. Steve, Sam, and Rhodey were strategizing how best to talk down the man, while Vision was scanning the internet in search of any articles or hints of his whereabouts. Nat, Bucky, and Clint had slipped away a while ago to find as many electric-based weapons as the barracks would provide.

This was turning out to be an Avengers-level threat.

Meanwhile, you and Wanda sit with Peter. The low thrum of her powers keeps his mind from racing too fast, and you absentmindedly wrap a hand around his shoulders as you pore over the files.

Your eyes jump from paragraph to paragraph, soaking up details as fast as your mind can keep up. Words blur as you enter an autopilot.

“Beck… Yale… Engineering with an emphasis in robotics… network of drones… armed… clearly not intended for military use…” You mutter aloud, halting in your tracks as you fully comprehend the words. “Network. The drones.” You stand up, waving the paper. “The drones are on a network!”

Rhodey gestures for you to elaborate. “Meaning…?”

“It says here that they were controlled from one big computer. They’re all connected by a network, which has to be public on some level, which means if we program in the right constraints, we could find the IP address.” You pace as you talk, hands flying wildly. “I mean, any other tech wouldn’t be able to track him down, fuck knows what kind of VPNs he’s got set up. But FRIDAY could get him, right?”

Tony grins. “I knew we kept you around for something, kid.” He begins to type away as you scoff, rolling your eyes. Vision starts calculating and you can see his eyes flitting back and forth.

You don’t know how much time passes. Seconds, minutes, hours. But Tony still looks up triumphantly as FRIDAY triangulates a location. The smug grin fades as dozens of dots appear. Drones. Possibly hundreds of them.

The absentee trio of assassins returns at that moment and everyone circles up. Even Peter, who seems to be becoming more aware as the red dots surrounding one white triangle reveal the gravity of the situation.

“We need to take him out.” Steve’s words are definite. “But we need to be smart about it. If we give him a chance to think, he could publish anything about Peter’s identity. We need to be quick, efficient.”

“Stark, Vision, I want you two trying your damnedest to shut down those drones. We can’t fight all of them and Beck. Rhodes and Wilson, you’ll target any strays. Contain the situation. Romanoff and I will try to get to Beck. Barton, Maximoff, Buck: I need you all sniping down any drones that get too close.” The plan is simple. Solid. But it’s missing something.

“You need a decoy,” Peter pipes up, voicing your thoughts. “I need to pretend to fulfill the deal.” Okay, no, that was definitely not what you had in mind.

You say so. “Pete, I��m not sure that’s the best idea. You’re the one he’s targeting, after all.” You wave a hand at the cloud of drones. “This? This seems like a setup. He created those hyper-realistic projections, and he could project some false reality and get you all hurt. It’s, like, a bad sci-fi trope.”

“So what’s your idea?” he asks.

Your acrylic nails click on the glass table. “Give me a computer. I can try and take out any projections.”

Several voices raise in protest around the room. A few yells of, “No way, it’s too dangerous.” and even a, “Fuck no!” thrown in for flavor. You wait for them to calm down before speaking again.

“Projections are his whole wheelhouse. And judging by BARF, they’ve gotten pretty convincing. Beck’s expecting all of you.” You wave to the team, three of which are already suited up. “He’s not expecting some random teenage girl to sneak in behind his firewalls and pull the rug right from under him.” You know your point got across when a few of them frown and begin to think it over.

“Are you seriously considering that?” Peter exclaims. “(Y/N), I can’t let you put yourself into harm’s way like that.”

“Well, it’s a good thing that you aren’t letting me do anything. I want to help,” you say, your tone leaving no room for argument.

Peter’s gaze softens. “If you get hurt, I feel like that’s on me.” Tony looks up from across the room and mutters something that sounds suspiciously like, “Kid’s stealing my lines.” You ignore it.

Lifting a hand, you take Peter’s cheek and rub your thumb against his unfairly-smooth skin. He leans into your touch.

“I’ll be fine, Pete. I won’t even be actually fighting. Just behind a screen; honestly, I’ve got plenty of experience doing that.” He laughs, and you consider your job done.

“Alright.” He nods. “Alright, that’s alright. As long as you’re safe.” He lifts his hand, extending his pinky. You link yours, shaking your entwined fingers with far too much force to be necessary.

With Peter’s approval, it seems the decision is made. You’ll help from behind the scenes, far from danger.

“Wait, does this make me an honorary Avenger?”

———————————————————————

Only an hour later, the team is completely suited up and you’ve been planted in the lab, surrounded by the most high-tech computers you’ve ever had the privilege of using. A magical experience, truly.

“Oh man, this is fucking wild,” you mumble as you barely ghost a hand over a projected screen, watching as it flickers to life under your fingertips. Stark’s tech is beyond intuitive, you decide as you “grab” a stack of hologram photos and make a throwing gesture, watching as they spread out in front of you and list details about each one.

The Avengers make some last-minute adjustments, checking weapons and programming the right voltage to tasers and blasters to most effectively take out the drones. You pull up all the programs you’ll need.

Something feels like it’s… missing.

“Hey, Nat?” you ask. The redhead walks over, tilting her head. “Can I have a taser gun? Just a gut feeling.”

The gun she gives you looks nothing like your standard taser gun, and when she fires off a neon blue charge of electricity across the room, you know it definitely isn’t cleared for civilian use.

“Always trust your gut,” she advises, pressing it into the palm of your hand before walking off to help Clint organize his arrows.

You turn the gun over, examining the trigger, testing your grip. The team finishes getting ready as soon as you click off the safety.

“Everyone understand the plan?” Steve asks. You nod. All you had to do was take down any projections. Tony and Vision would only be able to shut down the drones if they could see them, after all.

As the team makes their way to the garage, they pat you on the shoulder, wishing you luck. Peter lingers a bit longer, looking around to make sure Sam and Bucky weren’t watching before giving you a brief kiss and hugging you close. He rests his forehead against yours and you let out deep sighs in tandem.

“Stay safe,” you say. It’s more of a demand, an order, than a well wish.

“I will.”

And with that, he rushes off, mask in hand and suit on under civilian clothes. You turn to Happy, Pepper, and May, who are awwing at yours and Peter’s interaction.

“Y’all are gross,” you comment. “But stay safe.” The two were tasked with getting May safely home and protecting her there, leaving you alone in the tower. May gives you a tight hug and Pepper wishes you luck. Happy gives you a thumbs up.

Once they leave, you look up at the ceiling. “FRIDAY?”

“Yes, Miss?”

“Put the lab on lockdown, please.”

As doors shut and lock, you slip into a chair and put in the earpiece left for you. Tapping it once, you listen to the conversation.

“Hey, kid.” Tony’s voice is slightly crackly at first, but smooths out. “We’re split up in these cars, but we’re all about twelve minutes out. Can you start looking at those drones?”

“Got it.” You type rapid-fire, letting FRIDAY help you scan the area for Beck’s drones. Once the AI pops up with the location, you begin making your way through his countless firewalls and VPNs. You have to admit, the guy is making this difficult.

It takes a solid few minutes before you strip away the final barrier of protection Quentin is hiding behind, but when you do, you’re only given more work.

“Good news, I’m ‘in’, as the hackers say,” you grumble into the earpiece. “Bad news, he’s running dozens of illusions and projections. This’ll take a while to knock out.”

“Can you do it?”

You sigh. “Oh, ye of little faith, Rogers. You’re just lucky I took that coding class to fill up my schedule.”

The team makes it to their positions before you even take out one, and you can hear Peter begin talking to the man who could ruin his privacy. Thankfully, you make your way into his surveillance system, and watch the scene carefully. Beck’s in some sort of costume, cape and all. His shoulders and chest are gilded in gold, and a fishbowl-looking helmet is resting at his hip. It’s fugly.

“Hey, Beck. I’ve got your tech,” he says. The sound is muffled, but he seems grateful, and there’s a shuffling as the case of Stark Tech is passed between them.

“Stark doesn’t know, does he?” Beck asks.

“No, I don’t think he suspects anything.” You hear the other man hum for a moment.

The next time his voice is heard, it’s much clearer. Closer.

“There’s no chance you’re double-crossing me, is there, Peter?” Your blood runs cold. You can hear Peter stammer out a “No.” It doesn’t seem to convince the disgraced scientist. “Really? Why’re you wearing your suit then?”

Almost everyone mutters out, “Fuck.” in unison, except for a few deviations in Russian and Sokovian. You speed up your work, struggling to keep up even with FRIDAY’s help. Finally, you tear apart one projection, watching as Beck flickers, revealing a CGI suit.

What? Why would there be a projection on him? The other drones quickly patch the mistake, but the brief glitch was unmistakeable.

“You really thought I wouldn’t see your little entourage?” he hisses. Apparently, he didn’t notice the momentary loss of his suit’s sleeve. “You’re in my world now. And you’ve brought the Avengers right to me.”

The screen goes dark as the drones go into overdrive, projecting a green fog over the area. It’s immersive, descending the group into panicked fumbling as they try to move through a fake world.

“Shit, (Y/N), now would be a great time to get more of those illusions down,” Sam hisses quietly. You nod even though he can’t see it and return to the computer.

Now that you’ve taken out one layer, peeling the others back will be much easier. You set a standard algorithm for FRIDAY to test on each line of code, which manages to take out a few of the simpler projections.

Every now and then. You’ll glance at the surveillance. It’s broken into a full-on battle now, though Beck has an unfair advantage. Wanda blasts out energy at random, accidentally hitting Rhodey at one point. Steve throws the shield, only to not see it coming back at him and be knocked off his feet. Clint and Bucky bump into each other in the overwhelming darkness, ready to smack the shit out of each other before their voices give them away.

They’re a mess, you think to yourself as you type. You manage to strip away another layer, and for a brief moment, the projections halt just long enough for the team to get their bearings.

And just like that, the illusions are back online, though the quality is noticeably lower. Moving through them fast enough causes a blur when the cameras can’t quite keep up with the motion tracking.

Meanwhile, the Avengers are having what you would call a rough time. Even the brief moments of reality you provide are barely enough to keep them from falling apart.

“Y’know, for the Earth’s ‘Mightiest’ Heroes, you’re taken out extremely easily,” Beck gloats. “But I’ve had enough fun.” With a snap of his fingers, the setting of the projections changes, and they’re planted at the airport. The fight, over six months ago.

“You all are rather pathetic. In fact, you almost did my job for me in Germany.” The scene changes again, sending the heroes tumbling as rubble falls around them. “But here I am. You just had to make this messy.” The drones begin to fire, blasts coming from nowhere.

Tony manages to take out a few drones by having FRIDAY retrace the trajectory of the bullets, but as soon as one goes down, ten more take its place. Vision blasts wildly, only causing more rubble to collapse. He tugs Wanda out of the way just as a huge block of concrete smashes into the ground.

Peter’s panicking, the illusions combined with his enhanced senses completely overwhelming him. You hear his breaths racing and pause from typing. “Peter, you’ve gotta breath,” you soothe, out of breath yourself. “Focus. Use that Spidey-sense you’ve got.”

Your voice acts like a lighthouse, showing him a better solution. A way through the suffocating fog and darkness. He closes his eyes.

And he leaps.

For a moment, his stomach drops in fear he miscalculated. But then he collides with a drone, webbing it up before leaping to the next.

As more drones disable, you return to the keyboard, whittling down the programs until only a few remain. As you finally shut down the last projection, freeing the team from the waking nightmare, you prepare to completely kill the drones, shutting down their entire protocol and rendering them useless.

“You aren’t Beck,” Steve says over the comm. The man posing as Beck is donned in a CGI suit, lifting his hands as Nat trains a gun on him. “Where is he?” she demands.

“Freeze, everyone.” Beck, the real Beck’s voice, echoes through the comms. But there’s another layer to it.

The lab doors slide open.

A disheveled man emerges, a gun trained on you. Out of the corner of your eye, you see more drones emerge around the team, circling them into a tight ball. A kill circle, you realize.

“If you honestly thought it’s be that easy, you are sorely mistaken,” Quentin spits, only getting closer to you. “Now, you’re going to stay right there as I rid the world of the most resilient pests to walk upon it.”

Your friends. They’re yelling into their earpieces, but you aren’t comprehending their words. You’re calculating.

Beck is injured. You’re not sure why or how, but he’s limping on his left leg, right one raised off the floor. His knuckles are busted and there’s a goose egg forming on his forehead. His eyes are glazed, struggling to focus on you.

So you do what you do best. Gaslight, gatekeep, girlboss. You run your mouth.

“Alright, Jesus fucking Christ,” you growl, shocking him. “Can you put the goddamn gun down? You’re making me nervous.” You turn around slowly, hands still in the air.

“(Y/N), do not do something heroically dumb,” Peter hisses over the comm.

You chuckle, eyeing the button that’ll take out the drones. Your taser gun is right next to it. “Heroic? No.” Inhaling deeply, you smirk at the screen. “Dumb? Absolutely.”

In one smooth motion, you click the button and grab the taser gun, whirling around and shooting Beck in the chest. He fires the gun at the same time, evidently missing. You wince at the loud noise, shaking your head as the ringing in your ears fades to reveal the worried voices of your friends.

“Holy shit, is she okay?”

“Kid? Kid, talk to us!”

You pant, adrenaline rushing through your system. “I’m good, it’s all good.” You grab duct tape, wrapping it around the passed-out man’s wrists, arms, legs, and ankles. Tony projects a screen, showing the team’s relieved faces. The drones are shut down, scattered around the abandoned building.

You move the screen lower to show the man, laughing as you pose beside him and brandish the taser. “Glad I asked for this thing, yeah?” None of them respond. You rub at your head to chase away an oncoming dizziness. “C’mon, that’s at least a little funny.”

“(Y/N), I need you to focus, okay?” Tony’s voice has taken a suspiciously quiet tone. “I need you to find a medkit.”

“What, why?” You look down, freezing instantly. It seems Beck’s aim was a bit better than you thought. “Oh, that’s- that’s blood. Okay.” Honestly, you can’t feel it. All you can see is the growing red cloud in your shirt.

You follow Tony’s directions as he takes off into the sky, leaving the rest of the non-fliers to shuffle into the cars. Peter webs onto the Iron Man suit, heart heavy and pounding as he listens to Mr. Stark amble off advice.

“I need the, the… What’s it called?” Your voice is quieter than normal. “The AAJT. Abdominal Aortic and Junctional Tourniquet. You got one of those?”

“Why the fuck do you know what that is?” You hear Clint grumble, concern still evident in his tone.

You groan “Med class.” at the same time Tony says, “Yes, fourth drawer on the left of the sinks.” You throw open said drawer, yanking out the tool.

“Aw, man, this is gonna feel like shit.”

“Just put it on, kid,” the genius sighs. “We’re almost there.” You faithfully wrap the band around your stomach, taking a few deep breaths to hype yourself up before yanking the little plastic buckle as tight as possible.

“Oh, motherfucker,” you hiss. “Oh my fucking god, that stings like a bitch.”

“You’ve gotta pump that compressor, can you do that?” You’re not sure who’s talking now and you’re not sure if you respond, but you do as they say nonetheless, pumping the small rubber ballon as the device tightens around your abdomen.

For all of your tough guy act, you whimper. The room’s spinning, and you’re pretty sure that you aren’t high enough -you aren’t high at all, actually- for your gravity to feel this askew.

By the time the fliers arrive, you’re curled up into a ball, cussing like a sailor as you weakly continue to squeeze the compressor.

“Okay, okay. Hey, kid? We’re here, you’re gonna be fine. Dr. Cho’s on her way from the compound with the Cradle, she’ll get you fixed up.” You nod as Tony rambles.

Sam sits down beside you, taking the compressor from you and pumping it. “So, what do you think of your first ‘mission’?” he chuckles. Always trying to lighten the mood.

“I think…” you pause to swallow and cough. “... I think it, it fuckin’ sucks.” You grin as a few laughs sound around you. From across the room, Wanda sighs in relief.

“Good news,” she holds up a small metal bullet, red haze surrounding it. “The bullet is whole. No fragments.” Likewise, Tony gives you an encouraging grin as he kneels beside you. “FRIDAY said it’s just a graze. No internal bleeding. You got pretty lucky.”

Peter sniffles. “Doesn’t seem like it.” You can hear the guilt in his tone.

“Hey, none of that,” you grumble. “You heard them: I’ll be fine. Plus, I’ve got a cool-ass scar now. God, I can lord this over Flash forever.”

He laughs at that, the sound warming you up from the inside. “You just got shot, and the first thing you think about is how to shit on Flash Thompson?”

“Oh, yeah. This is a great subject for a valedictorian speech, y’know?”

Rhodey raises a brow from where he’s tracking the rest of the team. “Getting a bit ahead of yourself, (Y/N),” he chuckles.

“Oh, please.” You wave a hand. “I’d say I’ve got it in the bag.”

Peter maneuvers your head into his lap, running his hands through your hair. “I’m glad you’re okay,” he whispers. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if you… if you-” Before he even finishes the sentence he’s tearing up, so you cut him off.

“Ssh, I know. I’m not going anywhere.”

———————————————————————

“Oh, wow, that’s really weird.”

Helen Cho had arrived shortly after, setting up the Cradle. After she cleaned your wound, you were laid in the machine. It slowly regenerated your tissue, passing over the wound and essentially rebuilding the damaged muscle.

An hour later, she wrapped the still-bruised skin and offered you painkillers, which you politely declined. A Tylenol Extra Strength would be fine.

“Thanks, Doc,” you chirp. She smiles and makes a quick exit to see to the other injured security guards, which were the reason that Beck was so beat up by the time he made it to you.

“Glad to know you’re alright,” Steve says. You nod, patting down the gauze. The entire team is scattered around the lounge, some with injuries of their own. Tony groans as he sits up from where he’s draped on the couch.

“So, (Y/N), as compensation for getting you shot on your first ‘mission’-”

“Tony, you don’t have to do anything like that, really. I knew the risks, and i don’t regret helping out.” You shrug. “Just, like, buy me some wine-” You get immediately smacked in the face with a pillow. Steve. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding! Halfway. Also, I’m injured. You can’t deck me with pillows.”

“You are bruised at worst,” the captain snarks. You make a face at him.

“All right, ladies, calm down.” Tony stands up and begins pacing, hands stuffed in his pockets. “I’m not buying you wine, but I can offer you something better.” Hmm, now you’re intrigued. “We already let you know about the job offer, but now that you’re technically a member of the team we wanted to offer you something else. We’ve thought about it a lot, and the decision was unanimous.”

He lifts a hand from his pocket, revealing a single key. “How would you like to move in? It could be once you graduate, or you could-” You tackle him in a hug, eyes watering.

“Yeah, that’d be great.” Some claps erupt and you feel some extra arms join in the hug. “Can I have the key?” you ask, making grabby hands.

“Well, the key actually doesn’t go to anything. It’s more symbolic.” You laugh, snatching the key anyway. The team begins discussing how to help you move, what room you want, decor. As you listen contently, you feel arms wrap around your shoulders.

“Did you know about this, Mister?” you ask Peter, twisting to press a kiss to his cheek.

He shrugs, a smile giving him away as he sways with you. “Maybe. I’m glad you liked the surprise, though.”

“I loved it, how could I not?”

You can’t help but feel relieved. There’s a weight off of your shoulders knowing that you won’t be stuck with your parents for any longer, stifled in a house that never had anything close to what you’ve felt at the tower.

You feel, well… at home.

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friendly-user1 · 1 year

Text

Bibian’s Pov

I leave peters room and run into Mr.Stark.He stares at me tor a second and asks “why did you just come out of peters room”.He pauses looking me up s as no down.I start to get nervous and reply with “we were just doing some homework”.He looks at me suspiciously then called Friday. “Friday show me the footage from peters room.”he commands. “Sorry sir I can not the footage is considered child pornography.”My cheeks start to feel warm so I try to leave before Mr.Stark réalises. I was to late he already saw me. “What was your name again” he asks. I clear my through and say “My name is Bibian Raxismus, I work as one of if the receptionist and an Intern. Mr.Stark nods then allows me to leave.

Peters POV

I finally get rid of any evidence that shows I messed around with Bibian.Walking into the kitchen I see Dad and the rest of the avengers smirking. “So your little friend” dad asks.I realize that he saw Bibian. “Oh um we were just watching Star Wars”.Dad looks at me then to the team. “Well Bibian said you guys were doing homework and when I asked Friday for the footage from your room I was told it was child pornography.My face starts to get red as I try to think of an answer. “Just admit it it Kid,you two were fucking”.The team looks shocked at this piece of information. “Fine dad I’ll admit it me and Bibian were fucking”.Dad thinks for a second and asks me this. “Why don’t you invite her for dinner”.I stare at him suspiciously. “Dad I have a field trip to here tomorrow and it’s an overnight trip”.He thinks for a second. “Still I want you to invite her”.I nod giving him my response.I climb into bed wishing Bibian was here with me.

————Time skip————

Shit.I’m going to be late for the trip.I grumble getting out of bed. 9:45 okay I’m an hour late.I walk down to the kitchen in my grey sweatpants and nothing else.I yawn while choosing which cereal to eat.Finally I decide on coco puffs.I pour some into my bowl and add milk.My spidey senses are going off and I see my class staring at me.The shock causes me to jump onto the ceiling.I hear the gasps from my classmates and then Flash yells “Penis Parker is Spider-Man”.I jump off the ceiling so fix the situation. “Guys I’m not Spider-Man I’m just really flexible”.Everyone obviously doesn’t believe me but to make the situation worse Dad walks in. “OMG it’s Tony Stark” someone calls out. “Oh Hey D-Mr.Stark I was just talking to my class about how I’m not Spider-Man” I say trying to give him the hint. “Son why are you calling me Mr.Stark,I’m your Dad and you don’t need to lie to your class we were going if Tom reveal your identity sooner or later.”My team members gasps even louder and Flash stupidly calls out “Penis Parker Is Tony stark’s son?”(This Boy is an Idiot).

“Dad calm down you don’t wanna get sued” I saw trying to stop him. “I don’t fucking care I’m a Billionaire I’m the Anthony Edward Stark and he disrespected The Peter Benjamin Stark.Dad activated His Suit.I could see the fear on Flashes face. “Karen activate my suit”.My suit quickly appears around my body.I web up Flash to protect him. “Sorry Flash this might hurt I say as dad points his blaster at him.Thankfully my webs protected him and Al he got was a broken arm and rib.

————Time skip————

“Okay Children here are your rooms so head to bed” dad says as he motions to the many guest rooms near mine.I decide to head to my room after the day I had but then I remembered the diner.I call up Bibian and she gets here in 5 minutes looking decent.She and I walk to the dining area. “Mom,Dad,guys, this is my girlfriend Bibian”I nervously squeeze Bibian’s Hand tighter.

5 mins later

“And then Friday tells me the footage of you two is is child pornography”The rest of the Avengers were laughing their heads off while me and Bibian looked embarrassed.

After Dinner

Bibian and I had a great time tonight.I take her up to my room and lock the door my teammates are definitely not going to get any sleep.

(A/N)

By loves I can’t wait to make the next part

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fictional-worlds-are-exquisite · 4 years

Conversation

Peter: Have a good day!

Tony: You know what happened last time someone told me that?

Peter: You said 'don't tell me what to do'?

Tony: I started crying

Peter: Are you...going to do that now?

Tony:

Peter: Mr. Stark?

Tony: No. It seems like I'm mentally stable today.

#tony: [pause to consider] peter: [fear]#Peter Parker #Tony Stark #MCU #Marvel #Iron Man #Spider-Man #Irondad #Spiderson #Ironman #Spiderman #Iron dad #Spider son #Irondad and Spiderson #Iron dad and Spider son #but sometimes it b like that

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acciopietro · 3 years

Text

bad idea - p.m.

pairing: pietro maximoff x fem! reader

summary: in which pietro accidentally gets sex pollen into his system, and fortunately or unfortunately, you’re the only one who can get it out.

word count: 7637

tw: smut. literal filth. this is a bit of a self-indulgent fic. both parties are 18+ and consenting, but it could be considered dub/con cause it’s sex pollen. up to interpretation, really.

a/n: disappointed at the lack of pietro content on this app. fine. i’ll do it myself.

EVERYONE SEEMED SMART ENOUGH TO follow Tony and Bruce’s instructions on steering clear of the potted plants in the lab. Admittedly, you had been incredibly curious, but by the time you reached the doors of the lab, you figured it was better to be safe than sorry. Thor had sort of instilled that in you, anyway.

“You don’t want to go in there, Lady Y/N,” He had instructed her in a firm, almost parentally stern voice. “Those plants have a drastic effect on Asgardians.... I would not like to find out what they might do to one from Midgard.”

“He’s being dramatic,” Pietro had stated matter-of-factly, rolling his eyes as he, you, Wanda, and Peter walked away from the lab. Wanda scoffed, shaking her head as her brother went on. “I mean, they are plants. What’s it gonna do, make our skin itchy or something?”

“I dunno,” Peter said apprehensively. “If Mr. Stark says it’s really dangerous—”

“It can’t be that bad,” Pietro pressed further, running a hand through his silver hair.

“I think it might,” you chimed in, tugging at the bottom of your skirt. He shifted his steel blue eyes over to you, an eyebrow twitching up as though you had challenged him. “If they’ve got Thor trying that hard to get us away from it, it’s probably not too good.”

“I know what you’re thinking, Pietro, and it’s a bad idea,” Wanda advised, and you and Peter traded confused glances. Pietro scoffed and shook his head to himself. “Seriously. Don’t do it.”

“We’ll see,” Pietro drawled, an odd look in his eye. As the four of you kept walking, you grabbed him by the wrist to halt his walking and hold him back for a moment. He blinked at where your fingers wrapped loosely around his wrist before his eyes snapped back up to your face, a smug smirk unfurling on his lips as his gaze raked over your figure. “You coming to your senses, then?”

“Oh, shut up,” you said dismissively, feeling heat rise up to your cheeks. His smirk morphed into a simple smile as you continued to talk. “Don’t go snooping. It’s not a good idea.”

“Why? Are you scared?” he challenged. You almost rolled your eyes — he always did this. “You have nothing to fear, Dragă mea.”

“Still don’t know what that means,” you muttered under your breath. “Please, Pietro. Just... leave it, okay?”

He stared at you for a moment, slowly blinking as though he were deeply considering your words. Pietro was probably the most stubborn person you knew, and although Wanda often said no one ever could get through to him, you had kept it quiet that you were usually the one who could. Whether it be forcing him to maybe not shotgun an entire can of beer or using all your strength to hold him back from running to try and save Clint, he usually listening to you.

“I’m just curious,” he said after a prolonged pause. “What even is it? What does it do?”

“Ask Thor,” you shrugged. “He said it was from Asgard... or maybe one of the other realms, I can’t remember. Something about aliens...”

“Can’t we just— look?” Pietro asked, bowing his head a bit and tilting his eyebrows to give you his best attempt at puppy dog eyes. You pursed your lips, blinking wordlessly. “I just wanna see what it looks like. And — I’ll do you one better — you can even come with me. Make sure I don’t do anything stupid.”

“I’m not your babysitter, Pietro,” you told him. Frowning, he slumped his shoulders.

“C’mon,” he dragged out. “Please?”

You stared at him for a moment. It couldn’t hurt either of you from far away, right...? Maybe if the pair of you just went inside to look at it... see what all the fuss was about. You wouldn’t touch it or smell it or do anything... just look.

“Okay, Maximoff,” you sighed, and his face brightened immensely. “Just to see it. That’s it.”

“Whatever you say,” he complied, nodding his head eagerly. And then, grabbing you by the wrist, he said in a hushed voice, “Sa mergem!”

“Don’t know what that means, either,” you mumbled, allowing him to drag you along the hallway.

“It means Let’s go,” Pietro clarified, side-eyeing you as the pair of you strolled along the corridor. “Honestly, dragoste, I ought to teach you Sokovian, eh?”

“I don’t trust you to do that,” you said jokingly. “You tell me how to say Hi, how are you? and it’ll end up meaning Go fuck yourself or something equally as vulgar.”

Letting out a bark of laughter, the corners of his eyes crinkled as he said, “You know me too well!”

By the time the pair of you had reached the doors of the lab again, Thor had ventured inside and they were left to stare wistfully inside from outside the walls, palms and noses pressed against the glass.

“We’ll have to come back later,” Pietro said in a hushed voice, eyes straining to see through where Thor, Bruce, and Tony were huddled — they were all wearing surgical masks. “When they are gone.”

You sighed, something in your gut telling you that maybe it was not a very good idea. But Pietro looked so excited... and the grin he had given you when you complied made your heart thump, and you weren’t sure you wanted to give up the chance to spend more time alone with him.

“All right,” you surrendered, watching as Bruce frustratedly ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head, and as Thor seemed to be lecturing the other men, you watched Tony turn as though to look right at the pair of you.

Pietro, fast as ever, grabbed you by the shoulder and tugged you down below the glass so Tony could not see either of you. You both crouched there for quite some time, his calloused fingers still clasped over your shoulder.

When you turned your head a fraction an inch, your breath caught in your throat when you realized the proximity in which you were close to him. Blinking quickly, you turned your head forward again. Pietro, on the other hand, flickered his icy blue eyes over to you for a moment, his lips curling upwards into a sort of smug smile before glancing forward again.

“Meet me here later tonight, okay?” he whispered to you, turning his head to look at you. You dared to turn your head as well, and knew if you moved even a centimeter closer, you noses would brush his. “And we’ll go in.”

“Okay,” you replied in an equally as quiet voice. Pietro remained staring at you for a moment, his lips parted as though he wanted to say something, before he clamped his mouth shut and glanced back up at the glass. He took his hand off your shoulder and stood.

“Coast is clear,” he announced. “We’ll still wait. Just in case they come back, yeah?”

“All right,” you nodded.

Pietro glanced up and down you once more, and with a grin, he complimented, “Cute skirt.”

You had the nervous jitters all evening, waiting in anticipation to see what was in the lab; it was more Pietro that was curious about the plant Thor had brought back from one of the other realms, but you wondered what else Tony and Bruce were hiding in there... new weapons? Other strange devices?

Whenever the plant was brought up within other members of the team, they keep it all hushed when you, Pietro, Wanda or Peter were around — perhaps it was because you were all much younger than the rest of the team, but it only made both you and Pietro more curious. What was the big deal? It was really just a scary plant, wasn’t it?

