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#this is just me grappling with my feelings about Tony not saying anything to Peter
aimmyarrowshigh · 5 days
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What are your top 5 Marvel movies and why?
Ughhh, this is so hard! THERE ARE SO MANY EFFING MARVEL THINGS. And there are so many that I love pretty equally but for different reasons/in different moods?
But okay. If I take the TV shows out of the equation entirely -- because my #1 Favorite Marvel Thing is WandaVision, 100% -- then I thinkkkkk arghshjsfhgsfhgjhsjfhj okay.
5. Spider-Man: No Way Home *OR* Shang-Chi and the Legend of the Ten Rings 4. The Marvels 3. Spider-Man: Far From Home 2. Captain America: Winter Soldier *OR* Black Widow 1. Ant-Man and the Wasp
I know, controversh list. A lot of Phase 4. A lot of post-Endgame. But I really like the movies that are character-driven, and I feel like these are the movies that all have pretty significant scenes outside of the main plot. Like there are scenes in all of these movies that are just... the heroes hanging out and being people, or delving into their past, or reconnecting with their families. ESPECIALLY reconnecting with their families/loved ones.
AMATW is literally about getting Janet back and reuniting Scott with the Pym/Van Dynes, CATWS is about getting Bucky back, Black Widow is about Natasha realizing that she "had two [families]" all along, The Marvels is about Monica and Carol reuniting, Shang-Chi is about the Xu family legacy, NWH just fucking breaks my heart with Peter and May. FFH is kind of an outlier on the family front, but it's very much an Irondad story, and Peter is the only thing that makes Tony interesting to me.
They're all movies that ask the hero to pick who they're going to live for, rather than who they're willing to die for, and they all get really... non-romantic answers (except Stucky, obviously, which is the most romantic ship that has ever existed in the history of Earth). They're also all movies that grapple with the idea of Legacy, which is such a big part of superhero stuff but rarely gets more than lip service.
I also feel like it probably says something about me that Ava, Bucky, and Antonia are all "the villains" of my Top 3 and those sweet babies are NOT VILLAINS AND HAVE NEVER DONE ANYTHING WRONG, EVER. SAVE THEM. GIVE THEM SOUP. AND BLANKETS. AND AUTONOMY.
And the only villain in my list who I'd say is like, Unilaterally A Bad Guy is Mysterio.
Peter successfully rehabilitates his villains in NWH, because that's who Peter is.
WenWu is just... so fucking sad and heartbroken and tragic, and like... Is WenWu's Plotline Not Just WandaVision But With Ten Rings Instead Of The Hex?
And yeah, Dar-Benn does very much attempt some genocide, but she is also trying to survive a planetary extinction and genocide, and I understand where she's coming from in her desperation, and I don't think that she's Evil. My feelings on the Kree/Skrull dichotomy in the MCU are complex and needlessly political in a way that I shan't get into because the MCU itself never will, either, so why bother.
Like, of the villains in my favorite MCU films, Ava is desperate and brainwashed, Bucky is brainwashed and desperate, Antonia is brainwashed and desperate, Dar-Benn is desperate, WenWu is desperate and brainwashed, The Sinister Six are all desperate (and some brainwashed)... the only True Baddie here is, again, Mysterio.
And like, we knew... all too well... nyuk nyuk... that Jake Gyllenhaal was bad.
IDK. These are my favorite MCU films because they have my favorite character dynamics/interactions in the MCU front and center. I love Scott and Cassie, Scott and Hope, Scott and Luis. I love Steve and Bucky, Steve and Sam, Steve and Natasha. I love Natasha and Yelena, Natasha and Alexei, Yelena and Alexei, Natasha and Milena. I love Peter and MJ, Peter and Ned (and Ned and Betty, LMAO), Peter and Tony('s legacy). I love Kamala and Carol, Carol and Monica, Monica and Kamala, and the Khan family. I love Shang-Chi and Xialing, Katy and Shang-Chi. I love Wong. I love Aunt May. I love the three Peters. I love Ned's Lola. I love Otto Octavius. I love the dynamics that boil down to "the hero loves this person enough to become a better person for them."
"The hero loves this person enough to become a hero."
They're also all kind of found family movies? Or friend-group movies, at least? IDK. I just like them.
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cagestark · 2 years
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Can I get Tony rescuing Peter from a bully because Peter refuses to fight back, and Tony patching him up in the bathroom, angry that his boyfriend is hurt yet again and Peter shares his trauma about having an abusive father figure who he doesn't want to become?
Hope this drabble works. Thank you so much for the prompt <3
Warnings: child abuse, violence.
-
“You’re angry,” Peter says. 
“I’m not.” 
“I know when you’re angry. Your mouth gets all flat. Also, you don’t talk nearly so much—talking is kind of your trademark, no offense—” Peter cuts off his own anxious rambling, sucking in a breath through his teeth when Tony presses too hard at the bleeding cut on his brow. Without thinking, he reaches up and grips Tony’s wrist to jerk the painful touch away. It takes effort to soften his touch when he feels the bones beneath Tony’s tan skin creak. He takes a deep breath and lets it out through mouth. “Look, I know you’re upset, but don’t take it out on me.” 
“You’re right,” snaps Tony, stuffing the blood paper towel into the trash can. “I shouldn’t take it out on you. Everyone else already takes everything out on you. Your dad. Flash and his club of dickheads.  When are you going to start standing up for yourself against these guys?”
“They’re just bullies. If you ignore them, they eventually get bored.” 
“They’ve been shitting all over you since eighth grade!” In the restroom up on the fourth floor by the science labs, there is no echo, nowhere for Tony’s shouts to go. Peter looks away, anything to avoid seeing the flat, fearful look in Tony’s eyes. He catches sight of himself in the mirror instead: pale skin, blood drying on his cheek from where his eyebrow had split against his own locker. Peter closes his eyes instead. “But maybe you’re right. They are getting bored. So they’re escalating. Every time you roll over and let them hurt you, they’re just going to push further and further.”
“I don’t roll over,” Peter mutters.
“Yeah, I guess rolling over would be something. You don’t do anything.”
“You don’t know anything, okay Tony?” Peter reaches out and grabs his own wad of paper towels, reaches up to stem the trickle of blood that had reappeared when he drew Tony’s hand away. It stings, but that’s not a bad thing. His teeth are clenched together so tight his jaw aches. 
“I know that I’m done playing Florence Nightingale. Don’t you get beat up enough at home?” 
That thread inside of Peter that has been winding up tighter and tighter reaches its fraying point and snaps. He is up off his perch on the sink in an instant, both hands fisted in the collar of Tony’s shirt. They grapple briefly, shoes squeaking on the linoleum before Peter gets Tony’s back up against the wall beside the paper towel dispenser. 
“You don’t know anything,” Peter shouts. He feels far away from himself, like he is somewhere deep within looking out through a distant window into Tony’s shocked expression, the wide brown eyes. “Your dad is an asshole, but he isn’t like mine. You don’t know what it feels like to come from somebody like that, to have been made by somebody like that, somebody who can hurt their own kid just for fun. You think I just roll over? You think I don’t think about taking Flash down, smashing his head against the floor until he just caves in? There’s something terrible inside of me, something—something so, so angry—and it’s just building and building and I feel like I’m a bomb that’s one clipped wire away from exploding and turning out just like him!” 
Tony reaches up to wrap his fingers around one of Peter’s trembling wrists. His face is wet, and Peter hopes it’s blood. God, let it be blood. “Pete. You’re nothing like Flash.” 
“Not him,” Peter cries. “My dad. I don’t want—I don’t want to be—”
Tony pulls them together into a crushing hug. Peter buries his face in the crook of Tony’s neck. He’s shaking so badly that it feels like Tony is the only thing holding him together. But Tony is strong, and so is his grip. He doesn’t let go even once Peter’s tears have stopped. Flush together like this, he can feel the other boy’s heartbeat. Strong, fast, but steady. 
“You’re nothing like him, kid,” Tony murmurs into his ear. “You never could be.” 
And for as long as Peter stays in Tony’s arms, he can let himself believe it. 
-
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losingmymindtonight · 5 years
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Peter struggles a lot with his memories of Tony’s death. He’s a little ashamed of how much it bothers him. He’s an Avenger, after all. Death shouldn’t leave these kinds of scars.
But it did. It had. The images of Tony slipping away, the smell of his charred skin, the way his breaths had wheezed in, out, then shuddered to a halt, arc reactor flickering into nothingness...
The memory of Tony’s hand falling limply away from Pepper’s was always playing in the back of his mind.
But most of all, he couldn’t stop replaying the fact that Tony hadn’t said anything to him. He’d just laid there, still and silent. Peter hadn’t gotten any last words, final comforts. All he’d gotten was hazy eyes and a bucketful of trauma.
There was no escaping the memories, no running from the horror that bubbled in his throat whenever they resurfaced. And he knew he couldn’t survive like this. Maybe even more so, he knew that Tony would never want him to.
So, he goes to Pepper.
There were only two people on Earth who truly understood. Sure, Steve and the others had watched from afar, but Rhodey, Peter, and Pepper had been on the frontlines. They’d been close enough to hear his last breaths, to see the life dwindle out of Iron Man’s eyes.
He could’ve gone to either Rhodey or Pepper, of course, but he chose her because the memory of Tony’s death wasn’t the only one that he could recall with frightening clarity.
In the settling moments, the ones that came in the shockwaves of that final breath, Pepper had kissed Tony’s cheek. Peter had felt like throwing up. Rhodey had held him back, steel arms around his stomach.
“Rhodey,” Pepper had gasped, “Rhodey, let him come, now. Let him... Just let him come.”
He’d been released, and he would’ve face-planted if Pepper hadn’t twisted around to grab his arm, steadying him as he sunk to his knees in front of Tony’s body.
“Mister Stark?” He whimpered. He’d reached for Tony like a child, hands grasping helplessly just inches from his motionless chest. It was a physical call for action, a plea to be held.
Tony hadn’t answered it, was far past that, now, but Pepper had.
She had pulled him into her chest, chin resting on the crown of his head. “Shh, sweetheart. It’s alright now. It’s over. It’s... It’s all over.”
“Tony?” At any other time, he would’ve been ashamed of how cracked and desperate his voice was, of his entire reaction in general. But then, he’d been strangely detached, out of control. “Tony.”
Pepper had been the one to guide him as he tucked himself against Tony’s chest, had been the one to rub his back as he sobbed. Eventually, she’d been the one who’d rocked him while Rhodey scooped Tony into his arms, to carry him back. To carry him home.
Although the memories were hazy, he knew that she’d stayed with him once he slipped into shock, too. She’d filled the role of May, of Tony, without missing a step. And she’d done it all while struggling under the weight of a loss that even Peter couldn’t begin to comprehend.
And, sure, Pepper had always been kind to him, but she’d taken more of an interest in him after... well, after. He knew it was probably only out of a lingering need to protect whatever Tony loved, but he clung to that connection all the same.
So he skips school, comes to the cabin when Morgan’s at playgroup. The conversation he needed to have wouldn’t feel right with her in the house. It would feel wrong.
As soon as the door opens, he can see Pepper’s surprise, see the reprimand on her lips, but then she takes in the look on his face, the bags underneath his eyes, and she ushers him in.
She makes him sit on the couch, offers him tea. He shakes his head, just curls into himself until she finally sits beside him.
“What do you need, Peter?” She asks, voice soft. Peter wonders if that’s why Tony fell in love with her: because her ability to gentle was good for his rough edges.
“I... I keep thinking about it.”
Pepper didn’t need clarification to at least understand the ballpark of his meaning. “Oh, Peter. It’s normal to feel the... the loss of presence in your life-”
He shakes his head. “No, no. I mean I keep thinking about it. About the.. the moment. It won’t stop playing in my head.”
“That moment that he...?”
“Yeah.”
The moment that he died.
“What bothers you about it?”
It feels like a ridiculous question at first. What bothers him about it? Well, the fact that Tony died, for one. The fact that he was just sixteen and confused and watching something horrific happen without the gravity of the moment really registering until after, until it was too late to really process it at all.
But then... but then he realizes that there was a reason behind why it bothered him so much. That despite the generic awfulness of the whole experience, there was one aspect that stung above everything else. One fact that he was constantly tangling himself up in.
“He didn’t say anything to me,” he whispers, voice breaking. “He... I don’t even think he knew that I was there.”
He would’ve comforted me. He would’ve said something stupid, smiled, cracked a joke. If he’d known I was there, he wouldn’t have acted the way he did.
He wouldn’t have just laid there.
“He knew,” Pepper murmured, and she said it like she never once doubted that it was true.
He wanted to believe it. God, he really, really wanted to believe it.
“How do you know?”
“Because I saw him recognize you, Peter. He... He wasn’t at peace until he saw your face. Didn’t you notice him look at you?”
“I... I don’t know.”
If he was being honest, he hadn’t been seeing much of anything at the time, besides the blur-wobble of unshed tears.
“He did.” Pepper tilts his chin up, the same way Tony used to, when he refused to look at him after a rough day at school or on patrol. “He looked at you like he’d be alright if that was the last thing he’d ever see. And I don’t think... I don’t think he could talk, sweetheart.”
“He talked to you.”
He hated how petulant it sounded, how childish and resentful. Of course Pepper deserved those final words. She was Tony’s wife, the mother of his child, the love of his life. What right did Peter have to resent Tony’s last gift to her?
But Pepper didn’t seem upset. She just smiled, genuine and sad. “And you heard how it sounded, didn’t you? He was trying not to scare you, Peter. At least, not anymore than he already had. You were so frightened. I think he knew that if he said anything, it would just make it harder for you to accept.”
He felt a sob threaten to crawl up his throat. When he spoke, his voice was strained with it. “He just... he used to talk so much.”
“I know. But, honey,” Pepper’s thumb swiped under cheek, caught a tear he hadn’t even known had fallen, “sometimes we don’t need to say anything to tell someone we love them.”
“Did he... Do you really think he...?”
“Loved you?” At his reluctant nod, Pepper laughed. “Peter, look outside. Half the birds, half the children, half of everyone: they’re all there because of you. Tony stitched the universe back together just so that you could live in it. If that isn’t love, what is?”
And for once, Peter didn’t really know what to say, either.
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ev-pierce-writes · 3 years
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Doll
Pairing: Bucky Barnes (Winter Soldier) x F!Reader
Words: 7.7K
Rating: Very much 18+
Warnings: P in V, oral (fem receiving), light (consensual) choking, praise, James Buchanan Barnes is a sad boy and only you can make him happy, mutual therapy over past trauma, a couple light spanks, and some sexy sparring
Note: Reader had a run-in with Hydra that gave you invisibility powers. Bucky is tasked with training you. Totally not canon, I just kept the parts I liked. Got the idea from a tiktok but I can't find it anymore oops. I'm thinking of turning it into a series of all the places you can fuck Bucky Barnes at Avengers HQ. Enjoyyyyyy....
---
"Alright, so I'm thinking absolutely the first thing you need is a suit. Because we can't have you sneaking around in clothes that give you away."
Tony Stark and Peter Parker stand before you at Avengers HQ, furiously tossing ideas back and forth, trying to come up with ways to build you the best possible suit. Last night had been...interesting, to say the least.
"Who's that?" Stark had said when you appeared all of a sudden from your room. "Come on Agent Hill, don't tell me you're taking in lost kids nowadays."
Your mother had only laughed, slightly inebriated and feeling loose because of all the drinking that was going on in your penthouse apartment. She was hosting one of those parties where too many superpowers drank too much alcohol and got a little too rowdy. "That's my daughter."
Usually, you stay away from such events, go out with friends, and avoid the house until it's all over. For the past four years, you hadn't even been in the house to need to avoid it. But now you're 22 and a recent college graduate and something about the party was drawing you in so you had emerged from your hideaway to join in the fun.
"Alright, Maria, how'd you manage to keep that one a secret?" Romanov spoke up.
Until this point, you'd remained silent, in shock at the sudden attention a group of superheroes had focused onto you. But you couldn't help yourself from responding now. You'd managed to hide away long enough. It was time to come into the open.
"I'm a ghost," you said jokingly, approaching the couch and stealing the drink your mother had been drinking to take a sip. It was strong and burned on the way down. The group laughed at your words, unaware of how true they really were.
It was then that you'd performed your little trick, the one that only a few of your closest friends had ever seen. You became invisible.
The laughter had immediately stopped. The girl who suddenly appeared out of thin air had disappeared right back into it. They could still tell where you were of course. The glass in your hand remained visible, floating in mid-air, giving away your position. And your clothes were still perceptible, not being able to change with you. But your features were otherwise undetectable, not even a shimmer revealing your face. You took another sip of the drink, liquid disappearing into an invisible mouth.
"I want her. On the team," Stark had said.
And that was it. The start of your superhero career.
"Explain again exactly how this works?" Parker asks.
You sigh and start from the beginning, again. "I can distort the absorption wavelengths of my cells so that the reflected light is in the invisible range, usually infrared."
"And how long can you hold it for?"
"About seven minutes now," you explain. "It's sort of like holding your breath. You can go underwater for a while, and you can practice holding your breath longer and longer, but eventually, you need to come up for air. Eventually, I have to 'recharge.' But I've been working on extending it."
Stark turns to one of the many holograms of his supercomputer, working with Friday to design a brand new suit to accommodate your skills. You're so engrossed in watching his process you don't even notice the shadowy figure appear in the doorway that leads to the training facilities.
"How'd you get these powers? Agent Hill isn't lacking in skill but it certainly isn't supernatural."
You knew Stark's question would come up eventually. It always did. Over time, it became easier to tell the story, but now you really don't feel like explaining fully, so you tell the short version.
"Hydra. When I was seventeen. They used me as a bargaining chip against my mom in a mission gone wrong and decided to experiment on me in the process. Left me with a lot of scars and a lot of therapy. Almost dropped out of school."
You don't remember much from the experience. But enough for it to leave lasting damage.
"Hydra?" a familiar voice asks behind you. Only now do you notice that Barnes is behind you. How long has he been watching?
You remain silent, just like you did the night before when he'd arrived late to the party, unable to speak under his gaze.
You had planned to leave not long after you joined the festivities. But when the elevator doors opened, a pair of blue eyes halted you in your path. James Buchanan Barnes, the Winter Soldier. You'd recognize those eyes anywhere. Crystal clear and icy, freezing you under their gaze. He wore a leather jacket and leather gloves, concealing his metal arm, but you knew it was there, hiding behind the layers.
Barnes had always been the one that caught your eye during your mother's briefings. His transition from the greatest warrior Hydra had to offer, and thus S.H.I.E.L.D.'s greatest enemy, to the trusted companion of Captain America and official Avengers member intrigued you. At first, he had been more of a schoolgirl crush, the little girl grappling with her new powers seeking guidance in someone who didn't even know she existed. But age had not reduced your admiration of him. Barnes' face was hard set in serious determination and his glance barely grazed over you before turning to the rest of the group. He paid you not a single ounce of attention, yet you felt dumbstruck in his presence.
But Bucky had noticed you that night. Noticed you in a way he wanted desperately to hide, so he disallowed his eyes from lingering on you. Who were you and why were you wearing pajamas at a party and how did you make them actually look good?
And not only did he notice you, but he recognized you. He wasn't sure how, but something at the back of his head buried beneath decades of blurred half-memories told him he knew you. It was a stupid thought, though. How could he know you?
From the doorway, his eyes narrow in concern, making you feel smaller than ever beneath him. How is that 5 o'clock shadow so enticing? You just want to run your fingers across--
Stark gestures at Barnes, completely ignoring his comment. "Good, you're here. Our young Agent Hill needs to get started with her training immediately. I want her in the field but she can't be going in inexperienced. Teach her the works."
It's rather bold of Stark to assume you have no combat skills. And to assume you even want to go into the field. But you follow behind Barnes in silence anyway toward the training facilities. It doesn't matter what you know and don't know. He's going to kick your ass anyway.
"Feet wider," he says, coaching you on your swing. His blue eyes have somehow darkened, and along with the faint beard, he looks positively dangerous. "Not too wide."
"I know how to punch, Barnes," you whisper under your breath. He's not meant to hear your words, but he does anyway.
"Oh yeah? Punch me then. Go for it." His voice is challenging in the way that reveals he knows he could block any swing that comes at him. But he wants to see what will happen. Your mention of Hydra loosened a memory in his brain somewhere, and though he can't quite place his finger on it, the memory told him you're anything but the kid he's treating you like. He wants to know what you really have inside you.
Your annoyance gets the best of you. You aim for his face, the way your mother taught you. And she taught you well, teaching you all the self-defense skills you might need moving through the world as a woman. But she did not teach you how to fight super soldiers. That's an entirely different world.
Unsurprisingly, Barnes predicts your move and his metal arm comes up to meet your human one, halting your punch mid-swing. His palm fully engulfs your fist, your knuckles slamming into the metal with a ringing sound.
"Fuck, that hurt," you seethe through your teeth, gripping your hand in pain. And yet, you still smile. You mean for your words to sound irritated, but they betray how much you enjoy getting a swing in. "Didn't have to do me like that, Barnes."
He ignores your pain, though secretly it pleases him to find how much force is truly behind your punch. Nothing, of course, his metal arm can't take, but strong enough. "Language, kid. Go again. And this time, try not to be so obvious."
Despite his advice, it's impossible. He predicts every one of your strikes and counters them with four times as much strength as you possess. You give him everything you have, and nothing lands.
"This would be a lot easier if you let me use my powers."
So far, Barnes has refused to let you fight invisible, not that it would have done you much good without a proper suit. But you're tired and sweaty, your hair falling from its ponytail and sticking to your face, your muscles aching and your heart beating fast. Barnes hasn't even broken a sweat.
"Unless you learn to fight without your powers, they'll do nothing more than level the playing field. You need to be at an advantage if you're going to survive."
Survive. You've done plenty of that already. You want better than survival. Barnes recognizes the look on your face, the one that expresses the desire plainly. He knows the feeling, drifting from one day to the next and wanting more than that.
His voice softens a bit. "We can call it quits for the day. Get some rest. We'll go again tomorrow."
He didn't intend to be so kind. It just sort of happened, drawn out of him by the not-so-innocent girl who still has a lot to learn but can hold her own better than most.
---
Tomorrow. Tomorrow's8 like the day before, 9 am at HQ, wait for Parker to get his ass up the elevator so Stark can begin, get sidetracked by coffee, and then finally return to the task at hand.
"Give this a shot," Stark says, handing you what looks like nothing more than a vaguely human-shaped paper suit. "Not exactly protective, but it's a new technology. Should conform to your abilities."
"You did this overnight?"
"Of course. Get changed."
The suit has little support and definitely no protection. You feel like a fingernail could rip a hole through it if you pull on it wrong, let alone a knife coming at you from an angry enemy. But it's a start. An impressive start. You stare at yourself in the mirror of the bathroom as you shift, the suit shifting along with you.
Back in the training facilities, where you know Stark and Parker will be waiting, you remain in your shifted form. They don't look up as you enter, somehow having not heard you, and instead are engaged in a heated discussion with Barnes about something you don't understand. So you creep up behind Parker, lean in, and whisper into his ear.
"I think it works."
You feel a little bad, but only for a moment. Parker jumps straight out of his skin, screaming a scream you didn't know was possible from the kid. Stark lets out a laugh as you rematerialize, and Barnes even cracks a smile at your prank.
"Yeah, yeah, I'd say so." Parker's voice quivers.
"Well, what do you think?" Stark asks.
"Very thin," you say, aware that much more is visible than you really want. "I feel like it's going to rip at any moment. And there's not a whole lot of support in this area."
You gesture vaguely at your chest, not knowing how best to explain to a group of men that a sports bra is a necessity for fighting, but knowing you have to make them aware all the same. You can feel Barnes' eyes on you, a little less polite than the others, and you find you like the way he eyes you up, a bit like a puzzle to be solved or a strategy to be devised.
"Right, right, I'll get on that. Only a prototype anyway," Stark responds nervously. "Back to work, Parker. Hill, Barnes, back to training."
Bucky tries his best not to picture what you might look like without that suit, but it leaves little to the imagination as you saunter away to change again.
And so the days move forward. You've never before been so busy or exhausted in your life. You just graduated college, which is a feat in itself, but all the training, all the work, keeps you on your toes so that by the end of the day, both your brain and your body are tired.
Still, you improve and get better at sparring Barnes, even taking him down a couple of times on your own, though you suspect he's going easy on you.
"Again." Barnes is already on his feet and helping you to yours. Today the sparring room is particularly warm, and you've long forgone your sweats for shorts and a sports bra. Barnes has lost the shirt as well, and his chest glistens with sweat beneath the fluorescent lights. Maybe it's the heat or maybe it's him, but the whole thing feels a bit dreamlike. Here you are, sparring with a man who could take you to the ground with one arm alone, and he's letting you kick his ass every once in a while.
But there's no way you can do it again. You feel destroyed by all the slamming onto the mat.
Barnes is doing his best not to be distracted as well, but those tight shorts and the top that reveals your midriff have to be on purpose. It's easy to admit to himself that he likes you, might even be attracted to you. You fight hard and relentlessly, rising to every one of his challenges and not backing down even when you're tired. You've already come a long way since that first encounter, and Barnes has come to look forward to the two hours a day you spend together in the gym. He had tried to tell himself it was the fun of having a new sparring partner, but in truth, he knows it's the determined glint in your eyes, the way you bounce on your feet in excited anticipation of the fight, the way you collapse on the mat after a hard session, chest heaving deep breaths in and out. But what he likes most is your heated gaze when he pins you to the ground, or even better, you pin him.
"Knock me down one more time and you can be done," he challenges. The familiar determination returns, though a flicker of doubt remains behind your eyes. He can tell you need encouragement. "Remember to use your size to your advantage. Don't let me get ahead of you. Keep me guessing."
You do your best. You really do. You hold your own for almost two minutes, but it's obvious you're only barely staying ahead of him. As soon as you falter, Barnes has you flat on your back on the mat without much resistance, immobilized by a knee on your thighs and his metal arm trapping your hands over your head. His free hand plants by your head and holds him up to prevent him from actually hurting you.
You gasp underneath him, trying to disguise the weird flicker of desire with breathlessness. He looks good from down here, all sweaty and dark and serious. But you're also a bit too tired to care. "I'm out, Barnes. Let me go."
Let me go. Please.
And that's when the memory returns. The full, real memory, the one that has been tickling the edges of his brain since he first saw you. You, a kid, his mission. Kidnap, don't kill. A small voice, your voice, begging. Please, let me go. What has he done?
"Fuck," he curses under his breath, standing up quickly.
"Language, Barnes," you say teasingly. But he doesn't laugh, simply exits the sparring room, abruptly leaving you, speechless and alone on the floor. What just happened?
After a moment of confused silence on the mat, you brush it off and stand, heading to your room for a shower. Stark offered you a place to stay at HQ, and you happily agreed. Though you loved being back with your mother after four years away at college, you cherish your independence. A room at HQ offered you just that.
A nice shower would certainly make you feel better after that confusing interaction. You pull on your robe and shower shoes, leaving your clothes behind so as to carry one less thing. But as you pass down the hall toward the showers, you can hear Barnes' voice drift through the slightly open door to his room.
"I remembered," he says. "It was her. I'm the reason she's--" He cuts off, appearing to be interrupted by whoever he's talking to on the phone. You pause by the open door.
"I know that's not me anymore but I'm still responsible," he continues. "I have to tell her."
Again a pause. By now it's apparent he's talking about you.
"No, Steve, we aren't a team. We aren't partners. I'm helping Tony out. I don't care if she doesn't want to work with me anymore, this is part of my redemption. I have to tell her."
The conversation seems over. You rush to the showers, not wanting Barnes to realize you were listening the whole time. Apologize, he said. Apologize for what? You've known him for a whole of four days and he's been nothing but polite to you. Cold, at first, but he warms upon acquaintance. And then he's downright sweet.
So sweet, you realize, for someone so damaged. He has every right to hate the world, and though he walks through it with a healthy dose of cynicism, he never lets that cynicism touch you. If anything, he's outright positive around you, an undeserving brat. A kid, really, though you don't like when he calls you that. You know you can be naive, positive on the verge of artificiality, and yet he never tries to burst your bubble. In fact, he seems to relish it.
The shower feels nice, but it does nothing to assuage your fears. Maybe it's you who has done something wrong? Now you're spiraling. You have to find out what's going on or it's going to drive you crazy.
You know what you have to do. You have just about seven minutes of invisibility before your shifting gives out. In those seven minutes, you can duck from the showers, sneak into Barnes' room, snoop around, and make it back to the showers unseen. Plenty of time. But you have to go nude. Now would be a great time for the suit, but no such luck. Naked it is.
Out in the hallway, all is quiet. Barnes' door is still ajar, but when you peek your head in, the room is empty.
Easy.
Where to start? His phone is a dead end, being one of those ancient flipping kinds rather than a new, high-tech smartphone. He has few personal belongings, the bed is made perfectly, and his closet contains only clothes.
The drawers of the nightstand are empty. Or nearly empty. At the back of the top drawer is unceremoniously shoved a small booklet with a pen stuck between the pages. It's worn and supple, as though held a thousand times and read a thousand more. You flip through, finding a list of names, some crossed out, others not. Your name does not appear, but something about the list tells you these are not ordinary names. These are the names of his victims, people Barnes hurt as the Winter Soldier. Your heart aches and your stomach clenches, the reminder of his past jarring against the kind demeanor you've come to know. But deep down, you know this isn't him, know he's a good man, despite it all.
You know better than most the first-hand horrors of Hydra's super-soldier experiments. Of anyone, you can relate best to the experience Barnes has been through. Your memories of that long week are blurry, but the pain remains, forever seared into your mind. You can only imagine a lifetime of that pain.
The sound of the door opening jolts you from your reverie and you close the drawer quickly. But you soon realize your mistake. Barnes would know he left the door open, would know exactly how he placed his book in the drawer, would recognize something was off. Unfortunately, you're right.
"Hello?" he calls into the darkening room. The evening is coming on fast and the sun dims to barely glimmer, casting the space in shadow despite the large windows on the south wall.
Bucky knows something is off the moment he finds your room unoccupied, having gone there with the express purpose of confronting you about his actions earlier in the afternoon. And though he has no way of truly knowing, he suspects you are now here, in this room with him, invisible to his gaze. Bucky shuts the door behind him and waits.
You're trapped. You don't have long before your powers give out; already the suffocating feeling that begs you to take a breath is coming on. And Barnes has closed the door, effectively sealing you in, as you can't open it without him knowing for sure that you're here. On top of that, you're clothingless. You've run out of options and Barnes seems to sense this. So, he waits, drawing out the moment of tension, building the suspense.
"I know you're here," he says finally, his voice soft and barely audible. "You can't hide that well. Next time, dry your feet off before you go leaving wet footprints all over the place."
Oops.
"I--" you begin, and immediately Barnes' eyes snap to where your voice originates from. "I'm sorry. I overheard your conversation with Rogers. I shouldn't have but I know it was about me."
Barnes sighs, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Yeah, you're right. I have some things to explain. Though I'd much prefer talking to you if I could see you."
You hesitate. "Only a slight problem there. I'm not wearing any clothes."
If it had been any lighter in the room you would have seen Barnes blush. Instead, you watch him pull his shirt over his head. He hands it to you blindly, the shirt off his own back, soft with wear and long enough to cover the tops of your thighs. It smells of him, salty with sweat and sweet with the scent you've come to recognize only as him. You shrug it on and shift back.
"I'm sorry," you say again, having trouble concentrating with Barnes' bare chest at your eye level. Is that an old bullet wound on his shoulder? The reminder of a knife across his stomach? You can't look away, even at the seam where man meets metal.
Barnes shakes his head. "No, I should be the one apologizing."
He pauses for a moment and tries to begin several times before finally forming a complete sentence.
"It's my fault you're like this, that Hydra tested on you. It was me who kidnapped you, it was me who followed orders, it was me who completed the mission and got you hurt. And I'm so sorry."
You're so frozen in shock that the absurdity of the situation doesn't even register. There's nothing under this shirt, no underwear, no pants, no bra. And here you are standing in the bedroom of your greatest inspiration, listening to him apologize for being the one that facilitated your kidnapping, for being responsible for all the injury, the pain, the nightmares, the isolation, the...
It all comes flooding back, the things you had forgotten, or simply chose to not remember, and one of those things is his face.
You thought you'd dealt with impact. So many hours with a therapist, and you realize all you did was suppress the feelings, not confront them. And then you break, all the anger and sadness and frustration flowing from you at once.
"You piece of shit." Your voice begins as a whisper but soon amplifies nearly to a shout. "You monster, you bastard, how could you? How could you?"
All this time you forgave him for the damage he'd done, excused it as brainwashing and manipulation from Hydra. But now that it's you he's involved, you have somewhere to direct your anger, and you take it out as a shove straight to his chest.
He didn't expect that one. The words he understood. He accepted those, accepted that you would hate him forever. But then you're pushing and hitting him with all your force. Barnes could fight back, could hold his ground. But you need this, so he lets you shove him into the wall with a newfound strength. Finally against the wall, with nowhere left to go, you turn to pummelling his chest with your fists, repeating the words over and over, how could you, how could you, how could you.
For a moment, he lets it happen. But eventually, Barnes reacts, grabbing your wrists and holding them to his chest in an attempt to calm the fury that rages inside you. Surprisingly, at his touch, you still, slumping against him once the anger is replaced with nothing but sadness. That anger, one you never truly realized you'd harbored since your capture, bled from you all at once, leaving you exhausted.
You don't notice you're crying until a soft thumb wipes a tear from your cheek. Barnes releases your hands and wraps his arms around your sobbing body, pulling you close. "I'm so sorry," he repeats in your ear, his words a whisper against the rage inside your head.
Is it hours, or only minutes, standing like that, wrapped up in him, his skin so soft against your cheek? Time has ceased to exist, melting into the nighttime that encompasses the room in near pitch-black darkness. Your breath calms, your heart rate slows, the tears dry. He's only a man, a broken, misplaced, lost man. But he's also impossibly kind to you, caring enough to train you day after day, to pick you up when you fall down, to ensure you're happy here at all times. That's the man you know and rest your cheek against and seek out for comfort in this moment, despite him being the reason for your anger. But he's not truly the reason for your anger, only an easy outlet standing right before you.
This is not how Bucky had expected this to go. Perhaps to never see you again, yes. But to hold you in his arms, certainly not. And not just hold you, but comfort you. It surprises him how much he finds he likes it. And he can't ignore the fact that you're here in his room, wearing his shirt and only his shirt. He doesn't try anything improprietous, just wraps his arms around your waist, but it's not lost on him that your supple chest is pressed against him and the delicious scent from your still wet hair is filling his brain with a flowery cloud. His stomach clenches at the thought of burying his face in that smell for the rest of the night but he pushes it aside. That's not why you're here. That's not what you want.
But your next words surprise him. You pull slightly away, tilting your splotchy face upward towards his to look him in the eye. You take a ragged breath and speak.
"I forgive you."
Bucky is taken aback. That's not why he made this confession, not to seek your forgiveness. "You don't have to do that."
"I know. But I do. And I know you think I'm just a kid--"
Barnes lets out a short laugh, cutting you off immediately. "Jesus Christ, that's not true. You're not a kid. You're smart and strong and capable. And you've seen the ugly world for its true self and choose to remain good and happy all the same. I'm not like that and that makes you wiser than I'll ever be."
He takes a deep breath, unsure if he should admit to the feelings he desperately wants to express to you. The way you're looking at him, with a mixture of hesitation and admiration, makes the words tumble from his mouth without a second thought.
"But somehow being around you makes me want to be good again. Not for my sake, but for yours."
"James, I--" You've never used his first name before, but it falls deliciously from your lips, the sound of it nearly distracting him from the finger you run across the stubble on the cleft of his chin. Nearly. He captures that hand in his own, holding it there against his face.
"You don't have to forgive me. I don't deserve it," he repeats, eyes falling shut to the feeling of your thumb pressed to the corner of his lips. He still holds you close, the other arm wrapping tight around you, and though verbally he rejected the comfort your warmth offered, his body says otherwise, desperate for the acceptance his brain refuses to give into.
"Stop punishing yourself," you whisper. For a moment, he almost feels that he could.
And when your lips find his, soft and delicate, he forgets why you're even here in the first place, forgets his guilt and your anger, forgets even to react.
His lack of response has you pulling away, worried you've done something wrong, but then he's chasing your lips with his own, leaning forward to meet you halfway, gathering you impossibly tighter to his chest. He pauses, mouth mere centimeters from yours, eyes still shut, a deep breath heaving from his chest. He wants more, wants to kiss you again in all the places that count, but he can't quite yet.
"What was that for?" The question's not an accusatory one but simply curious. Have you always looked at him in this light since day one? Has he just not noticed?
"Are you blind, Barnes?"
He laughs and shakes his head. "None of that last name shit, doll, we've moved on to a first-name basis."
But your words are enough to surge him forward, this time capturing your lips in a dominating kiss that leaves you gasping for air. He takes advantage of your open mouth and presses his tongue to yours, seeking to fill his soul with your all-consuming warmth, to wrap it around him like a cocoon of your scent. His fingers slide down your back and slip under the shirt you wear, his shirt, grasping at the bare skin of your ass, filling his hands with your supple flesh.
You moan softly under his touch, relishing in the feeling of being encompassed by someone so large and so strong. The vibranium arm, which you expected to be harshly indelicate against your relative fragility, caresses you with the same gentility of the other. The intense contact sends your heart racing like it did all the times you were pinned below him on the sparring mat. Will he pin you like that in bed? Hold you down while he fucks you within an inch of your life?
The thought rouses a heat between your legs and stirs butterflies in your tummy. You don't even know if that's where this is going, but it invades your brain anyways. You're sure Barnes can feel your racing pulse beneath his lips when he kisses your neck, sending your nerves haywire as he creeps toward the neckline of your shirt. He inhales your scent, the hot air of his breath fanning your cool skin.
Everything about this is sloppy, the wet kisses dragged across your skin, his tongue tangled with yours, your fingers tugging at the hair that brushes the nape of his neck. Even his hips against yours are messy and rough, the heat of him leaving your core feeling slick, the wetness of it rubbing between your naked thighs. And then Barnes is sliding his hands back up your body, this time under your shirt, and tugging it over your head, his lips leaving your skin just long enough to toss the item to the ground.
You expect him to keep surging forward, to lift you in his arms and take you to bed like you want him to. But he pauses instead, hands cradling the back of your head, his eyes staring intensely into yours. Or you think he's staring into your eyes.
"Are you okay? Is this okay?" His voice is full of concern but raspy with arousal all the same.
"Yes, James, yes, I need more."
"Well, I would, it's just that you've disappeared on me again." One look at your hands and you know he was looking right through you, not at you. The swirl of emotions--pleasure, arousal, timidity even--sent you shifting without your knowledge. You can't help but laugh.
"Let me see you, doll," he groans, sounding exasperated that he can't rake his gaze across your naked flesh or find all the places he wants to touch you because they're invisible.
"You first."
A heated understanding lights up his eyes, still vibrant in the darkness of the room. Slowly, he releases his grip on you, relenting to not knowing where you are in space. You take an invisible step back to get a better view of the specimen before you. With one hand, he unbuckles his belt, sliding the leather from his pants and dropping it to the floor with a thunk. And then his pants are gone and he's left in his boxers, tight against the bulging muscles of his thighs.
And other bulging things. He doesn't hide his attraction to you. But still, you do not reappear.
Bucky begins to worry you're never going to, that maybe he's taken things too for. But then, a soft finger trails across his neck and he jerks in surprise. You're tracing the plain of his chest with a feather-light touch, dipping into the indent between his collarbones, feeling along the puckered scar of a bullet wound and the long slice of a knife. He feels healed beneath your touch, but it's not enough to satisfy the insatiable hunger building in the tightness of his groin. This entire evening has been a long, drawn-out, build-up of tension, and if he doesn't release it soon, it will snap like an overstretched rubber band.
He makes his move.
Apparently, Bucky's senses are just as perceptive here as they are on the sparring mat. His metal hand shoots up and wraps around the wrist of the hand on his chest, despite being unable to see it. The other reaches out and grapples at your invisible body in the dark, somehow finding your waist. He doesn't need to see you to manage to flip you around and press your back against his chest. In your surprise, your invisibility falters, and you flicker out of your shifted form with a flustered squeak, one hand suddenly pinned between your back and Bucky's rock-hard chest.
He holds on with an iron grip and walks you toward the bed, holding you up to prevent you from tripping in your ruffled state.
"You're taking too long, doll," he mumbles into your ear, and you feel his chest rumble with the vibrations. Your free hand flies to the one around your waist, which is slowly creeping upward toward your breast to twist at the sensitive nipple. "I know you like it when I pin you on the sparring floor. I can see it in your eyes. I'll take you like that right now if you give me the word."
Fuck, you want nothing more but you can't breathe enough to get the words out, opting for nodding vigorously instead. But Bucky wants words, gently prodding you forward to get a verbal commitment out of you. He will never take you against your will again. So you manage a long, drawn-out please and suddenly you're face-first in the sheets, bent halfway at the waist, your ass grinding against the delicious bulge pressed against your aching cunt. It pleases you that he has been thinking the same wicked thoughts as you when he slams you to the mat over and over again in training.
Bucky pulls your arm out from underneath you, joining it with the other and holding them together with his metal fist at your lower back, forcing your chest further into the mattress and your ass higher in the air. There's no way for you to move, no matter how hard you try. But you don't try, won't try. Bucky has you right where you want to be.
"Tell me if it's too much," he murmurs in your ear and you breathe an affirmation. His teeth nibble suddenly at your ear lobe and you squirm, the sensation of his breath fanning your skin sending goosebumps along the trail of kisses he leaves down your spine. Somehow, you know this is only the calm before the storm, the gentle caresses of a man who's about to rearrange every organ in your body, all the way up to your heart if you aren't careful.
It doesn't matter to you that it's pitch black in the room; you wouldn't have been able to see anything with your face shoved into the comforter, even if the lights were on. But Bucky's starting to regret having left the lights off, wishing he could better see the curve of your hips, the swell of your thighs, or the bloom of his handprint on your ass when his hand comes down with a smack. He resigns to being satisfied by the mewling gasp that escapes your lips and your soft pleas to Do it again, harder.
So he does. Smack.
And then he's sinking to his knees and you can tell because he leaves a wet stripe of skin with his tongue over the globe of your ass and blows a shock of cool air across the rawness of your skin.  He replaces the sting of his hand with the bite of his teeth and then a kiss to soothe you again. The rollercoaster of sensations has you moaning against the mattress and rocking your hips toward his face and Barnes chuckles at your movement, your actions giving away the desperation you feel to have his tongue move to more sensitive places.
He is happy to oblige. You hadn't even noticed you'd been squeezing your thighs together until he slid a hand up between them, forcing them apart. It's a blessing your legs aren't doing any work to keep you up anymore because they feel like jelly under his touch. The hand between your thighs moves higher still until you feel his thumb pressed to your sensitive clit, warm and twitching with anticipation, desire coursing through your veins and dripping from your wet cunt. Your ears barely register that he's speaking, the blood is pumping so hard in your ears, but his words are exalting.
"Look at you, so wet for me." The hand around your wrists tightens just slightly. You are surprised by the extreme control he has over the cool metal fingers, and you almost wish he'd use those on you instead. And then he says, "you like it, don't you, doll, being at my mercy," and you forget all about the arm and decide it doesn't matter what hand presses down with a gentle strength on your clit as long as he doesn't stop. And he doesn't. Doesn't move, doesn't flinch or twitch or falter, just holds steady until your gasping mewls die down just enough for you to say, "yes, all for you, all for you, all..."
With those words, his thumb slips, between your slick folds into your pussy, finding the soft spongy flesh and pressing down again and you cry out with a careening moan that tapers off into a silent sob. He's taking his time, picking you apart, pulling at the laces that bind you together, and undoing them to release the tension he knows you harbor. But what about him? Is it not torture for him?
You breathe in a rough gasp, enough to squeak out a few more words. "I thought we were going too slow for you."
He laughs, he actually laughs, at your words, but relents.
"I hear you, doll."
I hear you. Oh wow. His tongue replaces his finger and you lose all coherence, able only to blubber some iteration of his name as the smooth muscle traces circles around your clit, finally allowing your orgasm to build with a steady contraction in your pelvis. Barnes moans between your legs like he's never tasted chocolate or buttercream or any of those other wondrous flavors and there's only you. And that moan sends you overboard, the vibrations diffusing down your legs and you tremble into your first orgasm. Your first orgasm.
He keeps going, riding out the waves of your high until you're crying that it's too much, James, too much and he pulls his tongue away from your oversensitized clit only to move down your legs. He's working you up again, teasing the smooth skin of your inner thigh with gentle nips and kisses until your body is craving release again, your cunt clenching around nothing but the memory of his mouth. He is deliberate in his ministrations, methodical in the way he must be with his missions. The flood of your first orgasm has dripped steadily down your thigh and he cleans you with his tongue, dragging upward along the sticky trail of your musky release until his tongue makes contact again and he pulls an orgasm from your desperate body once more.
He still hasn't released your arms.
"You know how long I've wanted to do this?" he groans, as you shudder again into the pleasure of his touch. He kisses back up the length of your spine while you twitch under him, his free hand dragging shock wave after shock wave from your cunt. It strikes you that this man is truly 106, not 26 like his body suggests, and you absentmindedly wonder if that's why he's so good at it, that he's had years to practice. And then his cock is pressing against your folds and you forget the notion halfway through thinking it. "You're so good to me doll, so good for opening up for me. Wanna feel your tight pussy around me."
You push backward, or do your best to without the employment of your arms, wanting desperately to feel him inside you. He is warm and all-encompassing and part of you thinks his cock spilling his seed inside of you would complete you like nothing else. But you know that's a bad idea and you can hear him already unwrapping a condom (where did he get that from?) and your body trembles with the anticipation. You haven't even seen him yet but you know he must be big, the way he grunts when the tip of his erection teases your entrance.
When he enters you it isn't gentle like the stroke of his tongue. It splits you open with a rough thrust, the laces of your heart fully undone and releasing you from their confinement. You choke on your own air.
And then he's releasing your arms, and before you can react, Barnes has you lifted, your back to his chest, your knees shoved roughly into the mattress so he can stand and fuck you from behind. The metal arm finds your neck and forces your head back, his lips dragging hot against your soft skin and muttering filthy praise into your ear, his hand gently on your throat to hold you there. Your hands fly to his, not to pull him away, but to convince him to squeeze, just a little bit harder. The pressure is grounding, and then the hand around your waist is trailing toward the bud of your clit and rubbing in urgent circles and you let out a silent gasp as he thrusts into you at a pace astounding for the position you're in.
You come hard, over his hand, around his cock, and for the first time Barnes falters, stunned by the intensity with which you clamp around him and if he hadn't made you come two times already he might have held out a bit longer to pull another one of those stunning orgasms from your slick cunt. But you're sagging, using him to hold you up against the exhaustion of repeated abuse so he releases, riding the wave of pleasure you started. Bucky groans out your name, surprising you with the gentleness of it on his tongue despite the rough hand around your neck.
When he releases you softly back onto the bed, you sink heavily into the mattress, feeling high on pleasure and drunk on his hands. He pulls away and shuffles around the room, and if you had had any energy left you might have complained at the loss of him but as it sits nothing will rouse you from the intense desire to simply fall asleep.
He continues to move about and then... the lights go on? You groan at the harsh treatment of your eyes as they adjust. But Barnes returns and pulls you against him and apologizes for the rude awakening.