That night, when the sun had fallen and majority of the compound was asleep, there was a small rapping at your door. Lifting your head from the book you had been nose deep it, you swung your legs over your bed and got to your feet, crossing the room over towards the wooden door. On the other side was a grinning Pietro, clad in black joggers and a navy quarter zip sweatshirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

“Gata?” he asked, and you only blinked.

“Sorry?” you said. His grin widened.

“Ready?” he translated. “You seriously need to start learning some Sokovian. We could talk in secret.”

“Yeah, me, you, and your sister,” you said dryly, raising yours brows and closing the door behind you before brushing past him. “Let’s just go.”

“Right behind you,” He said, before speeding up to the far end of the hallway. He sat into his hip and pretending to check his nail beds. “Well, ahead of you, now. Pick up the pace, will you?”

“Shut up,” you said absentmindedly, tearing your eyes away from the veins along his forearms as he crossed his arms over his chest. “What’s our plan, anyway? Are we just gonna waltz in there?”

“Well... I was hoping you could use that big ol’ brain of yours,” Pietro mused. “And possibly hack us in...”

“Ugh, Pietro,” you whined. He gave a sheepish grin.

“Or we break the glass and go in by force,” he shrugged, and with a wink, he said, “Your choice, I’m fine with either!”

“Leave it to you to make me do all the work,” you muttered, although you really had no problem with it. Hacking into FRIDAY’s security over the lab wasn’t even hacking — both you and Pietro were members of the team, so it only made sense that the AI would let you both in.

When you reached the lab and checked to make sure no one was in, you took it upon yourself to start tapping away at the screen beside the door as quick as you could, whilst Pietro decided it was a good idea to speed around the perimeter of the glass walls in an attempt to get a glimpse of the study plant he was obsessed with.

“Hey, shit-head!” you called out, to which Pietro stopped running about and came to a halt right before you, breathing a bit heavier than he had been before. “We’re in.”

“Thank you, dragă mea!” He said brightly, brushing by you and heading one foot in front of the other into the lab. You trailed behind apprehensively, spotting one of the leaves of the plant from afar.

“Hey, Pietro?” You asked meekly. He hummed in response. “Why d’you think Mr. Stark n’ Banner were wearing masks? Y’think it’s got some sort of like... dangerous aroma?”

“Doubt it,” said Pietro casually, strolling along the tile floor. “Probably just Stark being overdramatic.”

“Yeah, okay,” You sighed.

“Wait, wait!” Pietro paused, sniffing the air like a dog. You narrowed yours eyes at him, your eyebrows twitching in concern.

“You... okay?”

“I think I can smell it. The plant,” He paused, blinking at you. “Oh, nevermind... did you buy new perfume? Very nice!”

“Thanks,” you said slowly. “Okay, well... I’m gonna go check out over there... you keep being weird over here, okay?”

“It’s called using my senses, Y/N, you should try it sometime,” Pietro called back cheekily, to which you rolled your eyes and allowed yourself to venture within the depths of the lab.

You strolled by a series of prototypes for what you assumed were for an updated version of Tony’s suit, as well as multiple vials of funky looking liquids that were probably placed there by Banner — you didn’t really want to know what they were.

“I found it!” called Pietro in a sort of sing-song voice from what seemed like very far away. “This thing is huge!... but it smells like — like really good, actually.... — Oh doamne — shit, how high does Stark keep the damn temperature in here?”

“What happened to your ‘improved thermal homeostasis’?” You called out in a teasing manner. “Aren’t you supposed to be fine in any climate?”

To her surprise, there was no response. Just pure silence.

“Pietro?” you called, placing down an old Iron Man mask prototype and following the path back towards where you assumed the plant was. “Did you OD in there?”

Nothing. You didn’t hear him say anything, but as you walked closer and closer, all you could hear was his labored breathing. Oh fuck, you thought. Was this plant actually dangerous?

“Pietro?” you called out again, this time a trace of frantic energy within your tone, panic flooding into your veins as you began to think the worst. Pietro had just been saved — you couldn’t risk almost losing him a second time. You should have told him no, told him this was a bad idea, but you couldn’t resist that stupidly charming grin he possessed —

“Y... Y/n...” you heard him mumble, his voice faraway and distant as though he were having a hard time anchoring himself to his reality. You picked up your pace, wishing you could find your way through this damn maze of a lab. “This... this is... oh god...”

"Pietro, where are —? Oh, christ, are you okay?” you asked when you finally spotted him. You could see the leaves of the plant, sitting only a few feet from where he was doubled over, hands clutching onto his large thighs like a lifeline. “C’mon, let me —”

“No!” He said sharply, darting his head upwards and stumbling backwards before you could move to help. His sharp, blue eyes were dilated significantly, but they were wide as though he were afraid. His fingers were practically trembling about his legs, but after staring at you for a good ten seconds, he snapped his eyes away. “You — god, you have — you can’t be here —”

“What? What’re you talking about?” You asked incredulously, stepping forward as he began to shake his head feverishly. “Just let me help you —”

“No! No, you — you have to go!” he pleaded, his face contorting. He opened his mouth to say something more, but a guttural sort of half groan half moan and a string of Sokovian curses slipped from between his lips before he could form a sentence.

Panicked, your eyes darted about the place; ignoring Pietro’s desperate pleads, you grabbed a surgical mask from a nearby stand and strapped it onto your face before approaching him. He backed up until his lower back hit the edge of one of the tables, eyes glued to his blue and white sneakers.

“Y/N, I’m being serious — I’m — please, I — I can’t —”

“I’m not just gonna leave you here, you idiot,” you reasoned, reaching out to place a hand on the side of his upper bicep as though to help him stand upright. He tensed up, icy eyes flickering between your fingers and your face before his eyes squeezed shut again, his chest heaving up and down. “Are you — are you in pain? What’s happening?”

“I — I don’t know —” Pietro choked out, his voice cracking and his hand still clutching onto his thigh, the other reluctantly slithering about your waist to ground himself. You could feel his fingers digging into your skin like he was clutching onto you for his dear life. “I feel — I feel —”

He paused, turning his head over and staring down at you as though hypnotized. You blinked twice, eyes darting about his face as though searching for an answer to whatever the plant had done to him. As you both stood frozen, the hand of his that had been tightly gripping your waist began to loosely, the touch turning more tender than frantic. His hands were soothingly cold, but rest of him gave off such a sensual warmth that you could have stayed there forever.

But, unfortunately, you had no idea what the hell was up with him and, if you were being frank, you’d prefer not to contract whatever it was he had received. So, reluctantly, you turned your head away from him and tried to get him to walk out of the lab with you. But Pietro wasn’t as strong as he looked... no, he was much stronger than that. And you simply could not compete.

“Dragă...” you heard him mutter, partially under his breath. He was still staring down at you. “You’re...you... ”

“Pietro, please work with me here,” you sighed, trying to tug him towards the exit. He took a step or two, but seemed much too distracted by you to focus on his feet. “We’ve got to get you out of here —”

“That plant did something t’me,” he mumbled, dipping his head down so his forehead was resting in the crook of your neck, his silvery hair (where the roots were now growing in a dark chocolate color) brushing against the underside of your jawline. You could feel his lips brushing along your upper collarbone as he spoke. “Feel weird.”

“Bad weird?” You asked himself, wanting to keep him talking if it was going to help get him out of the lab. He hummed in denial, the sound vibrating against your skin.

“No,” He murmured. He was still breathing rather heavily, but it seemed that after you had held him, he felt better. “Good weird.”

“Good weird,” you repeated, unsure what to do with that information. You supposed it didn’t quite matter, considering Pietro didn’t seem to be in pain and the fact that you were at the exit. Whenever your arm shifted around him, however, tiny sort of groans would escape from him, and you weren’t sure whether they were from pain or... or something else. You sighed, ripping off the surgical mask you had put on earlier.

Footsteps from the end of the hallway alerted the presence of someone else, and at this point, you weren’t sure whether you wanted to see whoever it was just yet. On one hand, you wanted Tony or Banner there to help Pietro out so he could feel better, but on the other hand, having him nuzzled up and sighing contently into your side wasn’t such a bad thing.

“Hey, Y/N?” you heard him whisper as the footsteps got closer. You finally shifted your eyes to look up at him, your e/c gaze widening at the dilation of his iris’ — his pupils were so large that they seemed to overshadow the icy blue of his true eye color. His whole being was pressed against your side, and your eyes trailed down his body — down his shoulders, down his chest, his abdomen, his pelvis, and then to his — oh god. Oh god.

“Uhm — yeah?” you stammered back, blinking three times before snapping your eyes back up to his face. Was it from the plant? From you? He lifted his head from the crook of your neck staring down into your eyes more clearly now that he was standing upright. You had forgotten how tall he was.

“I really liked your skirt earlier,” he quipped lowly so that only you could hear, and before you could reply, a presence at your far left made you jump.

“What’re you two doing here?” said Tony fucking Stark in an accusatory manner. Neither of you responded — well, you hadn’t expected Pietro to reply, considering he was too busy trickling his fingers up the outline of your waist and upper torso. Tony blinked once at the pair of you, then at the open doors to the lab, and then back at Pietro.

“Oh,” Tony said blankly. His eyes then widened. “Oh! Fuck!”

“What?” you asked. Tony said nothing, reaching deep into his pocket and grabbing his phone, tapping away at it frantically. Holding it up to his ear, he waited there for a split second before glancing back up at the pair of you and waving his hand as though to motion for the pair of you to separate. “What’re you —?”

“Get him off you, alright?” Tony demanded, turning a bit and waiting for the other person to pick up the phone, and you tried to peel away from Pietro — he only frowned and tightened his grip on your torso.

“Te vreau,” Pietro said in a very soft voice. You really wished you knew Sokovian. “Doamne, te vreau.”

“What’d I just say?” Tony barked. You gave him a pointed look as though you didn’t have much control of the situation as he turned to talk on the phone. “... no, I don’t care about the dream you were having... no, get your ass out here, Banner!.... yes, it’s about the stupid plant!”

Pietro was steadily becoming more and more insatiable. His hand was crawling up your back, suggestive but gentle all the same. His breath fanned against your temple, and when you side-eyed him for a split-second, you saw that his eyes were sort of fluttered closed.

“Hey — hey, Road Runner!” Tony snapped his fingers, to which Pietro’s eyes jolted open, his head snapping to the side. He blinked as though he had been woken up. “Yeah, hi! Wakey-wakey. Hands at your sides, will you?”

“Mr. Stark —” you began, desperately wanting him to explain. He held up a hand as you felt Pietro finally peel away from you.

“The kids got into the lab,” Tony said into the phone. “...no, no, not Peter — Y/N and Maximoff... yes, the fast one... yeah, lucky shmucky — get out here! Goodbye!”

“Mr. Stark, can you please explain what’s going on?” you inquired.

Your eyes drifted to Pietro for a moment, who now stood a good foot or two away from you, body turned the other way as though he were hiding. His hands were resting at his front, covering his groin and, with a scarlet-red face, he met your eyes for a split second before averted them from you completely. His chest was still heaving up and down.

“Thought we told you both not to go near that plant?” Tony scolded. “I mean, you’re smart enough to listen, aren’t you?”

“I — well — we were curious,” you said quickly, not wanting Pietro to get into trouble, or to embarrass him any further. “And — and I — it’s all my fault, really, Pietro was just —”

“Tony, if they didn’t get too much of it in their systems then — oh!” came another voice, and coming from down the dark corridor was Dr. Bruce Banner, rubbing one of his eyes tiredly, his glasses crooked on his nose. “Oh, it’s just one of you?”

“Someone just tell me what the fuck’s happening to him!” you practically shrilled, and Tony took one look at Banner and stepped backwards as though to give him the floor. Banner sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Okay, I — I’ll tell you, but first off — we’ve got to get him into another room,” Banner said, gesturing towards Pietro, who had a blush coating his neck, face, and ears so brightly that it was like someone had applied a thick layer of makeup to his skin.

“What?” you began in protest. “What d’you mean —?”

“Probably for the best,” Pietro croaked suddenly, sounding like he was in physical pain. You glanced over to him, disappointed that he couldn’t meet your eyes. “I don’t think I can —” he shifted his eyes to Banner. “I feel like I’m gonna lose it.”

“Yeah, we’re moving,” Tony said quickly, jerking his head to the side. Turning to look at Banner, he said, “Get her out of here, too. Can’t have these two too close together... especially when it’s still going through his system...”

“Oh, that’s right!” Banner snapped his fingers. “His increased metabolism! No wonder he’s got such good restraint!”

“Yeah, you should’ve shown up five minutes earlier,” Tony snorted. “Restraint! Ha!”

“Shut it,” you snapped, not caring about the authority the older man had nor of his position on the team. You didn’t like seeing Pietro looking so — so small. So shy.

Tony, looking amused, lifted up his hands in defense and began on his way, grabbing Pietro by the wrist. The boy took a single — almost desperate — glance at you, before letting himself be dragged off.

“Well?” You said accusingly, whipping around towards Banner as he lead you off to your room. “What is it?”

“It’s — it’s a sort of pollen, really,” Banner began, a sort of tremor in his voice as though he were feeling uncomfortable just talking about it. “Thor brought it back from — er, one of the other realms, I can’t pronounce the name. It’s got these coitus pheromones that makes it easier for — uhm — for alien species to mate.”

“To... mate,” you repeated. “So it’s like a fertility pollen?”

“Well, kind of...” Banner paused. “It just makes it easier for two species to mate together... increases a person’s libido.”

You nodded, understanding, and asked, “So is it like one of those... first person you see kind of things? Like a... like a love potion?”

“Erm — no, not exactly,” Banner went on. “It’s more like... heightening what’s already there. So if you’re into someone, and you get the pollen into your system, well...”

“Oh,” you said quietly. So that was why Pietro was suddenly... all over you. And why his joggers were suddenly so tight.

“So you’ll be fine to come and go as you please,” Banner had said after walking you to your room. “But Pietro’s gonna have to stay quarantined until we find a cure to this thing, alright?”

“Quarantined?” you repeated. “Is he gonna be okay?”

“He should be fine,” Banner said unsurely. “It’d be pretty bad on a normal human being, but since he’s an enhanced individual, he... he shouldn’t be in too much pain.”

You didn’t sleep an inch that night. Or the night after. Thinking about Pietro locked up in his own room that was only two doors down, probably twisting and turning in pain for hours on end while Tony and Banner injected him with all sorts of things to try and reduce his symptoms only made your heart clench.

But what was worse was that really late at night, when the sun had gone down and most of the compound was asleep, you could hear him. Groans and moans for hours on end.

Tony and Banner had been cooped up in the lab for the next three days, working like dogs to try and figure out a way to help Pietro. Thor had mentioned something about “fulfilling the poor lad’s desires” but Tony had thrown a fit and claimed that idea was off the table.

Wanda seemed a wreck, what with not being able to see her brother for so long, and so she spent majority of her time cooped up in her own room with Vision comforting her. Peter was in Queens living with his Aunt May, which meant he wasn’t around. So you were on your own. And Tony and Banner were making close to no progress. The best they had done was relieve Pietro for maybe a minute and a half, before it started back up again.

Late in the evening on the fourth night, you decided you’d go inside Pietro’s room. Just to check on him. Unless, of course, he was a moaning mess like he had been for the past few days — then, maybe it was best you let him be.

A little ways past midnight, you found yourself standing outside of his door. You couldn’t hear anything other then heavy, labored breathing from inside, but you didn’t want to assume anything. When you gently rapped your knuckles against the door, a gasp was heard.

“Banner?” came Pietro’s voice — it was raw and scratchy like sandpaper.

“Close, but no,” you quipped. There was a long heartbeat of silence.

“What —” Pietro began, but his voice cracked and he started over, “What’re you doing here?”

“Just wanted to see you,” you said honestly in a breathless voice. “Can I... can I come inside?”

More silence.

“Uhm,” you heard him stammer. “O — Okay. Just... give me a moment.”

You waited, shifting back and forth anxiously in your spot for a good two to three minutes. It wasn’t until you heard him say you could enter than you really felt your nerves kick up.

There’s no reason to be nervous, you told yourself. It’s just Pietro. Pietro who just so happens to be drugged with a fucking alien mating pollen that makes him want to have sex with you. God, what a turn of events.

When you stepped into the room, the lights were very dimmed, and it wasn’t until you saw him that you understood why. You tried your absolute best (which was very difficult) to ignore the fact that he was void of a shirt and his blanket covered from his lower abdomen to his mid thighs only. You prayed he was wearing shorts or something underneath it.

“Uhm,” you said, standing awkwardly by the door. He was staring at you, blinking more furiously now. “How... how’re you feeling?”

“Alright,” he shrugged, but his neck twitched and you watched his fist clench at his side, his eyes raking over you very quickly. “You — you shouldn’t have come in here. It’s not safe.”

“I know, but... I just... I was worried,” you said honestly. Pietro frowned, tilting his head to the side and shaking his head.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s my fault. I should have just — just left that stupid plant be.”

“It’s okay,” you smiled at him. The corner of his lips twitched up, almost as if he were preparing to smirk at you, but his chest contracted and he squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his lips into a thin line. “Are you —?”

“It’s really not safe for you,” Pietro repeated, his voice going up a pitch as his abdomen contracted again, his hips twitching upwards. “And — and you’ll get in trouble if they find you in here.”

“They won’t. And I don’t care if it’s not safe. You’re one of my best friends and I’m going to fucking see you,” you said stubbornly. “It’s not like any of this is your fault. If anything, it’s Thor’s, for bringing a fucking sex plant into the compound.”

“Fucking Aliens,” Pietro muttered, to which you let out a short laugh. His gaze continued to linger on you, and when your e/c eyes met his icy blue ones, he sighed, running his tongue over his bottom lip before saying, “This plant is... it’s driving me up a wall. I haven’t slept at all, I’ve been way too...”

He paused and trailed off. You figured he didn’t want to say it. You couldn’t really blame him, anyways.

“Is there... is there anything I can do?” You offered, taking a step into the room and ignoring the way he pressed his lips together to stifle a groan, his fists clenching at his sides.

“Don’t say that,” He croaked. “You’re — you’re making this — really difficult, y’know.”

“Sorry!” you stopped walking, your brows jumping up. “Did you — did you want me to leave?”

“No!” Pietro jolted up, his hand scrambling to adjust the blanket that was covering the lower half of his body, his eyes suddenly looking so desperate that you really had no choice in the matter. “Please, don’t — don’t go. I — I haven’t seen you in days.”

“Okay,” you breathed, glancing about his room, spotting a bottle of water and a half-full pack of painkillers on his dresser. “You wanna take something?”

“Yeah, all right,” he breathed as you crossed the room, standing up on your toes to whisk the two things off the top of the dresser before moving towards him. The pace of his breathing seemed to hasten as you got closer and closer, but he made no remark to tell you to stop. It wasn’t until you sat down on the edge of his bed that you got a better look at him.

His entire chest and shoulders were covered in a sheen of sweat, his hair wildly untamed and his jaw clenching and unclenching as he stared at you. You busied yourself with popping out two painkillers from the packet, turning to place them into his open palm.

He took the glass, his jaw twitching when your fingers brushed, before tossing the pills into the back of his throat and tilting his head back to drink. A vein in his neck was protruding from his efforts to stay restrained.

“There’s got to be something we can do,” you muttered, shifting in your spot as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Pietro said nothing, eyes flickering over your bare shoulders and side profile like a starved man. “I want to help you.”

His hips bucked up, and through clenched teeth he said, “No, you don’t.”

“Why not?” you asked him. He shook his head, pressing his lips together.

“Because I’d never ask you of it,” he mumbled. “It’s... it’s not fair. To you.”

“Just tell me what it is,” you pressed further. “I’m sure it’s... it’s not that bad, right?”

“Y/N...” he breathed, averting his gaze to his hands. His voice raising a pitch, he said, “Didn’t — didn’t they tell you? What this thing is doing to me?”

“Yeah,” you answered. Pietro blinked, taken aback. “Yeah, they did. I still want to help you.”

“You... you know?” Pietro said in disbelief, his chest beginning to heave up and down faster than ever. “And you’re not... freaked out?”

“No,” you said honestly. Sheepishly, you added, “Well, maybe a little nervous... but... not freaked out.”

“I could hurt you,” he groaned, his voice morphing into something darker than before. “Once I let go... I don’t think I’ll be able to control myself again.”

“If I don’t help you, you’ll be in pain,” you said matter-of-factly, your voice dripping with sympathy. “You need help.”

“Y/N... I don’t want to make you uncomfortable,” he began, and you could tell he was beginning to have a hard time keeping himself under control. “You — you have to tell me that you’re sure. Because I — I don’t — with you in the room, I just — I don’t think I can restrain myself.”

“I’m sure,” you told him, inching closer. You could hear his breath hitching, noises that almost sounded like whines escaping his throat as you drew nearer. “Let me help you.”

“Te vreau,” he muttered, your noses touching and your lips brushing over one another’s. “Atât de rău.”

“Can you speak English, please?” you asked him. He shifted his blue eyes up to lock with yours, and you knew he was hanging by a thin thread.

“Kiss me,” he murmured, and you pressed your mouth hotly to his, pulling him impossibly close. He sighed contently through it, like he had finally gotten what he had been waiting so patiently for, and he brought one hand to the back of your head, clutching your hair and lightly tugging at it.

You placed one hand of yours onto his bare, broad shoulder, tightening your clutches on the defined muscles when you felt his free hand grope at your thigh, fingers trailing upwards and slipping underneath the cotton of your pajama shorts.

Whatever shred of sanity he had been holding onto had been tossed out the window, his grip on you tightening as he took his hand away from your hair and smoothed it down your body to tug you closer by the waist until you might as well have been on his lap.

“Wanna touch you,” he mumbled, the pads of his calloused hands slithering so far up your thigh that you could feel the tips of his fingers just barely graze the fabric of your panties. “Say you want me to.”

“I want you to,” you sighed, his fingers dipping under the elastic and teasingly grazing along the smooth skin of your bikini line. “Here —”

You lifted up your hips for him, and he eagerly brought his other hand down to slip the shorts off of you, dragging them down your legs until you kicked them off so they were strewn across the floor. He blinked, not saying anything for a moment, before clenching his jaw and smirking.

“You’re so beautiful,” he told you lowly, swooping low to press hot mouthed kissed down your neck and collarbones until he reached your sternum. Your heart skipped a beat beneath your chest.

Rather than taking it off, he tugged at the uppermost hem of your tank top and pulled it low enough so your breasts were bare to him. Without another word, he latched his mouth onto one, desperately groping at the other; short, pitchy breathes escaped from your lips, your head tilting back and your back arching to press yourself closer to him.

“Do you — have any idea — how patient I’ve been?” he said in between hot, open-mouthed kisses to your chest, tufts of his silver hair grazing your chin every time he’d look up at you. “Sitting in here — pretending like I didn’t want to — fuck you — ‘till you couldn’t walk?”

“God — Pietro —” you breathed, your voice high and strung out. His hands trailed off your breasts and down the length of your waist until they reached the elastic of your panties, stretching it and snapping it as though he were waiting for you to say it was okay. “No — you’re the one who’s in pain, this is about you —”

“No — I’m not going to use you like that,” he told you, his eyes a bit lighter as though he were truly upset that this was how your first times would take place. “I’m sorry — it shouldn’t be like this —”

“After we get this pollen out of your system, we’ll do a do over,” you told him earnestly, lifting one of your hands to cup along the side of his face. His eyes had widened a fraction, pleasantly surprised at your offer. “But when you’re not in pain, okay?”

“Okay,” he said quietly, letting you lift your hips to pull down the material of your panties so they were out of the way. He shifted around, tossing the blanket that had been covering him off of his lower abdomen and guiding you so you were laying down with your head on his pillow.

You laid there patiently as he stood up for a moment, grabbing the material of his white boxers and yanking them down to his ankles, kicking them off onto the floor. He stood completely vulnerable before you, his left hand moving to pump at his cock for some form of relief as he made his way back towards you, blue eyes flickering up and down you almost hungrily.

“You are sure?” he asked again, nestling himself between your legs, on of his hands running up and down his shaft whilst the other came to rest right on your hip, thumb absentmindedly rubbing along the bone. You smiled.

“Yeah,” you breathed, lips curved upwards. You hadn’t quite realized until then, but the blush that had been tinting his face scarlet traveled down his neck and crept along his chest.

He blinked, gaze flickering in between your face and between your legs. Jaw clenching, he moved his hand off your hip and brought his fingers down, dipping into your soaked core and running his lubricating fingers along your labia.

“Oh — Pietro —”

The touch elicited a whiny gasp to slip from in between your lips as he pumped his index and middle finger inside of you. Your back arched, allowing you to grind up into his hand as he scissored his fingers to stretch you out.

“I’m ready,” you told him breathily, the sound of your voice forcing him to lock eyes with you. “Please — I’m ready, just do it —”

With a clenched jaw, he shifted around before lining himself up with your entrance after a single glide over your folds; his eyes looked up at you again, gaze hesitant, and in an attempt to help him, you brought a hand along his chest and down his torso. You wrapped your fingers around the hardness of his hip and pulled him towards you, and he glanced down again to help himself push inside of you.

He bottomed out with a single thrust, his lips parting in a gasp as he leaned himself down to press his mouth to yours again. His thrusts were slow and languid, hips rutting against yours as his tip grazed along the spongy tissue of your g-spot.

He continued at a slow and steady pace until your hand tapped him twice on the forearm, signalling him to speed up, your eyelashes fluttering and your mouth opening up into an O shape. Your breathing hastened again, your hips grinding up against his hips and he began to lose himself within you, the endorphins rushing into his brain clouding his senses as he let his tongue sweep across your bottom lip.

“Oh god,” he groaned, lifting his mouth off of yours and bowing his head to press his forehead to your sternum, his hips thrusting in and out of you with such speed that you could only expect to come from him. “You feel so good, dragă — so, so good —”

“Fuck — Pietro —” you moaned out as you felt his free hand slither down to rub figure eights on the bundle of nerves that was your clit. Your body jerked, hips bucking up into him as your nails scratched into his muscular shoulder blades.

“You see that?” He asked you roguishly, his grin sending butterflies into the bit of your stomach where you could see the small bulge of where he was buried deep inside you. You could barely even respond; all you could find the strength to do was nod weakly, mouth falling open from the sheer passion of it. “So good — taking me so well —”

“Right there right there,” You blabbered out almost incoherently as you felt the tightness in your stomach threaten to come undone. “God — Pietro — I'm — I'm gonna come —”

“Come for me,” He coaxed you, his cock twitching inside you as his pointer and middle finger continued to rub at the top of your cunt. "Come on my cock — give it to me —”

Eyes fluttering into the back of your head, you arched your back even further as whimpers of his name slipped from your lips like a prayer, hips jerking into him as you came down from your high.

“So beautiful,” he muttered mostly to himself as he mindlessly continued thrusting into you. “So — so pretty — god —”

He pulled out as quickly as physically could once he gathered his wits, but before he could finish himself off, your hand was around his cock, jacking him off to help him finish. His hips desperately thrusted himself into your hand, icy blue eyes fluttering back into his head as his cum spurted into your hand and all over yours bare stomach, yours name mixed with a string of non-English curses slipping from his lips as you continued to pump him.

“Fucking hell,” he muttered once he had calmed down enough to form coherent words. Breathing heavily, he locked eyes with you and asked, “Are you okay?”

“I’m amazing,” you breathed. “That was... really fucking good.”

“Oh!” Pietro seemed a little surprised, his lips curving upwards in self-satisfaction.

“Good reflexes,” you complimented. He chuckled.

“Fastest in the world,” he grinned. He stared down at you for a moment, eyes trailing up and down your figure before settling on your stomach where his gaze widened. “Oh — hold on —!”

He hopped off of you, grabbing his boxers off the floor and shrugging them on before speeding across the room into his bathroom, before he came speeding out with a wet washcloth. He sat down on the edge of the bed and ran the cloth along your torso and thighs to clean you off.

“Thank you,” he mumbled, not looking you in the eyes. “For helping me. You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to,” you cooed. “Knowing you were in pain... I just... I couldn’t sit by knowing I could help.”

“Y/N... I —” Pietro stammered, running his tongue over his lips for a moment before taking a deep breath, looking you in the eye and saying, “I like you. Always have. I really hope... if that feeling was mutual... that this didn’t ruin it.”

“Oh, Pietro,” you hummed, shifting so you were sitting upright. “It didn’t ruin anything. I like you too, you stubborn idiot. Next time I saw something’s a bad idea, though, listen.”

“Hey, this bad idea led to something pretty good,” Pietro said matter-of-factly. You rolled your eyes. “Am I wrong?”

“No,” you said contently, pursing your lips. Grabbing his shoulder, you said, “Just kiss me again.”

✾✾✾

translations:

Dragă mea - My dear

Sa mergem - Let’s go!

Dragoste - Love

Doamne - God

Te vreau. - I want you.

Atât de rău. - So bad.

taglist:

@ginger-swag-rapunzel

a/n: this was my first smut on here!!!! honest opinions? this took me ages omfg —essie

#pietro maximoff #pietro maximoff x reader #pietro x y/n #pietro x reader #mcu #pietro maximoff smut #aaron taylor johnson #age of ultron #smut #please be nice to me

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rebeccccccaaa · 3 years

Text

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐲𝐦𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐞

____________________________

𝐁𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐲 𝐁𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: A true enemies to lovers ;)

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: rapid change of POV, angry makeout, hate sex, smut 18+ (very rough sex btw), smart ass reader, unprotected sex (reader is on birth control)

𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: angst? (i still don’t really know what classifies as angst), confused feelings, age gap (reader of age), hate sex 18+, angry makeout turned soft, smut 18+, vulgar language, brutal insults, it’s just all mean

𝐀/𝐧: sorry if the pov change got too crazy i was imagining it as if it was like a scene from a movie; just tried something new to spice things up :) also thank you guys so much for the love from only the first chapter?! you guys are literally awesome! i do have a taglist so let me know if you wanna be tagged in future parts! there’s only five chapters by the way!!!!