"Sorry, doll," he mutters. "Wanted to get a better look at you." His fingers glide along your back and his face nuzzles into the top of your head, breathing into your hair as you press your forehead into his chest. Despite being exhausted himself he trails his hands all over your body, exploring the side of you that has been shoved into the sheets for the better part of the evening. You let him, although your nerves feel fried and oversensitive to touch.
"Watch what you do with those hands," you giggle as his fingertips brush over a nipple, "unless you're ready to go again."
"Already looking forward to next time?"
"You wish," you tease, but already you know for certain that there will be a next time.
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polaroid15 · 3 years
Text
The Words I Never Said
Summary: “I am a scientist, Peter. You are an experiment. It’s the natural order of things, really, that I study you.”
“You’re insane. You have to let me go.”
“I don’t think you understand, so I will try to be more clear. I own you. My research courses through your veins. Your life is my property.”
Or, Norman Osborn kidnaps Peter, and Tony will do anything to get him back.
Read on Ao3 HERE :)
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Peter knows something is wrong as soon as Happy’s ID fills his phone screen.
He’s sitting on the edge of a rooftop, legs dangling fifty feet in the air and a half eaten sandwich from Delmar’s in his hand. Not even waiting to swallow, Peter accepts the call. “Happy? What is it, what’s wrong?”
At first, he’s met with an uneasy silence. His spider sense flares uncomfortably in response. “Why do you always assume something’s wrong?” Happy asks.
“Because something always is.”
Happy sighs. “It’s Tony.”
If Peter weren’t sitting, he would have fallen. He steadies himself anyways, leaning back as the cityscape below threatens vertigo. “What? What about him? Is he okay?”
The silence again. God, it’s killing him. Peter can hear his heartbeat in his ears. “Happy,” he stresses. “Talk to me. Is he okay?”
“As far as I know, he’s fine. I got a ransom call about fifteen minutes ago. Oscorp has him.”
Peter’s head is a top spinning out of control. He drops his sandwich and stands, too upset to stay stationary. He paces on the roof with his free hand on his head. “Oscorp? Are you kidding me? What- how the hell did this happen? What does Oscorp want with Tony?”
“It’s a long story. But listen- it’s not Tony that they’re really after, kid.”
Peter stops short in his frantic pacing, his spider sense flaring once more. “What is it then?”
“They want Spider-Man. They want you in exchange for Tony’s life.”
Peter can’t breathe, all the puzzle pieces clicking into place. Oh man.
“I’ll do it,” he says, though somewhere in the promise his confidence wavers. “Do you know where in Oscorp he’s being held?”
“No- Pete. Listen to me right now. God, I shouldn’t have called. You can’t just barge in there, okay? We need to strategize. Swing to the Tower and we’ll make a plan to get him back safe without putting you at risk too.”
“He could be dead by then!” Peter argues stubbornly. He spins on his heels and sees the top of Oscorp tower, barely visible through the New York skyline. “It’s me they want.”
Happy’s voice rises, and if Peter wasn’t so hyperfocused on his mentor’s safety he would hear the man’s raw concern bleeding through. “Peter. You are not handing yourself over to Oscorp. Come to the Tower and we’ll figure out a way. There’s a better way.”
“I can’t let him die because of me,” Peter whispers, because Ben already has. No more blood. “I’m sorry Happy. I’ll be careful. I promise.”
“Peter! Don’t you dare hang up-”
But he does, his adrenaline making it almost impossible to feel the sting of guilt that follows. After tucking his phone away, Peter sprints to the edge of the roof and leaps. He free falls and fires a web, swings, and prays that he won’t be too late.
-------
“He’s not going to come. I’m terrible leverage.”
“On the contrary, Stark.”
Tony flexes his arms against his restraints and grinds his teeth together until his jaw aches. They had called Happy. Made their demands. Spider-Man, in exchange for his life.
Peter.
“Whatever you think you know, you’re wrong. I hardly know Spider-Man. I built his suit. That’s it.” A lie. God, it’s such a lie. Peter is his kid. As close to flesh and blood as he’ll ever get. “He’s not coming, so you might as well put a bullet between my eyes while you still have the upper hand.”
Tony doesn’t know the names of the men holding him, only that Norman is behind it all. There are five of them all together, each one armed with an assault rifle and military-grade vests. The ringleader, and ugly man with a pierced lip, smirks at Tony’s suggestion. “If Spider-Man is half the hero he claims to be, he’ll come.”
It leaves Tony’s mouth dry, because it’s true. Peter will do anything to keep him safe.
And it scares the hell out of him.
“The hour’s almost up,” one of the men says. “If Spidey doesn’t show soon our heads are on the line.”
“He’ll show,” sneers the man with the piercing. “Be patient.”
Tony pulls harder on his restraints, but they don’t budge. Come on, Happy. Fix this.
Five tortuous minutes pass.
The elevator dings as the doors open, spilling orange light into the dimly lit room. It’s empty and the ringleader curses, raising his rifle to his eye. “Check it out,” he orders the man to his left.
Obeying, the accomplice moves quickly towards the open elevator, his heavy footsteps making loud echoes that reverberate through Tony’s head. The anticipation is overwhelming. Please don’t be Peter. Oh God, please don’t let it be him.
The doors start to close but the man reaches out a hand to stop the movement. Tony holds his breath, hands sweating and heartbeat threatening to jump out of his neck at what lies beyond. It’s the longest second of his life.
The man looks left, right. Then up. “Holy crap!”
The sound of webbing is enough to bring tears of panic to Tony’s eyes. He digs his nails into the chair and watches in earnest as the man falls back against the floor, his entire upper body encased in webs that keep him in place.
Chaos.
Before Tony has the chance to blink, Peter is swinging out from the elevator and shooting off webs. They hit and shatter glass, and Tony ducks as gunshots start to fire. He feels a rough hand in his hair that is gone a second later, a web hitting his assailant’s face and landing him flat on his back.
More gunshots. A window erupts into thousands of fragments.
Silence.
Tony jerks up his head, dizzy with relief when his eyes land on Peter. The boy is sprinting towards him, sliding on his knees and grappling with Tony’s bindings until they snap. “Oh my god! Are you okay? Please tell me you’re okay. I’m so sorry this is all my fault and I can’t believe they fell for that elevator trick-”
“Kid!” Tony interrupts, grabbing him at the shoulders and shaking lightly. “You can’t be here!”
“But-”
“They want you, idiot! Not me.”
Peter squirms away from his grip before turning his head sharply towards the staircase, a tic Tony has come to recognize as his Peter tingle in action. “More are on their way. No time to argue. We gotta go!”
Knowing better than to object, he allows Peter to help him to his feet and stumble towards the elevator. His legs are cramped and stiff from sitting in the chair for so long, but the adrenaline of keeping Peter safe stows the pain somewhere he can’t feel it.
Behind them, the door to the staircase slams open. There’s gunshots and yells and in the crescendo of the noise, Peter pushes him forward. The force of it knocks him off balance and he slides the last couple of feet into the elevator, landing awkwardly against the back wall. Peter scrambles in moments later, his breathing ragged. “Get the door!” he screams.
Tony fights to get to his knees and slams his hand against the button for the parking garage. Bullets tear into the metal as the doors close.
They make it.
“Oh thank god,” Tony exhales, sliding down the wall. “Nice moves, kid.”
“T-Tony?” Peter stammers, his back turned. Something in his voice makes Tony’s blood run cold.
“Pete? What is it?”
Peter turns slowly, his hand pressed hard against the base of his ribcage. Tony doesn’t need to look hard to know he’s bleeding. That he got shot-
“No. Peter-” Before he can finish, Peter collapses down to his knees. Tony moves faster than ever to help soften the fall, his hands moving on instinct to cover the growing warmth on the kid’s side. “This can’t- You can’t-”
“Sorry,” Peter murmurs. “There were too many. Didn’t mean to.”
“Obviously not!”
The elevator lurches horribly, the small space going dark as they stop. Tony curses loudly as the elevator fills with soft yellow emergency lights. Under his hands, Peter laughs. It’s delirious. “They cut the power. Smart.”
“Not smart!” Tony hisses. “Now we’re trapped.”
“Don’t say that,” Peter whines. “You know I’m claustrophobic.”
“Why did you come here? What the hell were you thinking?”
Peter gapes at him, eyelids drooping. “Are you kidding me? I just saved your ass!”
“No, you’re going to get us both killed!”
“That’s not going to happen!” Peter says, struggling to get up before moaning and collapsing back. Tony’s knees are sticky with what can only be a growing pool of the boy’s blood. He tries very hard not to think about it.
Tony pushes Peter’s head back, his touch leaving tiny smudges of red under the boy’s hairline. Fix this. Fix him. “Stay down Pete. Moving around is only going to make the bleeding worse.”
“Yeah, I feel that,” Peter wheezes. His face is about a dozen shades more pale than normal. “Must’ve- must’ve hit something important.”
The dark crimson spreads. Tony is three seconds away from a panic attack. “Side wounds bleed a lot. Just try and stay awake, alright buddy?”
Peter hums, his eyes hazy as they trace the four walls keeping them captive. “I hate small spaces.”
“I know. I’m sorry. This is all such a damn mess.”
“Couldn’t leave you,” Peter slurs.
“You should’ve.”
“If it were me, you would- you would have done the same thing.”
Through the dim emergency lighting, Tony sees Peter begin to shiver. He wonders if it’s from the shock or the blood loss. Maybe it’s some sick combination of the two. Tony presses his hands down harder against the wound and Peter cries out, his eyes rolling back.
“Hey, hey. Focus up kid. Don’t go anywhere. You want to save me? Then save me. You can’t do that if you’re unconscious.”
Peter’s eyelids flutter but stay stubbornly open, his chest heaving with laboured breaths. His lips are crimson. He looks up at Tony in a daze. “Never been shot before,” he murmurs. “Ben-”
“Don’t go there,” Tony interrupts, mouth going sour. “Don’t think about it.”
“Kinda- kinda hard not too.”
God, this kid.
The stain underneath Peter grows further, pooling underneath Tony’s shins. “Think you can web the wound? It’ll- it’ll slow the bleeding. Buy us some time.”
“Time,” Peter agrees, lifting a shaky hand. “Help me.”
Together, they seal the wound closed. It saturates quickly but holds, though for how long is uncertain. His hands are free now, covered completely with Peter’s blood. It’s impossible to look away.
“Hey,” Peter says, covering Tony’s hand with his own and pushing them down. As if everything around them has slowed, Tony meets Peter’s eyes. “It’s okay. Happy is on his way-”
The elevator lurches again, the emergency lights replaced by the regular ones. Both flinch against the brightness, the gore of Peter’s wound even more vivid and launching Tony’s heart into his throat.
“This’ll be a good story one day,” Peter says breathlessly, paling further as the webbing over his side begins to leak.
“You’re not funny, kid.” His hands are shaking too badly to do anything. He prays that whoever is waiting for them at the bottom is friendly, that Happy found a way to save them.
“I mean it,” Peter says, smiling up at him. Even with blood stained teeth, Tony can’t help the rush of fondness that washes over him. “Never a dull moment.”
“God, Pete. If you only knew how many gray hairs you’ve given me-”
“Gray hair is in right now. Very trendy.”
The elevator hits its destination. Tony turns his back on Peter to face the doors head on, his arms splayed out wide to protect him. “Look, kid. Whatever happens-”
The door springs open. Too quick. A dozen men stand waiting, their weapons trained to shoot. Peter gasps behind him as he struggles to get up, and Tony sacrifices a hand to push him back gently.
“We only want Spider-Man. This doesn’t have to concern you, Stark.”
Rage, hot and consuming rises up through Tony’s chest. “If you want him, you have to go through me.”
Peter makes a low noise of protest, words seemingly beyond him. He feels the kid’s weak hand circle around his wrist, his thumb slick with blood running what should be a comforting line across his pulse point.
“Whatever you say.”
They surge forward. Tony struggles and screams but it’s hopeless. There’s too many of them. He’s wrestled away from the elevator and dragged out into the garage. “Don’t touch him!” Tony spits, too desperate to breathe. He watches in horror as they swarm Peter’s body, grabbing his limbs ungently and extracting him. It leaves a gruesome streak of red.
“NO!” Tony fights. He fights with everything he has. Because it’s Peter. It’s his kid, and it’s his own damn fault that they’re in this mess to begin with. “I’ll kill you! If you touch a hair on his head, I’ll-”
Something hard slams against his forehead, stunning him. The world goes blurry as his body loses its strength. He pitches forward and sees Peter on the brink of unconsciousness reach out for him.
He already knows they’ve lost. He reaches back anyways.
A boot slams into his temple.
And then there’s nothing.
----------
“-ony.”
“-hear me?”
“Damn it.”
Static. Darkness.
“Give him some space!”
It’s a battle to stick to reality. For now, he’s blissfully unaware, concerned only with how difficult it is to open his eyes.
“Come on, boss. Now would be a good time to show some life.”
The voice is familiar. Safe. Tony tries again to climb out of the dark hole he’s stuck in and manages, by some miracle, to regain his sight. The first thing he sees is Happy leaning over him, his face pinched in worry. “Thank God. You still got all your brains?”
“Happy?” Tony mumbles, the static still hanging heavy in his brain. “What-” he turns his head, sees an impossible amount of blood, and nearly passes right the hell back out. Peter. Oscorp. “Oh my god. P-Peter. They have Peter.”
“Take it easy,” Happy says, using both arms to help support Tony in his struggle to sit. “You took a hard hit to the head.”
“Peter was shot. They- they took him.”
“Calm down, boss. We’re going to get him back.”
“No. No, Happy you don’t understand-” Hot blood. A red hand reaching out for him. “Oh Christ. I can’t- I can’t-”
“Yes you can. You can. It’s okay.”
“It’s not okay,” Tony gasps, his eyes stinging as Happy guides his head down to hang by his knees. He can’t see the blood anymore. It helps.
“He’s a tough kid. Norman’s an idiot. We’ll have him back in no time.”
“He’s just a kid, Hap.” My kid. “This is all my fault.”
“No,” Happy says, his hand squeezing Tony’s shoulder in feeble reassurance. “I called him. If anything, it’s mine. I should’ve known he’d swing over here guns blazing.”
Head still spinning, Tony tries to focus on bringing air into his chest. You can’t help Peter like this. Get better. Breathe. “He wanted to save me.”
Happy is quiet for a long time. Then, “he did save you.”
Tony squeezes his eyes shut. “He sure has a habit of that doesn’t he?”
Beside him, Happy nods. Tony catches him looking at the elevator with a look of foreign bitterness.
“Now it’s our turn.”
---------
Peter wakes up alone.
It’s disorienting and painful, his mind clouded and his stomach tied into nauseating knots. It doesn’t take him long to remember what happened.
He’s tied down to a chair, his hands cuffed tight behind him with something strong enough to keep him in place. Vibranium, possibly. Or maybe it’s just the blood loss making him weak.
Stifling a groan, Peter rolls his head until it rests on his chest instead of hanging back. He’s not wearing his suit anymore. In its place, a pair of medical pants and a loose fitting t-shirt. Trying hard not to dwell on the invasion, he realizes his mask is gone, which doesn’t surprise him but is scary nonetheless.
They know who he is.
The shirt is bloodstained, but barely. Rather they stitched him up or his healing factor kicked in enough to close the skin. Regardless, the wound stings. Peter tries to ignore it.
Certain he’s not at risk of dropping dead, Peter expands his attention to his surroundings. Another facility, by the looks of it. The walls are white and albeit a little worn down. Old lab equipment and machinery litters the perimeter in no particular order or fashion, suggesting he’s in some kind of storage room.
He tugs on his cuffs and thinks of Tony.
He should’ve listened to Happy.
Before his thoughts can venture farther the door to the room opens. Norman Osborn fills its space and Peter shrinks away, fighting once more with his restraints. He’s alone. “Hello Peter.”
Heart beating hard against his ribs, Peter tries not to show the fear he feels. He raises his chin. “You’re a monster,” he says.
Norman chuckles like they’re good friends catching up after many years of being apart. He steps into the room and closes the door behind him. “It seems, Mr. Parker, that the only monster here is you.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Of course I do,” Norman says, “because I made you, didn’t I?”
“My powers have nothing to do with you.”
“Lying will profit you nothing.”
Peter can’t decipher between his anger and his fear, a hate he didn’t know he was capable of burning low in the center of his chest. “What do you want with me?”
Norman’s eyes light up as if he’s been waiting for Peter to ask all along. With the gait of someone at perfect ease, he strays closer and leans against an old lab table. “I am a scientist, Peter. You are an experiment. It’s the natural order of things, really, that I study you.”
“You’re insane. You have to let me go.”
“I don’t think you understand, so I will try to be more clear. I own you. My research courses through your veins. Your life is my property.”
Peter feels his walls crumbling. He strains his wrists even after he feels his skin split underneath.
“I don’t belong to anyone. You’re sick and you’ll never get away with this.”
Norman comes up beside him and backhands him so hard that Peter sees stars. It’s more shocking than painful, though his mouth fills with blood.
“You are not in the position to be disrespectful, Mr. Parker.”
Peter spits the blood in his mouth at Norman’s feet. “Tony will come for me.”
“Oh Peter,” Norman says softly. He straightens, his long shadow covering Peter’s small form. “Tony Stark is dead.”
Peter’s insides freeze. He stops breathing. Norman slips his hand into his pocket and reveals a syringe filled with clear liquid. He continues to smile, seeming to enjoy Peter’s distress. “You’re lying,” he chokes when no other words come. Because it can’t be true. He doesn’t remember a lot after the elevator had opened. Only that they had dragged Tony away from him. But he had been alive, then. Alive, not dead.
“I’m afraid not. One of my men shot him in the head when he resisted. I suppose Iron Man was not as indestructible as we thought. Now, try not to squirm.” Norman slides the needle under the skin at his neck. Peter doesn’t even feel it, his body numb with shock.
“No. No. It’s not true. It’s not-”
A wave of dizziness hits Peter hard, more powerful than when he had been bleeding out in the elevator. In an instant, all the strength in his body disappears and his head lolls back against the chair. Through tunneling vision, he sees Norman smirk. “You should’ve done a better job at protecting him,” he says.
Tony. Hot tears leak down the sides of Peter’s face. His heart is going to beat straight out of his freaking chest.
It’s the last thing he remembers.
-------
“We need to find him.”
“Tony, calm down. Let the Doctor look you over.”
Tony squirms away. He feels like he’s trapped. “No. We’re wasting time! Osborn has Peter and he’s going to kill him-”
Happy gestures for the Doctor to step away. Looking conflicted, she nods. When the door closes behind her Happy kneels in front of where Tony sits and places both hands on his shoulders. “If Osborn wanted Peter dead he wouldn’t have taken him. He would’ve just killed him at Oscorp. We’ll find him, but you need to get checked out first. You’ll be no good for Peter in the state you’re in right now, you hear me?”
Though it should be impossible, Tony manages to nod.
Obvious relief colours Happy’s face. “I’ll get the Doctor back in here. Keep breathing, boss.”
Peter. Gone. His fault.
“Right.”
----------
The drug Norman had injected into him doesn’t last long. Peter wakes up strapped to a table, a blinding light pointed directly at his face and the shadows of scientists surrounding him on all sides. They peer down at him like he’s the most fascinating thing they’ve ever seen, bloody instruments paused in their hands as he struggles to get the cotton out of his brain.
“Amazing. Awake already. Inject him again, but double the dose this time.”
“No,” Peter moans, his voice nearly inaudible. He tries to move and can’t. “P-please.”
He doesn’t feel the needle. He doesn’t feel the pain. It’s almost more scary this way.
“Sleep, Spider. Let us do our work.”
His body is weak. Tony is dead. Peter doesn’t even try to hold on.
This time, he’s out for good.
---------
Tony gets three stitches in his head. It’s uncomfortable but nothing in comparison to the heaviness in his chest.
“Any luck with Oscorp’s records FRI?”
“My system does not detect any Oscorp facilities that are unaccounted for. Facial recognition and security camera data is currently underway.”
Beside him, Happy holds his breath. They’re on thin ice and Tony is two seconds away from knocking down every building in New York. “Double time, FRI.”
It’s been three hours since he lost Peter.
Tony doesn’t let himself think the worst.
--------
Peter is back in the chair.
Every inch of him hurts, the scattered pain somehow much worse than the intense localized agony of the gunshot wound. He refuses to look down at his body, to see what Osborn has reduced him to.
I own you.
Tony Stark is dead.
This time, they’ve gagged him. When Peter cries, he can barely hear the sound to his own ears. He feels like he’s falling down a steep cliff, unable to find purchase or stop his descent. For the first time since he’d been bit, Peter sincerely wishes none of it had ever happened.
Tony is dead and Peter has no one to blame but himself. He wishes they had more time, that he had told Tony the things he’d always wanted to but never had the courage to verbalize.
His stilted sobs make his side scream in pain. Peter loses his breath.
He hopes Happy is looking for him.
But maybe he doesn’t deserve it.
--------
It’s another long hour before FRIDAY finishes her search. “Boss, I have identified three probable locations for Mr. Parker.”
His relief is a dam breaking open in his chest. “What’s the most probable?”
“Sending the coordinates to your suit now.”
It’s all he needs to hear. Metal encloses around his body and Happy sprints towards the car.
For the first time in hours Tony feels hope.
I’m coming Pete, he thinks. I’ll get you back.
No matter the cost.
--------
Peter is drifting when Norman comes back to his room, though from the drugs or the pain he isn't sure. The man drags in a chair this time and sets it in front of Peter, sitting comfortably with a manilla folder on his lap.
Without his voice, all Peter can do is glare.
“Now, now, Peter. There’s no need for such hostility.”
Go to hell, he tries to stay. It comes out as a pathetic jumble of words.
“Even gagged, you’re too mouthy for your own good. Speaking is a privilege, Mr. Parker. In time you will learn that.”
Tears well in Peter’s eyes. He blinks furiously to prevent them from falling.
“Congratulations on completing your first session. You truly are remarkable. The results my colleagues have shown me are almost too good to be true.”
Peter closes his eyes and breathes carefully through his nose. He wants this to be a dream. A horrible, terrible dream. Because if it’s a dream he can wake up. He can wake up and Tony will be alive. The pain will disappear.
“It’s funny, isn’t it?” Norman muses, “how this all came to be. A school field trip, correct? The chances are nearly impossible. It’s almost like this was meant to be.”
Peter stays perfectly still and quiet. Norman’s hand clamps around his jaw and shakes his head hard. Crying out into the gag, Peter tries to flinch away, but the man is too close. He can smell his cologne, which in reality probably costs more than Peter’s entire life. “You will look at me when I speak to you, understood?”
If Peter could spit in his face, he would. He jerks in his cuffs, his anger giving him the strength he needs for his defiance. Norman hits him for a second time. This time, in the eye. Peter has had enough experience to know it will swell.
“You’re lucky we still need you,” Norman says.
Peter glares, feeling sick enough to throw up as Norman pulls out another syringe. “Ready for round two?”
--------
The first location is a dead end. Tony checks it three times over to make sure he isn’t missing anything.
It’s been five hours.
“FRI. What’re the next coordinates?”
He doesn’t give himself the luxury to be afraid of what he might find.
--------
Peter wakes up screaming.
He doesn’t know why, at first. Only that he’s lying flat on a cold table, pinned and surrounded by strangers.
Then he feels the pain.
White hot. All consuming. Mind melting. It’s so intense that he doesn’t really comprehend where it’s coming from, or if he’ll be able to survive it. His muscles strain and stretch under the restraints, and then one of his hands breaks free all together. It lashes out, hitting the scientist closest and throwing him across the room. If Peter were more lucid he would hear the crunch of bone against the wall, or the yells of the others.
But he doesn’t.
His body clinging to freedom, his hand continues to fight desperately. He manages to hit away another scientist before three sets of hands press his arm down hard against the table. A sharp jab in his neck lets him know he’s been injected again. His limbs lose some strength, his mind fogging, but it’s not enough. Peter screams and fights. He cries.