Taglist _____________________________

(𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐭𝐰𝐨)

You were hanging out with Peter after you found out that your fight with Bucky made him cry. You two had taken a walk to grab some coffee from the cafe down the street.

“Why do you and Bucky hate each other?” Peter asked you as you two were walking home.

“Oh, I don’t- I, uh… I don’t hate him,” you stuttered and hesitated, in truth you couldn’t care less what happened to the ass.

“Y/n, you say mean things to each other all the time, and you fight a lot.”

“I know. Peter, sometimes people just don’t get along. I don’t personally think Buck’s a bad guy.”

“Then why do you always fight?”

“I don’t know.”

You two got to the compound and Peter went straight to Tony and Bruce who were in the lab. You went to look for Natasha who was on a step ladder changing a bulb.

“Why are you changing a bulb? Doesn’t Vision usually do that?”

“He and Wanda… are on… and date,” she huffed trying to reach the screw.

“Do you need help?” you laughed at her struggling.

“Yeah, you’re taller than me right? You try.”

You stepped on the ladder with the bulb in hand reaching to screw it in. Steve and Bucky walked in coming up to you with concerned looks on their faces. You reached up and could barely fit the bulb in so you opted to stand on your toes. That very quickly went south however.

You fell forward on Nat making the step ladder fly sideways from under you. She grabbed you and rolled you both so you would land on the floor with minimal injury. Steve and Bucky both widened their eyes rushing to you two lay laughing loudly on the floor.

“You guys ok?” Steve asked, grabbing the step ladder.

“Yeah we’re ok-” you cut off, your laughter immediately dying from Bucky grabbing your arm and pulling you up. He grabbed your face and checked to see if you might’ve scratched yourself.

You pulled away confused.

“Why are you so fucking careless? Ask us next time,” Bucky growled.

“Careful Barnes, don’t want people to think you actually care for me,” you rolled your eyes.

That pissed off Bucky who lunged at you pushing your shoulders. You used your powers to expand a black ball of mist before thrusting it at Bucky making him stumble back. Nat and Steve dove in to stop what could be another potential disaster between you two.

“Can you two stop fighting for five fucking seconds?” Nat yelled.

“He started it!” you shouted.

“Enough! Barnes, L/n. Asses in the conference room. Now,” Fury found you guys.

You looked at Buck, who had nostrils flared breathing heavily in anger. He was fuming; and for what?

“You two have a mission,” Fury said when you two entered the conference room.

“Is that really the smartest thing to do. We don’t work well together,” Bucky said.

“The only thing smart about you is your mouth. Go on this mission, together. Any casualties will come out of your paycheck and field time.”

“What?” you both said in shock.

“I said what I said; wheels are up in 20.”

You grabbed the files handed to you by Maria and walked to your rooms to pack. Nat came into your room to ask what happened. Same with Steve and Bucky.

“What happened?” Nat asked you.

“Fury, sent us on a mission,” Bucky told Steve.

“I can’t imagine how quickly shit will the fan. I can’t stand him!” you told Nat, talking about the upcoming mission.

“I can’t stand her.”

“Why?” Steve asked Buck.

“He’s so infuriating. Like everything pisses him off…”

“She’s always angry and wants to fight.”

“Do you think maybe you like him and you’re convincing yourself you don’t by being mean?” Nat asked you.

There was a long pause as you two stared at each other before you guys burst in laughter.

“Good one,” you laughed, “Anyways, I don’t know how long this mission is so I’ll see you when I get back.”

“I don’t know how long this mission is so I’ll see you when I get back,” Bucky said to Steve patting him on the shoulder.

You both got to the quinjet, not even thinking about talking to each other. The file you both had basically said there was a fundraiser being held to mask an underground meeting for Hydra agents to meet in secret.

Not a secret anymore though.

You two arrived at the hotel still haven’t spoken a word each. All that was heard in the elevator on your way up was both your breathing echoing off the metal walls. You got in and set your stuff on the couch.

“We should set up a game plan,” you huffed.

“Ok,” he said before disappearing into the bathroom.

You rolled your eyes but began setting up what should be the tactic to approach the mission. You didn’t want to be too aggressive but being too stealth might take too long. Bucky came out of the bathroom after what seems to be having taken a shower.

“Come up with anything yet?”

“No,” you responded.

“Seriously?”

“What? It’s not like your fucking helping.”

“Watch your fucking attitude. I didn’t do anything so knock it off.”

“Whatever. Are you gonna help me or are you gonna sit there and watch me do all the work just to take credit?”

“Why would I take credit for your shitty plan that’s gonna get compromised.”

“Can you not be a dick for two seconds and be helpful for once?”

“I’m not helpful?” he stood up getting angrier every passing second.

“God, Bucky get your head out of your ass! Stop taking everything so negatively; this is why I can’t stand you!”

“Shut your goddamn mouth, princess,” Bucky walked up to you, pulling you close by wrapping his metal hand around your throat.

“Am I turning you on?” you mocked.

“Shut up!”

“Or what? You’ll spank me?” you whispered.

“Fucking bitch,” Bucky said before smashing his lips to yours.

He pushed you down on the couch, kissing you burtally. Your lips were swelling as Bucky trailed rough kisses down your throat. You wanted to moan because Bucky’s rough hands touching your body was overwhelming.

There was a harsh contrast between his hot flesh hand and his cold metal one. You finally gave in after feeling Bucky’s hard dick brushing against your thigh considering he still had only a towel around his waist from his shower.

“Does that feel good? God you fucking slut; falling apart under a man you hate,” Bucky whispered roughly in your ear.

“Ugh,” you groaned, “Fuck you, Bucky.”

He lifted your shirt and you lifted your arms so he could take it off. You stood up and Bucky fell to his knees in front of you taking your pants while you unclasped your bra.

Bucky let his poorly wrapped towel fall to the floor as he pushed you down roughly onto the couch once again. Bruising kisses were exchanged and Bucky’s hand traced your stomach following down to between your thighs.

He rubbed roughly but slowly at your clit making your hips wiggle under him.

“Fucking stay still,” Bucky said.

“God Bucky, I already don’t like you so teasing me will just make me fume.”

“Then I guess I’ll enjoy every second I get to tease you and pisssed you off.”

“Bucky,” you grunted bucking your hips into his roughly.

“Knock it off,” Bucky grabbed your throat, squeezing gently; sure he hated you and wanted you be quiet but he wasn’t trying to kill.

“You want me to fuck this pussy? Want it rough? I’ll give it to you rough then,” Bucky said hoarsely, “I'll make you scream and cry from how good my cock is. I’m gonna ruin you, babygirl.”

You whimpered and nearly screamed when Bucky thrusted into you hard and fast. Your hands held his forearms not in fear but to steady yourself when his hips started moving faster and faster. His hips dug into yours; you were getting sore already from his manic thrusts.

You moaned loudly and Bucky kepting thrusting into you ferociously chasing his orgasm. You breached the edge yourself, tears forming in your eyes. You sniffled making Bucky look at you with the slightest bit of concern on his face.

“Is it too much? I thought this is how you wanted it, you fucking cockwhore.”

“Ugh Bucky,” you moaned.

“Come on, Y/n. Cum. Let it go,” he said.

You nearly screamed in euphoria, your eyes rolling to the back of your head. Bucky came inside you then collapsed on you knocking the air out of your system momentarily. You pushed him off then practically ran to the bathroom to clean yourself up.

Bucky came in you and you could feel the mixtures of both your cum dripping down your thighs. You were on the pill so you just cleaned yourself and quickly showered. When you came up Bucky had dressed himself and was writing stuff on a piece of paper; as if he hadn’t choked the shit out of ou and made you cum so hard you almost passed out.

“I came up with a plan,” he said, so normally.

“Ok.”

“Look, Y/n-”

“This never happened. We don’t fucking like each other ok? If you tell goddamn soul I will rip you apart limb by limb.”

“Then you can’t tell anyone either,” he pushed.

“As if I’d tell anyone about this.”

“Are you that repulsed by me? Admit it! That the best sex either have had, probably ever.”

“Enough, Bucky. We hate each other.”

“But-”

“James, stop!” you yelled, quieting Bucky.

“Fuck you,” he said walking out.

“The plan’s on the table, I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said before going to sleep.

You breathed out heavily before grabbing the paper. There was little room to make mistakes but all in all it was a good plan. You went to your own bed seeing Bucky already asleep in the other. You turned off the light and prepared yourself for what was to come tomorrow.

TAGLIST FOR SERIES:

@hoeforcuteguyswithcharmingsmiles @sweetlikesugar9 @thefifthweasley @thefallenbibliophilequote @perfectlymaximumphilosopher @kenopsiababe @montypythonsholysnail

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes smut #bucky x reader #bucky x y/n #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky fanfic #bucky barnes fanfiction #enemies to lovers

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willyoulovemeinthemorning · 3 years

Text

The Cold Never Bothered Me Anyway (1/?)

Loki Laufeyson x Reader

Summary: You are a mutant with the powers of ice and cold and you have never been able to be touched or touch anyone without making them uncomfortable, or worse, hurting them. You’ve always desperately wished for physical affection, and it isn't until a new silver tongued Asgardian moves into the Avengers tower and takes an interest in you that anyone really dares to try to be physical with you.

Word Count: 2.6k

A/N: This part is pure fluff, but future chapters will be... more.

Warnings: None for this chapter besides maybe a few cavities!

It had been like this since you’d been a child. You couldn’t remember a life without your ailment. You’d always seen it as a curse more than a blessing- but as you grew up and learned to control it to the best of your abilities, your mind started to change a little bit. Being adopted into Xaviers Academy had been the best thing that could have happened to you. You’d been homeless at the young age of 5 after your third foster family had thrown you out, and Charles had found you sleeping in the snow. It was lucky for you that you didn’t mind the cold at all- your powers were the cold. You could freeze anything, alive or not- and at first that was the problem. You’d frozen your mother’s heart whilst in the middle of a tantrum, and your father met the same fate after he tried to hurt you for doing it. The police found a crying child within hours, surrounded by dead parents and a house full of ice and snow. No one could prove what happened, and no one knew what to do with you from then on. After a life of constant abuse, Charles took you into a world of safety and understanding, and thankfully, that world was really the only world you knew in your conscious mind today.

The trauma was still there, but it was rooted deep in your subconscious mind. Now, as an adult, you’d been taken in to your new chosen family- The Avengers. And your home was no longer at the Academy, it was Avengers Tower. You still taught there every once in a while, whenever Charles called you, but your days were filled with world saving and working out with the worlds mightiest superheroes.

Your best friends in the complex were easily Natasha and Wanda, seeing as you all came from similar lonely backgrounds. It was a quick friendship built on trust, sarcasm, and constant blatant flirting and fucking with eachother. You loved the whole team differently, but Nat and Wanda were definitely special.

Besides them, you were definitely a little… taken with a new member of the household. When Loki was taken in by the Avengers to try and “change” him for the sake of Thor, life definitely got a little… uncomfortable. He was just so attractive, and so sassy and his smart mouth was probably the hottest thing about him. That silver tongue as you’d heard it been called constantly got your mind whirling. The girls mocked you ruthlessly for your crush, but they never pushed it to be more- they both knew your fear of relationships, friendship or otherwise.

Loki, on the other hand, was equally as enamored with you as you were him. He never stopped watching you, trying to learn every facet of your soul as he could from far away. There was something about you, and he looked at you as a puzzle that he desperately wanted to solve.

He loved watching you with your friends- the way you all so effortlessly joked and laughed with eachother- you had what he’d always wanted. An ease with earning love from others with no effort whatsoever. But something that plagued him was the juxtaposition that was your physical affection. You were so jovial and happy with everyone in the house- but you never let anyone touch you. You never touched anyone else either.

At first, he put it to what he knew was your background- abuse and loneliness. Maybe you’d been hurt more than you let on, so you didn’t let people touch you. But he threw out that hypothesis when he spent more time watching you. You always leaned in towards everyone close to you- and they leaned more away as if trying to retreat from your proximity. When with Natasha and Wanda, they always went to touch you, and you just stopped them with a look. It was such a sad look, and Loki longed to understand the pain behind your eyes. The women would pause, sigh, and take their hands back, pull their bodies back, put more distance between you and them, seemingly hurt at having to.

Today was no different. Loki was sitting on a chair in the library by the window with it open, pretending to read a book but actually watching you, while you were lazing on the couch actually reading a book. Something you had both grown very fond of in your time together. Neither of you said much, but you just enjoyed the company of one another with the chill wind coming in from outside. That’s when Natasha came to sit with you. You moved your legs and curled them up into yourself, but something new happened. Natasha, who threw something at you- ah, it was a cookie- to get your attention, and you laughed and ate it while looking at her curiously. She covered herself with a big, thick blanket, and then patted her lap for you to put your legs on top of her. You thought about it, looking pained and unsure, before slowly giving in, your eyes weary with doubt. But… nothing happened. Natasha smiled like the cat who got the cream as she pulled her phone out, and you went back to reading your book with the loveliest look of surprised warmth Loki had ever seen gracing your beautiful features.

After a little while, your eyes started fluttering shut, and you moved yourself so your head was on the red heads lap instead of your legs, and you fell asleep faster than you ever had in your life- a few happy tears falling down your cheeks.

Loki watched you sleep and forgot to put on the facade of reading, which caught the attention of Natasha, who didn’t even look up from her phone. “Whatcha staring at, Loki?” She asked, continuing to scroll.

Loki looked up at her surprise etched into his eyebrows. “Oh, nothing. I just- She’s never let anyone that close to her- how did you do that?” He asked her, eyes falling back to you.

“Y/N doesn’t let anyone touch her because she’s watched them flinch away from how cold she is her whole life. If they’re not flinching away, she hurts them by accident because most of the touches of her life have been dangerous or abusive, and she’s had to protect herself. Her powers don’t ever really turn off, they just… quiet. As long as we’ve been friends, this is the closest I’ve ever gotten to her letting me touch her.” She said, eyes on him now, watching his expressions. “Why do you care to notice?”

His eyes flew back to hers, trying to guard his expression from her knowing gaze. “I was just curious. Trying to figure you all out- she’s been the hardest to understand.” But his eyes falling back to your face gave him away, and when he looked back at Natasha, he knew she knew. She had the decency not to say anything, but the look on her face was enough to make Loki look back to his book and actually try to read this time to avoid any more speculation.

Days passed, and all he could think about was the look on your face when you were able to get some kind of physical affection- and he wanted to see it again. So this time, when he found you in the library like he always did- he didn’t choose the chair by the window. He sat down next to you. You looked up at him, and he could feel your surprise.

You eyed him up and down, and he just smiled that little smile that seemed to be only reserved for you, and started to read. The window was open, as it always was- this was your favorite room, because almost no one came in here besides Loki, and he never seemed to mind your proclivity towards keeping this room cold.

You two were like that for a while, but you started to notice him leaning more towards you- you were already at the end of the couch, so there wasn’t really anywhere for you to go, so you tried to will yourself to calm down and just focus on reading. His presence always calmed you down, he was so charming and kind- well, he was kind to you. You loved watching him read, as his tongue poked out as he was really involved with the words on the page.

Unable to focus on your page in front of you, you instead focused on the way he felt beside you. Normally, when someone was near you, you could feel their warmth radiating off of them- especially Thor and Steve. They seemed to have very naturally high body temperatures, and it made you feel itchy, like there was fire licking at your skin. Vision was one of your favorites to be near- his presence felt like nothing. No warm or cold coming off of him, so completely neutral and it made it very easy to be around him. Loki… well, Loki had never been close enough for you to be able to tell. You expected him to feel like Thor did, seeing as they were both Gods and all, and came from the same place; Asgard. But… Loki felt different. He was… normal? Well, normal for her, that was. He didn’t feel warm, he didn’t feel like anything? He kind of felt like Vision, and that surprised her.

Your curiosity got the better of you, and you scootched a little closer to him, your feet brushing his thigh on the couch next to you. You watched out of the corner of your eye for a reaction- but there was nothing negative. If that had happened with Peter, he would have shivered a little and pulled away from the touch because of how cold you were. Tony would have made a joke like, “Just because the cold doesn’t bother you, Elsa, doesn’t mean the rest of us are like that,” and you’d pull away embarrassed at the reminder of how different you are.

Loki moved again, tucking his feet under himself, which repositioned his upper half to be a centimeter from being arm and arm with you. And considering his button up had the sleeves rolled up and you could see his arm hair- God, you wanted to play with it- you were almost skin to skin. Your hands started shaking and you were about to pull away to protect yourself from the inevitable pain that would come from seeing him flinch away in pain- but before you could, it happened. His skin was pressed up against you, and your heart sped up three times as fast… and nothing bad happened. He didn’t move, he didn’t flinch, his face looked… serene? He looked happy touching you.

Now the gates were open and you needed to know more- know why.

“Loki?” You asked, your head turned to face him.

When he turned to face you, you could feel his breath on your face. “Yes, darling?” You almost choked on your spit- he’d never spoken to you with that endearment before.

“Why- I mean… How? I… Loki-” You tried to get a reasonable sentence out, but the words got caught in your throat as tears started prickling your vision.

Loki put his book down and turned to face you, movements slow as if he was afraid to spook you away. “Can I try something?” He asked, hands in his lap, waiting for permission for something. You nodded dumbly, completely unsure what was about to happen. All you knew was that a door had been opened to something, and you knew there was no going back now. Loki’s hands moved, and your instincts were to pull away from him, but you fought them. You wanted to see what was going to happen here. His hands found yours, and he covered them with his own. His skin was so soft, and you looked down and noticed that his skin started to turn a different color- so you pulled away, worried you were hurting him. But you hadn’t felt a surge of your own power?

You were about to ask him, but he beat you to it with the answer. “Did you know I was adopted? Odin stole me from my home when I was a baby- whether to hurt my people or to use me as a peace making tool, I still haven’t figured out, but I am not really Loki Odinson. I am a Frost Giant from birth, raised as an Asgardian. My birth name is Loki Laufeyson. The blue you just saw was… a piece of my real form, coming out at your touch, not because you were in any way hurting or negatively affecting me… so please, let me-” He reached out again, but this time, one hand found your face, his thumb running over your cheek bone, while the other hand ran over your arm softly. Your eyes fluttered closed- his touch was like nothing you’d ever experienced. He somehow felt the same temperature as you did to yourself. He wasn’t cold or hot, he was just… perfect. The tears that were threatening to spill before finally did, and Loki raised his other hand to cup both sides of your face and wipe away the tears as they fell.

“I’ve finally figured you out. It took longer than it ever has for me, but I’ve done it. I’ve never been so taken with figuring someone out before, not like this. You don’t pull away from people because you don’t want physical affection- you pull away because you’ve never had anyone who could physically handle you. No one’s temperature matched you. You’ve never been able to be touched gently. You’ve never been able to let yourself. You are so strong, my popsicle, but you don’t have to be anymore. I was made to be able to touch you, and be touched by you.” You opened your eyes and took him in in his base form- he was the most beautiful shade of icy turquoise, his eyes red as rubies, and he was touching you. He was touching you so lovingly and so sweetly, you couldn’t stop crying. In all your years, you had never been touched like this. No one ever could. Without a beat, you clambered up into his lap and wrapped your arms around him, sighing when his arms wound their way around your waist, pulling you closer to him.

“I’m not hurting you?” You asked, your voice shaking.

“Not in the way you mean, darling, but you are hugging me a little tight.” You felt his chuckle vibrate in your chest, which made you laugh too. “Don’t stop, though.” He whispered into your hair.

“You’re so beautiful, you know. Why don’t you let people see your real self?” You asked, burrowing your face in his neck, pressing your nose into the column of his throat.

“I’ve spent my whole life using my magic to make myself look a certain way- it’s more or less unconscious at this point. And I’m… a little insecure about this form. Very few people have seen me look like this. And it’s never been for a good, healthy reason like this.”

“Well, I’m honored. Thank you for this. No one… no one has ever been able to touch me without it hurting them. Thank you so much, Loki.” After a few more minutes of you straddling him on the couch, wrapped around him, you came to your senses enough to know that this was probably not completely appropriate- so you got off of him as a blush crept from your cheeks to your neck to your chest, smiling shyly and biting your lip.

Loki thought you were beautiful before, but you’d never looked more beautiful than you did right in that moment.

You went back to reading together, enjoying the chill air fill the room from the window, pressed up against one another on the couch- comfortable for the first time in your life.

Part 2

#loki fanfic #loki (marvel)#loki laufeyson #loki x reader #reader insert #reader fanfiction #marvel fanfiction #loki fanfiction

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msmarvelwrites · 4 years

Text

Season Of The Witch

Summary: Your witchy abilities get you in quite a bit of trouble from time to time… But this time you don’t mind so much.

Pairing: Bucky x reader

Warnings: Swearing, fluff, honestly i think that’s it. Just soft boy Bucky.

Word Count: 2k

Author's Note: I had a lot of fun writing this one. Little bit of a witchy- halloween vibe for ya guys… Honestly I’m really in love with this idea, so who knows- if you like it I might write a part 2!

Huge Thank you to @cutie1365 for editing this mess! Couldnt have done it without her!

“Okay, okay. What colour am I thinking of now.” Peter squealed, plopping himself down on your bed, staring at you like a kid on christmas.

Being the Avengers personal psychic has its benefits, but this was certainly not one of them. You thought your party-trick of a superpower would have grown old on your friends, and yet it always seemed to draw a crowd of non-believers. You weren't the toughest or the strongest by any means, but you sure knew your way around a person's thoughts, which proved to be an advantage to the team. Mostly you were in charge of recon, but that didn't stop Natasha from dragging you to the gym every weekend and torturing you with super hero level workouts.

“How many more times are we going to do this, Peter?” You sighed, but soon realised he wasnt caving. “Blue. Just like last time it was orange and the time before that thirteen. Can we please stop.”

Peter scanned you over for a moment, before relaxing back on your headboard.

Fine, but only because Mr. Stark said he was ordering Chinese and it's probably here by now. His voice echoed through your mind.

“Actually, I heard Wanda say he’s getting pizza.” You corrected.

“How did you-?” He paused, eyes agape as your words registered. “That is seriously cool, you know that? I mean, I hang from the walls but that- that is cool! I can see why they coined you The Witch now,” Peter playfully shouted. “Can you do that with anyone, at any time?”

You smiled sheepishly, remembering the times your wandering mind had gotten you in some pretty uncomfortable situations. You tried your very best to stay out of your friends heads, but sometimes that was easier said than done. Especially when it came to the former Hydra assassin. His thoughts seemed to creep into your mind, seeping through the cracks unbidden. Sometimes his mind would wander aimlessly, but that wasn't always the case. You knew about Bucky’s dark past, however hearing it in his own cruel words was something else entirely. Though he would never utter the words allowed they were seared into your mind. You had every sense to avoid the man and yet his voice, like gravel and smoke, drew you in, intoxicated on his every word as it clouded around your subconscious.

“Unfortunately” You sighed, easing back into the mattress and unconsciously biting at the corner of your mouth. Your gift didnt make you very popular when you were younger. You were honestly surprised it was so welcomed here. Most people consider you an invasion of privacy... But Peter was different from the highschool kids you grew up with. Maybe it was due to the fact he was different too, but something about the way his mind wandered made you believe that radio-active spider or not, Peter would always be Peter.

“What does Bucky think about?”

That knocked you out of your thoughts. You snapped your head up and looked at Peter, who only seemed to have a curious look in his eyes.

He’s so broody and mysterious. Guy gives me the creeps.

“Bucky is a sweetheart deep down.” You faked a smile, concerned as to why you felt the need to defend him. From an outside perspective, it was possible to fear the former Winter Soldier. However, knowing what you did haunted your nerves.

“I’m sure very, very deep down.” Peter chuckled. “I’m going to go grab some pizza before Sam eats it all. Are you coming?”

You smiled softly, preparing yourself for the dinner with your friends. Though you enjoyed having a sort of family, dinners together would often grow overwhelming in your mind, voices colliding though your head, brewing into a storm in your thoughts.

“I’ll be down in a few.” With that, Peter stumbled out of your room and down the hallway leaving you with your thoughts. You closed your eyes, concentrating on the many different voices faintly echoing around you. You could only make out bits and pieces as they vibrated through the walls and all around you. At first, it was hard to identify whose voice belonged to who, but soon after you moved into the compound it became easy.

Natasha thought in poems. Her brain was always working on the next solution- the next verse. Her mind wandered in and out of trains of thought like a dancer, drifting back and forth with ease. It was always relaxing listening in.

Tony was constantly listening to his music wherever he went. You had an inkling it was because he knew how powerful you were. ‘Like built-in surveillance,’ he’d often say. Though, you’d never deflate his ego in letting him know you could still hear his thoughts clear as day.

But then there was Bucky. It took you a while to understand his thoughts. They always seemed erratic and chased- never one thought all at once, but it soon became clear why. Bucky was constantly correcting himself. When his mind began to tiptoe into the darkest corners, he’d change the conversation, ushering it back to what he thought was right. Listening to his internal debates became a favourite pastime of yours. He often reminisced about his time in the forties. You liked how easy it was, listening to him think. Though you had never said more than five words to him allowed, you were content with this little part of him. Pieces only you both knew. Like the beautiful woman he would lose himself daydreaming about. The way he described her made you feel flush all over. He never thought her name, and yet it stung all the more knowing his heart was stolen. His beautiful ‘ведьма’. Not that you stood a fighting chance. Not to mention the impending age gape you both shared. Often he would find you staring and a string of curses would follow as he realised he’d be caught. You never meant to intrude, but then again, that wasn't entirely true.

With a huff, you swung your legs off the bed letting your feet hit the cold wooden floors, but before you could even open the door, you heard him. His voice was so loud you almost didn't know if he was speaking aloud or not.

Just do it, you punk. Walk up there and ask her. What’s the worst that could happen?.... She could plunge a knife into your back- no…. She wouldn't do that and you know it. If you ask her, she might say yes… Honestly that might he worse than-

You swing the door open, startling Bucky back a few paces as your eyes might his. Instantly his face blooms with pink as his mind races- his thoughts an incoherent mess.

“Hi Bucky.” You spoke only above a whisper.

“Oh jesus! I didn't know you were right there.” He mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck trying to steady his breathing.

“Sorry…” You mumbled, breaking eye contact and suddenly finding the floor very interesting. “I didn mean to scare you-”

“You don’t- I mean, you didn't scare me.” He chuckled, his mind suddenly blank. “It doesn't matter right now because I, uh… I was wondering if you're coming for dinner.”

You nodded your head, “Yeah, on my way now.” You smiled softly.

“Great,” Bucky grinned, running his hand through his cropped hair and stepping aside. “I can walk with you.”

You nodded, swallowing hard as you swung the door shut and began walking side by side with Bucky in heavy silence.

“Know what’s for dinner?” Bucky finally spoke.

“Pizza. Your favourite.” You affirmed, meeting his curious eyes. His strides slowed until he was at a full stop.

“I never told you that.” He pried, looking at your in question.

You froze, suddenly aware of what you had just said. There was nothing more you wanted than to sink into the floor and let the earth swallow you whole.

“Uh,” You nervously laughed, “You must have at some point. Yeah, I remember now, it was-”

“How often do you listen?” he interrupted, making your mouth clamp shut.

You thought about lying, though it didn't seem right. You knew all his secrets and all he asked was this one. Surely you could grant him that even if it cost a punch to the ego.

“All the time,” You started, your eyes never leaving the floor. “I don’t mean to. At least that’s the way it started. I really try to put you guys all on ‘mute’ when we're together, but your voice always comes through. I don't know what it is, but I like the way you think.” You admitted, feeling heat rising from your chest.

“You like the way I think?” He pried, taking a few steps closer to you. You could feel the tension buzzing around the hallway, ricocheting off the walls and exploding all around you.

“I’m sorry, I’m so embarrassed. It's such an invasion of privacy. You must hate me. I promise I won't tell anyone about the things I hear. Especially her.”

“Her?” He chuckled, taking another step toward you leaving only a few tiles between the two of you.

“Ведьма.” You choked out. “You think about her all the time. She sounds beautiful, by the way. I’m sorry, that's overstepping… I just, I’m sorry. Really I’ll just go-”

Before you could turn on your heel and run for the hills, Bucky's hands were around your wrists, holding you still. His eyes were pleading as he opened he opened and shut his mouth trying to find the right words to say.

“For a witch, you sure aren’t very intuitive.” Bucky signed, your eyes finally landing on his. “My beautiful witch, don’t know by now?”

You blinked at him, your mouth suddenly dry and words caught in your throat. Before you could speak, his thoughts broke through the air, tumbling around you.

Are you listening, doll? His voice echoed around you sending a shiver down your spine. You nodded your head, watching as his eyes crinkled up as he a lopsided grin formed on his pink lips.

It’s you. It’s always you. I've tried to stop, trust me. I just can’t seem to shake it.

You almost didn't notice the smile that began to pull at the corners of your mouth as you took in his words. They drifted in the air around you, echoing through your mind as Bucky’s thumbs rubbed circles into your skin.

“Ask me.” You spoke up, a sudden confidence serging through your core. Bucky raised a brow, scanning you over until your words resonated with him.

“Right, of course.” He cleared his throat, letting go of your hands and intertwining his own nervously. “Would you ever consider letting me take you out. To dinner, maybe?”

You bit down on your bottom lip to stop yourself from giggling as you listened to his internal monologue of nerves that followed his question.

“Took you long enough.” You chuckled, watching as his smile lit up the room around you. Before you could stop yourself you closed the distance between you, draping your arms around his shoulders and crashing your lips onto his. Bucky froze, but almost as instantly melted into you, his hands finding their home on your hips as he pulled you in. You wanted nothing more than to melt into him but his racing thoughts swirled around you, causing a giggle to fall from your lips.

Holy Shit. Kiss her back, you moron. Oh god she smells so good. What is that? Cinnamon? Citrus? Shit, she's so close to me. Don't panic. Don't panic. Fuck she feels good. Just relax, and- Oh shit. Can you hear me?

You couldn't help but throw your head back, laughter bubbling out of your chest as his thoughts raced through his head.

“I can tell you're going to be a lot of fun, Barnes” You mumbled against his lips.

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A/n: Nervous Bucky is my favourite can you tell? I loved this one, show some love if you felt the same!