Somewhere in the distance, a door is thrown open. Through the kaleidoscopic mess of his vision Peter sees Norman and cries harder. “S-stop-”
Norman’s hand closes around Peter’s neck and squeezes. “You don’t have a say over what happens to you. Do you understand? I own you!” He applies more pressure and Peter wonders distantly if his eyes will pop straight out of his head. “I. Own. You.”
Peter loses control over his body. His lungs stall in his chest. Only then does Norman let go, wiping his hand on his jacket. “Keep going,” he orders.
Peter is too exhausted to sob, darkness gathering around his vision. I’m going to die, he realizes.
Something hits his head hard, and he welcomes the escape with open arms.
--------
Seven hours. Tony’s tracked the three locations, all proving to be as useful as the last. His patience is slipping, his resolve shaken.
“FRI? I could really use a miracle right now.”
“Retrieving coordinates for the next location: an Oscorp storage facility in Staten Island.”
“Thanks. Send Happy the same.”
“Of course.”
Tony flies like his life depends on it. Because really, it does. If he loses Peter-
Stop, he chastises himself. Focus. It’s not over yet.
Fifteen minutes later, Tony lands hard enough to dent the cement under foot outside the storage facility. On the outside, his chances look bleak. Dark windows, no cars in the lot. “FRI, can you pick up any heat signatures?”
After a short pause, FRIDAY replies. “There are approximately ten heat signatures detected inside.”
“Oh god. Do any match Peter?”
“Yes, boss, it appears so.”
His legs turn to jelly. “Tell- tell Happy. I’m going in.”
“Sending a message to Happy Hogan.”
“Best point of entry?”
“The front door will be fine, sir.”
Tony follows FRIDAY’s prompts from the dark entrance to one of the building’s sublevels. Once close enough, he hears voices. Laughter, even. “FRI?” he whispers.
“The door to your left,” she supplies.
Tony wastes no time in blasting it off its hinges. Halted screams come from the smoking wreckage as Tony steps through. It appears to be some sort of staff room, a large group of men and women in lab coats sitting around a circular table. They stare at him with wide, disbelieving eyes.
“Spider-Man,” Tony demands. “Where the hell is he?”
No one answers. He fires a repulsor at the ceiling.
“Norman has him!” one of them yell, hands raised to shield her head. “Follow the corridor down to the end. You’ll- you’ll find him in there.”
Tony can hardly see straight in his relief. He backs out of the room, dislodging a drone from his suit to block their exit. “If any of you try to leave, this will shoot. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
He runs.
The end of the corridor.
Peter. Peter. Peter-
After confirmation from FRIDAY, Tony kicks down the door in question. His blood goes cold. Because it’s Peter- his kid- cuffed with his hands behind his back and a thick gag around his mouth. His head is tipped back, his eyes closed. He’s covered in so much blood that Tony has trouble seeing parts of him that are clean.
And beside him, Osborn.
He fires a repulsor at the man before his mind can catch up. It hits Osborn in the chest and he flies back, hitting the wall with a loud grunt and sliding down to the floor. Though painful, Tony steps past Peter’s lax body. He’s not sure if he’s awake. Or even alive.
“Wait!” Norman yells, raising his hands in defense. “You can’t- you can’t do this.”
“Like hell I can’t,” Tony growls, his palm growing hot. He raises it to Norman’s face. “You took my kid. You hurt him.”
“Peter’s life ceased being his own the moment he was bitten by my spider. I have the right to study him, to learn from what I created.”
“You’re an animal. I should kill you right now.”
“But you won’t,” Norman counters, his eyes glinting against the fire in Tony’s hand. “Because if you do, Peter will never forgive you. He’s good, Stark. Too good for you. And you know that.”
Tony clenches his jaw hard, his heart beating loud in his ears. He thinks of Peter sitting on a table in the lab, kicking his feet and laughing at a joke Tony had told. He thinks of the boy thumb wrestling with Happy and the cheesy birthday card he had made Tony last year.
“You’re right,” Tony says, lowering his hand. “I won’t kill you.”
Norman perks, his mouth curling.
“But you’re going to wish I had.”
And with that, Tony hits him across the face. Harder than he should. Osborn goes limp against the wall.
Behind him, Peter moans.
“Peter-”
Tony removes his faceplate and collapses at Peter’s feet. One of the boy’s eyes is open to a slit, the other swollen shut. When he connects with Tony his eyebrows draw together in confusion. Then, without further warning, he begins to cry.
“Hey, hey, woah. It’s okay kiddo. I’m here.” He reaches up and gently removes the gag from Peter’s mouth, the skin underneath it raw and chapped. “I’m here, buddy. Don’t cry.”
Peter doesn’t look any less comforted. He strains against his bindings. “Are you real?” he whispers, his voice cracked and strained. Only now does Tony see the dark bruising around the kid’s neck. The sight brings bile up his throat.
“I’m real,” he promises, reaching up his hands to card through Peter’s hair. “I’m here.”
Peter sobs again, going limp. Tony catches him against his chest and cradles him close. “They told- they told me they shot you,” Peter says. “They told me you were dead.”
Tears of his own well in Tony’s eyes. He presses his cheek into Peter’s hair. “I’m not dead,” he says, voice wavering. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”
“Thought it was my fault,” Peter slurs. More of his weight dips into Tony’s chest as he goes quiet.
“Kid?” Tony shifts so he can see Peter’s face. His eyes are closed, his breaths short and laboured. “Damn it! Pete, can you hear me?”
Happy chooses this moment to arrive. He swings into the room, a pistol curled around his fingers and his eyes wider than Tony’s ever seen them. “Is he-?”
“Alive,” Tony chokes. “He was talking just a second ago. I don’t know what happened.”
“It looks like they tried to pull him apart.”
And it’s true.
“Call a med team. The police- the whole works. I need to get him out of this chair.”
“On it,” Happy says. His eyes linger on Peter in obvious distress before he flees from the room, pulling out his phone and barking out orders.
“Alright Petey. Hang tight.” Tony positions his limp body against the back of the chair, trying not to dwell on how unalive he looks. He ventures to Osborn’s body, retrieves a promising ring of keys, and returns back to Peter.
“I got you kid. I got you.” His hands are shaking too badly to fit the key in the small slot at the base of the cuff. He has to sit back on his heels and take ten measured breaths before he tries again. This time it works and Peter’s arms pop free.
Without the restraint, Peter’s body tips forward. With an aborted yell, Tony lunges forward to catch him. They end up in a tangled heap on the dirty floor, Peter’s head pillowed in his lap.
“Oh Pete. Oh god. W-wake up. It’s over now.”
Nothing. Above the bruises, there’s half a dozen needle marks in his neck.
“Peter? Come on, bud. Wake up.”
Wake up. Wake up.
He rocks the kid in his lap until help arrives, refusing even for a moment to let go.
-------
Peter realizes three things in quick succession when he wakes up.
First, it’s quiet, and the distinct lack of his spider sense is more than relieving. He’s safe, he realizes. Which two, means it’s over.
His vision struggles to keep up with his waking body but after a few long blinks the blurred medbay comes into sharper focus. He sees May’s purse, though she herself isn’t in the room. And with a stiff turn of his head, Peter comes to terms with thing number three.
Tony.
The man is slumped in a chair beside his bed, his head tipped back as he snores. The events of his rescue rush back into his head with such force it leaves him dizzy. Without further warning, tears leak out of his eyes.
Alive. He’s alive.
They both are.
As if Tony has a fifth sense of his own, he shifts in his sleep and his head dips. The jerky movement must be enough to wake him because within seconds, his eyes open. They connect with Peter fast, widening when he registers that Peter’s awake.
“Oh Pete,” he says, rubbing at his eyes and leaning forward. “What’s wrong? Are- are you okay bud?”
Peter lifts a heavy hand to wipe the moisture from his cheeks. “Sorry,” he whispers, trying for a smile. “Must be the drugs.”
The creases on Tony’s forehead smooth. He returns Peter’s smile, though some deep abiding concern rests in his eyes. “God, it’s good to see you awake. You gave us all a good scare.”
“Right,” Peter agrees, his strength already dwindling. He casts a sideway glance over at May’s purse. “Is she- is she okay?”
“She’s happy you’re safe. That you’re getting better. She just went to grab some food. She’ll be back real soon.”
Peter’s insides feel hollowed out. He thinks of Norman standing over him. I own you. “Oh. That’s good.”
Tony scoots closer in his chair. “How’re you feeling bud? Any pain?”
To Peter’s embarrassment, another tear leaks out of his eye. He catches it quickly and sucks in a shaky breath. “No.”
“You sure?”
Peter bites his lip. Stares at Tony’s worried face. “I really thought you were dead.”
Tony holds his breath and pulls absently at his fingers. “He was just trying to get in your head, Pete.”
“Yeah,” he laughs without humour. “Well, it worked.”
“Peter...”
“It’s just- the whole time I was thinking about everything I should’ve told you. When Ben died, I regretted- I regretted my last words, you know? Wish I said more.”
“Your uncle knew how much you loved him, kiddo.”
Peter swallows hard. “And do you?”
Tony blinks. “What?”
“Know,” Peter says, staring stubbornly at the wall. “That I love you? Because I never told you before and then it was too late. I was too- I don’t know. Scared, I guess. But I can’t be too late again. I have a second chance now and I want you to know.”
Silence. Peter can’t look. Maybe Tony got up and left-
Warmth. Arms circling his chest. Peter inhales sharply in his surprise, the tubes and wires hooking him up to the machines pinching. Oh god, he’s hugging me.
“I thought I lost you too,” Tony whispers over his shoulder. Peter is frozen. “When they dragged me out of that elevator and took you-” he chokes. “I thought-”
Peter closes his eyes. He’s tired and achy, his bones like lead under his skin. “I’m fine.”
“Let me finish.”
“Okay.”
Tony breathes in deeply, his chest expanding against Peter’s. “I love you too, Pete, is what I’m trying to say. So damn much. Since day one, really. And if you ever scare me like this again I swear I’ll lock you in a tower like goddamn Rapunzel.”
Peter’s glad that Tony can’t see his face. I love you too. Finally regaining strength, he wraps his arms around Tony’s shoulders to complete the embrace. It’s weak and broken but tangible. Real. “Thank you for saving me.”
“You did the same for me.”
They separate. Neither comment on their wet faces. “What happened to Norman?” Peter asks. It feels like his throat is closing.
Tony looks down at the floor. His hand had fallen from the hug to rest on Peter’s arm. He doesn’t let go, and Peter doesn’t want him to. “Prison. He won’t hurt you again, Pete. I promise you.”
He isn’t sure how the admission makes him feel. “Oh.”
His side twinges in pain. Something must cross over his face because Tony winces too, like the hurt is his own. “I’m so sorry, Pete.”
Peter leans back against his pillows, lightheaded all of a sudden, his energy far past spent. “I hate it when you apologize,” he murmurs.
“Pfft. Well, the feeling’s mutual.”
Peter smiles. He closes his eyes. “You gonna tap back out?” Tony asks gently.
He hardly finds the strength within himself to nod. Everything is catching up to him, a dark shadow of a nightmare. It’s over, he tries to remind himself. Tony is alive. May is safe. He loves you back. “Stay?”
“Always, Pete. I’m not moving a muscle.” As if to prove it, his thumb runs across Peter’s wrist, straight over the bandages covering the marks of his restraints. “You’re stuck with me.”
“Stuck with me too,” Peter slurs. He reaches out blindly until he finds Tony’s hand and grips it with as much strength as he can muster, which truthfully isn’t much. “Like a web.”
He drifts further, but is sure he can hear Tony’s quiet laugh, that he feels Tony’s lips press over his forehead.
“Go to sleep kiddo. I’ll be right here when you wake up.”
And he will. Peter knows it.
Always.
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Fallen From Grace
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A/N: Hi this is my first time writing anything like a/b/o dynamic stuff, so be kind, I've been reading a lot lately and I’m quite liking it. I’m hoping to make this a series, just gonna test the waters and see how this goes. 
Series Summary: Before the incident she was one of the most powerful Alphas on the Avengers team; admired, idolised and possibly feared, nothing could stand in her way. However, after a mission goes terribly wrong, and she is brutally attacked, the injuries she sustains take all of her Alpha strength, reducing her status to a weakened Omega.  By the way of nature, the team can't help but treat her in a completely new way. Especially her two closets friends, who now see her in a whole new light. 
Pairing: Steve Rogers X Bucky Barnes X Reader
Series Warning: a/b/o dynamics (and the fun stuff that comes with that!), strong language, sexual content (smut is coming much later, and there will be added warnings on those chapters), fluff, angst, manipulation, corporal punishment (18+ only readers)
Part One: The Ambush 
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Chapter Warnings: Strong Language, Violence, Brief Mention About Masturbation (18+ Readers only)
Word Count: 2.4K 
The quinjet jostled you from side to side, as you examined your weapon for any pre-battle problems. It was a trident: the handle was long, and made of black metal it was perfectly balanced, just for you. As the Beta, Sam found out, when he attempted to use it during training. You and Bucky had still not let him forget the time he tried to pick it up and swing it round his head, which resulted in a very unhappy Tony, as he nearly cut Peter in half, after he lost his balance mid swing, stumbling backwards. At the top of the trident, there were three large, and silver blades, that protruded outwards, each sharp and jagged. On the other end, there was one lone spike, that jutted out at the bottom.  
it all seemed to be in pristine condition. Just how you liked it. You looked up; Natasha and her Omega, Bruce, sat opposite you, you couldn't help but gag a little when they continued to make out. You must have visibly grimaced, because you felt a bump on your shoulder from Steve, who sat next to you. You looked up at him as he stared down at you in an unimpressed fashion, but you just quirked an eyebrow at him; “What? Don't look at me like that, I’m not your Omega, you can't scold me.” you joked, pushing his arm back. 
He snorted, “you ain’t gonna be anyones, anything if that's how you look at people when they show their love.” This time is was your turn to snort, as you sat up straight, resting your head on the rest behind looking up towards the ceiling, despite Steve’s impressive size, you weren't phased at all by him. You were both Alphas, but it was obvious that Steve was the more dominant not that, that ever stopped you from giving him lip. If you had been an Omega, it would have been classed as a crime of nature, being this nonchalant around such an impressive Alpha. “What if I don't want to be anyones, anything? What if I like just being on my own, maybe go the Lone Wolf approach.”
“What about wolves?” You turned as Bucky came and sat next to you, he was also of an impressive size, and with his weight now the other side of you, you were now being crushed between the two super soldiers. 
“Y/N was just telling me that she doesn't want to find herself a mate, instead she wants to...” Steve momentarily paused to lift his hands up, with his fingers outstretched, “die alone.” he says in an hush tone, as he dramatically parts his hands. You playfully glared at him, vaguely amused, Bucky does the same, but giving a little smirk.
“You don't have to die alone, Y/N, we can take care of you.” Bucky says wrapping his arm around your shoulder. You shake your head before shrugging him off, and standing up, before turning to face the two men.
“You two, can just fuck off,” you say, hands on your hips, attempting to show dominance over the two large Alphas, “I don't need either of you, or anyone else, I’m an Alpha. Not just any Alpha, a fucking good one at that. I don't need a mate, an Omega to prove that. So why don't you two go and crawl back into your little man caves, and jerk off to the cartoon picture of some forties pinup doll, that you’ve got hanging on the ceiling above your bed.” The two of them looked at you with a mixture of emotions, Bucky looked mildly amused, his smirk still etched on his face, Steve, however; didn't look overly impressed, his eyes slightly dark, and his face stone, you could hear the faintest of growls seeping through the corner of his mouth. But you remained unfazed by his brooding stare and simply strutted over towards Agent Hill, who was flying the jet.
You heard a faint “preach sister.” as you head towards her, and you turned seeing Sam sitting up straight, and clapping his hands over enthusiastically and wiping away a fake tear, you roll your eyes, before shooting him a glare, which turns into a small smile. Sam turns back to the rest of the jet, to see a very disapproving, and rather angered look from Bucky and Steve. He swallows thickly and goes back to fiddling with his wings. 
You’d never really been in to the whole mating thing. It wasn't that you didn't like sex, quite the opposite, sex was great, sex didn't really have any hidden emotion to it. You could have sex with anyone, and that's it, you never have to deal with that person ever again. Mating, however; that could lead to a whole load of emotional baggage, and that was something you wanted to avoid. Emotional baggage was not really a ‘go’ area. The thought of being not only mentally, but emotionally joined to someone, scared the hell out of you. And then there was the ruts.  You had learned to cope with your ruts on your own, usually the odd toy was needed, but nothing you or some suppressants couldn't handle. 
An Omega in heat, now that's whole other kettle of fish you don't need. And what comes with heats, comes the pitter patter of small feet, and that was the last thing on your mind right now. Pups meant no missions, no training, and basically no living. You had seen that when Clint’s Omega, Laura became pregnant. It was like one day she was at the compound nonstop, the next; Clint had her locked away in their den, until eventually the pups came, and Laura was released.  Yep, nope that was not where your life was heading. 
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It’s not long before you land a few feet away from the Hydra base, you’ve been sent to scope out by Director Fury. Steve takes control of the team as usual and starts to give his little speech, before dividing everybody up into smaller groups. You were placed in a team with Sam, Clint and Bucky; whilst Steve took Natasha, Rhodey and Scott. Bruce had been told to remain on the jet, a code green was gonna be unlikely, as this was a stealth mission. You tried to ask what was the point in bringing him in the first place, or was it because Natasha was int he middle of a rut. You watched as Bruce’s cheeks heated up and Natasha let out a primal growl, before trying to lung towards you, but was blocked by Bucky, and before you two could get physical with one another, Steve intervened with a louder and more dominant growl, silencing the two of you. 
You didn't hate Natasha, you just didn't really get along. When you’ve got two very strong minded Alpha Females in a Pack, shit can sometimes get a little heavy. It was times like these you wished you had Wanda. Wanda and you always got along great, and you were a good team. But she was in heat, which meant she was forbidden from partaking in any missions, or leaving her room, for that matter, by her Alpha Vision. It drove you crazy with the Omega restrictions, you couldn't see why it would be such a problem for the Omega’s to get involved in the action, just pop a few suppressants and away you go. You once suggested this to Bruce, but that resulted in you in a Tom and Jerry style, cloud of arms and legs, fight with Natasha, which ended in lots of things being broken, and a very loud dressing down by; Fury, Tony and Steve. 
You are given your positions and you separate in to your two groups and begin the operation. Steve takes his team round the side of the fortress, whilst the rest of you scope out a way of getting over the top of the walls. 
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Clint fires one of his grappling arrows, up and over the wall, the sound of it landing in brick echoes around the small woods, and you can't help but flinch at the noise, worried it’ll alert any guards nearby. Clint plants the base of the arrow in the ground, securing it to the floor. Before you begin your ascent over the top, Sam sends Redwing up and over the first wall to scout for any enemies possibly laying low. It comes back clear, and Bucky gives the signal to Sam and Clint to head over the walls. 
An uneasy feeling settles in your stomach, you don't like this, it seems too easy. So far there had been no guards, or any signs at all of movement from in or around the base.  Clint begins to shimmy up the rope, whilst Sam’s jets whirl in to gear, and he's propelled up and into the air. 
“I don't like this, Buck,” you say turning to face him, “It all seems a little too easy. Fury wouldn't have sent all of us out here, if things were gonna be this easy.” Bucky lets out a small laugh and shakes his head, which makes your nostrils flare slightly, with frustration.
“You worry too much, Y/N, just relax,” he calmly says fixing his harness to the wire, “gee...always so uptight.” He winks at you and begins following Clint up the wire, before they both disappear over the wall. You sigh, heavily, before following after them. 
In the base, once again the group splits in two, you went with Clint, whilst Bucky went with Sam. Clint and you made a decent down some stairs, the place was still eerily quiet, it was practically deserted, but that only made you more nervous. 
“Christ Y/N, you need to chill, you’re stinking up the whole place.” Clint whispers harshly, arrow already knotted and drawn tight, as you two reached the bottom of the stairs. You weren't gonna lie, you were sweating slightly, you couldn't help it, you were just so on edge. Clint could probably smell the anxiety, that slowly beaded off your forehead. Only problem is, if he could smell it, so could anyone else nearby.  
At the bottom of the stairs, was a long narrow corridor, barely lit by buzzing LED lighting bars, that hung loosely from the sealing. You edged your way down, but both came to abrupt stop when you heard voices from behind a large steel door, at the end of the corridor. German voices, speaking quickly and in a harsh whisper. You looked at Clint and held your, fingers to your lips, motioning for him to stay quiet. 
“Y/L/N, Barton, what’s your status?” 
Steve's voice came through, your’s and Clint’s ear pieces. The voices behind the doors stopped speaking, you gripped your trident tighter, silently cursing Steve in your head. 
“Y/N, Clint, What’s your status?” 
There was movement behind the door, Clint drew his bow tighter, and you lifted you arm ready to take a swing at whoever was about to come through the door. The sound of a heavy lock being opened echoed off the narrow walls, as the steel frame slowly slid open . 
“Barton, Y/N Where are you!?” 
The door was completely thrown open, revealing a large group of heavily armed guards. Suddenly there was sliding sound from behind you, panels on the walls around the corridor, lit up, before they began to slide open, revealing even more heavily weaponised men. It was an ambush. 
“Hang on!” 
You shouted before leaping forward, and striking a guy in the face. Clint loosed arrows, at his usual speed of light pace, taking down three men at a time. You swung the trident round your head, slicing five guys at once. You thrusted your trident, here there and everywhere, striking men in the face, and chest. 
Suddenly, you felt a sharp prick in the lower, righthand side of your back, you recoiled in discomfort, searching for the cause of the sudden spike in pain. A guard stood behind you, in his hand he was grasping, what looked to be a bayonet style knife, it was slick with crimson blood, the source of which, was from you. He lunged for you again, this time prepared you swung your trident, blocking his leap, you pushed back with the small spike at the bottom, getting a direct hit to the guard’s forearm. He growls in pain, as the blood quickly trickles down, coating his hand. Spinning violently round, you managed to land another direct hit, this time to his head, he comes crashing to the floor, cradling his face. Whilst he was down, you took the opportunity, and stuck the three blades into his back. He screamed in pain, before slumping on the floor.  
You heart pounded against your chest, and you clutched your back as the stab wound began to burn. It was like he’d stabbed you with a white hot knife, as a burning sensation spread from the wound, all the way up your back. It reached your arms and legs, making them feel numb, you slumped slightly, using your trident for support. You didn't have time to rest as more men came pouring into the room. You and Clint were vastly outnumbered. You tried to swing your trident with all your might, but it was as if your body was giving up on you. Your mind was screaming for you to move...to fight. 
The sound of Steve’s voiced filled your head, you clutched your hand to your ear, and tried to speak. It was like you were paralysed, no matter how hard you tried to form, any kind of coherent sentence, nothing came out. 
It wasn't long before you were tackled to the floor, your head hitting the ground, with a loud thud, sending your mind even dizzier. You struggled to push the man off you, but felt another sharp stab, this time to your abdomen, as the man plunged his dagger into you. You screamed in agony, as another jolt in pain hit you, the burning sensation spreading up through your abdomen making you feel even weaker. Somehow you found enough strength to power your head into the guys skull, knocking him backwards. The head-butt only worsened your situation, as your vision began to grow black. The pain from your stomach and your back was eclipsing your senses. Black spots were appearing in the corner of your eyes, your perception slowly faded. 
Just before you were completely over come by the darkness, the whirling of metal, and the clanging of a shield, filled your ears. You managed to keep your eyes open long enough, to see Bucky and Steve, running towards you. Your mind going completely dark, the last thing you hear is the sound of two deep voices, calling your name. 
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areiton · 3 years
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a bright pure pain - stevetony fic
I wrote a short fic set in the Tattoo AU created by @pineapplebread​! 
Read on AO3 
~*~ 
It’s Bucky, who starts it. 
Bucky who lies in bed with Sam, and traces his fingers over the black lettering, and Sam watches him, dark eyes calm and warm and when Bucky murmurs against his throat, “Tell me,” Sam did, spun out stories about the man he loved, before the sky exploded and tore him away. 
Riley came first, and maybe, truthfully, Riley is the one who starts it. 
~*~ 
Sometimes, when they’re out, Bucky will reach out, his fingers brushing over the plane of Sam’s stomach, over the smooth stretch of skin where he knows Riley’s name sits. Sam goes still, always, when it happens, his gaze tracking his boyfriend. 
It happens often enough that Tony notices, because Tony notices everything, tracks the metal hand on Sam’s ribs, the way that Sam’s gaze ticks to Bucky, his smile a little sad. 
“What is it?” he asks, and Sam shrugs. 
“Tattoo. I got it right after I got out,” he says, easy, like he isn’t baring a part of himself, squishy and vulnerable, to Tony’s curious gaze. 
Tony nods, and turns the conversation to the mission Bucky and Sam had gone one, almost tactful in giving Sam space. 
It’s progress.
~*~  
Steve is quiet, after they’re gone, but it’s not the tense kind of quiet that makes Tony anxious, it’s--quiet, comfortable, pensive almost. He watches Steve from across the room as he makes dinner, his eyes distant, like he’s lost in memories. 
It’s still strange that they’re here, together. After--
After everything. The war and Thanos and the long empty years when he clung to bitterness and anger because it was so much easier than admitting what he wanted. After the last gasp of hope, and the months spent trapped together in the past, and that battle when Steve had knelt next to him and he lay dying--
After thinking, it wouldn’t be so bad, to die, if Steve was next to him when he did. 
Well. 
He pushes that thought aside because they’re friends now, finally, pieced themselves back together, and it was the idiotic thought of a dying man, not the rational one sitting in his living room, on his way back to healthy and whole. 
Tony makes a face, feels the scars pull. Not whole. He’d never be whole again. 
“Hey,” Steve says, soft, tugging his attention from the spiral and Tony blinks up at him. “You went away,” Steve says, and Tony flushes. He shifts a little, his legs folded under him as Steve sits down next to him and passes him a bowl of chicken chowder. It’s thick, hearty. There’s a heel of bread, oven warm and garlicky, from the bakery down in Queens that Peter knows he likes. 
He wants, more than he’s wanted anything in a long time, a cheeseburger. 
“Hey, Steve?” he says, and Steve flicks a look at him, curious and patient, and Tony almost bites back the words. 
Steve made dinner. 
They should eat it. 
“Wanna go get a burger with me?” he asks, instead, and a smile, small and real, spreads across his lips. 
~*~ 
They don’t go out often. The public adoration since the battle had been--disconcerting. 
Tony was used to being watched, to being adored. What he wasn’t used to was the fervent outpouring of gratitude that so easily tipped toward almost cult-like. 
“People need to thank someone,” Rhodey said, the one time Tony brought it up. “We’re keeping an eye on the extremists.” 
It’s enough to keep him in the Tower. If it wasn’t, the empty space at his right, the scars snaking up and over his face, shoulder and ribs--they were enough. 
His hand trembles a little, as they reach the garage, and Steve catches his hip, guides him forward until they’re standing by his old bike, the one that Tony is a little surprised to see still running. “Steve. I can’t,” he says, helpless, and Steve smiles, softly. 
“Gotta trust me, Tony,” Steve says, patient and hopeful, holding two helmets and waiting. 
He always waited , let Tony make that last step. 
“I’ll fall,” he says, the fear bright and bitter in his throat. 
“I’ll catch you,” Steve promises. 
Tony can feel this--the heat of tears in his eyes, the burning warmth of Steve’s steady gaze, the way everything settles as that easy promise settles over him with the weight of a vow. 
He nods, a jerky thing, and Steve’s smile blooms, bright as sunshine. 
~*~ 
He rides cradles against Steve’s broad chest, and it’s dangerous, he knows it is. 
Everything about their lives are dangerous, though, and this--here--the only way to hurt him, is to go through Steve, and Tony thinks Steve would rip the universe apart, to keep that from happening. 
He closes his eyes, presses back against the steady strength of him, and Steve leans into him, solid and grounding as the city whips by. 
~*~ 
Steve takes them to a greasy dinner in Brooklyn, where an old waitress named Delores delivers  messy cheeseburgers, enormous plates of fries, and a thick chocolate shake. 
It’s everything he’s been craving for months. 
Steve ignores him while he works his way through his own cheeseburger, doesn’t offer to help when Tony grapples with holding it. 
He quit offering to help after the first two months, when they got into a screaming match and Tony hid in his bedroom for three days. Sometimes, Tony was pretty sure he could see the want in his eyes, could see his fingers twitch towards helping before he forced himself still, a strained smile on his lips, but it happened less and less, and he almost didn’t mind, these days. 
Steve didn’t offer to help because he thought Tony needed it--he offered because he did. 
“Cut it in half for me,” he says, and Steve smirks, reaches over and neatly divides the burger while Tony picks at the fries. 
“Did you know?” 
Steve arches an eyebrow at him, and Tony hides his smile behind half his burger. “About Flybird’s ink?” 
Steve chews, his eyes distant and restless, but eventually swallows and says, “No. I--I kinda suspected, but there’s just some things you don’t ask about.” 
They’re quiet, lost in thought and food and Tony’s considering the second half of his burger when Steve blurts out, “I had a tattoo. For Bucky.” 
Tony goes still, eyes wide and searching. They hadn’t--the one night they’d spent together, when fighting gave way to fucking in Clint’s cramped guestroom, it had been dark. He might have missed a tattoo, then--and he hadn’t seen Steve naked even when they were trapped in the past looking for that goddamn stone, but he’d seen enough and if it was any more intimate, he might need to re-evaluate everything he’d been thinking, recently, everything he quit thinking, after they left the farm and Tony left the team, and Steve did. 
He blinks the thoughts away, focuses on Steve.  
“It--after he fell, one of the Howlies did one for me. Just a nautical star--but it was mine, it was for him and it was,” Steve huffs, smiles a bitter little thing that Tony hates . “It felt like my body, for the first time since Rebirth.” 
“What happened?” he asks, a whisper almost lost in the kitchen clatter of the empty diner. 
“Serum happened,” Steve shrugged. “Body pushed it out. I kept redoing it--poor Jones got real tired of me showing up at his tent--but it never took. I had it, when I went into the ice.” 
Not when he came out. SHIELD would have recorded that. A question burns in his throat, but Steve--Steve’s pushing himself out of the booth, muttering about the bathroom, and Tony swallows the question with the last of his milkshake. 
He doesn’t need to ask, anyway. Why Steve didn’t try again doesn’t matter, not really. 
~*~ 
It’s been seven months, since Thanos, since using that fucking gauntlet that almost killed him, that took his arm and changed his world, and didn’t change a goddamn thing, either. 
Seven months, since he spent any time in his workshop. 
“Hey, Steve,” he says, and Steve looks at him over the top of his paper because he’s a fucking luddite and still reads a paper, just to fuck with Tony. 
His heart is pounding and he wants to wave it off, wants to hide from that expectant stare and the curve of his lips, and the burning itch in the back of his mind that he’s missed for seven goddamn months . 
“I’m gonna go down to the workshop after breakfast,” he says, and Steve smiles, slow and pleased and Tony--Tony grins back, helpless to do anything else. 
 ~*~
It’s Bucky, who starts it, so it makes sense, to drag him back into it. 
“Stevie says you’ve been down here for most of a week.” 
“Yeah,” he taps his fingers nervously, and then straightens up. “I was working on a late birthday present for Steve.” 
“Not sure I wanna know any more about what you’re cooking up if it’s from your shop.” Bucky drawls, and Tony flushes.  
“I’m not making sex toys,” he says, waspish and Bucky grins. 
“His loss,” he says. 
“Stop it. That’s--we’re not sleeping together.” 
Bucky huffs, his expression all irritated exasperation, but he lets it drop. 
They aren’t sleeping together. 
Tony knows there’s something between them, something building that’s been there for so long he can’t remember when it wasn’t. 
It’s different from that night on the farm. 
It’s different even from the months in the past, when they didn’t sleep together, but everything else was stripped away and they were forced together. 
It’s different because Steve stayed, when no one else did. When the world dragged Rhodey back into its damage control, when Pepper quietly voiced what he’d known was coming, when the nightmares and panic attacks and pain pushed Happy and the kid away--Steve stayed. 
And they came back--Rhodey and Peter, Happy and even Pepper, although that was still--difficult. 
But Steve stayed, the kind of stubborn irritating persistence that used to make Tony hate him. 
Except he didn’t. Not really. 
But Steve didn’t push. Not even on the nights when he slept in Tony’s bed, shivering in the clutches of his own nightmares. 
“We’ll get where we’re going,” he says, softly, and then reaches for the vial of inky dark liquid. “Did you know the serum won’t let a tattoo take?” 
Bucky arches an eyebrow, studying it and then flicking a look at Tony. 
“You fixed that, didn’t ya?” 
Tony grins, and shakes the bottle enticingly. “Wanna be my test subject?” 
~*~
He comes back, a week later, Sam in tow for another meeting about the Avengers, and Tony arches his eyebrows, all curious and hopeful and he nods. There’s something peaceful and very very tired about his gaze, that worries Tony, and Sam stays close to him, almost cuddling him at the damn table. “It works,” he says, shortly, and Tony almost asks, what he got. 
That wounded exhaustion and Sam’s warning look keeps his mouth shut for a moment, but then, “Are you ok?” 
Bucky laughs, and it’s wet and wounded and hurts. 
But it’s happy, too, a kind of bright purity that comes from the good clean pain of healing. Tony has spent months loathing and learning that pain. 
“I’m ok, Stark. I’m gonna be ok.” 
~*~
“Would you get one, again? If you could make it stick, this time. Would you get another tattoo?” 
Steve looks at him. They’re in Tony’s bathroom, brushing their teeth. His hands smell of the scar cream he rubs into Tony’s shoulder and side, twice a day, and there’s a smear of it on Tony’s cheek, near his hair, and Steve reaches out, thumbs it aside and smears the excess onto his faded pants. 
Tony makes a face. 
Steve spits into the sink, rinses and straightens and Tony is still staring at him, eyes hopeful and impatient, familiar in a face that is still sometimes unfamiliar, and he nods. “The tattoo--it helped me feel like this was actually my body, not something I was shoved into, that was eating up Steve Rogers. It was Steve Rogers. It was a choice I made.” 
Tony nods, and something clears in his eyes. He hipchecks Steve lightly aside, spits and rinses, before he straightens and says. “I have something for you.” 
~*~ 
The vial of ink sits in his palm, a tiny liquid promise, and Tony watches him, with big dark eyes, small against the sea of pillows and broad bed, and Steve loves him. 
Loves him so much it hurts, sometimes. 
Loving Tony has been the best, sweetest pain he’s ever known. 
“Sweetheart,” he breathes. 
“We’re still working on it. On color. But. It’s--I want you to have this. You deserve to have this. Bucky tested it, and his body hasn’t rejected it, so--” Tony takes a breath. Smiles, small and brittle and Steve remembers him, before, larger than life with his grand gesture presents, with tech and suits and weapons and homes. 
This--a tiny vial of ink. 
It’s the sweetest thing Tony’s ever done for him, in a decade of gifts and sacrifice. 
He leans over, brushes his lips against his cheek, the scars unfamiliar and somehow soft under his lips, and breathes, “Thank you, sweetheart.” 
8 notes · View notes
lyssismagical · 4 years
Note
10 or 21 or 44 for the angst/fluff prompts thing :DD
10 - “Don’t you dare touch”
44 - “Hold still”
{TW for a bit of violence, home invasion}
Peter’s a superhero.
He’s capable of the impossible. Lifting tons of mass with ease, anticipating bad things before they happen, an inhumanly quick reflex, sticking to any surface.
He’s capable of a lot so he doesn’t get scared easily. Nothing really fazes him anymore.
But this?
This is where the fear sets in, running his blood cold.
It was meant to be simple, just babysitting Morgan for the day while Tony and Pepper had a few meetings in the city to do. And it was fine, Peter’s babysat dozens of times before.
But people broke into the cabin. People who don’t care about the secrets in the lab or the millions of dollars worth of art and technology throughout the cabin. They don’t care about taking anything. They had somehow knew that Tony and Pepper would be gone because they focus in on Peter and Morgan as their targets.
There’s only three of them in the living room, but Peter can count at least six more standing guard outside the front door, and more circling around the house.
Peter would’ve been alright if he were home alone, if it were just him, if he were in the suit, but he’s not. He doesn’t even have his webshooters on, having left them in his nightstand earlier, and Morgan’s tucked behind him, hands clinging onto the back of his shirt and hiding her face.
“What do you want?” Peter asks, trying his best to play off his fear. “I don’t want any problems here, okay? You want money, tech, blueprints? I’ll give you whatever you want if you leave us alone.”
It’s what Tony’s been teaching Peter. He taught as the situation where Peter gets kidnapped, this is the kind of thing he’s supposed to say. He’s supposed to give up anything for his own safety.
One of the guards laugh, slinging his big gun over his shoulder. “We’re not here for that, kid. We’re here to make some demands to dear old Stark.”
“Demands? For what?”
“Spider-Man,” another man says, looking over his shoulder at the door. “Stark knows the bug, we’ve heard.”
Peter nearly corrects him. He would’ve if it weren’t for Morgan, cowering behind him. Arachnid, not bug.
The last guard in the room, a woman, lifts her helmet off and sends the kids a cold smile. “Alright, I’ve gotten the go ahead. Call Stark.”
Peter wishes his phone wasn’t on the table already. Wishes he could’ve made the excuse to send Morgan upstairs for a phone, but it’s too late for that.
He pulls up Tony’s contact, apprehensively eyeing the weaponry aimed at them. They haven’t been particularly aggressive yet, but Peter doesn’t want to doubt their capabilities to hurt them if necessary.
“Listen,” Peter says before dialing. “Please, can we do this without her? She doesn’t need to see this.”
Morgan lets out a quiet whimper in response, tucking herself closer to Peter who wraps an arm around her and squeezes reassuringly.
“Call Stark,” the woman repeats gruffly like she doesn’t have the time for Peter’s requests.
Tony picks up on the third ring. “Kid? I’m out of the meeting in like fifteen, can this wait that long?”
“They want Spider-Man, Tony,” Peter says carefully. “There are a lot of people with guns threatening me and Morgan if you don’t hand over Spider-Man.”
“Am I on speakerphone?” Tony asks, voice low with barely concealed anger.
“Yes, sir,” Peter says dutifully, looking up at the woman with the gun still trained on him.
The woman sneers at him, letting her gun fall to her side to free up one of her hands to deck him.
Morgan cries out like she’s the one who got hit, hands grappling to pull herself tighter against Peter’s back, squishing herself between him and the back of the couch where they’ve been sat.
Peter’s gotten pretty used to getting punched. He’s been punched by everybody from Captain America to Flash. It’s not really a big deal anymore, but he hates that Morgan’s seeing this. He hates that it scares her.
“If you just hit my kid, I swear to god, I’ll kill you.”
“I’m not going to kill him, Stark,” the woman says, rolling her eyes. “We’ll all leave if you give us Spider-Man.”
Peter would tell them he was Spider-Man, but he’s terrified that as soon as they kill him, they’ll hurt Morgan too. He can’t let that happen, but he can’t think of any other way out of this.
Tony’s not the superhero he once was. He doesn’t have suits on hand anymore, the majority of them destroyed. The only thing he kept is a few of the gauntlet-watches, just in case. Peter can’t think of way that even Tony could get them out of this situation.
“I can’t just give you Spider-Man. I don’t have him on speeddial, I’ve just made him a couple suits. I don’t know him,” Tony says, but he sounds panicked already.
The woman rolls her eyes again. “That’s a lie, Stark, and everyone knows it. Give us Spider-Man and we’ll let your children go.”
“I can’t give you Spider-Man,” Tony repeats. “I can give you a general idea of where he might be, I could tell you where I see him most often. I could even tell you some things about him, but I don’t even know him.”
Peter sees the fist coming, but he doesn’t flinch away or block it like his body wants him to. He can’t let them know he’s Spider-Man.
He spits out the blood that’s pooled in his mouth onto the shoes of the woman, wincing when some of it gets on the expensive rug. He hopes Pepper will forgive him for that.
But Peter doesn’t really care about himself, what he does care about is the hands that reach for Morgan who lets out an awful sob as she clings to Peter.
“Don’t you dare touch her!” Peter shoves the hands away from her, glaring up at the two men. “You can do whatever the fuck you want to me, but don’t fucking touch her.”
“This is where you draw the line?” The man asks, lifting an eyebrow behind the glass of his mask incredulously.
Peter barely contains the protective growl that rises in his throat when the woman reaches out for him again. “Please, just let her go. I promise, I know where Spider-Man is, but I’ll only tell you if you let her go and swear you won’t hurt her.”
The woman contemplates for a moment before grabbing his phone from his hands. “Fine. As you wish. But if you don’t make do on your promise, I’ll put a bullet in both your heads. And Stark? We don’t need you anymore, so I hope this means you’ll get to come home to your children.” She ends the call before he can say another word.
Peter turns to Morgan, carefully prying her hands away from his shirt and getting her to look up at him. “Hey, pumpkin, could you brave for me? Just for a little bit?”
“Petey?” Morgan says. She looks so young, so scared, and it tears Peter’s heart in two.
“I want you to go to our secret spot, okay? Can you do that for me? And don’t come out until me or your daddy or mommy come get you, alright?”
Morgan sniffles, slowly letting go of Peter and nodding. “Okay.”
“Good. I’ll come get you as soon as I can, I promise.”
Peter keeps a careful eye on the three guards as Morgan takes off up the stairs. She’s headed to their fort. There’s a mostly secret pathway from Peter’s window into the treehouse.
Now that he’s alone and Morgan’s relatively safe and Tony should be home soon, Peter doesn’t need to think twice before putting himself in harms way.
He’s a good fighter, strong and coordinated, spidey-sense and reflexes backing him up, but he’s not used to fighting weaponless.
Without his webshooters, without Karen, without any of the features the suit gives him, it’s unnatural and it throws him off a little to be fighting solely with his body. Especially against all of their weapons.
As soon as the first gunshots go off, more guards start flooding in from the front and back doors, guns blazing.
He can’t even web them up, so he’s forced to knock out all of his opponents, something he doesn’t particularly enjoy doing. He can feel his knuckles split as he takes out two more guards, kicking back with socked feet, to get another one.
Pain explodes through his side and he gasps, one hand fumblingly covering the wound as he continues fighting.
The second bullet that hits him is worse, knocking him to the ground when searing pain shoots through his leg, but he hears the woman shout for the girl, and he knows he has to get back up.
He throws a little bit more of superstrength behind the punch that he throws at the woman, a sick kind of relief flooding through him when she falls, gun slipping from her grasp.
Tires squeal as Tony’s car finally pulls up outside, just as Peter’s taking out the rest of the guards.
Tony throws open the front door just in time to see Peter fall to the couch, surrounded by a sea of unconscious guards.
“Peter!” Tony gasps, hurrying over with a first aid kit already in hand, probably the one he keeps in the car’s glove compartment. “God, kid, I leave for one day and this is what happens? No wonder May sends you my way instead of letting you stay home alone.”
“Morgan-”
Tony shushes him, standing up to grab a towel from the kitchen. Peter squirms on the couch, trying to make him understand, he needs to make sure Morgan’s okay, he needs her to know that he’s okay too.
But Tony grabs his shoulder and coaxes him back onto the couch.
“Morgan, please, she-”
“Pepper’s got her,” Tony says. “Treehouse, right? Now, hold still.”
Peter does as told, letting Tony press the towel against his side and his leg before popping open the first aid kit to get Peter’s stitches down. Thankfully, they’re just grazes, it could’ve been a lot worse, but both wounds only need a few stitches just in case.
“Petey!” Morgan shouts, squirming out of Pepper’s arms as soon as they make it to the front door.
Luckily, Tony’s practice has made him pretty good at stitching so he’s gets the gauze taped over the wounds just in time for Morgan to come barreling onto the couch again, fingers instantly finding their places in his shirt.
“Thanks for being so brave for me, pumpkin,” he says, grinning at her.
Pepper’s nose crinkles at the mess of her living room and beckons to the three of them. “C’mon. I’ll get the police here and we’ll go get some ice cream, okay? Get out of here for a few hours.”
That easily gets both kids to perk up. “Ice cream?”
Morgan races towards the car parked haphazardly in the driveway and Pepper rolls her eyes in amusement, heading after her.
Tony carefully helps Peter up to his feet, keeping an arm sturdily around his waist, taking Peter’s weight. “Thanks for keeping her safe. You did perfect.”
Peter flushes at the praise, ducking his head. “Would’ve been better if I had my webshooters on me.”
“Yeah, I could’ve done without the injuries, but still did good, kid.”
Smiling, Peter relaxes against Tony’s side. “Thanks, Tony. Ice cream?”
“Yeah, you deserve it after all this.”
Taglist:  @littlemissagrafina  @spideygirl2003 @romeoandjulietyouwish @c-artara @shadedrose01 @likeaphoenix13 @tonystarkweneedyou {Let me know if you want to be added or removed}
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meggtheegg · 3 years
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Bucky
bucky my beloved 🥺
favorite thing about them
honestly, just how truly good he is. there's a lot of talk about the incorruptible pure pureness that is steve rogers, but bucky has been dealt the shittiest hand, like honestly he's endured several supervillains worth of origin stories and yet, he doesn't for a moment consider going in that direction. you could say he chooses to be good in spite of it all, but i don't think it's even a choice, because he doesn't consider anything else to be an option. it's just who he is, and it's something that, in order to temporarily change, hydra had to take him and his free will out of the equation, entirely, and even then, he managed to break free and fight back. he always rolls with the punches and then gets up and keeps going, and i feel like that part of his characterization is often overlooked between all the angst/tragedy and the shadows of steve and sam, who just happen to be two of the most overtly good characters in the mcu, if not in modern media. but there's a reason that both of them end up with bucky as their best friend. the guy may have gotten grumpy in his old age, but that core goodness is still there, and it's very telling that all of the villains in tfatws jump directly to appealing to that goodness, rather than the seemingly obvious (to an outsider) decision to use his past against him. (i know karli references it, but when it comes to direct action, her instinct is to "give him someone to rescue")
least favorite thing about them
this is less about him as a character and more about the way he's used, but i feel like the movies, especially since civil war, have used him almost entirely as motivation for steve, rather than a character in his own right. even after tfatws, it feels like there is so much that's gone unexplored, even though his story is, in my opinion, one of the most interesting in the entire mcu. tfatws was, ultimately, sam's story, and i wouldn't want that any other way, but i'm still waiting for something to give us character development and a plotline for bucky that doesn't happen 1: offscreen or 2: in the shadow of another character's arc.
favorite line
it would be very easy to go with either "who the hell is bucky?" or "i'm with you to the end of the line, pal," but those are very predictable, so probably:
Sam: Why didn’t you use the metal arm? Bucky: Well… I don’t always think of it immediately. I’m...right-handed...
i know it's a really simple line that doesn't carry a ton of weight, but it perfectly encapsulates who bucky is. his existence as an enhanced super-soldier isn't really at the front of his mind, because he didn't choose to be that way. when he's allowed to just relax and exist, he does so as a normal guy, and he still jumps to using his dominant hand when it comes to fixing the boat, because of course he does
brOTP
i would honestly love to see him building a friendship/sibling-relationship with wanda. i could just see them so easily sliding into those roles, him stepping in for the brother she lost and her taking the place of the sisters that lived and died while he was hydra's prisoner. both of them have been through so much trauma, both of them have relied on steve to deal with that trauma, at some point or another, and both are grappling with how much of themselves they still are, in the wake of gaining powers they didn't necessarily ask for similarly, marvel, please let this man become a mentor to peter parker instead of dr. strange. peter needs someone who can relate to him, not just another tony stark, and who better than another naïve kid from new york who got dragged into a fight way bigger than himself and is now dealing with overwhelming, crushing guilt and responsibility that he's too good to neglect but that he never asked for, in a world where most superheroes had the privilege of choosing to become that way??? like honestly it's such an obvious match, and with bucky's history with tony and howard, he could give peter some much-needed insight, while peter could give him equally-needed closure.