@cutie1365 @whateveriwant

@projectcampbell @kalesrebellion

@calwitch @hpandmcu177a

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes #bucky x y/n #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes reader insert #bucky x you #bucky barnes x reader smut #bucky barnes reader

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kaiparker-avengerssmut · 3 years

Text

Their Doll 11

Silent scream

B.Barnes x Stark!Reader, S.Rogers x Stark!Reader

series synopsis: y/n Stark, all records of her non existent, and yet Hydra still find her. When she is kidnapped by a certain super-soldier and no one believes her, she finds herself searching for unexpected familiarity in her not-so-distant past.

Series Warnings: smut, violence, torture, swearing

Chapter Summary: y/n gets shut up

Warnings: mentions of violence, swearing

A/n: The timeline in this has been altered, as there I things I wanted to include but I also wanted this fic to follow the storyline/timeline of Winter Soldier and Civil war.So for purposes of this fanfic, Peter Parker was discovered by Tony at a much younger age - when he was bitten - and has been an intern with him since, almost like a protégée.(For the purposes of this story Peter was bitten much younger too - more like when he was 9 or ten rather than 14/15)

Masterlist | Series Masterlist

"Fuck you." I snapped, mustering all the saliva I could before spitting it at his face. He flinched back when it splattered over his cheek, his fingers swiping through the spittle before he was shaking it from them and standing back to his full height.

"It appears this one is never going to cooperate. If she won't give us information, why let our experimentations on her possibly...benefit the girl the the future?" The general spoke menacingly to the guards behind me. "How about way find a way to shut her up?"

My heat thudded so hard in my chest it was like someone was punching me from the inside, all air knocked from my lungs before I was being hoisted up to my feet again with two rough grips on my upper arms. My chest heaving, I coughed a ragged breath before composing myself. The glint of the silver blade in the corner of my vision sent my eyes bugging out of my skull and my mind into a flat panic.

So, I did what any rational person with my capabilities would do. I began to hum the deep melody - one a seldom sung - and a smirk crawled its way onto my now curved lips. Clearly, the general was prepared, but the two guards behind we weren't so lucky.

A desperate cry pierced my tune, harmonising with my voice as I heard the havoc I was causing. This was the first time I'd enjoyed a kill, the very first time I'd wanted to use my powers for such a horrific reason. I'd only ever used this part of my power a few times, but this was the only time I'd been fully lucid whilst doing so.

Some people want nothing more than to blow their enemies' brains out, and trust me when I tell you; It felt good.

However, luck was never on my side, and the General had come full prepared. He wasn't even affected, it must've been something to do with the funny earpiece he was wearing.

As my eyes met his, the General's face held non of the cocky, smug tones that I'd expect. No, the only word I could use to describe his old and crinkled features was pure ire, and it was directed at me.

"You conniving, vile little bitch!" He snarled, the flash of silver weeding a sense of utter and complete dread, tangled with fear inside of me, uprooting my confidence. I don't remember a lot after that, to tell you the truth. I know the blade sliced along my throat. I know everything was rained black. And that's about it.

...

Awakening with a gasp was the last thing I expected to happen. The sight of the blade risen in front of the general burned into my mind, almost as if it'd been scorned against my flesh. But here I was: awake, gasping for breath, completely surrounded by doctors I'd never seen before.

My hand instantly flew to my neck, a stinging sensation pulsing from the delicate skin. I hissed as my sweaty palm made contact with the bandage, the material corse and scratchy against my skin. As a doctor waddled over to me, needle in hand, I flailed desperately, a silent scream ripping from my throat.

Hang on a second-

Silent scream? I tried again, the shrill noise that should be tearing from me simply vanishing as it hit my throat. My eyes widened with the realisation, my bottom lip wobbling as I suddenly pieces together what had happened.

He said he'd have to shut me up, didn't he? The thought made me want to scream loudly, that the blade had touched my skin and left me with no defence.

They took away the hell they'd reigned upon me, something I'd wished I could be rid of for years, and now I was disappointed. Maybe this was their plan all along, that little voice in my head sang. The tears pricked at my eyes, which rolled back lazily as the scratch of the needle poked at my neck.

...

My calloused fingers ran over the cut tirelessly, trying to itch somewhere that I could never seem to find. I don't know how long I was sedated for, but since waking up the bleeding had stopped and there was now an offensive red line that slid horizontally across my neck.

Every time I touched it, it coaxed a wince from me, and yet that's all I seemed to do. It was like poking a bruise, I guess. The more it hurts the more you want to do it.

They'd returned me to my cell, clearly very little need for restraints against my weakened, starved and dehydrated body. I could see the flesh thinning on my arms, my ribs pressing painfully against my skin. Not only could I see the hunger, but I could feel it.

Manifesting, biting, gnawing hunger. The type that are you from inside out, devouring everything of you until the only thing you could think about was eating. Huh, I guess I was already at that stage then.

My eyes remained locked in place, glossy with the endless tears as I stared at the floor. If I really looked hard enough, the still wet blood smeared over the floors of the hallway resembled something close to strawberry jam. The thoughts of the sickly sweat substance spread over a perfectly toasted piece of bread, accompanied with a big glass of fresh orange juice and washed down by a large coffee made my mouth water. The booming rumble in my stomach made the groan, even more drawn out than expected when I remembered all I'd get to eat today: a small bread roll and a tiny glass of water.

Sadly, the sink in my cell did not contain drinking water. The liquid was so discoloured that I purposely avoided washing me hands, preferring to possible have my own germs coating my hands than whatever they were giving me. I'm not kicking you about, I genuinely think the water was filtered through a clump of fucking horse shit, mixed with fish guts and complimented with a hint of rotting fruit. If I could help it, I'd be dodging that water like the plague (if it didn't contain one already) for the rest of my life.

I'm not really sure why, but my head snapped up in surprise why the door sprang open, a single guard entering.

"The general requires your presence." He deadpanned, eyes cold as eyes and sharp as a knife as they stabbed through me. I wanted to fight back, stay glued to the spot and snap back some snarky remark, but in my current condition I almost couldn't bring myself to care where I was about to be taken, or why for that matter.

I stood without a word, silently following the man until we reached an unfamiliar metal door. I found it almost laughable, really, that they'd reduced my strength so much, that no one even considered putting me any sort of restraints anymore.

The door was pushed open with a child-like whine emitting from its rusty hinges, the metal scraping over the concrete floor painfully. The guard simply grabbed my arm before tugging me into the room, letting the door shut behind his with a hollow thunk.

"Ah, she has arrived!" The general's voice exclaimed, a deviant smile spreading over his thin lips. "And just in time to meet Mr Pierce, too." He said menacingly.

I felt embarrassed, exposed, stood before the room of men. My hair was a mess, tears streaking my reddened face, eyes puffy from crying and the only clothes a wore was a now-battered hospital gown. My eyes darted around nervously, trying to avoid the blonde man sat before me, chin resting in his palm as he surveyed me.

"Why is this one...important?" The man asked, eyeing me up and down before his eyes seemed to fixate on my neck. The scar.

"This," the general spoke, but Mr Pierce kept his eyes on me, "is Miss y/n Stark." Mr Pierce's eyes widened ever so slightly, but it was barely noticeable.

"As in Tony Stark?" Pierce pondered.

"The very same." The general smirked.

"She seems awfully...quiet, for a Stark." Pierce said with almost a hint of disgust, eyes still glued to my shaking frame.

"That's because we shut her up." The general snapped, awfully harshly.

"Is that the scar? How fresh is it?" Pierce jabbed his questions, curiosity clearly becoming him in the moment.

"Indeed. Our doctors here are very good, Sir. They had her all patched up and out of bandages in just three days." The general bragged, shoulders back and head held high as if he was posing for a portrait.

"I see." Pierce mused, brows furrowed in thought. "What do you plan to do with her? Now that she can't tell you anything?"

"Oh, trust me, sir. She wasn't giving anything up either way," he paused, striding over to me and yanking my head back with a fistful of hair, my back mow pressed to his chest and his mouth at my ear, "isn't that right, sweetheart?"he clarified, and I didn't hesitate to nod my head as much as his grip would allow.

"So why isn't she dead?" Pierce gritted, seemingly annoyed. "It's not like Tony's attached to her, he never looked for her and I've never even heard him mention her."

"But then they'll keep coming. I don't want the avengers on my back, and I'm sure you don't either." Pierce hummed in agreement. "She's with them - her and that Captain America guy arrived together - so why not use her to send a message?" The general suggested.

...

That's how I found myself tied up, wrists bound and gun to my head as I sat shakily in a chair in the middle of the quinjet. I had no clue how long I'd been since that day, but I do know that I had been sedated once again. The flimsy hospital gown allowed a shiver to chill me, skin forming goosebumps as I sat before the open door or the quinjet.

"You will tell them exactly as I just did. Got it?" The general pressed, pushing the gun into my head hard enough to make by head throb. Tears biting at my eyes, I nodded furiously, now determined to live with the promise of being free again. "Good. Soldat, make sure she gets back to New York without being seen, I'd hate to have to spill more blood than we intended." The general demanded, a figure rustling its way out of the shadows at the edge of the room. A gasp tore from my throat at the sight of him - clad in black leather and arm as silver as the moon. The soldier - my soldier.

But he simple stared through me, eyes blank and clouded in a coldness I'd never had directed at me from him before.

"And make sure you don't fail this time, soldat." The general snapped. The soldier nodded solemnly, the echoing of boots thudding filling both their ears as the general walked off the ship.

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starkeristheendgame · 3 years

Text

Hunter!Tony x Demon!Peter AU

Hunter!Tony binds Demon!Peter to himself in order to find the monster that murdered his late fiancée. Lead down roads he’d never imagined himself taking, Tony discovers that maybe revenge isn’t the only thing he’s hungry for.

“Is being a pervert part of the hiring process or are you just getting your money’s worth?”

Tony couldn’t see it, but he knew regardless that those plush lips would be pushed into a pout and those arched brows would be furrowed into a petulant scowl.

“If you’ve got me running around like your little errand boy, the least you could do is be nice to me,” a high, sweet voice simpered back. The face that belonged to it was just as youthful when it appeared in the mirror over his shoulder, watching him button his shirt with vested interest.

Tony didn’t deign to dignify it with a reply, staring down the pretty little monster until it let out a sigh.

“Fine. I have your lead. Arkansas, a seedy little dive known as the Dog Den.”

Something hot and rabid twisted in his gut and he had to pause his motions, hands trembling almost imperceptibly. It felt a lot like rage and a little bit like hope.

“Are you sure?”

Eyes the colour of fresh honey rolled so hard he could almost hear the muscles stretching. “No. I asked a magic eight-ball.”

He twisted with a snarl, reaching out. The ring on his finger pulsed with a molten orange glow and between slender wrists a chain that shimmered transparently flared to life, forming a delicate set of shackles no wider than if he’d wound a necklace there.

He curled a finger in the glowing links, dragging the Demon close enough that he could see the flecks of gold in those dark eyes.

“I’m sure,” it repeated, softer, quieter, holding his gaze with wariness, but not fear.

He let the chain drop after a moment, grunting as he turned around and finished buttoning up his shirt. When he twisted to reach for the jacket the lithe figure was sprawled out on his bed, artfully arranged as the Demon flipped through a magazine Tony knew hadn’t been in his own bags.

“You know,” the Demon piped up again as he tucked in his shirt, “maybe if you smiled a little more, the ugly things in the dark wouldn’t try to kill you as much.”

“Shut up.”

“Not possible.”

“I’ll make it possible.”

“Oh, you always promise me a good time and never deliver.”

Despite himself, Tony found he had to wrestle fiercely with a smile. “Peter.”

That heady, dangerous gaze pinned itself to him again. He met it evenly, ignoring the thrum of his pulse. The Demon really couldn’t have picked a prettier vessel to take over, a smudge of parasitic darkness inside the prettiest packaging.

That pink little mouth opened like it was considering another witty retort, then closed. Instead the Demon - Peter, merely hummed and went back to flicking through his magazine, disinterestedly glossing over half-naked women and gossip scandals.

It was almost disconcerting. To look at the pretty little slip of a thing sprawled out on his bed like some rented whore and to know that behind that pretty face was a being of Hell’s creation. Something twisted and dark, a corrupted soul festering behind a distracting smokescreen.

Peter Parker was the sort of face Tony would’ve fallen for like a rock, if he hadn’t been the one to summon the Demon to the surface.

Perhaps that’s why the Demon had chosen such a nice outfit. A desperate bid not to get ganked the moment he crawled out of Hell.

“You’re thinking too loudly,” Peter sighed, turning a page idly. He’d rolled over onto his stomach now, jaw propped in his palm.

“You can’t read minds. Don’t get comfortable, we’re leaving soon,” he grunted in reply, shrugging on a jacket.

“Can’t I just meet you there?” the Demon whined, looking up with (literally) sinful puppy eyes.

“No.”

He left it at that, flat and unforgiving, as he had to be. In another life he’d have fallen for that soft whine and that pleading look. Might’ve taken his shirt right off and crawled onto the bed, put that open mouth to good use.

But this was not that life, and that pretty face was stolen.

He checked all his things then reached out, plucking the gossip rag from Peter’s hands and throwing it in the trash. “Meet me at the car.”

“I was reading that,” Peter huffed indignantly, glowering up at him before he disappeared, leaving behind nothing but a dip in the bedspread and the scent of copper.

He was sprawled in the backseat when Tony made his out to the 1970 Challenger he called his own, a set of stylish shades covering his eyes, fluffy hair unkempt and arms folded behind his head.

“Feet off the upholstery,” he huffed as he turned the key, swinging the car out of the parking lot and onto the road with a loud rumble of the engine.

“I know for a fact you sleep in this car and my shoes are clean,” Peter answered primly, angling his head towards the open window and the warmth of the morning sun.

Arkansas was a three day drive. They spent the first in almost complete silence, although the Demon did sulk when they stopped for gas and Tony declined to buy him anything. Rather than waste money on another motel he pulled onto a quiet patch of land behind a thicket of trees, settling across the bench seat with a sigh.

“Fuck off and come back in the morning.”

“Eloquent as ever,” Peter griped, leaning over the seat, arms folded and chin atop them. He looked laughably angelic in the darkness, all soft edges, voice quiet enough that a mouse wouldn’t flee it.

“Sweet dreams,” he whispered, and when Tony cracked open an eye to repeat his command, he was gone.

Gone, until he thumped his fist on the window at the ass-crack of dawn, looking chipper and cheerful, Starbucks cup in hand. “Up and at ‘em, sunshine! The monsters aren’t gonna hunt themselves!”

Tony considered stabbing him there and then, but Peter was unfortunately an asset he couldn’t afford to lose. Invaluable, as much as it stroked the Demon’s ego. He settled for glaring, baring past the Demon as he stomped off to relieve himself.

The next two nights went much the same, although Peter got chattier the more bored he became. Fiddled with the radio, disappeared for moments only to return holding an ‘interesting’ leaf or rock, scooped up from the side of the road Tony had just driven past.

Arkansas was crisp and bright and dewy in the mid-weeks of spring. It was so different from the New York of his youth, with it’s towering glass jungle and concrete pillars. It was a visceral reaction to think of the scent of flowers and clean air in Sicily, of pink lipstick smudged on his jaw, a laugh fading slowly, overtaken by the rumble of the engine.

Countryside became a smattering of industrialisation, bars and houses, garages and stores. He wanted to keep on going, chase that tail until he caught it and tore it off, but he knew better than to rush in half-blind.

He had to eat something proper. Had to rest. Had to learn everything he could from the paltry little stack of papers that Peter had given him, printed out at a library miles and miles back in the time it had taken Tony to piss and buy a bottle of water at a gas station.

Food, first.

The diner was like every other. Gaudy and cheap with food that was more grease than nutrition. Peter’s nose scrunched the moment they entered and he looked nonplussed when they were guided to a booth.

The Demon made a big show of pulling out a pack of wipes from the pocket of his fitted jacket, scrubbing the table as the waitress listed off the day’s specials. Tony rolled his eyes before ordering coffee and a slap-up breakfast, about to dismiss the waitress when Peter cut in with a saccharine smile.

“Bacon too, please. Crispy. And a milkshake. Thanks a bunch, darling.”

She arched her brows but made no comment, glancing at Tony before leaving. Then it was Tony’s turn to stare and quirk his brow, watching the Demon shrug lightly.

“What? I get cravings.”

Peter fiddled with a napkin as they waited, as Tony read through the sheets of paper. Folding it over and over into a little crane that he perched atop the salt shaker.

“Where did you even learn origami?” Tony grunted, watching it sway before it stabilised. Peter’s gaze flicked up to him and there was something unexpected there. A hollowness, heavily guarded but flickering in the gold of his irises even so.

“Even the worst of the worst need hobbies, hunter,” he uttered softly, and then their food arrived and they were lost to the silence that overcame those sating their hunger. Peter ate with an almost childlike manner, easily distracted, toying with his straw before each sip. He even swung his legs a little and drummed his fingertips on the table top.

The perfect performance.

He looked away.

Peter was unusually quiet after that, subdued as they made their way to a motel relatively close to the Dog Den. He didn’t even pester the receptionist or try to embarrass Tony by pretending to be some sort of rent boy as he purchased a key, eyeing the Demon consideringly.

When Tony slipped beneath the sheets Peter disappeared without argument, offering only a mock salute before he flickered and was gone, leaving nothing but a wisp of dark smoke.

He wondered where the Demon went. Back to Hell? Some run-down library to read through the night? An empty motel room to pilfer their cable connection?

The disconcertion over Peter’s silence left him the next day, when he commanded Peter to steer clear as he got dressed to hit their lead.

“You can’t go alone,” Peter announced, frowning.

“I can and I am. You’ll just attract attention,” Tony pointed out, shrugging on another flannel and tucking the flask of holy water against his belt.

“And if you die?” Peter shot back. It surprised his brows into lifting as he met the Demon’s gaze, tipping his head.

“Then you’ll be free of your bindings and there’ll be one less hunter ganking your friends. What’s the problem?”

Peter’s mouth opened, then closed, as if he was only suddenly remembering that he wasn’t in this little dynamic duo willingly.

“I get the Challenger if you die,” the Demon said instead, turning away from.

And maybe Tony should’ve thought more about that demand, because the only thing he could think of as he lay bleeding in the middle of the woods several long hours later was that Peter would most definitely get the car all scratched up and dirty.

Demons had no respect for vehicle maintenance.

He coughed wetly and grunted, pressing a hand to his bleeding chest. They wouldn’t, he supposed. Demons could just fly everywhere.

Peter had adamantly argued it was not teleportation.

He breathed out a sigh and shifted fumbling for his wallet. His fingers smeared blood against the white edges of the crumpled photograph in there and he stared at his wife’s smile, frozen in time and taken just days before a Demon on a murder kick had burnt her soul up from within her, along with their unborn daughter.

“I’d say see you soon, but. W’both know m’goin’ to Hell, not where you are,” he told her image softly, giving it a weary, slow smile.

“Hell would ask for a refund,” came a familiar voice, and moments later there were warm hands on his jaw, tilting his head up. “You stupid bastard. I told you not to go alone. I could feel there was someone stronger in this town!”

Peter’s eyes were wide and round, plump lower lip between his teeth as he dropped his gaze, eyeing where Tony was slowly leaking his insides all over his outsides. “Shit,” the Demon breathed softly.

Tony made an agreeable sound. Shit was about right. He’d run head first into the messy, gruesome end that almost every hunter found themselves at. The end of the road; the final curtain; bleeding out somewhere at the hands of something twisted and ugly and evil.

“Guess you get th’car,” he rasped, aiming for humorous. It fell short when he blanched and more hot fluid slid down his throat and his chest, pooling at his navel.

“Shut up,” Peter growled at him, letting go of his head to pull up his shirt. His fingertips were light, but it still felt like fire. Hot and licking over everything he touched. “God, you’re so fucking stupid. I told you to take me. I told you I should go.”

“C’n you save th’gloatin’ ‘till I’m dead?” he asked, frowning. Most hunters probably didn’t get this much conversation on their deathbeds.

Peter shot him a positively scathing look, pressing down hard on the wound. It made agony flare up his torso, smothering his pathetic yell of pain into a weak, thready rasp.

“This is gonna hurt us both,” the Demon muttered, looking inexplicably angry as he settled his palms flat atop the worst of the wound. A muted sound was all Tony could manage, watching the Demon with hazy confusion.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Or at least, Tony didn’t notice it happening.

But then a strange, new type of pain began to lance through him, battling against the numbing burn of his torn organs. It crept through his veins and branched out, a tingling, almost electric sensation that had him tensing as best as his broken body would let him.

He opened his mouth and if he’d had the energy left for it he’d have reeled in surprise when Peter leaned forwards, slotting their mouths together firmly.

The Demon’s lips were soft and plush, with the faintest trace of soda. His lips were warm, too, just a breath above what would be normal for a person.

Tony almost didn’t know what he should be recoiling at the most; kissing a Demon, or kissing what was for all intents and purposes a sixteen year old.

Peter didn’t try to do anything else and Tony realised in the timeframe that he’d been internally broiling over the situation, breathing had become easier.

The fire was dulling to a simmer; a slow ember that still ached but no longer made him feel like he had one foot in the gates of Hell. His breath hitched and Peter pulled back slowly, keeling to one side slightly and almost falling over as he drew away.

His eyes were pools of inkblack, shiny and void as the Demon sucked in his own rattled breath, pulling shaking hands away from Tony’s torso.

He let his gaze fall slowly to his chest. He was still covered in blood, but the flesh there looked smooth and unmarred. Where he was once carved open like a pot hole there was once again closed off muscle and flesh.

He looked up in surprise. Peter was on his knees, hands braced on his thighs as he rode out the strain of wrangling his leashed powers. His eyes were slowly returning to the human hue, red-rimmed as if he’d been crying, plump lips downturned.

Tony licked his own, jerked straight back into the sensation of Peter’s mouth on his.

“Why?” he demanded roughly, bringing a hand to subconsciously touch his chest.

Peter shot him a sidelong look, the effect slightly dampened by the way he looked vaguely sick.

“A thank you might be nice,” the Demon sneered at him, huffing a twisted curl from his eyes as Tony pushed himself to his feet, ungainly and uncoordinated. Bracing himself on a tree, Tony stared down at the Demon.

At Peter, who’d saved his life. Against all he stood to benefit from Tony’s death, against all that he’d done his best to kill him when he first discovered he’d been shackled to Tony.

Coughing, Tony did his best to pull his shredded shirt closed before he made a rough gesture. “Get up. You’ll have to take us back to the motel. My car’s still at the bar.” Smashed up or stolen, he realised with a pang of sadness and anger.

“Oh no, lover-boy. You’ve been keeping me at half-mast all year. One night of fun has done me in for the night. I’m limp - get your own ride into town.”

Tony glowered, but all his frowning and snapping proved fruitless. Peter’s powers had been bound tight for almost a year and he really was burnt out, looking every inch as young as his vessel as he wobbled to his feet. The most he managed them was a few meters down the road when he tried.

It took them until sunrise to come close enough to the town that Tony could hotwire a car from the side of the road, ditching it a reasonable way from the motel and wiping it down with a clean patch of his shirt to get rid of his fingerprints.

He wasn’t bothered about Peter’s. Peter had mentioned having this particular vessel for over fifty years - his prints would be written off as a glitch on the system.

He went straight for the shower, scrubbing his skin pink as he tried to sleuth off the memory of being cut open, of dying alone in the dark and the cold, certain that this was his one-way ticket downstairs.

Brushed his teeth; trying to rid himself of the guilt that came with realising that the kiss had been pleasant, to a degree. Soft, pink skin, the sweetness of a soda consumed while Tony had been-

He shut off the water.

When he stepped out, Peter was actually curled up in the bed, looking almost infantile with the covers pulled up to his jaw. He seemed only half-awake, barely stirring when Tony entered the room. He was pulling on a new shirt when Peter spoke, voice sleepy and quiet.

“My Uncle taught me.”

Tony paused, glancing over his shoulder.

“Origami,” Peter clarified softly. “You asked me. At the diner. Where I’d learned origami. My Uncle taught me when I was thirteen.”

Pulling on a pair of sweatpants, Tony took a light seat on the edge of the bed, each of them facing a separate wall. He was quiet for a little while, digesting the information.

“Thank you for saving me,” he grunted after a moment, uncomfortable with the intimacy of the words. It wasn’t anything he’d ever thought he’d say to a Demon. Peter had gotten him out of scrapes and healed up wounds before, but always under command and never anything so serious.

Desperate to rein back some control, he slid under the sheets and stared up at the ceiling. “If you ever kiss me again, I’ll use thread soaked in holy water and sew your mouth shut.”

Irritatingly, Peter snorted. “That was hardly a kiss.”

“You’re in a snot-nosed brat’s body, what would you know about kissing?” Tony shot back, brows pinching into a frown.

“This,” Peter huffed at him, rolling over and on top of him.

Tony blamed the fact that he didn’t pull away on simply being too tired to.

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madasthesea · 3 years

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I’ve sort of accepted that all those Irondad WIPs I have are never going to get finished, not only because Marvel has pretty effectively killed my interest in the MCU, but also because I haven’t felt like writing in over a year now (not cause anything’s wrong, I just haven’t really wanted to).

HOWEVER. There’s a fic that I was going to write about Venom Peter and while the story as a whole is definitely not even close to presentable, there’s a scene I really, really love and still want to share with people even though it has little to no context. It’s under the cut if you’re interested :)

(A bit of backstory for anyone who wants a bit of context. This whole story was supposed to be based on season 3B of Teen Wolf, with Nogitsune Stiles, for anyone that watched the show. Basically Stiles is possessed by an evil trickster spirit, but it takes a little while for it to take over and only comes out in bursts. It gets to the point that the audience, and the characters in the show, never really know if it’s Stiles or the Nogitsune pretending to be Stiles.

There’s a scene where Scott, Stiles’ best friend and a werewolf, is stabbed through the stomach with a sword. They get away from the bad guys and Stiles soothes Scott like he’s going to take out the sword so Scott can heal with his magical abilities. He puts a comforting hand on Scott’s shoulder, grabs the sword handle, then twists it in deeper instead of pulling it out. This scene is based on that.)

Peter looked down at Tony’s arm, the skin already swollen and red.

“Does that hurt?” he asked, his eyebrows furrowed in concern.

It did, but Tony had had worse and telling Peter that it hurt would just make him feel even guiltier than he probably already did.

“Not much,” he said with a small smile, trying to catch his eye. But Peter was still looking down at the injury.

Peter stepped closer, his head tilting to one side. “That’s too bad.”

Tony’s head jerked up, teeth snapping together in surprise. Faster than Tony could blink, Peter’s hand shot out and grabbed his arm, his grip tight enough to bruise. Looking Tony dead in the eye, he began twisting it, sending white hot agony racing up Tony’s arm as his elbow popped out of place, the broken bones grating.

“How about now?”

Peter’s eyes were alight with curiosity, a childish sort of fascination. He tilted his head to one side as he watched Tony’s face contort in pain. He looked like Tony had just shown him something new in the lab, like they were tinkering with the Iron Man suit.

Tony swayed and Peter put his other hand on Tony’s waist, supporting him.

“Whoa, I’ve got you,” he murmured in that soft tone he used with Morgan, with May, with Tony when they were talking late at night. Tony was going to throw up.

He swallowed convulsively and he tried to even his breathing.

Peter smiled. Then wrenched Tony’s arm again. A hoarse scream clawed up his throat and even that hurt. His eyes watered uncontrollably from the pain.

Looking like a scientist observing a mouse in its cage, Peter reached up and wiped one of his tears away with his thumb, fingers brushing almost tenderly against Tony’s jaw.

Then he raised his thumb to his mouth and licked the tear away. Tony’s nose wrinkled in disgust.

Peter made a sound of appreciation. “You’re afraid. But not for yourself, right?”

Tony eyed the creature in front of him, the one that had taken his kid and used him to wreak havoc and sow destruction in the lives of everyone who knew him. The one that had no intention of letting Peter come out on the other side of this alive and whole. No, he was not afraid for himself.

Peter stepped away, letting Tony stagger backward until he hit the counter, pain still radiating throughout his body.

“Did you know,” Peter said, casually circling to the other side of the island, looking through cupboards as if searching for a snack after school, “that he can smell emotions? Only if they’re particularly strong or he’s really tuned into the person. Like you. That’s how he finds people to help sometimes, he smells their fear. Amazing, isn’t it?”

Peter lingered near the knife block for a long moment, thin fingers dancing over the handles in a reverent manner that made Tony’s stomach clench in anticipatory fear. Then he moved on, peered into the fridge.

“I didn’t know that, when I chose him. It was merely providence.” Peter pulled a carton of orange juice out of the fridge, squinting at the ingredients. After a moment, he wrinkled his nose and dropped it on the floor. Tony heard liquid spatter over the wood and huffed.

“My kind, we are... hungry. Starving. All the time. A bit—” he shot a grin over his shoulder at Tony “—like a teenage boy.”

“If all you needed was a burger run, you could have just said so,” Tony snapped, watching as Peter sniffed the jar of mayonnaise. “So, what, I get a few thousand calories in you and you’re on your way?”

Peter laughed; a familiar snort of amused teenage sass that made Tony’s teeth hurt with how almost-right it sounded. “Not quite,” he murmured. “Some of my kin are satisfied with mere food,” he said with disgust and a cup of yogurt was also carelessly tossed to the ground. “But I require something a little more filling.”

“If you say human flesh I’m gonna spontaneously combust,” Tony warned, his mouth dry.

His injured arm bumped the counter as he shifted his weight and his world briefly whited out. When he opened his eyes again, panting, Peter was suddenly right next to him, eyes fixed on Tony, inhaling deeply. He looked half mad, desperate. Hungry.

“All that feeling and you let it go to waste.” Peter leaned even closer.

“Ok, seriously, back off.” Tony retreated until his heels hit the stairs. He clenched the railing with his good hand.

Peter smiled, a sharp glinting thing and for a moment Tony felt all his animal instincts kick in, half of his brain screaming run and the other half yelling save Peter save him savehimsavehimsavehim. But Peter just turned, meandering toward the sink.

“I’m not a vampire, I’m not going to drink your blood,” Peter said, rolling his eyes. “I eat what you feel. The stronger the emotion, the better.”