OTP
never did i expect to want sambucky to be a thing, but i desperately want it to be a thing. it just feels right?? like he fits so naturally into the wilson family, and while i'd be happy to see him with sarah, he and sam have such natural chemistry and pairing two natural caretakers together would mean lots of support for two characters who desperately need it. also, he just...looks at sam with such love in his eyes that my mom thought they were going to become a couple, and she is very much in the "two men should be allowed to just be friends" camp.
nOTP
bucky/tony. hate it. hate it so much. burn it with fire. these men do not like each other and their one meaningful interaction has been one repeatedly trying to...blast the other's head off. it's a nope from me.
random headcanon
honestly this is borderline canon, but this man is a nerd. he is a geek. a dork, if you will. he spent his childhood with his nose in a book, and would have gone to college (and a good one, too) to study some difficult subject and make a name for himself in some intellectual field, if steve's mom hadn't passed away that year. he was stuck with the opposite of steve's problem; rather than wanting to fight and physically being unable to, bucky was in peak physical condition and therefore expected to be tough and aggressive, when he'd much rather just use his head to get out of tough situations
unpopular opinion
while stucky sort of plays out like a grand romance and some of the fanfics are basically masterpieces, i'm really glad it didn't go canon and am honestly,,,,kind of glad for bucky's sake that steve is out of the picture??? bc as much as i love him, their relationship, especially towards the end, had a pretty serious power imbalance that was never really addressed. bucky would have let himself disappear in order to do whatever steve needed him to, basing his entire self-image and level of self-worth on steve's feelings about him. he and sam (whether their relationship is platonic or romantic) are much more like equals, and honestly more like pre-war bucky and steve, willing to poke fun at each other and have disagreements, because they deeply respect each other as full people, not idealized versions of someone who doesn't exist anymore. meanwhile, post ws bucky and steve often ranged anywhere from a hero/sidekick dynamic to a hero/damsel-in-distress one, and neither are particularly healthy for very long, no matter how much they love each other.
song i associate with them
known and loved - blue light bandits, joel ansett
favorite picture of them
nothing beats Cool Uncle BuckyTM
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isocrime · 4 years
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Where do you fall on the MCU CW wank? What did you think of the showdown in Siberia?
i’m not particularly familiar with this wank! i didn’t watch ca:cw until it was well out of theaters, and i wasn’t really in steve/tony fandom at the time so i wasn’t keeping close tabs on the drama
also i’ve only watched the siberia showdown once so i might not have all my facts straight
here’s my understanding: tony, exhausted, already beat half to shit (and he’s a human in his 50s under that armor so he’s not healed), watches video of his parents being murdered by the guy next to him and loses his fucking mind. bucky, being a smart cookie, decides to get the hell out of dodge, and steve does his best to cover his retreat. things go downhill fast, and they have a slug-out in the bottom of a missile silo that ends with bucky getting his metal arm turned to slag and tony having his metaphorical heart shattered.
okay i re-watched a quick cut of the siberia scene
now i think there’s something interesting about the fight tactics. tony and bucky are long-range, lethal fighters. iron man is built for airborne dogfights, not punching -- the movie even says it when friday tells tony he can’t beat steve hand-to-hand. Meanwhile bucky is first and foremost a sniper and an ambusher. if tony and bucky really want to kill each other, they should hang back and try to murder from a distance. but if they’d actually rather not do murder, they have to get in close and wrestle, which isn’t their strong suit. 
and they end up choosing to wrestle! which means that tony isn’t actually up for murdering bucky in coldblooded revenge, and bucky’s being as non-lethal as bucky gets while he tries to get away. (ignore the fact that the real reason it was choreographed like a bar fight is that a brawl is more fun to watch -- i’m enjoying my meta)
steve, on the other hand, is all melee anyway, so it’s hard to say what his lethality intentions are. his goal at the start is to protect bucky, even if it meant using deadly force. but by the end of the fight...i think steve just wants to take tony down.
right before the end, bucky goes for tony’s arc reactor. he knows if he destroys it, the suit will power down, making tony unable to fight but not dead. (tony hasn’t needed the arc reactor to live since before bucky’s character was introduced, i think bucky would have known tony’d be fine)
then tony blasts bucky’s metal arm off, stands still for a dramatic moment, then hits bucky with a non-deadly repulsor blast, then stands still for another dramatic moment, all this time not killing bucky yet.
which is when steve comes at tony, hard, and, uh, beats the tar out of him. tony gets the upper hand, then stops and tells steve to stay down. but steve comes at tony again and really really beats the tar out of him, and tony thinks he’s about to get killed for real.
non-lethal, non-lethal.....coulda been lethal. steve’s the worst behaved of the bunch, imo. 
it makes sense for steve to be a wreck! his judgement is all fucked up. he’s an overprotective mess over bucky -- who died on steve’s watch once anyway, landing him with some spectacular survivor’s guilt -- which means he’s thinking in emotinoal absolutes. steve KNOWS that tony is going to kill bucky which means steve has to do ANYTHING he can to stop it, no price too high. plus steve gets caught up in the need to win fights, even ones where he doesn’t need to keep fighting, because he’s stubborn and has a chip on his shoulder and has a bit of a temper.
(i also think this fight is an example of why mcu steve is a terrible captain america as written: he's not cut out for the shield. this fight wasn’t about protecting the world, it was about protecting the person he loved. in terms of superhero symbolism this scene was like if both bucky and a school bus full of kids were falling and steve picked bucky to save. not superhero-like! you could argue that putting bucky first doesn’t make steve a bad person, but it definitely makes him a bad cap.)
tony is also a wreck! bucky is a guilt-ridden half-brainwashed disaster who definitely has moments where he’s pretty sure tony’s justified in trying to kill him! nobody is behaving well!!! but steve’s goals and reasons still seem to be the most questionable to me. he seems the most like he’s acting out personal beef and escalating instead of de-escalating. so that’s my stance. i am not sure if this is actually what the wank is about but that’s what i think!
SIDE NOTE: this fight scene is terribly written. the character goals are all over the map! you never know what the characters immediate goals are, or really their long-term goals.  there’s all these moments where a character is slammed into the wall and then they just kind of grapple there uselessly for a minute before breaking apart. nobody has any concrete, stated goals at the end beyond “do cool punches together” and “exchange brief, emotionally loaded lines”
in a good fight scene you know what everyone wants at all times -- you just don’t know how they’re going to get it or what they’re willing to sacrifice for it. both in the long term (ie, i wanted to hide in here and instead there is an angry blacksmith swinging a sword at my nose) and in the short term (ie, i’m handcuffed and need to be not handcuffed so i can be better at not getting stabbed). mcu movies are TERRIBLE at this a lot of the time. spiderverse is great at this -- think about the fight with peter, miles and doc ock in the lab where they’re trying to get the data to make the goober. the whole time their ultimate goal is to escape with the computer. along the way they encounter a bunch of immediate problems -> solutions such as “can’t find the files -> take entire computer” and  “miles can’t swing -> give him a webshooter and push him off the roof.” every time the viewer gets two KEY pieces of information: 1) what is the immediate problem and 2) what tools do the characters have to solve it.
MCU CONSISTENTLY FAILS TO DO THIS!
take the bit in the siberia fight where steve lassos tony around the neck and uses him as a flaily parachute. we start with bucky trying to climb out the roof and steve helping. tony is fighting them. steve tells bucky to go on ahead and we briefly see steve pulling a gizmo out of his pocket -- what does it do? we don’t know. steve has a Plan. what does he need it for? we don’t know! we won’t know until tony flies upwards (ah steve had predicted that the problem would be “stop tony from flying,” rather than...any of the other things tony could have done) and steve flings his lasso around tony’s neck and drags him down (oh he had a handy lasso gadget i guess). how unsatisfying! we didn’t get any chance to predict what would happen, it just did, and in retrospect you can figure out the motivations. it has zero story content.
the action does NOTHING to help tell the story. it just looks cool. that’s it. there’s nothing for the viewer to engage with or chances to use your brain. the only thing the fucking movie asks from you is that you wait and see.
fucking disgraceful.
OKAY I HAD SOME FEELINGS PROBABLY THIS SHOULD BE TWO POSTS BUT WHATEVER BYE
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littledoveheart · 4 years
Text
Mr Parker
(Part 2.)
The lights were blinding. The crowd was deafening. The music was pounding harshly against the floor and creating a rumble that only heightened the crowd’s anticipation for the one, the only, the Iron Man.
Well, the one and the only Iron Man was currently throwing up everything he had eaten that day with such impetuous force that he was convulsing while he white knuckled the smooth toilet seat.
“I’m serious give me a little space.” Tony gargled and gagged while his head was reclining on the seat, practically in said toilet and Peter Parker gave an unimpressed grimace while he adhered the red and gold iron man helmet. 
“Oh, get up.” Peter drawled, already irked by his boss who was definitely able to make his blood boil just within the minute or even second.
“No no i’m serious i don’t think i can go through with this.” Tony stumbled over his words like a drunken pelican while he braced himself for another tsunami wave of vomiting due to the sheer fear.
“We don’t have time for this we have to go!” Peter practically yells at him as if to swat some sense into Tony who was currently engulfed in trepidation of his jump from unimaginable heights that made him queasy.
“Oh God, you do not want to see that.” Tony cautioned while his armoured hands slammed down the toilet seat as if to conceal something that was a life or death matter. He felt as drunk as a swine as he upheaved himself and stumbled over nothing to his assistant.
“Where am i? Do i look weird?” “You look like you always do, you look like you have a hangover.”
“Can you get me something? Scotch, ale, Advil?”
“I don’t have any Advil, i have Motrin.” “I’m telling you there is something seriously wrong with giving a grown man Motrin! I’m not on my cycle Peter!”
“There is something seriously wrong with you, Tony!”
Tony doesn't seem at all predisposed as he grapples a safety bar to hoist his armour clad body upwards and into the awaiting arms of Peter, who was practically tearing at the seams with stress and anxiety.
“Abort the mission!”
“Tony you’re being ridiculous!”
“Abort the mission, we’re dropping!”
“No, no don’t-”
“I’m not doing this mission, abort it!”
“We are not aborting this mission!”
Tony quickly yanks an oxygen mask from the wall and inhales sharply, needing sustenance. He just wishes that he was breathing in the scent of Peter, that would definitely make him feel on cloud 9 but without all of the panic and consternation.
“Do you know how long it took me to get the DOD to approve of this Tony? And you know who i did it for? You. We are now over the drop zone.”
“What?” “Yes.”
Tony gets directly into Peter’s space, his nostrils, eyes determined to fill up on their daily dosage of the brunette who kept Tony alive without evening knowing it most of the time.
“Let’s do this, baby.” Tony sighed out softly while his lips yearned for those red lips of Peter, who seemed to notice the distance, or lack of, between them as he began to pant and hyperventilate in a nervous frenzy of, did he wear deodorant? Did he put lip gloss on?
“I know i can be selfish at times, and i know i don’t say it often enough”, Tony yells while his tenacious hands grapple Peter’s crooked elbows that were keeping the Iron Man helmet close to his chest, “But how’s my hair?”
“You said that before.”
“Yeah, but this time i mean it.”
“Yeah you’re looking good.”
“Ok, gimme a smooch for good luck i might not make it back this is heavy stuff.”
Well, that was certainly pushing the envelope and overstepping boundaries that had never once been overpassed. Tony had never tried his luck like that before. Sure, they had been dancing around each other, provocatively dancing around each other at that, to see if they could establish if the other was harbouring feelings too.
Peter heightened the Iron Man helmet so that it was directly in line with his red rosy lips and God Tony felt his hard on get impossibly harder when Peter started to make out with the helmet, tongue included.
Then he launched it off of the plane.
“Go get em boss…”
Tony’s lips quirk into a furtive smirk as he nods before sprinting forward. He wasn’t scared anymore. Peter had breathed life into him and gave stored the courage into his arc batteries as he jumped.
“You complete me!”
**
The entire room was filled with commotion that was almost infectious as Peter sat on his leather chair, leg crossed over the other while his dull grey straight skirt restricted his leg from bouncing in nerves for his boss who was being tried for ownership of his iron man suit. Peter absolutely believed that Tony should keep ownership in his grasp, he had after all created it and therefore it existed with Tony and that should be kept that way.
“Mr Parker, you ok?”
Peter eyes left their haze behind as they focussed on Tony Stark, a tiny head droop overcame him as he nods softly.
“I’m fine. And i know this must be hard for yo-”
“Not at all, if anything it’s a game. And i’m winning, i’m a sore loser.”
“A game? A game in which you don’t have get out of jail free cards, you don’t have free parking so you can take a minute to revise your strategy. Sounds like a dangerous game.” Peter chastises, clearly sullen and even the unsympathetic Tony Stark feels for his assistant and love interest more than he could ever express.
“Ok, yes. I am scared.” Tony conceded while he crouched next to Peter’s leather chair, his bones cracking from his age and the exhaustion of being Iron Man for 6 months, it was still his negotiation phase with his age and being the metal hero.
“I know you are Tony. But hey, if this fails we still have each other right?” Peter reached out for a spark to set off a firework of emotion to the selfish, ostracised billionaire and it seemed to work as Tony’s lips quirked upwards.
“Always.”
Tony slumps in his chair bored as his body’s energy just seems to drain from him and lay in a pool on the floor as the Congress goes on and on about how he is a liability to America and her safety which causes Peter to want to spew venom. A liability to America and a danger his ass, a very nice ass at that Tony had noted.
The crowds all hushed, an eerie silence casting over them like a cold blanket when James Rhodes walked in and through the people, parting them like an ocean with Moses and he does stop at Peter, giving a bow of respect. Peter smiles, tears filling his irises and dilating his pupils.
“Rhodey!” Tony calls, a light jog springing his feet forward as he places a hand onto his shoulder, a smile on his face and blush light on his cheek while he glanced at Peter.
“You ok Peter?” Tony murmurs softly, trying to keep their conversation on the down low and Peter gives an undetectable nod as he grasps his lip between his teeth.
“I’m fine…”
“Mr Rhodes, can you please read paragraph 4 on page 53.”
“You’re asking me to read specifics out of context?”
“Mhm.”
Rhodes recited the paragraph expertly and it caused Tony’s mood to go through the floor and right to the core of the Earth. Even if he didn’t believe that Rhodey would betray him like that, he was broken from his paragraph.
“Stark, you think that only you have these weapons and you are sorely wrong. Just watch this.”
The screens displayed a small base and Tony had to bite his tongue and suppress the snort that wanted to escape at the sheer humility of this. He knew that every single one of his suits was ten times more advanced and sophisticated than the other competitors that thrived for the top spot.
His fingers furiously tapped and swiped on his dependable phone and he searched for the file that he required, smirking to himself when he held up the device to the screens, hacking into them.
Peter looked at the screens, about to stand up to put his leash back on Tony to control him and to make him heel like a good boy, but he hesitated for a second when he saw the makeshift suits that were practically mocking and imitating Tony’s red and gold suits.
“I believe that’s North Korea,” Tony mumbles, swiping left as if to marry up the screen and the phone as a different area appeared on the screen, “That’s Iran.”
The Congress looked at each other as their web of lies tore apart at the seams that had been cleverly weaved and Tony smirked softly when Justin Hammer’s failed attempt came onto the screen.
“Justin look you’re on Tv, God you look a mess.”
Tony smirked, turning to look at Peter as chaos erupted around them and Peter was the only stable thing he could rely on in his life as chaos was the thing that couldn’t touch them. Peter smiled softly and nodded at him, his eyes alight with a flare.
“America is safe with me! I have, and will, protect her! So, good luck Congress!”
“Fuck you Mr Stark, fuck you.” Tony simply stood, grabbing his glasses and slipping them onto his face, blowing a pseudo kiss to the Congressmen before spinning himself towards the cameras, his arm shooting out to yank Peter to his strong chest by his waist, but he didn’t. God he wanted to though.
“So, i will continue to serve this nation for the safety of others at my own pleasure. And if there’s one thing you know about me, it’s that you can always count on me to pleasure myself.”
**
God, Peter’s life had been tossed into a blender and mixed into a mysterious, dangerous and almost bittersweet smoothie that he wasn’t sure he wanted more than one serving of.
“Anthony Edward Stark, i’m gonna-” “Wait, back up you’re not allowed in my lab.” “Are you fucking kidding me? You sold-”
“Hush Peter, give me a minute.”
“A minute? I want a one second break but i don’t fucking get one-” “Ok, all i can tell is that you are pissed off about something.” “You sold our entire art collection to the-..the-”
“Boy scouts of America.”
“Yeah, that!” “And for the record, it was my art collection.” “No, i think i have the right to call it our collection seeing as it took me 5 years to collect everything.”
“Yeah yeah i know Peter, and i am thankful for that.” Tony implores, looking over at him with gleaming chocolate eyes that admire his curvy hourglass figure that he craves.
“You know there are about 8000 things for me to talk to you abou-”
“Oh look at this.” Tony diverts Peter’s fury, trying to take the already sweltering heat of the hellfire that was an irate brunette Peter. He had to admit, his boner was getting harder steadily.
“Tony, i am not talking about your fan art now-”
“I’m hanging this up.”
“Not where the Tom f-”
“Yep.”
Tony carries a portrait of him in his armour over to his small kitchen, his muscly and strong arm giving one full sweep of the marble table to clear it while he hoists himself up, hanging up said portrait while Peter looks up at him with his arms out in exasperation.
“You’re company is in disarray!” 
“Are you kidding me? The stocks are better than they ever have been!”
“Someone needs to manage your company and you aren't! You’re too busy being Iron Man!”
Tony hopped down from his desk, his contemplation finally over as he decided on the decision that could really mess up his chances with Peter, or make them reality.
“I’m trying to make you CEO.”
Peter froze. His lip quivered and he shook softly, his eyes searching into Tony’s to fetch whether they were in a indistinctness of scotch and it was all a drunken aberration. When he couldn’t find anything with his flashlight of wisdom, he had to ask.
“Have you been drinking?”
“Only chlorophyl. Peter, i’ve been thinking about this for a long time now.”
Tony walked over to Dum E who was holding a tray with champagne on it like a waiter and he extended his claw to the Iron Hero who gratefully took it and poured two glasses.
“I thought that there would be legal issues about my successor, but nope. It’s you Peter, it’s always been you.”
Peter began to feel his throat clog with sobs that were desperate to break past his lips and he bit his lip hard while he lowered himself down into the love seat. Tony walked over and sat down swiftly next to him, handing him a glass of champagne.
“I-i don’t know what to think!” Peter laughs, trying to conceal his shock and utter love that multiplied ten fold for the Stark, who gave a smirk and inched his face closer as if to kiss him but instead he simply smirked.
“Don’t think, just drink Peter doll.”
Peter smiled widely, tears finally leaking from his eyes as he clinked his and Tony’s glasses together before sipping as if to seal the deal, and to taste just a bit of Tony seeing as Tony had handed him his champagne. Tony drank too, staring at the brunette with utter lust.
He just wanted him, craved him and needed him.
**
Tony coughed, the overcrowding getting autocratic for him while he held onto Peter’s elbow. A lot of things had occurred to Tony in the time that he had made Peter his CEO, and it was something that he was trying to keep the brunette from knowing anything about.
Nick Fury, director of S.H.I.E.L.D had sent Natalia to become Peter’s assistant to keep him out of as much danger as possible while still helping Tony out with his superhero double life, but she was playing her part better than any oscar winning actors that Tony had ever heard of.
They were at a dinner of sorts, not that Tony particularly wanted to be there, he had other things on his mind like going in his race car that he had owned for 7 years and used it only to gather dust with, but here he was leading his brand new CEO through the crowds. Peter looked stunning, as ever. He was wrapped in a blue dress that hugged his curves in the best possible ways and fuck that ass though, Tony thought. 
Tony linked their arms together so he wasn’t left adrift in the ocean of people which was making him sea sick already. Peter doesn’t flinch, instead smiles for the camera and leans into Tony’s strong and stable touch.
“Smile for the camera, doll face.” Tony murmured, his teeth tightly closed together in a forced and strained smile and Peter did the same to talk back to him like the snarky bastard he was.
“Yeah, well i wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t forced me to be here.”
“Forced you? Ye-”
“How was your flight Mr Stark?” Natasha butted in, sensing the sexual tension between the two was as bad as the rising sea levels that were occurring. Tony nods softly.
“Very nice indeed Natalia, what have me and Peter got on the board?” “You have a 9:30pm dinner.” “Good, i’ll be there at 11pm.”
“Ok then Mr Sta-”
“Is this our table?” Tony pointed to a sunlit corner table that would bring out Peter’s features gorgeously and would make his smile even more heavenly to Tony. Natasha just nods.
“It can be.”
“Ok good, thank you.”
“Mr Musk, a pleasure.” Peter drawled softly, his luminous with lipgloss lips spreading into a microscopic smile at the man and before Tony could toss a bucket of water on the spark of jealously, it had metastasised into a full fire that was coursing through his veins as well as toxicity from his arc.
“Ah, Elon Musk. Pleasure, loved your idea, ok bye.” Tony rushed as if his words were competing in a marathon with his body that was yanking harshly on Peter’s elbow to drag him away, which he successfully did and made his way over to the bar.
Peter’s stilettos clicked while he walked, his arm linked into Tony’s as they leaned against the mahogany bar table. Peter was jealous too, Natasha was way prettier than him and he couldn’t help but think that Tony had a hard on for her. 
“Sorry about dragging you here, i should have-” “Is that Tony Stark?” The annoying, just as headache inducing as a real hammer, Justin Hammer drawled as a hot young blonde accompanied him as if to give Peter a showdown for best slut. Tony bites his tongue hard, pulling Peter to his body a bit closer as if worried Hammer would snatch him away.
“My least favourite person, Justin Hammer.” 
Peter just coughs to mask the giggle that escaped his lips, making up the excuse that he had a cold and that he was extremely sorry and the billionaire could see straight through the lie, but Hammer thankfully couldn’t.
“So, am i allowed a spot at the expo then?” “When you make something that actually works then i’ll give you a spot.”
Peter sat at the corner table, and Tony was right. It had brought out his smile to be more gorgeous than the Iron hero had ever imagined, more beautiful was his glimmering hair that had stubborn little strands that wouldn’t fall into line, and oh how breathtaking was his eyes holding the beams of the sun captive and using them against Tony to make him fall impossibly deeper in love.
“Blood toxicity 47%” 
Tony stared at himself in the mirror and just let himself stop and think about others; What would his company be like if he didn’t come up with a solution? What would Happy do? What would Peter do without him?
He nodded softly to himself and looked at his own chocolate eyes. “Any more crazy ideas, Tony?”
**
The sun was illuminating the floor of the Stark jet, they were on their way home and Tony definitely did not want to go home. He may have wrecked his home, may have had a fight with Rhodes, but overall he had spent more time with Peter and that outweighed everything.
Peter was tightly buckled to his seat, wary of aircrafts ever since his parents’ death on one, but he didn’t dwell on it much. He was watching the news, his leg crossed over the other and the grey straight skirt he always wore when he meant business was hugging his knees securely.
Tony was standing at the doorway to the seating area, a small plate in his hand that he had poured over for 3 hours to try and make Peter a meal fit for a princess. The media was currently despising Tony, and that then spread to Peter who was one of the only ones who had not betrayed him or lost faith in him.
“And in other news, Tony Stark has-”
“Mute.” Tony called for Jarvis to mute, not wanting Peter to stress about anything more than what he already had on his crammed plate. Peter didn’t react except for a small head bow down to his lap and a little lip nibble, but he just gave a tiny smile to Tony when he sat across from him and set the plate on the table.
“What is that?” “You’re in-flight meal.”
“Did you just make that?”
“Where do you think i’ve been for the past three hours?”
Peter smiles softly. The meal looked completely repugnant, but seeing as Tony made it for him he absolutely adored it even with it’s undesirable appearance.
“Thank you Tony…I can tell something’s bothering you, what’s up?” Peter queries gently, he doesn’t want to startle Tony and make the scared man crawl back into his protective bubble in which no one could penetrate. 
“I don’t wanna go home.” Tony admits softly while his chocolate eyes gaze over at his brunette stunner.
“Tony…”
“Peter, i’m serious…Let’s go back, relax.” “Tony, i’m CEO i can’t just up and leave.” “As CEO, you’re entitled to a bit of leave.”
“A leave? With everything going on?”
“Well yeah, it gives us time to rethink our plans and recharge our batteries.”
“Not everybody runs on batteries, Tony.” The two locked gazes, Peter’s honey eyes subduing underneath Tony’s heavier and more dominant chocolate eyes as they gave each other sombre smiles. Neither of them wanted it to go back to the way it was; business and nothing else. But, Tony wanted it to be so much more and he was starting to believe that Peter wanted it too.
**
The expo was up in flames, it was all going wrong and to say that Peter was perturbed was an understatement. He was stuck with Natalia, who’s name he had learned was actually a fucking Russian assassin, but she was insisting that she would go to Hammer’s facility and take care of the drones there.
Tony was in complete and utter chaos, it consumed him and ravaged at him, tearing him down and then giving him the adrenaline to continue fighting against the Hammer drones. He knew he hated Justin for a reason. But Peter, Tony was in a hysteria about him. He didn’t have the armour he had, he didn’t have protection apart from Natasha who was preoccupied with Happy at Hammer’s building. Rhodes was by his side in War Machine, but Peter was no where to be seen and he could feel his arc skip beats.
Peter’s stilettos clicked as fast as a cheetah ran, he was desperate to get up to the technicians and ask just what the hell was going on, and that he was tell them exactly where to shove it if they couldn’t save Tony. He slapped the head of the main technician hard before leaning over his shoulder like a dark shadow that threatened to strike.
“What the fuck is happening? You get me all the details now, hack into those drones and decipher the code their using, then use the same code to shut them down.” “Yes boss.” Peter looked at the window, screaming loudly as glass shattered from a direct collision with Tony Stark, who simply recovered and flew off, and if Peter wasn’t already irate enough, when Justin smirked he was livid. He felt his hand whip harshly against Justin’s cheek before his brain even woke it’s self up from it’s panicked sleep paralysis. He ran to the window, gazing out and feeling his knees go week whenever he saw Tony.
There was no point in hiding his attraction to him anymore, he was just now worried for his safety and that they would both make it out of there, live to tell the tale and finally end the beautiful dance that had them positioned an arms length apart for their ballet to work. It was finally drawing to curtain.
“Tony!” Peter heard screamed, he couldn’t even tell if it was him in all of the confusion, he was sure it was however as he ran back to the technician, “What have you got so far?” “There all programmed in different ways, different languages.” “Use the main one, deactivate as many as you can.”
Tony and Rhodes do it, of course with the help of Natasha, Happy and definitely Peter who had apprehended Justin Hammer and handed him over to Natasha whom had taken him away quickly.
One little blip still remained on the radar. The Hammer drones were set to blow, their objective to blow the Stark expo to fragments and erase it from America’s memory.
“Tones, these things are gonna blow.” “Peter…” Was the first whisper from the Iron Hero, fuck the people, fuck his expo. If there was one thing that he needed to save from his expo, it was his Peter. The paths or smoke diverged onto different paths, one heading up to the stars to fly away and run, the other bolting to the right sharply, the dangerous path, the path to life.
Peter was standing stationary by the entrance of Stark expo, something he had put his whole life into making perfect for Tony, and on the floor there laid a wrecked and dismantled Hammer drone that was pulsating with a blinking light as red as blood. Peter looked over confused, his brows furrowing softly as if they were digging down his features.
“What the-” 
Metal boots clanked hazily next to him, heat swarming around his ankles from the deactivated boosters and a strong arm wrapped around his curved waist, yanking him upwards to try and catch up to his skyrocketing heart. Tony flew upwards expeditiously, holding the brunette CEO to his chest while he bolted out of the general vicinity, flying to a nearby roof while explosions billowed in his wake.
Tony set down gently, still holding Peter while his suit twitched as though it had been personally burned while his suits wires cackled and sparkled. Peter squealed, his legs almost giving way from the stress while he shoved Tony backwards hard, pissed off, angry and fuck so scared and in love. Tony ripped his helmet off, throwing it to the side.
“Oh my God, i can’t take this anymore!” Peter whimpered out almost pitifully, tears pouring down his cheeks at the thought of having to leave his boss, but his body was starting to go into stress induced shut down.
“What do you mean you can’t?” “I can’t take this!” “I mean look at me!” “I literally cannot handle the stress! I never know if you’re gonna,” he swallowed thickly to try and hold up his stance against the tears that were threatening to spill again, “get yourself killed or wreck the whole company!”
“Hey, i think i did ok!” As if to marry up with his statement, an explosion sounded around 50 feet away from where his gesture had pointed to.
“I-i quit, i’m resigning! That’s it.” That hit Tony like a thousand Hammer drones piled on top of each other and they had detonated at the same time onto his arc reactor. God, Tony couldn’t let Peter just walked out of his world and life like this, he had to get him back.
“What did you just say? You’re done?” Tony stepped closer, his suit obeying as he got closer to the brunette who had breathed life to his arc.
“That’s surprising, well actually it isn’t surprising, ok, i got it and you don’t have to make any excuses.”
“Listen i’m not making any excuses-” “Well, you actually were making exudes but you don’t have to-” “No i wasn’t making excuses, because i’m actually very justified and-” “You deserve better, Peter.”
“Well...” “You’ve taken such good care of me. Been in a tough spot and you got me through it. Yeah, right?” “Right, and thank you for understanding.” “No problem, now let’s talk about the clean up-” “I’ll have everything done for you Tony.”
“And about your transit-” “Yeah, but for you it’s like dog years, it’s like the President’s-” Rough lips glided over smoother ones. Tony’s lips glided over Peter’s. Their lips locked around each other, intertwining desperately and completely loved enveloped as they pressed onto the others. Tony held Peter’s waist, something he had craved to do for a long while, and just kissed him. He hoped this was enough to make the brunette stay with him, he needed it to be enough. Peter kissed back, his hands finding their resting place on his chest, cupping his arc reactor.
“Weird?” Tony queries as their lips finally part, and Peter pants softly, looking up at him and cupping his cheek with his thumb gliding gently over his ear.
“No, i don’t think it’s weird…” Peter can only whisper as he inches his face closer again, ready to dive head first into another sweet and love filled kiss and Tony followed his lead. “Good, run that by me again.” Tony murmurs while yanking him fully closer and up to his lips so that they connected again in another addicting kiss that made the brunette moan softly.
“Yeah, i think it’s weird.”
Their lips parted feverishly again, but their hands remained in place as the two turned to face Rhodes, Tony’s face once of anger at the disruption, and Peter’s one of embarrassment at the intrusion.
“You guys look like two seals fighting over a grape.”
“I-i just quit.” Peter rushed to defend himself and Tony nodded softly with his arms still around his waist and hugging him to his chest as if to protect him from the outside world.
“You two don’t even need to pretend, i heard it all.” “You should get lost.” Tony chimed in, pointing an accusing finger at Rhodes who had to stifle the chuckle that wanted to escape his lips.
“I was here first, you two should get a roof.”
“I thought you had a one liner.” “That was the last one.”
“You kicked ass back there by the way.” “Thank you, you too. Listen, my car got taken out in the explosion so i;m gonna have to hang on to your suit for a while.”
“Not ok, not ok.”
“Wasn’t a question.”
Tony held Peter tight as Rhodes became air born and flew off speedily, and it caused Tony to give a small chuckle before he turned to Peter and held his hands tight.
“How you gonna resign hm?”
**
Tony gave Fury a look as he stood up and looked at him, a tiny smile spreading across his lips while he nodded.
“Listen, i’m trying to do right by Peter, we’re in a relationship.”
“I got that, but we think it’s best for you to be a consultant.” “Ok, but can i ask for a small favour?”
“Shoot.” Tony smirked as the Congressman presented his honour, oh it was such a lovely dose of karma that Tony had induced but yet only one thing remained on his mind as he beckoned his beloved onto the stage with him.
“My darling, how about you stand right here?” Tony husked, tucking Peter into his waist and kissing him deeply in front of every single paparazzi he could see, and Peter cupped his cheek while kissing back softly with a smile plastered on his face.
“Alright, pictures!”
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allonsysilvertongue · 5 years
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Two of Us
So.. Endgame ended me. I haven’t written anything for months but this happened.  Had to deal with the emotions somehow. This is a spoilery fic so please don’t read if you haven’t seen the movie. 
It’s Peter and Morgan at the funeral.
Two of Us.
Five years was long time to be away.
The world as he knew it was different and yet, the same.
The ones who were gone, the ones like him, had tried to pick up where they left off. With half of the population doing that, it gave the illusion as if everything was the same.
But things had changed.
Morgan Stark holding on to his hand was one such testament to that. Truth be told, he didn’t really know what to do or how to act with the girl. Peter’s exposure to children was limited to the ones who stopped him on the street as Spiderman to say hello and take a selfie. He never actually had to babysit a child before but Ms Potts – Mrs Stark, he reminded himself – was getting the wreath ready, claiming there was something else she needed to make it complete. Happy was running point and ensuring that things were in order while Rhodey…. He looked around, searching for the man. Rhodey was outside at the porch talking to Steve Rogers.
So here he was with little Morgan Stark who looked so much like her dad that Peter was having trouble trying to remain compose.
He doubted she truly understood what was going on around her but she was well behaved, waiting there quietly and patiently with him, a boy she barely knew. His gaze trailed down to her and his heart ached. She was so small and innocent, and so fragile.
Peter knew what it was like to lose a parent at such a young age and to grow up without a father’s guidance. She was a child with only five years’ worth of memories of her dad.
Or perhaps lesser, Peter mused. He had read somewhere that the earliest memory one can access was at the age of two.
He wanted to say something, anything at all to comfort her but he grappled to find the right words. In the end, he sighed loudly.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, her voice soft.
Peter looked down, forced himself to smile a little.
“Uh, nothing. You need anything, little one?”
“No,” Morgan shook her head and Peter thought she was the cutest little girl he had ever seen. “Are you here to see daddy, too? I miss daddy.”
“Me too, Morgan,” Peter answered without missing a beat. Not daddy but Mr. Stark, he wanted to say when she raised her head at him a little confused, but he settled for, “I miss him, too.”
Everything was odd. He still felt as if he wasn’t back in his own skin, as if a part of him was stuck in … wherever he was when Thanos snapped his fingers. He was having trouble trying to reconcile that years had passed here and that during that time, people had grieved and tried to move on.
To him, it felt as if he had just met Mr. Stark not too long ago; as if the dressed down he received from his mentor after the ferry incident was just recently; as if it was just yesterday that he was in space with both Dr. Strange and Mr. Stark.
It was confusing and sometimes, his head hurt. May tried to be gentle with him; assured him that with time, he would feel better.
He was afraid he would never. How was he supposed to when Mr. Stark is gone so soon after Peter returned? They were supposed to have more time.
“Petey,” Morgan tugged on his sleeve and brought her voice down to a whisper. “There are so many people.”
At the sound of her voice, so tiny and helpless, Peter knelt down in front of her. He laid a gentle arm on her shoulder and brushed her hair back, the way May had done for him countless of times to soothe him.
“It’s okay. They’re friends of your dad. They’re here for him, too.”
Her eyes were bright and shiny, watering. It made Peter looked around, anxious.
Please don’t cry, Morgan, please don’t cry.
As it was, Peter was already barely holding himself together. Being at Tony Stark’s funeral was the last place he wanted to be. He should be with Mr. Stark in his lab, working on an upgrade for each of their suits. Mr. Stark should have been showing off the Rescue suit to Peter, so he could properly be in awe of his mentor, as if he wasn’t already.
“I’ve never seen them before,” she admitted, biting on her bottom lip. “Are they like you?”
It made Peter pause, wondering just how much Morgan knew of what transpired.
“Well… Yeah, we were all gone for a little bit, you know? But – But we’re all back now. And we’re here ‘cause of Mr. Stark – your dad. So that’s why – that’s why we’re here to pay …. We owe him and we all want to say goodbye.”
“But I’ve never seen them before,” she frowned.
“They’re friends. I know you’re feeling a little scared having all these strangers in your house but hey, look at me. You’ve never seen me before either, but you and I… We’re okay right?” he tried his best to comfort her.
Her frown deepened.
“Daddy said you’re a spider. He told me so,” Morgan jutted her chin out stubbornly as if Peter might at any moment questioned her.
He blinked. She knows me.
“He said you’re an aven… avenger,” she struggled a little with the word.
“He – He made me an avenger… on a space ship,” Peter explained. “He told you about me?”
“Mhm,” Morgan’s face split into a smile as she nodded. “It’s my favourite bed time story. I don’t like his other stories. Yours is my favourite.”
He reeled back, choking. Peter made a sound somewhere between a laugh and cry, trying to control his sudden burst of emotions.
Tony Stark told bedtime stories about him to his daughter. Morgan knew about Spiderman because of her dad.
“Mommy said you’re like me,” she continued, oblivious to the barrage of emotion she had just unleashed. “Daddy’s kids. But…” she trailed. “Mommy said he lost you so that’s why I shouldn’t play too far from the house or daddy will lose me too and it will make him sad. Like you made him sad.”
“I  -  I made him sad?”
“Yup,” she nodded. “Sometimes, in the kitchen, daddy will look at your picture and it makes him sad.”
That explained it, Peter thought.
It explained the reason why, apart from Rhodey and Happy, Morgan seemed familiar with him. It was the reason why she was here calmly holding his hand and talking to him. She already knew him.
She grew up hearing stories about him; stories that Tony Stark told her to keep Peter alive in his memories.
Peter sat down, realising that now their position was reversed. He would be the one telling Morgan stories about her own dad. And that was all she would have of him – stories to last her a lifetime.
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It girl pt. 6 - They know
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Pairing: Mentor!Natasha Romanoff x Mentee!Reader, Platonic!Avengers x reader, Peter Parker x Reader
Warning: This chapter is just angst. Maybe a little fluff in the end if you squint hard enough. But the Bonus Scenes are pure fluff. xx
Summary: Natasha had once joked about picking a random new recruit trainee to teach all her skills since Tony had recently become Peter’s mentor. Fury sees this as a legitimate idea, and asks Natasha to choose her protège, code name: “it girl”.
A/N: The long-ass series has finally come to an end. Thank you to all the supporters, and please stay till the end if you wanna read some deleted scenes ;)
Prologue  Part 1  Part 2  Part 3  Part 4  Part 5
———————————————————————
The remaining Avengers returned to the compound completely defeated, no one dared to utter a word as they retreated. For the first time in many years, they lost. Tony's whereabouts were still unknown, and the only string of hope left was the pager that Fury left behind. 
The encounter with Carol Danvers, Tony returning to Earth weak and crushed, it only furthered their sorrow. The realization that Thanos had committed mass-murder on the universe, and they couldn't do anything to stop him. Even their last hope burned out, as Thanos had already gotten rid of the stones.
Natasha coped with losing you like how she always did. Built a thicker wall around her than before, spent her time in the gym and working. Every time she walked by your room in the compound, her mind replayed your smaller figure, twirling around the room in the ballgown you found in the closet. 
She opens the door to land her eyes on the closet door, which you took the liberty of painting the Black Widow logo on it. She wipes a stray tear with her thumb, her soft sniffles loud in the soundless room.
Because of her devoted work, the orphans were safe with shelter and food. The Avengers was running smoothly even though the men just abandoned their work. When the sun shone through the glass walls and the light reflected off of her computer, it was fine. But once the moon rose in the dark night, her ears played cruel tricks on her, making her hear the little hums and laughs of yours. 
"Natashen'ka. That's actually a pretty cool nickname, Ms. Nat."
"Haha, anything to get you to stop calling me 'Ms. Nat'."
During nights like this, she often found herself in the Philosophic room you spent so much time in, looking at little notes and gadgets left behind by you. MINT was a great listener, showing Natasha multiple mini videos of you blowing things up and freaking out. 
You allowed yourself into Natasha's heart in the short span of a year, and she found herself welcoming you into her fragile heart like a daughter she never had. In the 5 years without you, she never forgot about you. She didn't put the stocked up cookies in your cupboard away, and she didn't even think of cleaning up your room in the compound. 
But more and more, she started to heal herself, gradually coming to softly smile when she saw your bedroom door instead of crying.
But everything changed when Scott Lang pulled up into the Avengers Compound, with what seemed like an impossible plan to save the universe. She couldn't give that chance up. Even if it was a one in a million possibility, she wanted to give you a second chance. You were an extraordinary girl, and you were going to do great things someday. She knew that ever since she appointed you 'it girl' of the Avengers.
So she had to speak up when Tony rejected her, Steve and Scott's idea. 
"Tony, think about the kids. Our kids. Please, think about it." Tony instantly understood what kids she was talking about, and his hardened face faltered.
"Our kids are gone." Tony went back into his house, clearly rattled. It was evident that Tony had a hard time dealing with Peter's death like Natasha had with you. 
Which was why it came as no surprise to Natasha when Tony came back to the compound, with his time heist machine all figured out. The one she didn't expect, though, was being in this situation. 
"Natasha, you can't. Y/N needs you." Clint sobbed, being held up by Natasha's grappling hook. He tightened his grip on her, who only had Clint to hold on to from falling to her death. 
"She's strong, Clint. She's- so strong." She choked back a sob, readying herself for what she was going to do. 
"No, no... Damn you!" Clint's eyes shot up to the ominous clouds, taunting him to let go of his best friend. 
"Let me go." Natasha looked at him in the eyes, pure determination in her eyes. Her mind replayed every moment of her life, trying to remember every Avenger's smiling faces and carving them in her mind. 
"It's okay." She snaked her hands away from his, kicking against the cliff to jump off. She felt her stomach drop from the fall, her beautiful smile gracing on her lips. She closed her eyes and imagined you, your big doe eyes looking up at her with a twinkle in your gaze. She couldn't remember why you looked so happy, but your smile never left her as the air from her lungs got knocked out, followed by falling into a long, sweet sleep. 
Clint could only watch as she fell, hitting the ground lifelessly. Tears fell down his cheeks, sobbing uncontrollably before he fell unconscious as well. 
As soon as you walked out of that portal, the first person you looked for was Natasha. When you couldn't seem to locate where she was, you just assumed that she was somewhere in the big crowd. The battlefield was big, and it was normal for you to not be able to see your teammate. 
You were left clueless, even as you watched Tony's life end before your eyes. You held Peter in a tight embrace, balancing him while his shoulders trembled as he cried for the fallen hero. You walked in silence as Steve carried Tony into what remained of the compound, still too busy comforting Peter to notice Natasha wasn't there. No one wanted to tell you, for they saw how broken Peter looked then, and they didn't want to do this to you too.
But ultimately, when Peter moved from you to beside Tony, you glanced around to look for and hug Natasha. Only then, did Clint work up the courage to tell you the truth. You stood in front of him for a few second unmoving, your mind completely frozen and malfunctioning. 
"She-she sacrificed herself for the stones." 
"No." Your hand flew up to your mouth, shaking your head as tears pooled in your eyes. The tip of your nose burned, and you found yourself falling on your knees. Your knees sunk into the dirt, teardrops threatening to spill. You let out a strangled cry, muffled by your hands. Steve was right by your side, pulling you into a hug as you broke down in his arms. 
"I know, Y/N, I know." Steve was one of Natasha's best friends, and he was one of the first people you met in the compound. He understood the pain, that hopelessness of realizing that you'd never be able to see her again. 
“Natashen'ka.” You mumbled in between sobs, tears soaking Steve's tac suit. But he didn't mind, he stayed on the ground crying with you. 
You cried yourself to sleep that night, and only in your dreams did you find a little peace. That only lasted so long before you were woken up by Steve, who handed you a white letter and a cup of tea. 
You thanked Pepper mentally for giving you a clean change of clothes, walking out of Tony's cabin in the crisp weather. Peter sat on the porch, looking out into the small lake. 
"Hi, Pete." You greeted, your usual chirpy tone gone. 
"Y/N. I'm so glad you're okay." Even though the loss, he still smiled at you, pulling you into a warm embrace. 
"I'm glad you're okay too, Peter." You sighed into his neck, comforted by his usual scent and the feeling of his chest against you. 
Later in the day when the Avengers were all gone to mourn in their own ways, you climbed atop the roof to collect yourself and read Natasha's letter.
My it girl.
If you ever read this, I won’t be around anymore, I’m guessing.
“Ohmygod! I DID IT!!” You squealed and jumped, eyes burning into the perfect shot at the paper shooting board.
“That was amazing!” Natasha laughed, your energy radiating off and rubbing onto her.
“You're already better than Thor.” She traced the bullet hole, grinning brightly back at you. You felt laughter bubbling in your gut, your mind replaying that one time Thor had to try shooting an enemy in battle. He crushed the poor magnum with his iron grip, letting out strings of curse words saying Midguardian weapons were too tiny.
I want you to know that- god, this sounds cheesy. But, you’re my legacy, Y/N.
I’ve done many things in my life. You know that. 
But I can say with certainty, that the best thing I ever did, was choosing you that day.
“I’m sorry! Ms. Nat, please.” Your eyes welled with fresh tears, tugging onto Natasha’s suit sleeves desperately.
“I told you that it was too dangerous.” She turned back around at you and sighed, glaring at the now destroyed HYDRA hideout.
“I’m sorry. I just thought-“
“Thought that you could go in there and save everyone?”
“That’s what you would’ve done!”
“But you can’t do the things I’d do! If anything happened to you, I-“ She trailed off, hands flying up to her head, slicking back her debris-filled hair in annoyance.
“I wouldn’t know what to do then.”
So don’t cry, my Y/N.
Because I’m not gone.
I’m still here.
By your side, always.
You felt like your heart was being beaten with sharp blades over and over again, but you found it in yourself to smile at the letter. By your side, always. You gulped down another wave of intense sobs, looking up at the bright sky. 
You wanted nothing more than for Natasha to pull you in a hug, for her to feed you Wanda's cookies to stop you from crying. Your heart felt empty, glassy eyes searching for purpose in the cloudless blue sky. 
"Y/N." You turned around to see Peter, standing a few feet away from you with a concerned look. He walked over to you and sat down, wordlessly wrapping his arm your shoulder and letting you lean into him. 
"I wish they had a way to know that we're safe, alive because of them." You whispered, afraid that your voice would crack if you spoke. 
"They know." 
BONUS DELETED SCENES
A collection of scenes that were actually written in the stories, but got cut because some of them didn't make sense.
"Where are you two going?" Tony caught you and Peter trying to sneak into one of SHIELD's jets, and you giggled as you turned around. 
"Busted..." Peter grinned at you, the two of you trying to suppress your laughs.
"We're going to... well, see dem aliens." You said suddenly serious, determined eyes locked with Tony's. 
"What?" 
"It's the area 51 raid, sir!" Peter almost screamed, way too excited for his own good. 
"But I own area 51? People are going to raid my property?!" Tony shrieked, running away back into the compound. 
--
"Y/N, who do you think is better looking, me or the spawn of Satan?" Sam rushed up to you, smiling as he pointed at himself, then Bucky.
"Spawn of Satan?" You questioned, watching Bucky with a flower crown eating plums innocently. 
"It's me, right? Hey, Y/N said it's me!" Sam ran away yelling, Bucky narrowing his eyes at you. You raised your hand up, shaking your head confused.