He paused in front of the pictures on the shelf.

“Like the anger of a child whose father never loved him,” he murmured, picking up Howard’s picture. Tony grit his teeth as the frame was flicked over Peter’s shoulder, shattering into pieces on the floor. The creature controlling Peter picked up the other frame, the image of Tony and Peter together. The photo that had saved the galaxy.

“Or the grief of a father whose love for his son was stronger than the laws of the universe.” He turned back to Tony.

Tony jumped as the frame was brought crashing down against the marble counter, splintering the wood and tearing the picture as shards of glass exploded outward. A sliver caught Peter on the cheek, cutting him.

It was instinct to reach out to him, to attempt to calm and comfort and protect. Tony didn’t stop himself fast enough.

Peter’s smile suddenly looked much less like Peter, much more like an alien wearing his skin. His laugh echoed off the kitchen walls.

“Imagine your grief when I kill him in front of you. Imagine what it will taste like.”

Goosebumps erupted over Tony’s skin, his heart tripping in fear at the very thought. The memory of ash on his hands, of Peter begging filled his mind and he choked on his next breath. Peter’s grin widened, something feral and foreign.

“Why,” Tony gasped, “Why would you kill him? Don’t you need him?”

“For now,” Peter agreed, casually stepping over the mess on the floor, closer to Tony. “But I’m afraid he’s wearing a bit thin. I’ve almost used him all up.”

Tony’s knees went weak.

“He’s almost too exhausted to fight me, now. Still won’t shut up, though,” he hissed, closing his eyes for a second as if hearing a very loud, unpleasant noise.

“What?” Tony asked, his head spinning. He sat down heavily on the stair behind him. Peter tilted his head, humming.

“You should hear how much he’s screaming.”

“He’s—” Forget throwing up, Tony was going to pass out. “—he’s screaming?”

Peter came closer, a predator stalking his prey. Tony knew he should pull himself together, knew that the thing enjoyed his distress, his pain, but he couldn’t fight the image of Peter, locked inside his own mind, screaming at the parasite controlling him.

“Oh, yes,” Peter murmured, his voice low. “’Not him, please,’ he’s saying. ‘Don’t hurt him, don’t you dare.’ He likes to threaten me. Not very intimidating, but I do admire his creativity.”

“Stop,” Tony whispered.

Peter reached a hand out and seized Tony’s chin, gripping with bruising fingers. Tony stared at him, hatred and love in every cell of his being. He could never hate Peter. He could never forget the way Peter’s face looked as an alien stared down at him, intent on nothing but destroying everything he loved.

“’Please, I’ll do anything,’” the creature continued to narrate. “’I’ll stop fighting. I’ll stop. Don’t kill him.’”

“Peter, no!”

The thing went silent, as if listening to something Tony couldn’t hear. Then he straightened, smiling down at Tony.

“What’s he saying?” Tony asked. “Peter?”

Peter considered him for a moment, glanced around at the cabin around him. “I think we’re done here.”

“What? No,” Tony argued. Peter ignored him, turning and disappearing out the door in the blink of an eye. Mind still trying to catch up, Tony rushed to the door, looking out at the trees and lake. There was no sign of him.

#my writing #I guess #sorry guys I really wish I could have finished all those stories I had planned #but I just really really do not see that happening

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harryspet · 4 years

Text

dimensions | peter parker

[Warnings] peter parker x reader, dark peter x reader, historical au, royal au, prince Peter, mentions of noncon sex, physical abuse, spanking, alternate dimensions, fluff, hella angst, alternate peter is basically ramsay bolton

A/N: This is an angsty idea from an anon “Angst thought: Peter's got a girlfriend he super likes but she gets switched with an alternate dimension's version of her who alternate him was the worst to (like one of your dark Peter fics bad) and she's terrified of Peter now”. I decided to make this like a historical au but it can basically take place at anytime in history.

THIS CONTAINS TRIGGERING MATERIAL AND ADULT CONTENT

main masterlist

word count: 2.7k

Wine dripped from his lips as Peter stared at you like a hungry wolf. What a beautiful prey you were. He was so lucky that he had decided not to kill you like the rest of your family.

The kingdom you came from was made of sunlight. Sun dripped from the sun and kissed the skin of your people. You were a peaceful people. You had never seen war until you came to know Lord Parker.

In Lord Parker’s part of the world, there was no sun at all. His fortress sat on a hill between a dark forest and a storm-ridden sea. His followers were loyal but this was because the family ruled with fear. They conquered and pillaged for power and your kingdom was just another line on his roster.

You were nothing to him. Nothing except a toy.

You scrambled backward, your back hitting the headboard of the bed you shared with him. Peter’s eyes trailed over the bare skin of your legs and up to the white nightgown you wore. He loved you in white, the contrast to your skin, and the innocence it represented.

No matter how he tried to beat it out of you, that innocence was still there.

Peter pulled the sheets all the way back and your body began to tremble, “My sweeting,” His words were kind but his intentions were anything but. He had his claws around your heart and you felt any wrong move would lead to him ripping it from your chest, “I recall informing you that you should refrain from speaking to my servants.”

Nothing. There were no words on your lips.

Had Peter already diminished your fire? He thought he had mastered the art of pushing you all the way to the edge but not allowing you to fall over.

The room was filled with grays and black, the only light in the room came from a few candles in the corner. You could hear the waves beating against the cliffs from outside the window. You let the cold hit your skin, allowing you to feel something other than sadness.

Peter’s hands touched the mattress as his body leaned in closer, “You want to run from me, do you not?” You were frozen now. He cocked his head to the side, an evil grin decorating his handsome face, “That is why you asked your guard to help you escape. You thought he might take pity on you? Do you think the honey between your legs is that sweet? That any man would risk their lives just to taste it?”

Breathe, you had to remind yourself. Why had you done that? You should’ve known not to trust anyone. Anyone including those with sweet, forgiving eyes.

Peter sighed, taking a seat on the edge of the large mattress. You recalled the memories of the last few nights. On your wedding night, he had forced himself inside of you with a force you couldn’t bear. You still ached between your legs.

“I do try to be good to you. I try to be a good husband but … it seems the Gods have cursed me with anger …and your behavior lights that flame inside of me. Is it so much to ask that you be honest with me? To tell me what I hear is not true?”

Nothing. Again, no words escaped your trembling lip. Peter was starting to grow annoyed. He liked it better when you were screaming.

“Answer me!” He screamed, causing you to hit your head against the wood as you flinched back, “You dare run behind my back!” Peter pounced, unable to resist the sweet touch of your trembling flesh. You resisted, but that only made the member in his trousers grow even more excited.

Peter dragged you by the curls in your hair, forcing you to scramble forward until you were positioned across his lap.

“My lord, please! Please, don’t!”

Peter smiled wide as he held you down, his elbow pressing into your back. “There she is! I knew my sweet princess was a fighter,” He pulled up the skirt of your dress, revealing your bare bottom. He could still see the evidence he left behind hours ago dripping down your thighs, “Continue to scream for me, my sweeting. I do enjoy your voice.”

You cried out, trying to wiggle from his grasp, as he landed several hard spanks to your bottom. You could feel it turning colors beneath his touch, the burning pain flowed through your body, “Please, please, I won’t do it again!” You begged, “I’ll be good!”

He didn’t stop until your bottom was raw and his own hand was bleeding. Tears streamed down your tired face, a complete look of defeat crossed your features, and ultimately satisfied Peter.

“What is your name?”

You didn’t even remember anymore, “Nothing. N-No one. I am nothing but yours, My Lord.”

He dragged you from the bed though every step you took was like feeling fire against your skin.

“No ones coming to save you!” Peter shouted as he dragged you out of the room, past your guards, and to the outside balcony that overlooked the entire fortress. Everyone was used to causing the scene with his cruelty so no one even batted an eyelash as you were pulled around like a ragdoll.

He pressed you against the wooden railing, making you look out into the snow-covered court. The snow that was now soaked in blood. He was in pieces but you recognized him. It was the young guard you had talked to you. Stupidly, you asked him when the guards normally changed shifts in the compound.

His legs were separated as well as each of his arms and then …. his head. His eyes were still open. “We cut off the head last,” As you closed your eyes, he pulled at your hair tightly, “He learned what happens when you try to steal my treasure. Treasure I bravely sought and retrieved on my own.”

It was all your fault.

He was gone before Peter even stepped into that room.

Your body was only protecting itself by shutting down and causing you to faint. Peter caught you as you fell into his arms.

You awoke on a soft cloud. Everything smelt of sweet vanilla, even your hair. You touched your hair and found it longer and much softer than usual. Your eyes could barely adjust to the blinding light in the room. When were thing’s ever this bright on Lord Parker’s land?

Had he finally set the place ablaze with you trapped inside? The thought of it was delightful. You even considered closing your eyes again but, the room you were in, gave off an entirely different feeling than the fortress.

You sat up in the bed and your mouth gaped as you took a look around. You stumbled as you stood up on the bed. The room was ginormous, even bigger than the over-sized bed. It reminded you of the great hall in the manor you grew up in … except it was a bedroom made of gold.

You looked down at your body. This was not the white gown you were last wearing. There were no stains of blood or tears down the chest. There was also no burning on your skin, on your bottom or around your neck.

You paused as the tall gold doors opened to the room. You stared as he entered, clad in a royal suit of blue, and wearing a smile. A smile? You had never seen him with a real smile, “Did you use to jump on the bed when you were younger?” He asked a tone you weren’t quite used to. It sounded pleasant, like there was happiness on his lips, “That was my favorite too.”

Had he slipped hallucinogens into your drink? Or was this just a nightmare of your own creation?

As he moved closer to the bed, you panicked, moving down to your knees, “M-My Lord,” You addressed him, your head tilted down.

Peter paused, taking in your appearance, and his smile turned to concern, “Your Lord?” Peter asked softly, moving towards you. He reached for your hand and, although you didn’t pull away, he felt you shaking, “Y/N, what’s going on?”

You lifted your head, facing the demon, “W-Who is Y/N?” Peter searched your face for some symbol of amusement. He thought you might be pulling a prank on him but it was now clear that something was very wrong, “Where did you take me?”

Peter pulled away his hand, realizing he was only causing more unease, “I didn’t take you anywhere. This is my home. Our home. Should I call in the physician ...”

“We don’t live here …” You looked around the large room again.

“Y/N, do you promise me that this is not some sort of game?”

You shook your head quickly, “No games, My Lord.”

“My name is Peter. I am not your Lord …” Peter’s voice trailed off, his mind racing with concerned thoughts and confusion. Peter beckoned you with his hand, “Why don’t you come with me, Y/N? We will have a talk with May.”

A trick. This had to be some elaborate trick then.

“I only talk to you, My Lord,” You assured him, “I won’t speak to anyone else, I promise.”

His eyes seemed to sadden. Sad? You’d only seen anger from him before, “Y/N, you can talk to other people. I am your husband but I do not control you. You have friends. You have a family.”

A sick joke then. You stared at him dumbfounded, before shaking your head, “You killed them. They were not worthy. You spared me despite my unworthiness.”

“I-I never-” Peter stopped himself, realizing that it was becoming useless to argue at the moment. You seemed to flinch at the slightest raise in his voice, “Walk with me, please?”

You were hesitant but you crawled from the bed, your bare feet touching the cool, marble floor. The fortress was grays and black. The fortress was soot and wood. This was a palace and the man before you were dressed like a prince.

Peter noticed the distance you kept from it. Yesterday, you were madly in love with him. You held each other through every royal meeting and you spent the night wrapped in each other’s arms. He remembered how nervous he was when Tony announced the plans for his marriage but, the moment he saw you, he realized his luck. He was even luckier that you felt the same.

You glanced around the long hallways with tall white walls and ginormous windows that gave a view of the sun over a calm sea.

“What city is this?”

As the name of the city left his lips, your heart stopped. It was the same city you were kidnapped and taken to but you saw no sign of the darkness that you remembered. Had the darkness all been a bad dream?

The woman named May attempted to explain everything to you. She noticed your uneasiness around Peter and kindly asked to have a moment alone with you. You were frightened to speak out of turn, for fear of Peter punishing you, but the woman encouraged you to talk to her.

She knew all about the kingdom you hailed from, about your family and your peaceful people. They were all alive, Peter’s forces never led an attack against them. In fact, your father and King Tony arranged the marriage between you two. Peter was a Prince. The prince of a kingdom that did not wage war against innocents.

She checked your vitals, not noticing anything that was physically wrong with you. You didn’t even have the scars anymore.

Despite all of this, the thing that made everything sink in was seeing your family. Both your mother and older brother had not returned back to your kingdom, and you were able to embrace them after believing you had lost them forever.

Peter wasn’t sure what to think of everything. So much had changed that he wasn’t sure if he was looking at the same girl anymore. He didn’t want to be a villain to his own wife. He regretted that the bond that they now shared was indestructible. To divorce was a sin and they’d both be shamed by their countries.

“I can find somewhere else to sleep tonight …” You looked up to Peter, seeing how he was trying to hide his sadness. Your chambermaids had prepared you for bed, bathed you, and put you into fresh nightclothes made of the softest silks.

“It is your room,” You told him quickly, “I should not deprive you of the comfort … the comfort of sleeping next to your own wife.”

“I can tell you do not want me to, my love,” His words made your heart pang. Love. Did Peter love you? At least, did he love the old you? “I will allow you to have all the time that you need. I do not wish to be the source of your nightmares.”

Peter had a feeling that he wouldn’t be able to change that fear she felt.

“Please stay,” You told him as he made a move to leave, “I do not want to be alone.”

You had spent the entire day with your family, and now you just didn’t want to fall asleep in the silence.

Peter thought for a moment, deciding his plan of action. You couldn’t help that your breath caught in your throat as he approached where you laid on the bed. He didn’t reach to touch you, only to grab a pillow.

He laid it on the ground beside the massive bed and proceeded to make himself comfortable on the hard floor. You rolled over in the bed, looking over the edge at him, “The floor is no place for a prince, your grace.”

Peter instantly shook his head, “I do not know what you mean, my love. It feels great down here,” You could tell her was lying and a small grin pulled at your lips. He was willing to sleep on the floor just so you could be comfortable?

“Peter?”

Peter couldn’t help how his heart fluttered when you simply called him by his first name. He liked knowing before that you liked him as a person, not as an authority figure.

“Yes, Y/N?”

“What kind of things did I use to like?”

Peter didn’t expect the question, but as the memories rushed, he couldn’t help but smile, “You loved your family. You always talked about them, about your people. You wanted everyone to know that you were a princess of two, great kingdoms, not just my own. You made sure they were never forgotten.”

You continued to listen as you pictured it. You hadn’t realized they were memories of your own.

“You liked to garden. It reminds you of your time with your grandmother. You love the life you can create, the beauty you can make.”

A tear slipped down your face as you remembered the older woman.

“You liked it when we went out on the boat and rode in the bay. You liked the sound of the ocean and the sun on the skin. You hated that we kept the fish we caught. You hated how they had to die and you insisted that we give them to beggars on the street.”

You realized that this wasn’t some past you that Peter was talking about. The girl he was talking about was still you. She just had a better chance at life.

“You loved looking at the stars. You smiled for days when I showed you the telescope my father purchased from that French merchant, I swear it.”

“Peter, I-I am sorry,” Peter noticed you were crying and shot up from his spot, reaching to hold your hand, “You are nothing like him. You are nothing like him.”

“Do not cry, please,” Peter begged, rubbing soothing circles on your skin, “There is nothing to apologize for. Whatever this is, we will get through it.”

As his thumb brushed the tear from your cheek, you saw him clearly. You could look into those brown eyes and know he’d never hurt you.

Hope you enjoyed! (Also sorry, please don’t ask for a second part)

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iron-mum · 3 years

Text

My Spider Sense is Shinglin’

By @iron-mum and @geekinthecorner for the @friendly-neighborhood-exchange

Rating: General

Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark

Characters: Peter Parker, Tony Stark (Brief appearances from Stephen Strange, Helen Cho and Bruce Banner)

Summary:

“You feeling okay, bud?” He said, racing over and helping the teen disentangle his legs from the blanket. “A little,” Peter lied badly, unsure why he’d even bothered trying. Even his greatest attempts at white lies couldn’t get past his mentor. He’d grown to know the kid and his antics exceptionally well. “You wanna try that again with less understatements?” “Headache.” Peter started, pausing for just a moment. Tony had lingered just to see if anymore was going to come before standing up, with the intention of heading to the kitchen. He’d barely lifted his leg to take the first step when... “Spidey Sense still tingling… Not hungry… Hot.”

or: Peter mistakes shingles for a pulled muscles and suffers miserably.

Tony had a knack for knowing when something was wrong. An ingrained intuition from the copious amounts of people he had met in his lifetime had led to some pretty nifty bullshit detecting skills. The genius paid attention far more than he was given credit for, particularly when it came to the few people he held closest and dearest. Peter was adamant that if he were a Sim he would have the perceptive and observant trait, albeit his chance of learning something new from a socialisation being higher than the thirty-five percent the game offered. The duo had settled for a solid seventy percent.

So, when the very intern who praised his observational skills barely uttered more than a greeting upon sheepishly entering the lab, Tony knew something was up. Peter who was usually all beaming, charismatic grins and energetic pacing on the floor—or ceiling— had been sat in the same spot for almost an hour or so, features so tense it looked unnatural. Initially, the older man had made subtle changes to the environment they were in, lowering the music a notch and dimming the lights ever so slightly in an effort to decipher the discomfort the kid was apparently unwilling to discuss. All had proven unsuccessful.

“You okay, buddy?” Tony questioned softly, when he noticed the teen wince and wriggle from his seated position. The deciphering had been going on all morning so all that had been left was tackling the issue head on. Rather than answering, Peter put the pen down that he’d been aimlessly playing with and cupped his face in his hands, breathing harsher than usual.

“My Spider Sense has just been really acting up all day,” he hesitantly replied as he heard his mentor’s steps draw closer. “It’s been getting more uncomfortable as the day progressed.”

A cool hand tentatively cupped his neck before manoeuvring to the left shoulder and offering a comforting squeeze. Peter instantly wished the soothing touch to his skin lasted longer than the few seconds it had, an involuntary whine escaping his lips as he fought to not cry there and then at how glorious it had been.

Alarm bells were ringing in his mentor’s head instantaneously. An admission of discomfort was rare and not something to be taken lightly when coming from someone who could easily make jokes about being stabbed or hit by a truck. That in addition to a sound that resembled a small baby animal in distress had Tony’s mind in overdrive.

“You’re feeling a little peaky. Why don’t we call it a day for lab time and go up to the penthouse?” Tony offered, mentally chastising the potential for Parker luck to strike at this very moment. The kid’s aunt was away for a week with training and Pepper was abroad for international meetings. Not that he didn’t want to look after Peter, the mechanic just immediately felt awkward and three thousand percent out of his league at the prospect. There was a small sigh of relief when Peter finally meandered off his chair, the duo slowly making their way towards the elevator. The older man’s hand remained on the kid’s shoulder, thumb occasionally rubbing the teen’s neck as he seemed to be enjoying the movement.

“You take a seat on the couch, I’ll fix us up some snacks,” Tony directed as he watched Peter totter across the room before sluggishly flopping onto the sofa, one arm immediately resting over his eyes whilst the other lay across his chest and holding his left side. There had barely been a hum of acknowledgement.

Peter felt absolutely, fudging dreadful. His stomach growled in hunger as a reminder that he’d waited far too long to eat but his appetite was completely shot. Almost like his mind had dissociated from the basic needs it required. All he could concentrate on was not succumbing to the pain in his flank which at this rate had gone from dull ache to a thousand knives piercing him over and over.

Not wanting to eat and feeling like the worst human possible for not telling his mentor to stop the food preparation, Peter opted for feigning to be asleep. A difficult task in itself considering the spikes of pins and needles he’d been feeling. Amidst the all-over-body irritation was a very prominent, localised pain to his left side. The teen had put it down to a pulled muscle as he had been patrolling a lot more vigorously than usual with the school break now in full swing. Nice one, Parker.

The self diagnosis Peter provided himself meant that he’d been reluctant to mention anything to Tony prior, not wanting to be a burden over something that should have been trivial. His mentor did always seem to be dealing with more than enough on his plate anyway. With a small shiver at the feeling of bugs crawling across his skin, Peter began to second guess not providing Mr. Stark with all the details of his symptoms. After what seemed like a moment’s hesitation, a soft material was being draped over him.

Tony had clearly fallen for the fake sleeping act. Or was just too polite to call him out on it . Allowing Peter the whole sofa, he slid an armchair across so he was within close proximity to the kid and pulled out a Stark Tablet ensuring the brightness was low. The genius had used the settings on the tablet to dim the room and ensure no one disturbed them.

The teen could hear the tablets gentle thrum, the sound of Tony’s fingers delicately touching the pad and his steady, calming heartbeat. His breathing was soft and gentle, a steady tempo that Peter found himself trying to follow. He eventually yielded to drowsiness and found himself slowly falling into darkness, hoping he’d feel better after a nap.

Peter’s wake up had been particularly violent. The teen shot up after feeling an excruciating sting in his side, skin feeling like he was literally on fire. He’d swiftly fallen backwards into the cushions, mind still catching up with the body, leaving him with a sense of disorientation and overwhelmingly lightheaded. Tony was at his side within seconds, clearly just returning from the bathroom, a flare of panic in his eyes.

“You feeling okay, bud?” He said, racing over and helping the teen disentangle his legs from the blanket.

“A little,” Peter lied badly, unsure why he’d even bothered trying. Even his greatest attempts at white lies couldn’t get past his mentor. He’d grown to know the kid and his antics exceptionally well.

“You wanna try that again with less understatements?”

“Headache,” Peter started, pausing for just a moment. Tony had lingered just to see if anymore was going to come before standing up, with the intention of heading to the kitchen. He’d barely lifted his leg to take the first step when...

“Spidey Sense still tingling… Not hungry… Hot.”

“The day you’re not hungry is the day the whole country falls apart,” Tony frowned as he headed to the kitchen and ran the tap. A full glass of water and wrung out flannel later he was back at Peter’s side and very carefully helping him to sit up, the sway and unease in the teen’s movements evident.

The thought of water had Peter feeling nauseous but he knew this wasn’t something his mentor was going to back down on. He held the glass in his hands, leaving it on his lap for a moment and enjoying the cold temperature on his fingertips. The older man carefully placed the flannel on his neck and boy, was it heavenly. A final moment of discomfort dissipated and the relief was overwhelming.

“Peter?” Tony asked, tone full of a parental tone that Peter had only thought he’d ever hear from his Aunt. The flannel was off of his neck and wiping away the sweat from his face, a thumb underneath the cloth carefully gliding under his eyes.

“I’m so sorry,” burst out of his lips before he could stop it when he registered the way his face had crumpled, just about holding in the tears. “I don’t want to be sick.”

"Come here, kid," his mentor offered soothingly and quietly, knowing that when Peter was this burnt out, a sensory overload could creep in and take over at any minute. And that was the last thing he needed added to the mix of symptoms. Tony placed the flannel down and took the glass from tremoring hands before opening his arms.

Peter complied, leaning into Tony, his face buried into the older man’s shoulder as one of his hands clutched tightly onto the rock band themed t-shirt. His body let out a long, shuddering breath no longer able to keep it in through fear his lungs would burst. It was a bittersweet mixture of relief and excruciating stabbing in his side again.

"I’ve got you, buddy. Nice slow, breaths for me. I’ve got you." Tony’s arms were wrapped around him tightly now, a strong grip that left him feeling protected and grounded. One hand found its way in the teen’s hair and started to massage the scalp, occasionally lifting the curls and allowing them to ping back.

“Thank you, Mr. Stark,” the teen mumbled, face not wanting to leave from its smushed position in the older man’s t-shirt.

Acting on an instinct he had been aggressively repressing, Tony simply tilted his head down and pressed a kiss into Peter’s hair in response. All those years of being so abundantly sure he’d never had kids were well and truly buried in the past. It wasn’t necessarily that he’d disliked children or wanted to be tied down to a miniature version of himself, fragile and requiring a dependant who could at least look after themselves which wasn��t one of his strongest traits. But he also had a terrible fear of failing. Of being like Howard.

Whilst he knew he didn’t have it in himself to be so ruthless and cruel, it troubled him to no end. And even when Peter Parker had come along and wormed his way into his life in all the best kinds of ways. It had taken time to acknowledge the level of care he’d had. This young, endearing, little shit had Tony wanting to give him his all. Hell, the more weekends they’d spent together the more sure he was that Peter would in fact be his legacy. A part of his small circle of friends who he trusted like family and would fiercely protect at all costs. And despite the pair not seeming to be aware of how close their bond was, a majority of their nearest and dearest could spot it from a mile away whilst being blindfolded.

“You wanna tell me when you started feeling this funk? Do I need to speak with Helen?” Tony questioned when Peter pulled away.

“I pulled a muscle on my left side a few days ago and kinda felt off since then. The tingling has been the same, but like initially it was on and off. Sometimes it was on par with that time Vulture dropped a warehouse on me and the next, like that time I entered the building on fire to save Tiddles the tortoise. Or that time I got road rash after being dragged by a van down fifth street. Or that time Tiddles took a chunk out of my finger.”

“Alright. I’m going to be honest. That's a lot to unpack, kid,” Tony remarked when he’d managed to metaphorically pick his jaw off the ground.

“Few days of stuff. Sometimes aches, sometimes sharp shooty pains,” Peter clarified as he rubbed his nose.

“When you’re feeling better we’ll be having a chat. Particularly about this apparent arch nemesis, Tiddles .”

“Tiddles is totally my villain origin story.”

“On the subject of villains , wanna carry on watching The Big Hero 6 series? Globby has me on the edge of my seat on what he’s going to get up to next.”

“Sounds like a plan, Iron Man.”

On cue, F.R.I.D.A.Y. dimmed the lights as the TV turned on and the surround sound immediately kicked in. As the opening theme popped up on the screen, Tony was on his feet and skipping towards the kitchen to retrieve the snacks he’d prepared beforehand. He shoved a bowl into Peter’s hands, a smirk tugging at his lips when the teen immediately took a handful of popcorn and shovelled it into his mouth. The older man took a seat next to Peter, digging into a bowl of chips with a side of dip.

As the afternoon slowly turned into evening, Peter had slowly scooted towards his mentor until Tony got the hint and had shifted his arm to the back of the sofa so the teen’s head could rest on his chest. Eventually the hand that had previously been gripping the back of the couch would find its way wrapped around the boy’s shoulders and then eventually providing tender ministrations across the scalp.

The aches and protests Peter’s body had been firing off seemed to be that much easier to ignore as they cuddled. Not only was the calm heartbeat and steady breathing back to lull the teen to sleep, but he could also feel the gently hearty chuckles of Tony as well as his warmth. Like a heated blanket set to the perfect temperature. Peter succumbed to darkness with the faintest of smile across his face that the man who hated being emotionally vulnerable and often recoiled from physical contact had made an exception for him. And how freaking lucky and privileged was that?

Although Peter was feeling completely shattered, sleep did not arrive once he’d gone to bed. He’d managed to nap again on the sofa which had prompted his mentor to call it a night. The teen’s bleary eyes checked the time from his bedside clock—04:03—he let out a defeated groan. He’d certainly been drowsy, but felt like he’d been on the edge of drifting to sleep and then immediately stirring.

The usual comfort and feeling of safety of Tony’s MIT hoodie was instantly tarnished as his skin prickled with fire at the fabric being placed over it. Peter audibly gulped before creeping out of the room and heading to the lab, wanting to be in his mentor’s presence or at least find some sort of distraction.

As the doors made a gentle swooshing noise upon opening, he felt his mentor's gaze fall upon him. Peter spotted the squint of Tony's eyes as he started to study him. He definitely could tell the teen looked as shit as he felt no doubt. Bags under his glassy eyes at the level of exhaustion he was feeling and cheeks still flushed even though the ambient temperature.

“Stop analysing me please, Mr. Stark,” Peter grumbled, wishing the world would just swallow him up already.

"I can't tell if you're up early or late." Tony stated as he dropped the tools he was working on and hastily made his way towards Peter's side. The boy’s body language was screaming undeniable discomfort as he clearly started to struggle to even move.

"I tried to sleep, I really did." Peter answered more exasperated that he had meant to. He'd seen right through his mentor's statement, knowing he'd wanted to ask if he’d actually got any sleep. “I was so... uncomfortable,” the last word almost came out as a choke, breath hitching. “Everything… hurts.”

“Come here, buddy,” Tony gently coaxed as he went to embrace the young hero. One of his arms had barely made its way around Peter’s back when he’d recoiled back involuntarily at the burning sting the touch had caused. Tony took a horrified step back, arms awkwardly falling back to place at his sides. “I’m sorry, kiddo. I didn’t mean to-”

“Oh God. Oh G- I’m so sorry, Mr. Stark,” he gasped as his face crumpled and a frown replaced the forced neutral ‘ I’ve got this’ look.

“Peter…” Tony started, but stopped as the words barrelled out of his mentee, emotions all over the place.

“Something’s wrong with me. I don’t know why… Everything hurts… And now. Now…”

“Take a breath, kiddo. Nice and easy,” Tony instructed as he took a single step towards the teen. “Let’s get you somewhere comfy and then we’ll get you checked over, okay?”

Peter managed a weak nod, rubbing his nose on the sleeve of the hoodie and followed, trudging slowly as a bone-deep exhaustion dictated his every step. The teen didn’t recall the trip in the elevator nor getting to the sofa. Almost as if it had been a blip in time, not even a blurred feeling or sensation, just missing.

“You’re making me a little nervous, Underoos.” Tony’s voice cut through the mental fog. The tone hadn’t been condescending in any manner. Just an honest admission, hoping to catch the boy’s attention.

“It’s got worse. So much worse.”

“Fri, temperature?”

“38.7. This is up from 37.8 yesterday,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. notified, the duo both cringing at the change.

“Alright, I’m pulling rank, we need to get you checked over,” Tony decided, not wanting to take any chances with worsening symptoms. Particularly when fever was now added into the mix and his Spiderling had next to know thermoregulation.

“Wait… Wait. Could we try super soldier strength Tylenol?” Peter pleaded, giving his best puppy dog look. At this rate he was happy to put on the Peter-Pity-Party-Parker charm if it meant avoiding the dreaded medbay.

“I catch even a whiff of you getting any worse and we’ll be in the medbay quicker than you can say super soldier strength, again. Oh, and you’re having some food,” Tony conceded reluctantly as he left the kid’s side to grab the medication.

“Take these,” he requested handing over the pills once they’d been procured. “I’m going to make some toast.”

“Thank you, Mr. Stark,” Peter mumbled. He briefly allowed his eyes to close as he listened to his mentor potter around the kitchen, cupboards being opened and utensils being sought. The noises reminded him of the domesticity of home life with May as she’d scramble to prepare last minute lunchbox snacks for the pair of them.

His mentor returned a few minutes later with two toasted peanut butter and jam sandwiches in hand, Peter’s eyes slowly opening as he took the plate. After the first bite he let out a hum of satisfaction. Everything about it was perfect; the way the toasted bread crunched when he took a bite, the warm peanut butter coating his mouth, the tangy sweet from the strawberry jam.

By mid-morning, Peter had drifted off to sleep and Tony once again found himself watching over him. The teen’s vitals were up in the top right of his tablet, scrutinizing eyes narrowing when it had slowly started to creep back up. The agitation to touch had shortly followed as Peter would suddenly jerk and grunt.

Tentatively, Tony lightly brushed the damp curls sticking to his mentee's forehead away so he could lay a damp cloth across it. The teen let out a whimper the moment it touched, body shivering violently at its exaggerated interpretation of the coolness. The lengths Tony would do to take away the pain and discomfort for his kid couldn’t even be put into words.

They were back up to 38.7 by lunchtime. Not that Tony had seen. The tablet in his hand was precariously dangling from one hand the other still buried in Peter’s hair. Exhaustion had well and truly settled in and he’d drifted off despite all the coffee he had consumed.

An ear piercing screech and wild arm being thrown into his face woke Tony from his nap. He practically fell off the sofa as his mind tried to process what the fuck was happening. Animalistic cries, screams for help and an arm hitting him again from his position on the ground was enough to spring the words emergency into his mind.

“Fri! Call every doctor right now!” Tony said harshly, the words tumbling out of his mouth. It couldn’t have been more than ten seconds from the request when orange flecks appeared in the room and then a portal was opened by Stephen Strange.

“List of symptoms?” was all he said, saving the greeting for later when he saw the deathly pallor of Peter’s skin and the twitchiness of Tony meaning a panic attack was likely right around the corner.

“Skin has been tingling yesterday and today but isn’t his Spider Senses. Fever, loss of appetite, sensitive to the lightest touches and a pain to his left side. Mixture of aches that range from being bitten by a tortoise to being hit by a truck,” Tony was rubbing his eyes profusely, desperately wanting the sleep to remove itself from his weary features. The doctor had perked a brow at the last sentence but quickly decided what he wanted to do next.

“Peter, I’m going to lift your shirt,” he informed, not meaning to ignore Tony but just needing to get straight to work with the triage. “Actually, could you lift it Tony? I don’t want… my hands to make this any worse than it’s going to be if he’s touch sensitive.”

Tony was quick to comply, hating the few seconds it had taken as Peter’s face scrunched into an anguished grimace at the feeling and his whimpering turned into ragged sobs. The raised, blotchy red rash across his side was clear as day. It looked like a nerve branching across his chest, angry looking blisters scattered throughout it’s hostile takeover of his pale, clammy skin. Dashing footsteps from the hall alerted the trio that more medical personnel had arrived in the form of Bruce Banner and Helen Cho.

“I think it’s shingles. We’re going to need a gurney,” Stephen called out briskly, not wanting to waste any time. A rash meant it was potentially already a few days into the virus taking hold so precious time had been wasted for optimum effectiveness of the antivirals. The doctors skidded to a halt, well aware a gurney would be just seconds behind them courtesy of F.R.I.D.A.Y.’s assistance. “Fever, malaise, hyperesthesia, vesicular rash spreading from left flank.”

If Tony thought it had been unbearable watching Peter be transported onto the gurney and swiftly taken to the medbay. Then it had been an absolute living nightmare to see him be poked and prodded, IV needing to be in place to provide the fluids his body needed and the administration of pain medication that would help dull down his senses and hopefully allow him to rest. Bruce had tried to keep him at arms length to give the medical personnel the space they needed but that had lasted mere seconds.

Peter's body was stiff and twitching involuntarily, his back arched awkwardly as he writhed in brutal agony. The teen's face was contorted in pain, eyes slammed shut and mouth slightly open as he took gasping breaths laced with cries and incoherent mutterings of pleads for help. Hot, uncontrollable tears streamed down the side of his face and God did Tony want to wipe them away but he knew even the faintest of touches had felt like chemical burns to the kid.

The morphine was due to take effect at any moment, but until then Tony felt like a useless entity within the room. Peter's hands gripped onto the sheets and tore them instantly. There was a risk that the IV was going to be yanked out if the flailing didn’t stop.

"Dad… Dad…" Peter bawled, no longer capable of riding out the searing pain in solitude. Tony short circuited. The room froze. "Dad!" the teen again screamed when there had been no response despite the multiple blurred forms within the room seeming to hear him.

Fuck this. Tony had pushed past Bruce, not enough to harm him in any way, just enough to give him the space to get to his kid’s side. One hand was placed on the mattress of the bed and the other eagerly wanting to stroke the boy’s head but sitting next to the pillow instead.

“I’m here, kiddo. I’m here,” he assured as best as he could, voice on the edge of breaking.

In a move apparently out of his control, Peter’s hand lashed out and grabbed his mentor’s wrist. Quickly, the pads of his fingers dup deep into the flesh, unable to control his enhanced abilities whilst so delirious. The first crunch of bone had Tony biting down on his lip, desperately attempting to remain stoic for Peter’s sake. But then the bones grinded and he let out a pained gasp.

“Peter,” He managed as he deeply inhaled in an effort to sound as self-controlled as possible. The tight clasp started to loosen, as the teen’s movements slowed and his eyes looked almost vacant before they closed. Tony had taken a staggering step back once it had been clear, unsure if it was motivated by the searing pain of his now broken wrist or because there was the pressure of someone’s hand on his shoulder leading him away. He’d barely made it to the hallway still unsure who he was following when his knees buckled and the world around him became a bleak blur.

In his catatonic state, Tony wouldn’t remember the scans and treatment of the newly broken bone. His exhausted body would simply shut down and he’d fall asleep, itching to fend off the feelings of panic stricken shock and complete, unrivalled fear. When he did rouse, Bruce and Stephen had been there to let him know how his mentee was before informing him of the damage that had been inflicted. A broken wrist was nothing when he found out Peter was now on enough medication to allow a pain-free rest.

The first conscious memory Peter had in the fog of his slow awakening was the dry taste in his mouth and beginnings of nausea creeping up on him. Despite his body protesting he attempted a small movement, wincing as he did so. His head felt like it had been stuffed with cotton as he slowly lifted his arm to rub his eyes before attempting to open them. When his sense of smell returned and the stench of harsh disinfectant and latex burned his nostrils hit, his eyes opened far too quickly and far too widely.

The teen’s attention was quickly drawn to the presence to his left. Tony was slumped in a chair at such an incredibly awkward angle it was sure to cause neck ache when he woke up. A cast-clad wrist was loosely folded across his chest as the other arm seemed to loosely cradle it. Gentle snoring would usually be comforting for Peter, but his eyes kept drawing back to the cast with a dreaded sensation in the pit of his stomach that he had been the one to cause of it.

Peter moved again, hissing at how incredibly touch sensitive he seemed to be. It was as if he could feel every individual fibre of the bedding around him. Despite the noise being barely audible, Tony started to awaken. The older man had gone to move too sharply, clearly moving his sore arm too quickly and boy could Peter not take his eyes off of that cast.

“There’s my favourite young adult,” Tony greeted gently as he awkwardly shifted to pour a small jug of water into a cup, the casted hand barely keeping it in place. He did his utmost best to remain passive faced despite how tedious the task now felt to him and he could feel Peter’s hard pressed stare on him and the arm. Plopping a straw into the cup he brought it to the teen’s mouth. Peter had wanted to gulp it down the moment he felt the plastic touch his lips, swigging greedily as the water soothed his parched throat and mouth.

“How are you feeling, Pete?” Tony asked once he’d finished, placing the cup to the side. Lordy, did his kid look so small in the hospital bed.

“A little high,” Peter confessed after assessing himself and spotting the cannula in his hand. “A little sore… Mr. Stark…?”

“If you need any more painkillers than just let me know and I can get Cho. They’ve got you on the good stuff,” Tony was completely aware that sore was likely overriding the high feeling. Because he’d seen Peter high on pain medication before. It tended to involve a big goofy smile and eyes bug-eyed wide. There’d even been the occasional moments where he thought he could fly and would flap his wings whilst making whooshing sound effects.

“What happened?” Peter asked so innocently and child like, a reminder of the young hero’s age. Tony had to steel himself for the inevitable conversation that was about to go down. Because he knew what the kid was like. Knows that the kid can’t stop taking his eyes off the cast.

“You got a one way rare ticket to getting shingles. Not common for your age bracket and Spideyness but. We know what you’re like when it comes to contracting the weird and wonderfu-”

“I meant... what happened to your arm?” Tony looked down at it before meeting the teen’s eyes.

"Alright, so don't freak out on me. You did nothing wrong…" The older man began, quickly being interrupted by an even paler looking Peter.

"Oh God…"

"Ah-ah. Listen to me, Peter." Tony requested firmly, as he placed a hand over Peter’s and carefully gripped. He needed to show there was still respect and most importantly trust. Needed the boy to be grounded and to focus if this wasn’t about to turn into an emotional shit show. "Please."

There were tears welling in Peter’s eyes that he had no chance of fighting. Lacking the confidence in his own voice to not crack he simply nodded.

"You were off your face, quite literally, with a fever whilst a virus attacked your nerves. You were not in control. And it was an accident." His mentor’s voice was tender, sympathetic with just a touch of authority. His eyes were full of love and conviction that stunned Peter momentarily whilst he absorbed the information.

"I'm so sorry, Tony,” the teen rasped, barely holding himself together. The kindness he was being shown felt unwarranted and undeserving.

“I need you to listen to me very carefully, buddy. I know exactly how you’re feeling. I know you’re playing the blame game right now because I’ve been there. I-I-Pepper was almost attacked by a suit because of my actions whilst I was asleep. It’s undeniable logic that I wasn’t even conscious so how was it my fault? But I let it eat away at me and she had to snap me out of that deep guilt-trip-well big time. I know you, Peter. I know you’d never hurt me. And nothing could hurt more than seeing you in pain and being utterly helpless to make it better.”

The stiffness in Peter’s hand finally released and his hand gently took hold of Tony’s thumb. The teen shifted into a seated position, his mentor standing as he did so before leaning over the bed and offering a hug. Peter accepted the embrace, the determination in the movement and lack of flinching from the older man serving only to affirm that he didn’t fear the boy.

“Alright, move over, Young Buck. Your old man can’t stay bent like this for too long.”

With his mentee shifted out of the way, Tony scooted onto the bed and raised an arm immediately. Peter showed just a hint of hesitance before snuggling in, an arm placed across Tony’s lap and his head on his chest.

“I don’t know what to say,” Peter admitted, the latter of the sentence slightly slurring as he started to drift off in the safety of his mentor’s arms.

“Get some rest, Peter. I’m sure you’ll make up for the lack of talking once we get back in the lab,” Tony mumbled before a thought crossed his mind. “In fact, you get to fill me in all about Tiddles once you’re up and ready. That tortoise is on thin fucking ice.”

The teen half smirked at the comment, though no words formulated as sleep took a hold. Deep breaths soon turned into soft snoring. The older man’s fingers slowed their movements before coming to a halt as he planted a tender kiss into the teen’s hair. As he started to feel himself succumb to exhaustion he requested that they only be disturbed if it was a mandatory check up or emergency.

“Love you, dad,” Peter whispered so softly it was barely audible. Even in his exhausted state, Tony’s chest filled with overwhelming joy and happiness.

“Love you too, buddy,” Tony replied with a content, sleepy smile on his face.

#friendly neighborhood exchange #tony stark #peter parker #irondad #spiderson #fic exchange #sickfic

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darker-soft-starker · 3 years

Photo

High School AU Part 8 (1...7)

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16.k

---

The silence that follows Tony’s exit only lasts for a single, deafening heartbeat.

In the seconds that follow the aftermath, silent and struck with confusion at the lightning-quick turn of events, Peter doesn’t remember getting to his feet and excusing himself. He just remembers that the moment he decides to act feels impossibly longer than it should, punctuated only by the harsh slam of the front door.

Ed, understandably, seems suspended in the moment, torn between his guests and, well, his other guest. Without thinking, Peter stands and doesn’t bother to excuse himself before leaving the table and following the trail of fire that Tony left behind.

“Pete,” someone calls behind him.

“Stay here, I got this,” he turns for a moment, hands held up placatingly, before jogging through the living room, out the front door. Outside it’s bitterly cold, the snappish, freezing winds whipping at his face, his bare arms.

Stark is stomping furiously towards his car when Peter spots him, a shadowy figure against the dying sunlight. He sets into a jog to catch up.

“Tony,” he yells through chattering teeth. “Wait!”

“Fuck off,” Tony snaps without looking back, hands balled into fists as he heads to his car.

“Where are you going,” he rushes to catch up with him. “What are you even doing here?”

“You don’t have to worry about me ruining your little Hallmark family moment, Parker,” Tony pulls out his keys. “I’m getting the fuck outta here.”

“Wait,” he stresses, legs moving faster, not understanding what exactly is happening. “Tony, wait.”

He makes the mistake of getting between Tony and the driver's side door in a thoughtless effort to keep him from leaving, one that seems to backfire rather spectacularly when Tony gets inches away from his face, seething. This close, his fury is palpable, and he suddenly seems taller, larger, coming at Peter like a tempest, swift and devastating.

“Move.”

Face set in a snarl, he looks angrier than Peter has ever seen him. “Tony, wait for just a second --”

He flinches when two palms slam down on the car on either side of him and Tony is suddenly towering over him, his eyes dark and unrecognisable.

“I said get out of the way.”

“Calm down, can we just talk --”

“You have three goddamn seconds before I --”

“Before what? What are you going to do,” he juts out his chin defiantly, even though his hands are trembling. “You going to hit me, huh?” With courage he doesn’t really feel, he stands up taller, until they're nose to nose and he can feel his warm breath on his face. “Go on, asshole. Do it.”

The provocation gives Tony pause. His lips purse and his gaze flickers between fury and uncertainty. He doesn’t move his arms from where they have caged Peter in, but Peter can see the opening he’s created, as if Tony were a ticking bomb with seconds left before zero and he has once chance to cut the right wire.

Adrenaline racing through his veins, his circles Tony’s wrists with his fingers, pressing gently, intent on pushing him back or comforting him or something. But Tony doesn’t budge at all, he just stares Peter down until the offensive anger visibly bleeds into defensiveness. Tony dips his chin for just a second before meeting his eyes again, and it’s like watching a portcullis slam down behind them. In that moment, he feels any camaraderie they developed quickly vanished in a puff of smoke.

“I’ll stay out of your way if that’s what you want, but just don’t be a fucking idiot. Ed was really looking forward to seeing you.”

“It’s Jarvis, not Ed, you braindead asshole,” Tony says finally, voice hoarse. “And stop holding my hands, I’m not your fucking prom date.”

Immediately Peter takes his hands away and Tony steps back, hands still balled into fists, albeit lowered at his sides; so it’s come to this again. Peter nods shakily, putting his hands up in surrender.

“I don’t know how you know them,” or what happened to you, Peter says, softly, as if not to spook him, chest heaving. “But you shouldn’t drive off. It’s late and you’re angry.”

“Yeah, because you’re here.”

He swallows around that particular sting.

“I told you about Margaret and May. Look, just come inside, okay? I’ll stay out of your way.”

The other boy still looks uncertain, but his anger is draining out of him fast, the rigid line of his shoulders slumping, arms crossing over his chest in a last ditch to protect himself from whatever phantoms Tony is seeing in Peter.

A little heartbroken by the sight, Peter croaks out, “Please.”

Tony’s face falls before the impassive, drawn expression returns.

“I’m - I wasn’t going to hit you. I’m not like that.”

“I know.”

“You’re shaking.”

“I’m cold.”

“You’re - I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, just -” he sighs, dipping his gaze to meet Tony’s. “Let’s go in. Foods still warm.”

Tony keeps his stare affixed to the ground for a long moment that has Peter waiting with bated breath, still outwardly appearing unsure and on edge, like the slightest misstep would startle him into racing off like the other day.

“Did Peggy make her pecan pie?” he then asks, very quietly, as soft spoken as Peter has ever heard him, arms unravelling to tuck his hands into his jean pockets.

“Yeah,” he smiles encouragingly when Tony finally looks at him. “It’s good, right?”

“The best.”

“So, you coming?”

“Okay…” he says, exhaling through his nose. “I’ll stay for pie.”

“I can’t think of a better reason to be here.”

“The company does leave much to be desired,” Tony nods agreeably, but there is no heat or sting in his words.

Their sides brush on the way in and Peter thinks, backwards and forwards, push and pull.

“Peter?”

He pauses before the front door, startled by the use of his first name.

“Yeah?”

For a second it looks like Tony is going to apologise again. But in the end he shakes his head, face closing off.

“Forget it. Let’s go in.”

----

Inside, Ed and Tony exchange some hushed words in the living room, while the remaining occupants talk idly about the spread, as if perfectly cooked green beans were the most interesting thing of the night.

When Tony re-enters with Jarvis, his demeanour a still a touch skittish, eyes low, but no longer appearing like he’s bracing for a fight. No one mentions the theatrics, and, like it was a deleted scene in real life, welcome him in. There’s a flimsy attempt to cover the awkwardness that lingers, everyone still clearly a little rattled, but May is the first to rise to give Tony a hug.

Margaret makes a big show of bringing in a spare chair and providing Tony a plate with a veritable pyramid of steaming meat and sides, taking his face in her hands and kissing his cheek.

And Peter sits there, awkwardly sipping his water far too frequently to be considered normal, trying to appear as unassuming as possible, and staring at the print of Caillebotte’s Rainy Day on the opposing wall, as if it were the most fascinating thing this night.

With a similar air of queer ineptitude, Tony seats himself at the table, settling in tightly next to Jarvis. As soon as he is seated, Friday immediately startles him by leaping upon his lap, tail flicking his face.

“You brought the literal embodiment of bad luck to the lake house,” Tony says. “That explains everything.”

It’s enough to break the air of tension in the room as the adults laugh and Tony breaks out into the first genuine smile of the night, dropping his fork so he can scratch Friday under her chin.

“Well, this is such a surprise,” May comments lightly, though looks genuinely pleased to see the other boy. “How do you guys know each other?”

Tony and Ed speak at the same time.

“They used to work with my dad,” says Tony.

“Tony works afternoons at the garage,” says Ed.

A beat of silence follows.

“They used to work for my dad and we kept in touch. Jarvis lets me work for him after school,” Tony corrects.

Peter blinks, a little floored by this revelation, mind rapidly connecting the dots. Not only did they know each other, but Tony had a job?

Torn between being confused and oddly delighted, he recalls suddenly each and every time that Tony was antsy to leave after school, about his ‘priorities’, he was just trying to get to work. Like a real job with money and taxes and responsibility. Holy shit.

Without voicing it, he queries what on earth a trust fund baby like Tony is doing working a blue collar job, certainly not for a lack of money, and certainly not because it was a quaint after-school activity.

But then Peter takes stock of his face - recalling all the injuries he has ever seen him with and he suddenly understands.

At once he feels very ashamed, and very sick.

From the corner of his eye he assesses Tony, eating slowly with one hand. Indulging Friday with the other, and Peter comes to understand that he’s either assumed too much about Tony or, given all the evidence, assumed too little.

“I didn’t know you two knew each other,” Jarvis tops up his glass of wine, peering curiously between the boys.

May explains, when neither of them speak up. “They go to school together. They’re friends.”

She utters the last part with marked uncertainty, evidently the scene from earlier still on her mind. Peter understands. Tony’s anger and fear play over in his mind too, not just from this evening. With a sinking heart he recalls the night at the party, remembers drunkenly accusing Tony of getting into fights on purpose, that he would openly indulge in being violence. And Tony, nonchalant, not reacting at all like Peter would have. Took him home and took care of him.

He feels like the biggest piece of shit in the world.

Has a difficult family arrangement and needs a bit of respite.

“I didn’t know you had a job,” Peter says delicately, swallowing down the bile in his throat. “That’s cool.”

Tony shrugs, sneaking Friday tiny cat-size morsels of food from his plate, getting flicked in the face with her tail as a reward. He doesn’t offer anything other than forced, casual nonchalance, despite seeming so tightly spun he could snap without a moment's notice.

“Peter said you were good with cars, that you restored yours,” May mentions, salting her potatoes, missing the surprised look Tony sends the both of them. “Makes sense.”

“He’s a natural,” Ed beams proudly at his employee. “An absolute genius.”

“Told you,” Tony looks up from under his lashes and smirks at Peter, addressing him directly. Genius, he mouths, pointing at himself with his knife like an idiot.

Which is apt when Peter mouths back the word idiot at him.

“That’s perfect,” May says, clapping her nephew on the shoulder, shaking him a little as if to rouse some enthusiasm. “Maybe you can diagnose the Volvo. You’re staying for the weekend, right, Tony?”

“Oh, no I’m not - I don’t want to intrude on -”

“Nonsense, you didn’t come all this way for one meal and I’m not having you drive back in the dark,” Margaret cuts in, her voice stern, her eyes knowing. “Stay the weekend, darling.”

“You’re having family time.”

“Stay,” May reaches over from where she sits opposite Tony, briefly gripping over his hands with hers. “It’s no bother to us, right, Pete?”

The entire table falls silent and the weight of several stares fall heavily on him, almost oppressively, but he’s only looking at Tony, trying to gauge his reaction. He’s met with an air of casual indifference, but the line of his lips is thin, and he’s stopped stroking a disgruntled Friday.

Risking a sonic boom, Peter kicks him under the table, testing his reaction. He smiles when Tony’s expression goes from cautious to irate, eyes finally flickering with something more familiar, and he deservedly gets kicked sharply on his shin in return.

It hurts, but also floods him with relief.

“Fine by me.”

As if he was ever going to say anything else.

----

After dinner May and Peter corral their hosts into relaxing by the fire while they attend to the clean up, hushing any protests to the contrary with tried-and-true Parker stubbornness. Once they were sure the hosts were situated in front of the old TV they’d set to disposing of the scraps and cleaning the plates by hand. This, at least, feels like something familiar, something he knows how to do without fear of stepping on a landmine.

They work efficiently like they do at home, May scrubbing and Peter drying and returning the cutlery and dishes to their rightful place. It’s the least they can do for the hospitality they’ve been provided.

“It’s such a weird coincidence,” May says lightly, passing him a freshly washed gravy boat. Peter accepts, swapping to the drier end of his kitchen towel and swiping away at the porcelain. “Tony, I mean.”

“I know.” He shakes his head, a huff emitting from his nose, echoing the same sentiment. “Small freakin’ world, right?”

“Do you think he’s okay? With the whole,” she gestures to her face worriedly with a soapy hand. “You know, at home? Should I call somebody?”

“I don’t know,” he answers honestly. “He doesn’t tell me those kinds of things.”

“I just mean, I thought - You were - you’re, y’know...”

He accepts a dripping plate, still hot from the running water. It scalds his fingertips upon contact and he nearly drops it before securing his grip, lowering it to the sink. “I’m what?”

“Y'know,” she hedges, voice deliberately light in a way that puts Peter on edge. “Dating.”

“What?” He hisses, staring at her. “No, we are not dating. Why would you even think that?”

“It would be okay if you were, you can tell me --”

“We’re not,” he pauses his drying to look her in the eye, mortification surely written all over his face, heard in the suddenness in which he stacks the plates. “We don’t even like each other like that. That’s not what this is.”

“I’m just saying if it was, it would be okay with me -” “- oh my god, you did this with Ned, stop -”

“- it’s just you two seem awfully close.”

“We’re not close. It’s not a thing.”

“Well, no need to sneak if it was.”

“It isn’t.”

“Okay,” she turns off the tap, shaking her hands over the sink to rid the excess water. “I just never know. You’re awful good at keeping secrets these days.”

“Wonder where I learned that from,” he mutters, hastily drying the last plate, placing it back in its cabinet a little roughly.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” he gives his best try at a smile, wiping his hands on his jeans and backing out of the kitchen. “I’ll see you in a bit, okay, just getting some fresh air.”

She stops him, gently grabbing him by the sweater.

“Just let him know he’s welcome, okay. I think he needs to hear it from you.”

----

It was a gentle stomp out the front door that brought him to the porch, a willingness to find calm in the stillness of the night, in the serenity of their surrounds, the chirp of crickets, the opportunity to see the stars, bright, crisp and speckled, like paint splatters against black paper, an inverse connect-the-dots.

A lot of people tell Peter the stars make them feel small, reminding them that they are just tiny specks in a gargantuan, ever-sprawling universe. But for him it’s the opposite, when he’s lucky enough to have a view of the night sky like this, he feels bigger, connected to the universe that he knows is alway there but often forgets. It’s a moment to marvel at the stars dying before him and revere them light years too late.

Perched on the top step and illuminated under the porch light, Tony has a burning cigarette between his fingers and, judging by the headphones over his ears, hasn’t noticed Peter’s presence. He’s not looking up at the stars like Peter has been, instead he stares out at the inky lake.

The yellow light does nothing to improve the discolouration on Tony’s skin, casting shadows over the contours of his face, he tries to not stare as he sits on the step beside him, careful and slow as to not spook the other boy.

They sit in relative silence together, Peter peering up at the round full moon as he digests the day, this arduously long day. It seems terribly wild that it was only twelve hours ago he was sharing pretzels with May and resigning himself to a delightfully boring, uneventful weekend with his aunt and people that he used to know, playing scrabble and skipping stones on the lake.

That was the plan, of course, before Tony blustered in like the thunderstorm that he is, and always has been since Peter met him.

Loud, dark, hard to ignore.

Tony slips his headphones down to cradle the back of his neck and takes a drag before speaking.

“You want?” He offers the cigarette, face impassive. “You look tense.”

Peter takes the offered cigarette, staring at the lit end, the pale wisps of smoke that curl from the end. Maybe it’s the guilt swirling in his gut that makes him do it, desperate for a distraction, or maybe it’s wanting to wipe away the morose contemplation etched on Tony’s face.

Instead of bringing it to his mouth, he stubs it out on the concrete, feeling satisfied when Tony makes an indignant noise.

“Those are expensive, you know.”

Peter shrugs, popping the stub into Tony’s makeshift ashtray. “Maybe you should stop smoking. You’re going to look like a leather bag by the time you’re thirty.”

He fishes another smoke from his pocket, lighting it and taking a deep drag.

“Wrong,” Tony tilts his head and exhales towards the sky. “I’m going to age like fine wine, princess.”

“You’re going to have emphysema before college,” Peter mutters, pulling the sleeves of his sweater over his hands to keep them warm, tucking his arms to his chest. It’s so cold out here and yet, at a glance and in only a shirt, Tony doesn’t even seem remotely perturbed by the biting winds.

It’s because he’s hellspawn, it’s the only reasonable explanation.

“This is fucking weird,” Tony says after a moment, “I don’t like it.”

Peter nods agreeably.

“Yep, even in New York. Six degrees of separation. Could have connected the dots if you’d mentioned your job earlier.”

“Would have, but it’s not exactly any of your business.”

Right. Because they’re not friends. They aren’t anything.

“I didn’t lie,” he says, “in there. I think it’s cool.”

“I’ll head out in the morning,” Tony offers, in lieu of responding to Peter’s faint adulations.

“Don’t be dumb,” he sighs, a little frustrated. “I don’t care that you’re here. Might be nice to have someone around my age, actually.”

“What, you think we’re gonna sing Kumbaya by the lake and tell each other ghost stories at night, or something? Thanks, but I’d rather jerk off with a potato peeler.”

“I’m not saying that. I told you I’d stay out of your way, if that’s what you really want.”

It’s disappointing to even have to say it. He thought they were getting along.

“You don’t gotta do that, it’s fine,” Tony flicks his ashes onto the steps. “Just leave me the rest of the pie and we’ll call it payment for putting up with your ass. But I draw the line at hymns by the fireside.”

Not the pie. Anything but the pie.

Peter opens his mouth to argue, but shuts it quickly, eyeing the other boy as he puts out the cigarette in the ashtray. It’s a small price to pay, isn’t it really, for all of the time Tony has fed him, to absolve some of the guilt he’s carrying like a stone. And for respite, as he himself has had a long, topsy-turvy kind of a day - but undoubtedly not as onerous and difficult as Tony’s must have been. And a small price to pay to keep him here, safe.

For Margaret and Ed’s peace of mind, of course.

Also, because the mental image he’s conjured of Tony sadly eating pie all by himself is deeply amusing.

And maybe to soothe the weird ache in his chest, too.

“You really got a sweet tooth, don’t you,” he states, silently agreeing to the deal.

Tony sighs.

“You should see me on Halloween.”

----

When they head back inside only Peggy and his aunt are still awake, though looking far closer to the verge of sleep, blearily watching a Charmed rerun, bottles of beers and mixers littering the coffee table. They perk up, however, when both boys enter the living room, and maybe it’s roaring fire, or the near darkness inside, but Peter suddenly feels as tired as they appear, warm and weary all at once, like a plug has been pulled unceremoniously from the base of his spine.

Knuckling his eyes like a small child, Tony looks much the same.

“Bed time,” May croaks, her back audibly cracking upon standing. “Come on, boys.”

Peter politely averts his gaze when May draws Tony into a hug, pretends not to hear how happy she is that Tony is staying. He extends that particular pretence when his counterpart stands stock still, hands reluctantly returning the embrace seconds too late to be natural.

While May washes up, Margaret leads them to the last room at the end of the hall. It occurs to him very quickly, that he hadn’t quite factored in the math when he implored Tony to stay the weekend. Their approach turns trepidatious when he realizes that there are only three bedrooms in this house and five people; a couple, an adult, and two teenagers.

The hinges squeak horridly when Margaret opens the guest room door, revealing a double bed, a dated quilt and a musky smell revealing the extent of the rooms disuse.

“If Peter doesn’t mind you sharing,” she says, gesturing to the bed that Peter had already dumped his stuff on earlier, “or one of you can sleep on the sofa, but you’ll have to share the bathroom. There are spare blankets in the closet.”

Peter’s heart pounds as they’re left alone in the room, staring at the bed, experiencing the sort of breath-stealing trepidation one he imagines might have when the roller-coaster you’re on gets stuck mid-way through a loop.

“I can...” he clears his throat roughly, gesturing to the living room. “I wouldn’t want to make you - unless you want to sh- ”

“I’ll take the sofa, we can alternate,” Tony says with finality, already backing away, duffel slung over his shoulder.

Peter, blissfully glad that Tony cut him off before he could embarrass himself by suggesting something foolish like sharing a bed, says, “Okay, yeah.”

As a rare act of partisanship he locates the blankets and helps set up the couch, giving him one of the spare pillows from the bed.

While Tony uses the adjacent ensuite to brush his teeth and empty his toiletries, Peter waits, sitting on the edge of the bed, clutching the material between his fingers, listening to the tap water run and waiting his turn. It’s not a large bathroom and brushing their teeth together would be weird, too intimate, even though he and Ned or he and Bucky did it all the time. He and Tony aren’t friends, in fact, Peter doesn’t know where their boundaries lie anymore, especially after tonight. He supposes, for a start, that he isn’t supposed to feel electricity around friends and frenemies.

Because maybe their elbows would brush as they crowded the sink and maybe they’d meet eyes in the mirror and maybe Peter might like that and, yeah, it would be super weird for them.

When Tony emerges he’s dressed only in his shirt and boxers, jeans slung over his arm, the glow of the bathroom light on the back of his head like a fiery halo. Somehow, seeing his bare legs for the first time, the curve of his calves, his naked feet, somehow was a lot more intimate than the idea of sharing a bathroom.

“So you do have something under all that denim,” he swallows, then cringes.

“You gonna cream yourself at the sight of skin or something, Parker?” he asks on a yawn. “Hmm?”

“No. You’re just...so pasty.”

“Whatever you say. Anyway, I’m out.”

Peter calls his name without thinking and Tony pauses in the doorway, the muscles in his back tensing for a moment, as if bracing for a fight, before relaxing again.

“I,” he says, unsure what he wanted to say. Settles for, “I’m glad you’re here.”

The look that Tony sends him over his shoulder is quick, a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it flash of gratefulness, and in Peter’s imagination, reciprocated fondness. That is until Tony taps on the door frame and opens his big mouth again.

“Night, Parker, I shall rid you of my pasty legs. Try not to get the sheets sticky thinking about my bare ankles.”

Asshole.

----

“You’re up late, kid,” May says the next morning, peering amusedly at his bleary-eyes and morning-induced disgruntlement over the rim of her coffee cup.

“Couldn’t sleep, his voice is hoarse with sleep, pouring himself his own cup of coffee and sitting beside her. “I kept hearing this clicking and beeping all night. You didn’t hear it?”

She shakes her head. “Was out like a light. Maybe someone was up watching TV.”

“Yeah, maybe. Where is everyone?”

“Peggy’s and Jarvis are in Syracuse.”

“Black Friday?” Peter wonders, recalling the hauls of gifts in his younger years whenever the couple would return from their hectic, discount driven ventures.

“Yep.”

“And Tony?”

“Out front, working on the car.”

“You really put him up to work?” He asks, leaning against the counter, bringing the cup to his mouth to hide his disapproving slope of his lips. “He’s on vacation.”

May holds her free hand up in defence.

“Don’t blame me. He offered and I turned him down. He’s stubborn, that one.”

“I’m very aware of that.”

“Once you’ve finished your coffee, be a darling and take out some water for him, won’t you? I would, but,” she winces, shifting on her seat. “my back’s killing me.”

“You okay?”

“Fine,” she waves her fingers at him dismissively. “Just slept funny.”

“Do you need anything?”

She pats his cheek, smiling from ear to ear. “Maybe another biscotti, bubby, if it’s not too much trouble. Love you.”

There’s something to be read in the way that she doesn't meet his eyes to follow her statement. In his heart he knows May, knows that she is still lying despite his attempts to have adult discussions with her, in the frank and embarrassing way he’s had to open up to her when he was younger and felt frighteningly not himself - except he’s nearing adulthood now. And maybe that’s the kind of transparency he seeks from her, because that’s what adults do, don’t they, they bring down the curtain when it comes to serious things.

And of course he brings her another biscotti, and while he’s up, he does as requested, filling a glass of water in the squeaky kitchen sink and takes a muesli bar from the pantry, pocketing another one for himself.

It’s chocolate covered. Not his favorite, more of a yogurt covered oats-bar fan, but it’s the least Peter could do for Tony’s free labour.

Outside it’s chilly, fog hangs low over the lake and frost clings to the grass in tiny ice crystals. There is a family kayaking out of The Narrows, a far away blur of bright boats and hi-vis life jackets, paddles parting through the still water like hot knives into butter.

Taking a moment to breathe in the clean air, Peter marvels at just how quiet it is, compared to the city. No traffic noises, no subway nearby and no neighbours creating all kinds of racket at ungodly hours. The only apt words that Peter can think of to describe it is: still. Nothing changes here. Or everything changes here and the houses and the lake and the trees have the good grace to stay the same while the rest of the world is in constant metamorphosis.

Peter likes it here, mostly as a novelty thing, and even more so for the company. But he’s a city kid through-and-through, loves the people, the awe of the tourists, the near helter-skelter way of life. It was a reflection of the orderly chaos in his own mind.

Here, there is nowhere to run from his thoughts.

Tony is bent over the open hood of the car, an old boom box by his feet playing Don McLean, a socket wrench in hand, twisting away at the insides of the car. He looks alive, happy. In his element with his hands smeared with rust and oil, dexterous fingers at ease with the tool in his hands.

Here, there is nowhere to run from his feelings.

Because there it is again, Peter pauses, struck by the rudeness in which it blooms; that feeling from the other day.

Not butterflies. More like pushing down on a bruise.

An exquisite ache.

It radiates through his whole body, his sternum the epicentre. Without thinking, he rubs at his chest, as if it might make the ache go away, but it doesn’t. It’s always been there, locked up in a little cage behind his ribs, set free these last few weeks.

Tony turns as he’s approaching, twisting the wrench in his hand like a cowboy with a pistol.

“If it isn’t Sleeping Cootie,” he greets. “He wakes.”

His mood seems to be greatly improved from the night before, seemingly back to his usual self. Whether that’s a good night's sleep, or their surroundings or getting his hands dirty, Peter’s not sure, but he’s not complaining.

“Here,” he says, just loud enough to be heard over the radio, holding out the water and the muesli bar.

He accepts with muttered thanks and drains the whole glass back, sticking the bar in his back pocket. Peter, for some silly reason, doesn’t stop looking at Tony’s bottom lip the entire time.

The ache ebbs and flows, the closer he gets, and when he boldly presses their sides together, it’s almost completely gone and unbearably worse at the same time. And so he lingers, for a moment that stretches far longer than a passing interest in the innards of a Volvo.

Tony seems to notice.

“You know anything about cars?” he asks, pinching Peter’s side, smiling cheekily when he squirms, ticklish. “No?” he asks, dodging Peter’s protesting arms and pinching him again.

“A bit,” he elbows Tony back, their hands settling close enough on the mouth of the hood that their fingers brush. “Not much.”

“Stick around then, cotton-tail. Let me teach you a thing about radiators.”

----

Peter knows a lot about robotics. He knows a lot about computers. Cars, albeit a different species, aren’t all that different. He knows the basics.

But watching Tony explain in-depth the specific parts needed for specific models, the tools that are necessary, it’s another thing. It’s more than just soldering and nuts, bolts and pliers. Each model and make is like knowing a person. A Ford from a Peugeot, from a rear wheel to an auto transmission. It was like being a veterinarian, for big machines.

And so Peter watched as Tony explained that morning, and well into the afternoon, as enraptured as he’d ever seen him in what is evidently a deep love, flanked by the autumn trees and yellowing grades of sunlight. A memory he doesn’t think he’ll ever forget.

He shows Peter the track of water through their radiator, the leak, the speed of water versus engine output. They will need a new replacement part, he says, he can probably do it for free with Jarvis’ approval, which is so guaranteed, he assures, it’s called a discount, hello, Tony had said, but they will have to order the part in because this car is ancient and no one should drive these deathtraps -

“But in the meantime, we can put in some Chem-i-Weld, that should get plug up the leak long enough to you to the garage and we can replace it -”

Peter just nods, allowing Tony to manipulate his hands to drip coolant into the narrow opening of the radiator, the bright-green fluid dripping into the grass below when some spills over the steel mouth in their haste.

At some point Margaret and Ed return with their purchases, bringing them lunch from the diner they’d stopped at. Ed hangs around for a bit, listening to Tony’s assessment of the vehicle’s ails, nodding and immediately agreeing to the free repairs without needing to hear a pitch.

It wasn’t all that bad, he guessed, even when Tony deliberately smeared engine oil on Peter’s cheek and Peter punched his arm in retaliation.

It was kinda fun.

And maybe Peter didn’t mind so much that their shoulders brushed, when he once would have shuddered.

And maybe he didn’t squirm when Tony put his hand on the small of his back when he was pointing something out, but leaned into it.

In all honesty, it’s one of the best days he’s had in a long while. He tries not to read in too much that some of his best days lately were the ones where Tony was in it.

But of course, nothing is impermanent, and even good days go bad.

----

Some time mid afternoon, Tony heads out to an auto store in town, keen on doing a full oil change on the car, which was completely unnecessary, Peter had argued, and was told to shut the fuck up in return.

Which, fine. He could afford Tony the distraction he was in clear need of.

He heads inside then, hungry and a bit sweaty and wanting to check in on May. He feels a bit bad for having left her to her own devices all day.

It doesn’t take long to find her, she’s in the living room, fast asleep and snoring on the sofa. Margaret sits beside her on the armchair reading a newspaper, glasses perched upon her nose, bags of her purchases by her feet.

He reaches over to gently retrieve the glasses from Mays face without waking, placing them on the table. Knowing his aunt she’d probably flail in her sleep and smack herself in the face and break them. She’s done it before.

So has he.

“Poor thing has been through the gamut, hasn’t she,” Margaret mutters, without looking up. “I keep telling her to get on stronger medication.”

“For what,” he slowly rises. “What does she need medication for?”

She stares at him. “Her pain, darling.”

“What pain?”

Margaret swallows. “She hasn’t spoken about it with you.”

“No,” Peter says, “but I know something is wrong. I’ve asked. She won’t tell me.”

She sighs, dropping the newspaper to rub tiredly at the bridge of her nose, her glasses nudging up with the motion. “Right. Of course she wouldn’t. Look, Peter, it’s not my business to say, but she’s okay. Don’t fret. There’s nothing to worry about.”

“If there was nothing to worry about, why wouldn’t she tell me?”

“For the same reason you keep things from her.”

“I don't --” he stops himself. “She doesn’t think I can handle it, does she.”

“Darling, you know that’s not why.”

No, he doesn’t know that. What he knows is that May always has his prescription filled every month, always two days before he’s due to run out of meds. He knows that when things start to go south for him she cries when she thinks he’s asleep.

But he voices none of this, says instead, “I’m just gonna get some fresh air. Do you need anything?”

She doesn’t, and he can’t get out there quick enough.

----

Once, when Peter was thirteen, some jerks in his class found out that he did gymnastics. They teased him all day, called him a fruit, a fairy. That it was no wonder Piggy Parker was queer. Which wasn’t untrue, he was indeed very queer, but it wasn’t because he did gymnastics and they didn’t need to shove him against a locker for it or call him a pussy.

That was the first time that Flash ever stood up for him.

And it was the day he first thought about quitting gymnastics.

Not because he didn’t like it. But because of the way Ben looked when he picked Peter up that day, how his face twisted when he saw Peter’s black eye through the rear view mirror. And then the way he spoke to May in low tones later that night when she had gotten home from work when they thought he was sleeping.

He was good at gymnastics, and he thought he loved it. But nothing was worse than the feeling he’d had that day, something monstrously dark and twisted in words like burden and shame.

He’d always been an anxious kid. He’ll never really know if it was the result of losing his parents young, the fear of abandonment, or if that’s just the way he naturally was. There were the panic attacks, the social anxiety, the waking up in the middle of the night so sure the world was ending.

And now this.

He didn’t want any more pity or coddling.

The next day, on the way to school, he told Ben that he didn’t want to do gymnastics anymore. He didn’t have to tell him why. Ben already seemed to put two and two together. They argued about it. Ben said he was giving in and giving up and it doesn’t seem like he ever told May about how Peter wanted to quit because of that day, she never brought it up and he never told her.

But none more so than the day Ben died. The vehicle that would later become known as the May-Mobile was at a mechanic somewhere, something else had gone wrong with it, once again. So, keen to get Peter to gymnastics, despite his vehement protestations, Ben had borrowed a car from his work colleague, just for the afternoon.

The front passenger seatbelt hadn’t been working, it kept getting stuck and couldn’t be buckled properly, so Peter had been sitting in the backseat. At the time he was tight lipped, giving one word answers, arms crossed petulantly over his chest. He wasn’t being taken seriously. Again. He was so mad that day, he hated everyone. Wished everyone would just leave him alone.

Then they were at a stop light.

Having gently tolerated Peter’s childish indignation the entire ride, Ben had turned around in his seat, one hand on the wheel, the other steadying himself on the passenger seat to implore with Peter.

To tell Peter to just give it a shot, just keep going with it, that he shouldn’t give up what he loved for anyone --

If he hadn’t been looking away from the road, maybe he would have seen the drunk driver that crossed traffic before it plowed head-on into their car. He might have been able to avoid it.

If he hadn’t been such an ungrateful, insolent child, Ben probably would have swerved and survived.

Peter never told May about the arguing. That Ben’s death was his fault.

She had enough on her shoulders. It was enough that he knew - and it was his to live with.

So in a weird way, he kinda gets it.

Doesn’t make the jackhammering of his heart ease any though. If anything, the air in the house starts to get thinner, the occupants more intrusive to a cohesive stream of thought, even if they aren’t in the same room.

Spying his sneakers by the door, he slips them on, too eager to get out to bother with socks. foregoing socks and taking a run by the lake.

He has blisters by the time the house has disappeared in the distance, but he doesn’t stop. Not when Tony drives past him, looking at him with surprise through the window, not when he feels blood slipping down his heels, not until he’s out of breath and his feet can’t carry him anymore. Even then, the thought of going back inside makes his stomach curdle.

It’s not even that he’s mad. He isn’t.

It’s just that everything in his head, the catastrophe of it all, is too big, and the house is too small to contain it. The thought of stepping foot inside has him feeling claustrophobic.

So he walks along the dock and sits, hoping the outdoors will swallow his thoughts.

----

There was something about this lake at this time of year. The leaves of the trees flanking the water, ruddy and ocherous, the way the water was so still as if it were straight out of that Monet painting, Morning on the... something or other, he can’t remember. But if Peter sat down long enough and stayed still it felt like he became a part of the canvas. If he didn’t move he could stay, etched forever in the sublime tranquility.

But something always moved, even if he didn’t. A bird. The light sprinkle of rain rippling across the lake. Tony settling down next to him on the dock, jostling him when their shoulders brush.

“You look like a sulking pomeranian,” Tony says, apropos of nothing.

“Well, I’ve been called worse, I guess,” he says quietly, digging deep to find amusement in the comparison despite the maelstrom of thoughts, the heaviness in his chest.

Tony nudges his side. “Spill. Tell me what’s earned your scorn today.”

“You remember the letter? The one from the hospital?”

He feels, more than he sees Tony stiffen beside him, the mockery gone from his voice when he answers. “Yeah. What ended up coming from that?”

“Nothing. May insists she’s fine. Peggy knows something but won’t tell me what, but says it’s fine.”

“Could it be possible,” Tony says dryly, “that everything is fine?”

“If it was, then why wouldn’t they tell me?”

“Don’t know, princess.”

“I just wish they’d tell me so I can stop,” he points to his head and makes an explosion noise, “you know.”

“Adults,” Tony shrugs. “Can’t live with ‘em, can’t live without ‘em. Well, at least according to state law.”

He looks over to the bruising on the boy's neck, chest going tight at the sight. It must have really hurt. It must have been scary.

“You seem to know a bit about that,” he hedges.

“I guess,” Tony looks down at his hands. “Doing my best to live without one particular adult.”

Has a difficult family arrangement and needs a bit of respite.

He clears his throat, willing his nerves to settle before he says the next part, the memories of the previous night at the forefront of his mind. “I know we’re not,” he gestures between them, “y’know, and I’m not your favorite person, but If you need a place to stay, you can always stay with us.”

Stark is quiet for a long minute as he looks out to the lake.

“Thanks, but I don’t need any handouts. I can take care of myself.”

“Not saying you can’t. Is that why you work at the garage? And take money to help others cheat?”

“You know about that, huh,” Tony grins wryly, but it quickly fades, voice getting darker. “Yeah. Been saving up. And now I don’t have to ask anyone for anything.”

“You know that’s not a bad thing, right. You can ask for help.”

“I don’t need help.”

“But do you want it?”

“Just leave it,” Tony says as gentle as he’s ever heard him, as if Peter were the one who needed comforting. “I made it this far. I know what I’m doing.”

Peter twists his lips, wants to be defiant and try to give this guy hope from where it had clearly and literally been beaten out of him. But it’s not right to insert himself like he knows anything more about the situation than the glaringly obvious. Like it was with Bucky, all he can do is be there, if someone wants him there.

“I’m sorry.”

“If you’re heading into a pity party, Parker, I’m going to stop you there.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he shakes his head. “I’m sorry I just assumed that you were just some rich asshole, that you were an angry kid. That you were violent.”

“I am angry,” Tony interrupts. “I am violent.”

“You’re not.”

“I am. You don’t know me.”

Peter scoffs, shifting on the dock until his knee nudges Tony’s thigh, a small point of contact meant to keep them both grounded. He releases a breath when Tony doesn’t move.

“I know that you drove me home while I was drunk and paid for my meals when you didn’t even like me. I know you could have hurt me when you hated me, but you didn’t. You made sure I had a ride when it was raining.”

“No need to get all starry-eyed,” Tony shakes his head. “I’d clock Rogers’ stupid fucking face again if he wasn’t too chicken shit to come near me. I’m not a saint.”

“No,” Peter bumps their shoulders together. “But you are a sucker. And angry, violent people just aren’t suckers.”

“Says who.”

“Science.”

“That’s some pretty questionable science, Elle Woods.”

“How about you shut up and take my word for it?”

Tony exhales, shaking his head, a ghost of a smile on his lips.

They sit quiet and unmoving for a while, becoming still with the scenery again, becoming surreal with it, sitting long enough for the moment to process, and for Peter’s heart to stop beating so fast. But something always moves.

By the time Tony moves to light another cigarette the kayaking family are back, tiny patches of yellow in the far distance. The sun has started to get low, taking the precious few degrees of warmth with it.

This time when Tony offers his cigarette, Peter doesn’t turn him down.

“Aren’t you afraid of getting my cooties,” Peter asks dryly, accepting the cigarette, placing the filter between his fingers, inspecting it. He’s never smoked before, never thought about it, never wanted to. May would lose her damn mind if she ever got whiff of nicotine on him.

“Terrified,” Tony nods seriously. “But, in the common interest of getting you to unclench, it’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make.”

“I am unclenched,” Peter mutters, bringing the cigarette to his lips, right where Tony’s lips were before and inhaling.

Tony’s only response is to lean back on his hands to leer at his ass, no doubt to evaluate that claim, his eyebrows raised dubiously in Peter's direction when he straightens.

There’s only a split second for heat to curl pleasantly in his stomach before he inhales too quickly, smoke seizing the breath out his chest. The other boy laughs, whacking Peter on the back as he catches his breath, taking the cigarette back from his fingers.

Despite himself, a little embarrassed, Peter laughs as well, vowing not to take up that particular habit, not even when he wanted Tony to look at him like that.

“Alright, toots,” Tony says loudly, and without warning reaches over to tug the brim of Peter’s cap over his eyes. “Enough feelings for one day, I’m starting to break out in hives. Let me show you how to do an oil change.”

----

They head back to the Volvo then, Peter’s stomach growling which he ignores, his feet aching. He’s sure that these shoes must be ruined now, the blood from his heels tacky, sticking to the fabric of the insides of the sneakers. He just should have worn socks, for fucks sake.

“I hit him first,” Tony says suddenly, breaking him from his thought. “I’m not a victim. I hit him first.”

His throat is immeasurably dry when he goes to answer, even though he’s not sure of what to say. He swallows and tries to buy himself time to find the words, to be the person that a kid like Tony might need.

“He shouldn’t… he shouldn’t have hit you back.”

“Yes, he should,” Tony’s voice is like gravel. “You don’t get to hit people and not get what’s coming to you.”

He gets the acute sense that Tony isn’t talking about himself and, for once, he wisely doesn’t prod him on it, can see in the tautness of his body that he’s wound so tight the barest brush could have him snap.

“Why’d you hit him?”

“He was talking shit about my mom. He wouldn’t stop.”

“Where is your mom?”

“Cliffside.”

“Where’s that?”

From the corner of his vision he observes his profile. Tony’s lips twist derisively.

“Malibu.”

Tony is quick to change the subject from there, though the conversation is light, the gravel never really leaves his voice much as he explains the relatively simple, if not tedious ways to do a complete oil change on the car.

While Peter’s sure he’s never really going to need to know, he let’s Tony gravitate to other easy repairs, apparently while he was getting oil he’d bought a new air filter as well, and also new brake pads, but without a ramp or a hoist, the pads couldn’t be changed, but keep them in the back seat and he’ll change them when he fits in the new radiator.

Peter lets him talk and talk and talk until his voice grows hoarse and the buzzing swarm of thoughts in his head go quiet.

----

“What are you smiling about,” Jarvis asks later when Peter enters the kitchen, keen to help out with dinner. A lasagna, if the minced meat and flat pasta sheets are a sign of what's to come. He washes his hands free of all the dirt and oil before putting them to culinary use.

“Nothin’,” he treads over, taking the wooden spoon over by the sizzling pan, homemade marinara sauce underway. He dips a pinky in, tasting it. It’s far too acidic, verging on metallic, like as if it came straight from a can. “Needs sugar,” he says, scrunching his nose.

Ed leans over to taste, humming with agreement before pausing midway, sniffing his hair.

“You smell like cigarettes and grease. What on earth have you been doing all day.”

“Tony taught me how to do an oil change,” he says, spooning in a touch of sugar into the sauce.

“Did he? He’s a good lad, that one.”

Momentarily distracted by the sound of daughter, Peter pauses to sneak a glance into the adjacent living room where Tony is regaling May with some story, his expression open and comical, his gestures exaggerated and broad. She’s laughing though, snorting through her nose, which catches Tony by such surprise it sends him off too. Then, the ache is back, sharp and unexpected.

It’s like the pain he sometimes gets in his right humerus, the pain he always gets on a rainy day. He broke his arm when he was eight, falling from the still rings during gymnastics training. The ache isn’t so bad.

Peter declines to respond, lest it get back to his protege, but silently agrees.

----

Tony, it would appear, does not hold the same reservations as Peter when it comes to domestic tasks, like brushing their teeth together, if the way he barrels right on in, shoving Peter a bit when he reaches for his toothbrush, is any indication?

“Don’t you knock, asshole? What if I’d been naked?” Peter asks around the toothbrush in his mouth, a little disgruntled by the constant jostling as Tony vigorously brushes his teeth, nearly elbowing Peter in the head.

“Why would you brush your teeth naked?” Tony gives him an odd look. “Weirdo.”

“That’s not what I -” he starts, stopping himself with an annoyed, minty huff. “Nevermind. You’re such a dick.”

As he suspected, it is oddly intimate - for him anyway - the heat of Tony’s side pressed against his, their bare arms brushing. Peter pointedly looks away from the mirror and gets a rush of self consciousness, and a little vulnerability, as he rinses and spits. Wiping his mouth free of any lingering suds, he makes the mistake of looking into the mirror. There, Tony addresses his reflection.

“You done yet? I need some quality time with the crapper.”

Peter scrunches his face up, shoving Tony out of the way so he can exit, the boys snickering following behind him as he heads to the sofa for his turn that night. Friday vacates her spot on the sofa, as if sensing his need for rest, leaping on the armchair with a disgruntled purr.

It’s pretty lumpy and smells faintly like mothballs and a bit like May’s perfume. He turns on his side, body exhausted after the long day. Body exhausted, yes, but as standard, his brain doesn’t know how or when to click off. The house is too quiet.

He takes his phone out and texts Nat and MJ and asks them about their weekends, hoping desperately for an opening in which he can talk about his own.

They’re two of his most reasonable friends. While the laughter and mockery he receives isn’t entirely uncalled for, and eventually subsides over the course of the next hours, he values their opinion almost above all of their bloated circle of friends, classmates and teammates.

Call me if you need an out, MJ texts as a bookend to their conversation sometime near midnight. Seriously. My cousin Drew is here and he keeps talking about his anal fissure.

Say the word if you want a rescue, I know how to hotwire Yelena’s bike, is what Natasha sends.

He loves his friends.

He closes his eyes, thinks of Tony the next room over, and drifts, drifts away.

----

He wakes while it’s still dark, not remembering having fallen asleep.

There’s an ache in his neck, and a blanket over his shoulders that he didn’t put there himself. Odd. But then, maybe he did, he doesn’t remember falling asleep either.

Before sleep again tugs him under, he hears a faint click, clack.

----

On Saturday, Tony wakes up to the sound of Northern Cardinals tapping at his bedroom window and the occasional chirp, and quite immediately regrets not bringing ear plugs or having an extra pillow to suffocate himself with.

For some reason everyone says the red bird has a lovely song.

Tony thinks they sound like squeaky toys being stepped on.

Consciousness is a horrible thing, and as soon as his brain becomes aware that he is, in fact, conscious, there’s no going back. Because now he’s all too aware of how unfamiliar the mattress underneath him is, the scratchiness of the sheets that bind his legs and how badly he needs to pee.

It’s with his eyes half cocked that he stumbles over to the adjacent bathroom, waking incrementally. He shivers as his bare feet hit against the tiles and relieves himself, groaning deep in relief, heading into the shower after.

Lucky for him, the water is blissfully hot and lasts long enough for him to wash and to soothe his aching lower back, compounded by sleeping on the sofa the night before and being bent over the hood of a car for hours yesterday.

Once out he wraps a towel around his waist and brushes his teeth, wincing when the cut on his lip stretches a little bit with the motion. Once done, he slaps his face with cold water to wake up a little more and prays to any deity listening that someone has put on a pot of coffee for him to guzzle.

Yes, he thinks, inspecting the fading bruises around his neck, refusing to think about how they got there. What’s important is caffeine, mother-fucker. The life source. Piping hot, right down the gullet. That’s what the doctor ordered. The doctor, being Tony.

He’s so distracted by the idea that, as he turns to leave, he doesn’t notice the bathroom door being opened and walks straight into a tired looking Peter Parker.

“Holy shit, I’m sorry - “ Peter immediately apologizes, clutching a towel and a change of clothes, “I didn’t realize you were -”

It’s when Peter’s eyes not-so-subtly rove over his body that Tony quickly remembers, hair dripping droplets down his neck, that he’s half-naked and covered in a towel.

His hands fly to cover his stomach and his nipples and he gasps, pretending to be scandalised for being caught in such a state of dishabille.

“Buy me dinner first, hornbag,” he chides disapprovingly, deeply amused when Peter stumbles back, gaze averted to the ground, mumbling more apologies. Tony can’t tell if he’s shy or just exceedingly polite, but his cheeks are blooming pink and he looks as if he’s trying to melt through the floor. It’s funny.

Clearly a virgin.

“I’m just gonna...” he trails off, squeezing past Tony to get into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.

Tony places his hands on his hips and grins to himself.

Great start to the day.

----

Despite the rough, splenetic start to the weekend and the shit-show that he knows he has to go back to tomorrow, Tony is actually, surprisingly, in rather high spirits. He’s not a dweller, so, that helps.

And it’s the location. The great outdoors and all that garbage, as people say.

Maybe it’s the company as well. Parker excluded, of course.

And it’s definitely assisted the hot brew of coffee in his hands.

“You complete me,” Tony whispers over the rim of his mug, taking another sip. It’s hot, almost scalding the roof of his mouth, but it’s so freaking good, his desire positively carnal. “Hell fucking yeah, baby. Get in me, that’s it, just slide on inside.”

Jarvis, across the table, blinks at him. “Are you quite alright there, Anthony? Do you two need a moment alone?”

Tony shakes his head, taking a bigger sip.

“No, we don’t mind people watching.”

Friday enters the kitchen then, and upon spotting Tony, hurries over on her delicate paws to rub her head against his calves, her purr rumbling as she weaves through his legs like an infinity sign. He indulges her then, leaning down to scratch her tiny face with his free hand.

“Hi, stinky,” he greets, delighted when she butts her head against his palm.

Pets were the best. Not that he has any.

“Don’t feed her,” Jarvis warns, “I already gave her breakfast.”

“Sure,” Tony lies, already sneaking her a sliver of bacon from his plate.

What. He’s helpless against big, water eyes. It’s not his fault.

Speaking of, Prissy Parker is taking forever in the bathroom. By time he comes out, hair gelled perfectly into submission even though it’s mostly hidden under a Mets cap - of course this loser goes for the fucking Mets - Tony’s already on his third cup of coffee and is silently working on his ability to disassociate on command after having heard more anecdotes about May and Peggy’s college life than he ever cared to know.

“Long shower,” he whistles as Peter heads for the near depleted coffee pot. “Took my advice about not getting the sheets sticky, huh?”

“Shut the fuck up,” he says, punching Tony in he arm as he passes.

Jarvis, who had been enjoying his tea, looks up in mild alarm.

“Gee, he’s so sensitive,” he leans in to whisper.

Peter’s eyes flash over to him as he waits for a new pot to boil, a flare of anger that Tony is all too familiar with. The fire in his eyes reminds him of when they first met, when Tony turned down his offer of friendship, a brilliant, flawless augury of many moments to come.

But Tony can see the heat for what it is, just a front.

Because he knows, it’s all a mirage, isn’t it. Both of them. It makes him think of how their sides brushed yesterday while working on the car, something that would have incensed the both of them in another life, would have had them flinching as if they’d been burned. Disgusted with themselves. Each other.

Sometimes still are.

But Tony knows; a flame manifests and scorches in resoundingly different ways.

What a fucking world, he thinks, that fire and singe. He sips his scalding hot coffee again, locking eyes with Peter.

The smirk around the rim of his cup is sidelong and gleeful. What a fucking world indeed.

----

Tony doesn’t know why he does it. Doesn’t know why he does anything, really, barring the gratification he gets from succumbing to his impulses.

Maybe that’s why he does it.

Or maybe it’s because of the terse conversation he overheard between May and Peter after lunch that day. Something about pain and medication, Tony doesn’t know, he wasn’t meaning to pay attention. They were on the porch and their voices drifted in through the open door. He really was too busy kicking Peggy’s ass playing Super Smash on the dusty old Gamecube to pay attention to it.

But what he does know is that May came inside and went to go lie down in her room after and Peter didn’t come back in.

It wasn’t until he went out for a cigarette some hours later that he spotted Peter, sitting by the docks, much like he had been yesterday. He stares for a moment, trying to reconcile the figure hunched over on the dock with the person he knows Peter to be.

For all of Tony’s memories are worth, Peter has always been this annoying larger-than-life figure. But, emphasis on the annoying. From the moment they met, Tony had pegged him to be some old-money, football playing degenerate like everyone else on his team.

The moment he tried to befriend Tony two years back was jarring, infuriating, because the kid was new and had clearly sniffed out the influence where he could smell it. He’d had Barnes and Rogers on either side and although Tony wasn’t at the top of the social pyramid, his familial connections had him in the upper echelon of the so-called food chain.

That’s what he thought it was, back then.

He didn’t need to think about disdainfully slapping away Peter’s literal and metaphorical hand of friendship, it was obvious to him what value he was after and it had nothing to do with Tony.

But, the assignment taught him in many ways that his impulses and his own assumptions were categorically erroneous in this instance.

Because he didn’t have enough data to base his hypothesis on, then, just a petty first impression. How was he to know that the torn jeans and ratty hoodie weren’t a fashion statement. How was he to know that Peter was genuine, when his smile looked as practiced as everyone else's.

He’s not proud to admit that it took a real peek into his life to know that Peter wasn’t who Tony thought he was.

Turns out he really was larger than life. Tall and strong. Handsome, even with his dorky glasses and signature scowl. Super smart and modest and what Tony had thought was pandering was really just Peter giving away love like it was for free. Everything Tony wasn’t.

But right now, at the edge of that pier, Peter looked small. Scattered. Like a short gust of wind could knock him over.

Tony didn’t like that much.

And maybe that’s why he does it.

Maybe that’s what convinces him, half-burned cigarette tucked between his pursed lips, to shed his jeans and sunglasses right there on the porch, despite the frigid air. It’s the impulse, and he hasn’t ever been real good in saying no to those.

It’s definitely the urgent impulse that convinces him to set off into a run, leaping over the stairs and sprinting for the dock. Perhaps that’s what convinces him to hurdle himself over Peter’s hunched figure and cannonballs directly into the lake, knees clutched to his chest.

It’s worth it, to hear Peter shriek in surprise as the water splashes over him until he can’t hear anything.

And the look of outright indignation when Tony resurfaces?

Bliss.

“Asshole,” is all Peter says, wiping his phone free of water. He tugs his cap further over his eyes, and directs his attention back to his phone as if Tony had not just executed a perfect dive into a dirty, rotten lake.

That is not acceptable, Tony thinks.

He swims for a bit, gliding on his back, and staring at the sky. The clouds are grey and swollen, lingering overhead and threatening a deluge of something unpleasant.

“You think it’ll snow?” Tony asks, moments later.

Sullenly, Peter shrugs, attention focused on his phone.

Larger than life Peter may be, he’s still inexorable when he wants to be.

Not that he’s ever been particularly chatty with Tony even on his best days, but it’s hard to miss how he’s been growing steadily more quiet this entire weekend, giving clipped, one-word answers. And Tony’s pretty sure that the fidgety fingers and the restless legs have a lot less to do with him and more to do with whatever existential crisis a sixteen year old might have, or perhaps with his ailing aunt.

Tony tries not to take notice for all of about four seconds before he gives in. In the peak of the noon sun, Peter has abandoned his sweater, donned in only a graphic tee and jeans, slouched so low that his spine almost looks like a sagging crescent, the sleeves of his shirt riding up on his remarkably toned arms.

Oh, I do declare, Tony thinks amusedly, fanning himself in his mind.

Anyway.

Priorities.

“What’s up with you, hmm?” Tony presses, wading closer. “What's gotten stuck up that bubble-butt of yours?”

“Nothing,” says Peter, tapping away at his phone, not even acknowledging Tony’s backhanded compliment. “What are you so happy about?”

“Your misery.”

“I really hate you,” Peter mutters without feeling, putting his phone away to stare moodily out at the lake.

Well, that will just not do.

“C’mon now, chin up, frog-face. You look like you’re about two seconds away from needing to breathe into a paper bag.”

Tony’s probably not far off the mark. He saw the half empty bottle of Klonopin with Parker's name on it stashed in the bathroom cupboard. You learn something new every day with this guy.

Not that pharmaceuticals were a personality trait.

But, well.

Moving on.

“Don’t call me that.”

“You really do have your panties in a twist, don’t you,” Tony says, mostly to himself. Peter doesn’t even bristle like a snooty cat like he usually does. Just stares forlornly to the distance like he was in some indie film. It’s weird. “You know, someone who pulled one off recently isn’t usually this tense.”

Finally, Peter’s attention is firmly on him.

“I’m not tense and I pulled one off just fine.”

“Oh, did you,” Tony teases, enjoying how pink Peter’s complexion suddenly turns. “How saucy. Did you think of me and my pasty skin, hmm?” he prompts. “It was the sight of my perky breasts, wasn’t it, you little perv.”

“No,” Peter adjusts his cap, cherry-cheeked. “You’re weirdly bent on when and where I jerk it and I’m the perv?”

“I’m not bent. I just think you’re uptight and need to relax. Ergo, penis-colada.”

“I am very relaxed. Ergo, you are an idiot.”

“Oh, precious,” Tony flicks water up at him. “Come on, be honest.”

“What,” he says defensively. “If I’m uptight it’s because you deliberately wind me up.”

“In a sexy way?”

“In a ‘I’m going to disembowel you and feed you to Friday’ way.”

“We’ve talked about your sweet nothings,” he tuts. “Terrible. Zero out of ten. My dick just shrivelled in on itself to seek shelter. Look.”

He holds up a single pinky finger and wriggles it.

It has one of the possible intended effects when Peter laughs through his nose, the tight line of his shoulders easing. And this, this is what Tony has found in recent days that earns him a great deal of satisfaction - winding Peter up just the right amount when warranted, and getting him to uncoil when it’s not Tony that’s done the winding.

“C’mon, stop being such a buzzkill,” Tony implores. “We’re not at school. Could you stop being chronically constipated for a minute and have some fun.”

Peter looks at him suspiciously.

“And what happens when we go back to school?”

Well, he hasn’t considered that yet, and doesn’t really want to.

Instead, he makes a show of scanning their surroundings and appearing contrite, peering up at him through his eyelashes. He watches as Peter’s defensiveness gives way to curiosity, the tautness in his arms melting as Tony swims closer, beckoning with one hand as if he had a secret to tell.

“Don’t tell anybody,” Tony whispers, hands sneaking up to grip at Peter’s wrists, “but here’s the plan. I think we should --”

“Tony, no,” Peter realizes a second too late, already pulling on his hold, voice raised with barely restrained laughter. “Do not, stop, stop - don’t you fucking dare - ”

Then he pulls, Peter shrieks loudly before he hits the water.

“Tony!“

----

Peter emerges from the water furious, a scowl that could rival the mythical scorned, cheated out of their fate, water dripping from his eyelashes, his perfect hair a sodden mess over his face, snorting lake water inelegantly from his nose.

For his troubles, Tony gets an angry splash of gross lake water in his mouth and hands pressing down on his shoulders, pulling him under.

And Tony gets the uproar, because this lake is really not made for swimming. It’s dirty and more suited to kayaking than it is accidentally inhaling the water in any orifices, but Tony is nearly seventeen and if he wants to play around in scum and dubious bodies of water, that’s his decision, poor or otherwise.

He’s close enough to the lake floor that he can plant his feet on the rocks and thrust upward, thwarting Parker's half-hearted attempts to drown him, laughing at Peter’s put-off expression even as he fights to catch his breath.

“You are the fucking worst, I could kill you right now,” Peter says, low, with what Tony guesses is supposed to be a menacing expression as he wipes his glasses free of water with his abandoned sweater. It’s quite adorable.

He spreads his arms wide and grins.

“Do your best, baby.”

----

There’s a lot of things that Tony would never have thought he would say.

Like, for example, that peanut butter and cottage cheese on toast were a good combination.

Or that The Black Parade was the modern incarnation of Bohemian Rhapsody.

Or that Peter Parker looked strikingly handsome, wet and sputtering after being unwillingly pulled into a dirty body of water, and that having a water fight with him would constitute as a good time.

And it’s not that Tony hasn’t ever thought that he wasn’t attractive. Of course he was, with a body and a face like his, sprung to life as if it came carved from marble, it was undeniable to anyone with functional vision. But while Tony lumped him and his dumbfuck teammates and friends in one category, it never struck him just so.

“You didn’t answer my question about school,” Peter says during a truce, wading in the water, seemingly content with his new habitat.

“What, my dear, was the question?” Tony blinks, eyelashes laden with droplets, genuinely having forgotten. “Be precise.”

“What happens when we go back? Do we just... ignore each other like before?”

Tony places a hand on his own chest. “I never ignored you.”

“You were an asshole to me.”

“And you were such an angel to me,” he rolls his eyes. “What’s your point. You wanna hold hands in public or something?”

“No,” Peter flushes. “I don't know, just act like we don’t actively despise each other?”

“Don’t we? Are we friends now?”

“No.”

“You crushin’ on me?”

“No.”

“Then?”

“You don’t hate me,” Peter breathes, swimming closer. “And I don’t hate you. You know what, yes, actually. Let’s hang out. Come to the game next week. It’s against Aldrige.”

“Football?” Tony huffs amusedly, locking his eyes with Peters. “You think the path to reconciliation is in me watching a game I don’t even like played by the future, festering dregs of our society? Think again, dollface.”

“I think you think too much,” Peter says before splashing him in the face with freezing lake water.

“And I think I have better things to do on a Thursday night.”

“Like what,” Peter swims closer until they’re nearly nose to nose.

“Becoming one with my bed, cutting my toenails, crying myself to sleep,” Tony ticks off his fingers. “Literally anything that isn’t sport. If I wanted to watch a bunch of repressed angry dudes jump all over each other and hump grass I could just watch porn.”

“So, I’ll see you there?” Peter grins in that cheeky-cherub way of his.

“Are you even going to play?” Tony tries, his will faltering.

Peter had taken the brace off his wrist over the weekend, but that didn’t mean he was done being benched.

“I’ll get cleared next week. Just don’t rub one out in the bleachers if the grass humping becomes too much for you. They frown upon that.”

“For the record,” Tony says flatly, “I dislike you very, very intensely. Especially right now.”

“Feeling’s mutual, bub.”

Neither of them move, and somehow they’ve managed to gravitate disconcertingly close to one another during their back-and-forth. The fire is back in Peter’s eyes, utterly magnetic and a gust of unexpected want barrels into his body.

Tony wants so excruciatingly in that moment to bridge the gap, wants with his whole body, whether it’s to dunk him under the water or to pin him to the dock, kiss the cocky out of him. Wrap his arms around him and keep his lips and body warm from the freezing water.

God, wouldn’t they be something. All push and pull.

The want just keeps building like a score reaching crescendo until he can feel it like a suffocating pressure, right to his very fingertips, in his nails, and it just makes him want to reach out and do things he has no permission to do, even when they’re so close that he can feel Peter’s breath on his face, even though Peter’s eyes have gone dark and heated, so all that’s left to do is -

Peter’s outraged squawk when Tony splashes him again is terribly satisfying.

Not as satisfying as kissing him might be, he imagines.

But it will do.

----

Tony has learned a lot about Peter since the time they started working on their assignment, but nothing near the information he’s managed to accrue over the course of this weekend. How his nose scrunches when he sneezes, that he’s allergic to nickel, that he’s the worst type of human being: read, a morning person.

Peter fucking Parker. Really?

This guy wears punny shirts and hums the Star Wars theme as he’s studying, Tony’s been on the unfortunate receiving end of it so he really, truly has to ask himself. This dweeb?

Yeah, his heart beats in response. This fucking dweeb. What are ya gonna do about it?

If he had a Magic-8 Ball to shake it would likely land on some ambiguous and unhelpful advice.

Who the fuck knows?

----

They’re saved the disgrace of having to walk back dripping wet and half frozen into the house - while they have been dilly-dallying the day away in a cold, dirty lake, the adults have set up a bonfire between the porch and the dock, largely without their notice.

By dusk Tony is starving and accepts his pyramid-like stack of food graciously as he settles in a rickety wicker chair by the fire, diving into his helping of steak, corn on the cob and potato salad. Jarvis heartily offers a boat of mint-flavored gravy which Tony declines because he hates mint in anything that isn’t gum and even then cinnamon is clearly the superior alternative.

Once dinner is finished the marshmallows and crackers are distributed - and Tony is shit, he means shit, okay, at getting the marshmallows right, too bored to keep an eye on it, but Parker does it right nearly every time. He passes his best around the fire and keeps the few horribly charred ones to himself and that used to be something that Tony would want to sneer at him for.

Goody-two-shoes.

Now, it just makes Tony want to watch him.

Beside him, Peter shivers as the warmth of the flame starts to burn some of the chill from his skin, their clothes slowly starting to dry. It makes him think back to how May had tutted fondly at their wet appearances after they had emerged from the lake, flocking to the fire like overgrown human moths, running back into the house and emerging soon after with towels for them both, tugging Tony’s around his shoulders playfully like a scarf.

She’d been so… patient. And warm. The reprimand never came, not from anyone, despite Tony's expectations.

Now, he stares at the bonfire, idly listening to the faint music and yelling from a party at the other side of the lake, finally allowing himself to relax.

You can never be surprised by someone's actions in the heat of the moment if you’ve already tested their limits beforehand. That’s what people were. Full of variables, yes, but predictable once you knew how they responded to particular stimuli. It wasn’t a perfect methodology by any means, but at the very least Tony could count on knowing what might earn him a fist to the face with most people. Or a flinch.

It’s the first proper Thanksgiving he’s had since he stayed with the Potts two years ago. Rhodey and his parents always go to Minnesota each year to see family and last year Tony’s mom came up from California, and, well, wasn’t that was a fucking disaster.

So this? This is one of the nicest nights he’s had in a very long time.

Nobody expects him to be proper, to sit upright, to only be seen or heard if he was being useful. He wasn’t being useful. He was getting the seat wet underneath him and he planned on convincing Peggy to let him have a beer and he’s sure his unexpected presence was akin to a meteor collision on this otherwise quaint family weekend.

But no one looked at him like he should be punished, or like he was an outsider. It was like he was supposed to be there all along.

His own mom, as much as he adores her, wouldn’t be caught dead in this scene.

But still, Tony might call her later and tell her about it.

They stay out there for a while, Jarvis’ boom-box playing Cold Chisel on some local radio station, but it's just slightly not tuned right and the noise is a bit pixelated.

It’s a long time before he draws his eyes from the fire. The adults are laughing about something and Peter is on his phone again, though his features are much lighter than earlier in the day.

“Your hair is curly,” Tony observes, they’re both dry now. “Huh. I didn’t know that.”

Peter’s hand flies to his hair, running his fingers through it, chip dipped in what Tony can construe as a self-conscious habit, his low laugh short and void of genuine amusement.

“Hah, yeah,” he tugs a lock in front of his brow, pulling it straight before releasing it. “You can see why I don’t walk around like this all the time.”

“No, I don’t,” Tony says, not understanding.

Peter looks at him oddly.

“I should head to bed,” he says eventually. “We have to leave early in the morning.”

Tony doesn’t want to be out here alone and he doesn’t want this weekend to end so he nods, stands and follows him inside.

It’s good timing then. It doesn’t snow, but the sky does finally split open and it rains.

----

At first observation it seems everyone has already gone to bed. Save for the TV playing Jeopardy the house is quiet, dark and still. However both stop dead in the living room, pausing when Jarvis, asleep on the sofa, snores loudly.

They stare, transfixed, as he mumbles answers to the game show in his sleep.

Friday is curled on his chest, looking very pleased with herself.

“Right. Well, I can just,” Tony gestures to the floor after a moment, as it’s his turn for the already appropriated sofa, “the carpet is fine.”

It won’t be a comfortable night, but it can’t be any worse than the time he camped out in the cramped backseat of his car after a fight with his father.

“We can share,” Peter rolls his eyes, already heading to the room. “The bed’s pretty big, so. As long as you keep your hands to yourself.”

Tony follows with an air of casual disinterest and aims for puerile with his next words, just for the small thrill of winding Peter up.

“I’m going to tell everyone at school you propositioned me to get into your bed.”

“Shut the fuck up or sleep on the floor,” is all Peter says before he locks himself in the bathroom. Tony grins to himself.

Success.

They settle very awkwardly on either side of the bed after they’ve both had the opportunity to piss and brush their teeth, looking around each other but not really meeting eyes, flinching any time their skin nearly touches. Yes, the bed is fairly big if you’re a teenage kid and the sole occupant, but, as it were, the bed looked impossibly small now, as if it had shrunken overnight

Well, no time like the present is there. Tony’s the first to move, pulling back the sheets and climbing in. Peter’s quick to follow suit, lowering himself gingerly, shuffling awkwardly until they’re both settled on their sides, facing away from each other.

“You better keep to your side. I swear to god,” Peter says in the darkness, “if your butt or any other part of you touches me...”

“And sully my reputation as a perfect gentleman? Please.” Tony fakes a yawn. “We both know you’re the sexual deviant here.”

“You’re a moron.”

Tony smiles in the darkness.

----

It’s been twenty minutes of rigid backs, carefully measured breathing and staring at walls, glaring evidence that neither of them are asleep or even close to it.

“Can you hear that noise?” Peter whispers. “That clicking noise?” He imitates whatever his freakishly good hearing is picking up, sounding like a vaguely predatory, foot-high dinosaur, but Tony knows what he must be referring to, even though his own hearing doesn’t pick it up - or is so used to it by now it doesn’t even register.

Tony’s eyes widen as he thinks of his bot, stashed in his duffle in the closet, the zip slightly open so he can ‘breathe’.

“Nope,” he says. “Don’t hear anything.”

----

An hour later, both still very much in the same place they were before with added sighs of annoyance and the occasional cough. Sleep isn’t coming any time soon. Sleep and Tony have had regular disagreements for as long as he’s known it.

“You wanna watch Gordon Ramsay yell at people?” Tony says, turning onto his back.

“Okay.”

After fishing out his laptop, Tony has to very carefully open an entirely new window to stream an episode of Kitchen Nightmares, lest Peter see the thousand and one tabs Tony has open on his main window. Some of them benign, like google results of what does fremdschämen mean, others a little more embarrassing like the numerous PornHub tabs and the YouTube playlists of questionable reality TV shows.

Best to avoid that situation completely.

----

“It’s fuckin’ raw,” Tony does his best impression of the accent an indeterminate time later, the laptop stowed away, the room pitch-black save for the strip of light under the door and warm, sleep finally tugging him down to its dark depths.

“I’m shutting it down,” Peter imitates with vigour, laughing softly to himself.

Tony closes his eyes and allows the sandman to do his work.

----

When he wakes he notices three things.

One, is the sound of the kettle boiling, a screech of noise as it hits crescendo. The second is that it’s very cold, the heat of the fireplace not quite sufficient to reach the guest room, the snappy, waspish wind against the window a sign of the conditions outside.

The third is the warm huff of Peter’s breath on Tony’s face.

And that leads to the observation that they’ve drifted closer to each other through the night, facing one another, faces inches apart. This close, like earlier in the lake, Tony can count Peter’s eyelashes, the stipple of pale freckles upon his nose. His face is lax with sleep and his lips are parted slightly.

He’s snoring, just slightly.

Also, he fell asleep wearing his glasses.

It definitely is not endearing.

The bedside alarm clock says it’s only just past five, which would explain the tired ache around his eyes, and why Peter is dead to the world, motion behind his closed eyelids as if he was in a dream.

For some reason, the only thought that accompanies the sudden swell of emotion in his chest is, Toto, I've a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore.

There’s a warm looking flush dusted over Peter’s cheeks, and of course there is, Tony thinks, he’s gone and stolen all the blankets through the night, leaving Tony little more than a pitiful square to cover his torso. That’s why he’s shivering.

Shit-head, Tony thinks, sliding closer under the comforter, hoping to share some of Peter’s heat, desperate to go back to sleep.

Except sleep doesn’t come, it never does.

Not when Peter unconsciously shifts closer, sighing softly as his bare legs brush Tony’s, not when he gravitates like a planet in orbit, close enough that they’re sharing a pillow, lips smacking drunkenly on their combined body heat.

Not when Peter wakes some moments later, eyes opening confusedly before dimming with fondness, like maybe that was what more or less than what he had expected. The thing that annoys Tony is that he doesn’t know which - they’re so close their breath mingles, and their toes and knees brush under the blankets and it’s more intimate than friendly - so which is it, he wonders; more, or less?

“Hey,” Peter says, shifting closer until Tony can feel the soft brush of Peter’s hair against his forehead. “Morning.”

Tony’s betting on more. Peter is braver than Tony is - and this - this is.

His stomach drops, courage slipping from his grasp.

“Do you know what really annoys me about you?” Tony whispers in lieu of returning his greeting, his voice shaky and easily blamed on the lack of sleep. “What really annoys the shit out of me?”

“What,” Peter queries softly, eyes still closed.

“This,” Tony extends a finger to flatten the hairs of Peter’s ridiculous wayward eyebrow, stupidly captivated by the way that Peter leans into the touch ever so subtly, like a cat being pet.

He feels the huff of laughter over his lips before he hears it.

“My eyebrow?”

“Yes,” Tony mumbles, stroking over the hairs again to ensure they remain flat, like a normal eyebrow should be. “Why is it always like that.”

“Not sure,” his bed companion hums, careless and minute, slurred with sleep enough that Tony might not have caught if he weren’t already studying the lines of his face. “Maybe it just likes to annoy you.”

“It’s very successful in annoying me. As is every other part of you. You’re infuriating.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

To steel himself he takes a deep breath, drawing on his remaining reserves of courage as he breathes out, encouraged ever so slightly by the way Peter hasn’t yet flinched away.

Tony allows his finger to trail from Peter’s eyebrow down the slope of his nose, his skin sleep-warm and smooth. Then his finger moves to trace the curve of Peter’s cheekbone, and that’s when Peter’s eyes open.

His stare errs on soft, curious and Tony doesn’t know why he’s doing it, except that the need to touch is too great, feels drawn to him, like this is the perfect state of being, intertwined and silent. And that the way Peter shifts closer to him until their foreheads touch means maybe he feels that way too.

Curiously, always pushing boundaries, his finger trails from his cheek, to gently stroke his philtrum, and then down to the soft bow of his upper lip.

“This weird?”

“A bit.”

Ever so gently, he traces the curve of his lips, sighing when Peter’s hands come to clutch his shirt, not flinching, not looking away.

“Do you like it?”

Peter just nods, shifting even closer until the tips of their noses touch.

“Can I -” he asks, cutting himself off, letting go of Tony’s shirt to raise one of his hands until one of his fingers touch the apex of his shoulder, stroking down over his arms, the bump of his elbow and down the sharp slope of his forearm, resting at the underside of Tony’s wrist where his pulse beats fast and fierce.

They remain like that, the moment sweet and gentle in a way the two of them rarely were. Courage builds at the same time that his fear escalates, like standing at the precipice, sick with nerves but elated at the prospect of taking the leap.

He wants to lean in so badly and capture those lips with his own. Wants to climb over Peter’s body and press him down. To bite that full lower lip, to cradle his hips with his thighs and pin him down, make him gasp, beautiful and breathtaking.

“Tony,” Peter whispers, pressing his lips against his thumb. He thinks he will move it and lean in and replace it with his own lips.

But before he can there is a loud knock at the closed door.

They still, lips the barest width apart.

It’s May.

“Pete?” She raises her worried voice through the wood. “Time to wake up, kiddo. We gotta go soon.”

“Okay,” Peter calls back, still staring at Tony. After the footsteps retreat from he inhales deeply before letting the breath go and taking his hand away from Tony’s.

Neither of them move for a moment, Tony’s thumb still resting on Peter's plump lower lip, their gazes heated and locked, but then, Peter’s hand slowly slides up from his wrist, feather-light, to rest over Tony’s hand, clasping around it.

At this moment, their only point of contact were their touching foreheads, their hands and Tony’s finger on Peter's lips, but his whole body felt as if it were floating, buoyant, like being grounded and suspended in the air at the same time.

Underneath Tony’s thumb, the lips stretch into a resigned smile.

“I gotta go.”

For a moment he doesn’t let go and wishes that the universe would go his way, just for once, wishes that time would do him this one favour and stretch these seconds interminably, hit the breaks, play itself out like the movies where everything pauses.

If it did, he would shift, slide his nose against Peter’s and wait for him to give Tony a sign, or for Peter to bridge the distance. But time doesn’t work that way and the universe rarely indulges him such hedonistic impulses.

As it was, in real life, his finger drifts to stroke the sharp line of Peter’s jaw until it reaches his chin then, down his throat, just for a second he lets his touch linger, not knowing when or if he will get this chance again.

“Tony,” Peter whispers, soft.

Conceding the moment to the whims of time, Tony pulls away then, shoving down the floaty feelings. A mocking grimace crosses his face as he decides to go for push, instead of pull.

“If you lift up that blanket and hotbox me I’m going to break your nose.”

And just like that, the moment broke.

Peter snorts before sitting up, swinging his legs off the bed. “Your dirty talk needs work,” he mocks.

“You shouldn’t fart the bed, honey,” he leans up, resting on his elbow. “How’s that?”

As has become the impulse of the day Tony sneaks his free hand from under the comforter and pinches Peter’s side where he knows he’s sensitive. As predicted, Peter squirms and bats away at Tony’s offending hand and takes grip of his wrist, laughing breathily.

“I’m going to tell everyone at school to call you Farty Parker.”

Peter squeezes his wrist, thumb stroking the underside, his expression, Tony might dare say, indulgent.

“No, you’re not. You wouldn’t do that to me.”

No, he wouldn’t.

Well, maybe he’ll tell Rhodey. Then he’ll look at Peter with judgement and Peter will know what Tony told him and it will be hilarious.

Tony watches while he gets to his feet and reaches his arms over his head, back cracking with the effort. Neither of them say a thing when makes no effort to hide the way he stares appreciatively at the sliver of skin that gets exposed when his shirt rides up before he saunters to the bathroom.

He stays in the bed and listens to the sound of the shower running, the creak of the old plumbing, replaying the last few minutes in his mind. Tony was going to kiss Peter.

And Peter was going to let him.

Tony’s lips stretch to capacity.

“What are you smiling about, Mr. Stark?” Peter asks, when he returns. Something soft hits Tony in the face.

“Nothing, Mr. Parker,” he says, clutching what appears to be a forest-green hoodie, one he knows he’s seen Peter wear before, and often. It’s the same one Tony pulled the strings on to annoy Peter those weeks ago. “What’s this?”

“Collateral,” Peter replies, towelling dressed in a white shirt and jeans he slings a duffel over his shoulder, looking like James Dean, eyes roving Tony up and down. “Until I give back your jacket.”

Tony manfully waits until Peter leaves the room to bring it to his nose and breathe in.

Fuck.

----

“You come over whenever you want, sweetie,” May hugs Tony at the open front door, kissing his cheek again. “You’re welcome at any time, remember, I mean it.”

“Thanks,” he hugs her back, warmth blooming in his chest, giving her a grateful smile when she releases him.

Peter walks back slowly towards the car, waving a hand and visibly softening when he gets a wave in return. “See you tomorrow,” Peter calls back, adjusting his cap and biting his bottom lip, managing to make it sound like a promise. Cute tells, Tony thinks, those are the variables he can work with.

“So,” Jarvis says once they’ve driven off, a knowing look on his face, “that the guy?”

“Don’t look so smug.”

“I’m not smug, Anthony, I’m English.”

Tony sighs. He can’t really argue with that, can he.

What a weekend, he thinks, throwing an arm around Peggy and Jarvis, steering them to the kitchen for coffee. What a world.

For once, he can’t wait until tomorrow.

---

tagging: @bylerboyfriends @ravens-starker-stuff, @starker-rays, @ironspiderstarker, @muse-of-gods, @notfor-temporaryuse, @tabbycat1220, @sugarfreecult, @rebel13lion39, @plueschpop, @spideravocados, @jellybbunny, @booktrashme, @elfkido, @mycatislickingmybedsheets, @queerghostboyo, @disneyprincessdominatrix, @cherrygoldlove @starkerflowers@starkeristheendgame @thewolffearsher @starkersugar , @starkerforlife6969, @css1992, @parkerrbitch, @fuckmemrstark, @blankblankityblank, @ilovemoreid, @blaquedecember, @killmylonelysoul, @notfor-temporaryuse, @arvaen, @chaos-with-a-pen, @notnormallaura, @portiamarie02, @bloodymisanthropist, @ser-no-tonin, @staticwhispersinthedark

#starker #tony stark x peter parker #iron spider #starker high school au

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