--
"So, the gossip is, Bucky and Steve are totally into each other." Wanda pointed out as she took a bite out of her cookie. 
"Fascinating." You nodded, eyes focused on Wanda dishing out all of the Avengers' gossip.
"But Tony and Steve were like a thing before, so that caused this whole Civil War."
"I don't think-" Vision furrowed his artificial brows and tried to intervene, but Sam shushed him and Wanda continued.
"Oh! Do you want me to spill the tea on Thor and Bruce?"
"Spill!"
--
"So, Y/N. What do you think about Peter?" Natasha's voice had a hint of mischievousness in it, making you redden immediately. " You can't lie to a spy, Y/N."
"I think he's a great friend." Maybe an average person may not have been able to lie to her, but you were fantastic at manipulation. Short reply usually indicated that the speaker was telling the truth, rather than a long explanation.
"Hmm... Okay, then. You won't mind if I told you he likes you. Such a shame..."
"He likes me?" Ugh! A slip-up. She knew now. 
"I knew it! TONY!!" She skipped out of your room and left you internally panicking. 
--
"I say we watch gone with the wind today." It was the Avengers movie night, and you were on the couch snuggled next to Peter. Tony prepared the snacks, which meant that it was as perfect as it could be. You didn't know that there was a limited flavor ice cream named after Tony until today.
"Steve, we've watched that movie 4 times this week."
"It's a great movie!"
"Why don't we watch justice league?" Clint said, making everyone turn to him with crazy looks in their eyes. 
"It's way too dark." You said, shaking your head. 
"But it's supposed to be-" Before Clint could protest, you shook your head.
"No, I mean it's literally too dark. I can't see a goddamn thing."
The Avengers laughed and nodded in agreement, going back to searching for a good movie. 
"Steve, she said a bad language word." Tony squeaked out, and everyone burst out laughing as Steve shook his head. 
"This is literally never going away, Rogers." Natasha chuckled before she took a swig out of her beer bottle. 
--
Thank you so much for reading 'it girl', to every reader who liked/commented/asked to be on taglist, you guys motivated me to continue this far to chapter 6. I hope the ending wasn't too brutal. If it's any consolation, in this story I intended for Steve to stay in the present. Love you muffins xx  - Your Nep<3
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notaparty-trick · 4 years
Text
All Those Senseless Scars - Chapter 1
Tumblr media
By @notaparty-trick​ for @asyouleft​
@friendly-neighborhood-exchange​
Rating: T
Relationships: Tony Stark & Peter Parker, May Parker & Peter Parker, Michelle Jones & Ned Leeds & Peter Parker
Characters: Peter Parker, Tony Stark, May Parker, Pepper Potts, Michelle Jones, Ned Leeds
Summary: There is a rule to the way Peter lives now. He didn’t know it at first, but he learnt it.
It’s simple.
To earn what he needs to survive, he has to make sacrifices. --- Peter Parker's life is derailed when he's kidnapped and kept in a white-tiled room with nothing: no windows, no cameras, no food, no water, no phone, nobody else. Only his own thoughts keep him from losing his mind. If he asks for anything, he must take punishment. Tony Stark will stop at nothing to bring him home.
Archive Of Our Own link here
There is a rule to the way Peter lives now. He didn’t know it at first, but he learnt it.
It’s simple.
To earn what he needs to survive, he has to make sacrifices.
---
When he wakes up, he knows he’s been out for a long time. There’s a cotton-wool quality to his train of thought.
He’s in a white cell.
And he’s completely naked.
“Oh my God, oh - what the…?” 
He rushes to get up from the floor and cover himself, jamming himself into a corner. “Shit.” 
His heart judders violently in his chest. There’s nothing to see, nothing at all, nothing but the white tiled walls of his prison. No window. No camera. No food, no water, no guards, no clothes, oh God.
What did they do while I was out?
But he isn’t in any pain that he can notice. Even with his enhanced healing, it’s unlikely he was asleep for long enough for complete healing to take place, so he thinks - he thinks - he’s safe in that respect.
Not in any other.
He’d been in the Spider-Man suit when they took him; the fact that his mask is no longer on him means they already know a lot more about him than he’d like.
He’s utterly clueless. He knows nothing; nothing, except that he’s trapped.
“Hello?” he calls tentatively, then desperately. “Hello! Is anyone, is anyone around? Please - I need--”
In under ten seconds, his calls are answered by the clang of the door opening.
Peter faces bad guys on the daily. He slips on his cocky persona like a second skin now after over a year of patrolling Queens. But it’s a whole lot easier when he’s in the suit. Instead, he instinctively huddles away from the four masked figures that storm into his cell.
There’s an overload of adrenaline pulsing through him stirred through with the dregs of sedatives which makes it impossible to think straight. He’s at a loss for quips.
“It’s alright,” issues a voice. Peter can’t tell who’s speaking behind the masks, but the tone is bafflingly soothing. “We’re here to reason with you.”
Peter prepares himself for a lengthy monologue detailing the way in which Spider-Man had wronged them, but it doesn’t arrive. One of the figures simply asks, “What would you like?”
It’s mystifying. Peter stays silent.
“Would you like some clothes?”
“Yes,” Peter can’t help but blurt, despite every ounce of logic he’s ineffectually grappling for like grains of sand, despite his sixth sense that cries out a never-ending chorus of danger danger danger danger.
The group nods in tandem.
And then, in precise, almost mechanical movements, they tear Peter from his corner and drop him so his face hits the floor. Then there are hands all over him, pressing his back and legs and arms to the ground, and he fights them - but finds he can't. His strength is gone.
A slew of panic grips him in its hold so violently that the room twists sickeningly around him.
The floor is freezing against his bare skin. He’s noticing now just how cold the whole room is. 
The hands on him are rough and unsympathetic. But the taser is worse.
Before Peter even has a chance to speak, to protest, it's jammed into his side and activated. Peter's brain whites out instantly with the agony. It's too much. It has his limbs juddering against the floor, his mouth open in a scream he can't even find the wherewithal to let out, a heated pressure in his brain building and building and building upon itself until he’s sure it’s about to shatter his skull, ricocheting off the walls and battering him yet again, more pain, more pain.
There's a second of silent respite. Eerily quiet. He drags in ragged breaths.
Then it begins again.
Peter has no sense of time. It makes the torture feel endless.
After they're finished with him, he doesn't move from the spot where he'd been held down, every fibre of his body reeling, shorting out, fizzling with the aftershocks of the electricity.
"Now you've had your punishment, you can have some clothes. This is how things will work here. Once you have made a sacrifice, we will give you what you ask for."
“What, what are you - what do you want?”
“We want to test you. You have remarkable capabilities. We will discover just how remarkable they are.” 
A pair of boxers is tossed into the cell as the masked group leaves. Peter crawls over to them and pulls them on through a bout of tremors, feeling the sour sting of shame enveloping him.
He knows that this is bad. Worse than bad, it's - a whole host of other words that he can't summon from his frazzled, drugged mind.
His kidnappers don't want money or leverage. They just want to break him.
So he resolves not to let them.
The group enters his box in intervals he presumes are daily - maybe twice a day, he doesn’t know, he doesn’t know anything. They ask him politely if he'd like anything, and he doesn't ask for anything. They don't touch him.
Apart from their entry and exit, there's nothing. There's his box and himself. White, silent, tiny. Maybe ten by ten feet. Nothing.
So he fills up the nothing with talking.
"Actinium, aluminum, americium, antimony, argon, arsenic, astatine," he reels off. "Barium, berkelium, beryllium, bismuth, bohrium, boron, bromine."
He knows the elements. They're comforting but don't hold the bittersweetness of memories of before.
"Stay safe, kiddo," Tony called towards Peter as he rushed into the elevator that would take him out of the Tower and home before May could have his ass for being late to dinner.
The last words he'd said to Peter.
He climbs on the walls and ceiling, hammers at every inch of the tiling, bloodies his knuckles doing it, but he's only human now.
"C'mon," he grits, slamming his side into the wall. "Please, c'mon."
It won't give.
He sinks to the floor, still wracked with jitters, and cradles his head in his hands.
"Don't cry, Peter. Gonna use up water. Stop it, stop."
And, after knuckling his eyes until they ache, he manages to stop.
He knows that an inactive person can survive up to a week without water and almost a month without food. Mostly, that’s what he has to worry about, as well as the cold, which isn’t so severe as to give him frostbite but is enough that within his first few hours in captivity he becomes used to the incessant chattering of his jaw and wonders where the aftershocks of the taser end and the shivering begins.
That, and going insane.
“Cadmium, calcium, californium, carbon... cerium, cesium, chlorine... chromium… uh - cobalt. Cobalt. Copernicium. Copper. Curium.”
Peter likes to talk. He’ll talk whether there are people to listen to him or not, but he’ll admit that he prefers getting to talk to other people. He starts to miss it like hell, actually.
“You know what I should’ve done?” he says aloud, grinning, “I, I really should’ve brought my Chemistry homework with me. I’m so behind. And I’m supposed to be, like, the big science guy, right?”
Flopping to the floor, no longer noticing the coldness of it, he lies limply there for a moment, trying to wrangle his thoughts. “Or I could’ve just done it when I was supposed to. Would’ve cut into my patrol time, though, so, um - hm. Ugh, indecisive.” Affecting the upright demeanour of Captain America in his PSA videos, he crosses his arms: “Choose a thing, Mr. Parker.” 
He laughs at himself, but it comes out wrong. It sounds too loud, too close to a sob.
“Choice is great, isn’t it?” he muses, watching the white ceiling. “One day, when I - yeah. The next thing I choose, it’d better be something awesome. Let’s make a deal. Yeah, okay, sure. The next thing, the next thing I choose to do is gonna be - monumental. Nice word. You could fool people into thinking you, thinking you take English. Eh, who am I kidding? I’m not an English kid. Look at me.”
He’s sobered by his own words.
When he grows tired, he sleeps on the ceiling. He doesn’t have a bed, and it feels just a little safer up there.
There are a lot of things he doesn’t have. His phone is nowhere to be seen. No shower or sink. No toilet. No clothes but his boxers. No mirror. No toothpaste. No friends.
The low-grade fuzziness of his brain doesn’t abate with time although he isn’t injected with anything else and doesn’t eat or drink, which leads him to believe the drugs are being circulated in the air of his cell. It would explain the masks, too.
The guys who took him really have it down to a tee. It’s terrifying.
And it wears down on him.
Thirst is an awful thing. It drags greedy claws down his parched tongue, reminding him every minute of the dryness of his throat. From his chapped lips to the very depths of his stomach there festers a growing sickness, a sensation of shriveling from the inside out until his skin begins to split and talking becomes painful. He does it anyway, clings to his own words because they’re real and solid and won’t jump out and scare him like the nightmares that begin to haunt him even while he’s awake.
On what he hopes is the third night after he woke up in his box, he wakes with a jolt from a dream of a thousand faceless beasts tearing away at him and falls from the ceiling. The moment he tries to get back up, he passes out.
The hunger begins to plague him too, gnawing at his muscles and weakening them. Standing is effortful. It becomes more and more tempting to ask for something as the days creep by and Peter feels himself falling apart.
“Palladium, phosphorus, platinum. P… Polonium? No. Uh. P-L. P-L… plutonium. Polonium. Potassium, protactinium, praseodymium - I mean, praseodymium, protactinium… you know what, shit. I don’t care. Don’t care about the elements--”
Imagining a telephone is sitting on the floor beside him, one of those old-fashioned plastic ones with a curly cord, he sticks his fingers against the side of his head in the universal position to indicate holding a phone and dials a number in his head.
“Hi, May,” he rasps. “Don’t come over, I’ve gotta clean up a bit first. Yeah.” He chuckles. 
If he listens hard enough, he can pick out an amused reply. 
“Are you good? I’m good. You know what you could do, though? Bring some paint. Or some colourful furniture. Anything but white. It’s boring as heck.”
He squeezes his eyes shut against a thundering headache, feeling the skin around his eyes cracking, his heart fluttering wildly, scalpels of hunger piercing his sides, his thoughts becoming formless, untamable things.
“May?” he falters. “Can you tell Mister Stark to come and get me, please? I don’t wanna… what am I supposed to do?”
The group enters on the fifth day. Peter is lying on the floor where he’s been for an unfathomable period of time.
“Would you like anything?” asks one of the masked people.
“Water,” he whispers. “Please. Water.”
He braces himself for the taser this time, but it’s a boot that meets his side instead. Another. A flurry. A stampede.
You get beaten up all the time on patrol. But it’s different when it’s just him, weak, pathetic, unable to stand, half-naked, against these four figures that become tyrannical gods to him as they hold him in the air by his hair, his neck, and beat him bloody.
Peter can do nothing to shield himself from the blows - and moreover, if he does it will jeopardize his chance of getting the water he needs so badly. So, swallowing back a rush of shame, he just takes it.
He can’t help the noises that escape him, however: the grunts as boots connect with his stomach, the whimpers at hands yanking at his hair, the groans as fists clad in brass knuckles meet his face over and over and over again. Blood pours from his nose, trickles from cuts across his cheekbones, temples, eyebrows. He feels a rib snap.
A water bottle is placed by the door as the group leaves. There are maybe 300 millilitres inside.
Peter lays on the floor and watches his blood pool slowly on the pristine tiles.
After twenty agonising seconds of dragging himself across the floor, he reaches the bottle, fumbling desperately to unscrew the cap, and takes a greedy swig of the liquid, at first moaning in relief at the way it gushes down his throat, then regretting his haste as he retches it right back up.
“Crap, Peter,” he mumbles to himself, arms trembling in their effort to hold him off the now-slippery floor. “Stupid. God. Shit. Stop swearing.”
Although his every instinct screams for him to down the water, he forces himself to take small sips. When there’s about half left, he pulls the bottle away and reluctantly caps it, saving the rest.
Then, ignoring the mortification that swells up in him at the prospect of what he will do next, he bends low to the puddle on the floor and laps up every drop of moisture he can find.
He’s a wild animal. He’s insane.
When he’s finished, he lets his arms and legs give out under him and grits his teeth against excruciating waves of pain from his battered body.
It’s simple, really. He endured the punishment; he was given what he asked for.
Though Peter is half-sure he’s already lost his mind, he does know that he needs to make a plan, to rationalize his situation as well as he can with his fuddled brain. Escape is not an option, and neither is refusing punishment.
He swallows and tastes blood.
“Here’s what’s, here’s what’s gonna happen, Peter. Okay? Just get stuff you really, really need. Okay. I’ve got water for tomorrow. Just… uh, ask the day after. And food. No more clothes.”
His rambling words become his life plan.
He’s forced to make adjustments the next time the group visits, however, when his half-full water bottle is taken from him.
Desperation overrides him. He lunges at the figure who holds the bottle, sticking his fingers to it. “Don’t! Please, don’t take it--”
Almost the moment he touches them, an ear-splittingly piercing whistle assaults Peter’s ears, forcing him to unstick himself in favour of dropping painfully to the floor and cramming his hands over his ears. Whatever drug he’s being fed in his cell hasn’t taken away a fraction of his enhanced senses: the noise drills clean through his eardrums and rattles his weary brain in his skull. He bites back a cry of pain. He doesn’t know why; he already looks utterly pathetic.
There’s no water that day.
The next, he asks for food. After breaking his arm, the group gives him a cheese sandwich that tastes better than anything he’s eaten before, even though he has to eat it with one hand.
His white box is steadily getting dirtier, painted with bloodstains, sweat, even puddles of piss. At least there are colours now, not just white, white, white.
“I’m doing great,” he reassures himself after he’s counted twenty visits from the group. There are forty lash marks across his back. He knows; he felt every strike of the whip. But at least he received a blanket in return. It was too cold, so he strayed from his plan. 
He’s been tased and beaten again, had his nose and collarbone and forearm and fingers broken. Every movement he makes hurts somewhere, so he stays still.
“Mister Stark is, he’s, he’s on his way. He’s, uh… fixing his hair. Like he always does when he, when he gets out of the suit. To look cool. When he comes - God, it’s gonna be so nice. I don’t care about his hair. I just... want him.”
He feels closer to a carcass than a human being.
“Get me out, Mister Stark. Get me out, Mister Stark. Why haven’t you come?”
The feral desperation he’s finding it harder and harder to tamp down rears its head again, and he finds himself crying out with all the volume his torn-up throat can muster. “Mister Stark, please - I can’t stay here, going crazy, they’re gonna kill me. Save me . ”
It seems like the world is laughing his face when the group enters the twenty-first time and he’s asked, “Would you like to see Tony Stark?”
“What?” he croaks.
His mind can’t comprehend the thought. Tony Stark darts around his mind, turns itself inside out and emerges in his consciousness shrunken and frayed around the edges like it’s been washed too many times.
“Would you like to see Tony Stark?”
“I, uh…” even attempting a few words of conversation feels foreign to him. “Is he there?”
There’s no response from the group. 
Peter is faced with one of the most frightening choices of his life.
He could accept the punishment on the off-chance that Mister Stark was really there and risk being hurt for nothing; or he could refuse and risk letting Tony down if, by some crazy chance, he was out there and needed Peter to come to him.
Locking his jaw to offset the tremors there, he shuts his eyes.
“Okay.”
Though he braces himself for the instant onslaught of punishment, instead he finds himself being hauled up from the floor and dragged towards the invisible outline of the door. The door. 
He whimpers at unforgiving hands yanking at his bad arm, making an aborted attempt at scrambling to his feet. He’s too weak, too injured. And at the same time, he’s nearing the door, the door that hasn’t let him out in twenty-one days but swings open now.
Peter can’t quite determine whether this is real or not.
His heart awaits the inevitable punishment, thudding restlessly in his chest, but he’s entranced by the door closing behind him, revealing more tiles, a corridor, his arm throbs, tiles, pain, tiles. He reels.
The moment they turn the corner, an abrupt spreading of warmth at the base of Peter’s neck jolts him out of his daze of shock and compels him to lift his heavy head and meet the eyes of a man restrained by two guards, a man facing him, a man who sees him.
“Kid! Hi, kid. It’s me. What did you do to him? Pete. Pete. I’m here, hey?”
“Mister Stark,” Peter breathes.
There’s worry in his eyes, as clear and piercing as a blade. Peter assumes he looks pretty crappy. He doesn’t feel it just now, however. All his thoughts are occupied with Mister Stark Mister Stark Mister Stark , taking his breath away, melting away pain to reveal dizzying relief.
This is why he doesn’t notice at first.
Not until he hears, “Don’t you fucking dare! Kiddo!”
Before he can attempt to jerk away from the hands keeping him in place, they tighten, another pair clamping over the top and bottom of his head so he just barely glimpses a match held to an approaching blowtorch.
Punishment always arrives.
It isn’t panic or desperation that overwhelms him in this precise moment, as time slows down and Tony’s cries of distress are suspended across milliseconds so the minutiae of his reaction rises, falls, intensifies in arcs that are distressingly beautiful. It’s an ugly conglomeration of a thousand pockets of hopelessness accumulated over twenty-one days, a Frankenstein’s monster of pure despair.
“No,” he moans uselessly, hanging limp from the hands. “Don’t do it. I can’t.”
“Kid?”
Peter sobs and yet can’t produce a single tear. “Mister Stark.”
“Kid, you’re gonna be okay, you hear me? Just - look at me. Look at--”
Once, Peter came out of a patrol with a knife in his back, a moderate concussion and a torn hamstring. It was nothing compared to this.
The blowtorch is turned on the side of his face.
Peter screams, long and loud and raw, and the noise ricochets off the tiles and hits him anew. Unparalleled agony. He can’t turn away, no matter how desperately his mind screams for release.  
He will never forget just how awful it feels. The memory of it will imprint upon his mind forever, just as the white light of the instrument now sears his vision through his screwed-shut eyelids.
He feels his flesh melting.
“Kid! Fuck! Don’t - I’m gonna kill you fuckers - get away from him!”
With a flicker, the torch cuts off. Peter can’t breathe, juddering violently against the hands that still hold him and fruitlessly opening and shutting his mouth. The aftershocks of the pain present a different form of horror entirely.
“Breathe, Pete,” comes a voice half-muffled by the violent ringing in his ears, a painfully kind voice, a voice he’s supposed to be safe when he hears. “Breathe through it. C’mon, kid.”
The first breath Peter manages to drag in is torn to shreds, shrivelled by tears he’s unable to shed.
“Kid,” Mister Stark calls again; the syllable is lost in the splintering of his own voice.
Peter manages a small whine.
“Now, Stark, what’s all this about making a deal?”
It’s a new voice, encroaching on Peter from behind and sending his crazed danger sense ringing off the hook.
With his chin forced upwards, Peter recognizes Norman Osborn instantly.
It all fits: the drug that took away his powers, the pristine tiles, the experiments.
He crouches before Peter and taps the newly burnt side of his face. It’s gentle but overwhelmingly painful all the same; Peter chokes on his breath.
“Get your fucking hands away from him, Osborn,” snarls Mister Stark. “This isn't what I’m here for.” Peter has never been more glad of his presence, as little as it seems to affect the punishments he’s given.
Osborn picks up on the grip the guards have on Tony with a smirk, rising to address him. “I can see that. I must say, I’m surprised you turned yourself in. What a sacrifice for this little boy.”
“Quit the fancy footwork.” Mister Stark sounds breathless, wild. “Are you gonna let him go or not?”
It’s only now that Peter’s brain catches on to what Tony is attempting to do.
He does his best to speak around the fried nerves on his face and the haze of shock he’s still trapped in, but all that emerges are pitiful, slurring murmurs. “D’n, m’s’r st’r. D’n t’n y’self in.”
Mister Stark understands the source of his panic and smiles brokenly at him. “It’s gonna be okay, kid. Don’t you worry.”
“N. Pl’s d’n.”
“No need to panic, Peter,” Osborn soothes sickeningly, “We don’t want anything to do with Stark.”
“No. You’re gonna take me and leave him alone,” Mister Stark grits out with impressive stubbornness.
“Don’t you understand, Tony? This boy has strength you can’t imagine. Resilience. We’re making groundbreaking leaps in research.”
Tony is thunderous as he jostles his guards. “This is not research. Give me the kid, or so help me, I’ll--”
“You’ll what?” laughs Osborn.
Something splinters in Tony’s eyes; behind it, Peter sees a plan.
“I’ll tear this place up.”
Before Osborn or any of the masked guards can react, Tony’s glasses flash bright blue and he yells, “FRIDAY, torch them!”
Peter’s mind disconnects from the flurry of what happens next. He’s tackled to the ground and cradled tightly; a fiery blast envelops the room; a chorus of shouts is cut off by silence and a persistent buzzing in his ears.
After twenty-one days of nothing, there is everything. It’s too staggering for him to comprehend for a minute or two.
There’s dust in the air. He watches it settle with eyes that have forgotten how to blink.
Finally, his mind creaks back to life, running on fumes but present enough to tell him that it’s Mister Stark who is wrapped protectively around him. A frenzied glance around the room shows heaps of crumbled tiles, fire, prone bodies.
Dead bodies?
“M’s’r s’rk,” he coughs, hearing his voice dimly as if piped from speakers a hundred feet away. He finds the presence of mind to push at the man’s limp shoulder with his good hand. “G’t up. Y’ g’tta g’t up.”
Mister Stark’s eyes are shut and won’t open.
“Pl’s, m’s’r s’rk...”
Although Peter knows what he has to do, he dreads it.
Sucking in as much air as he can, he shifts himself onto his haunches and heaves his mentor over his shoulder.
The airborne drug has worn off to a degree now he’s outside his cell, returning a little of his strength to him, but the screaming of his injuries has in no way quietened, and he’s pitifully weak from cold, hunger and thirst. He staggers at the weight of Tony against his collarbone and arm, swallowing a cry in fear of waking any of the bad guys, but pushes on, inching towards the end of the corridor.
“C’m’n, Pe’r,” he breathes, fumbling at the doorknob with his one good hand, his bad hand stuck to Tony’s back despite the way it pulls at the snapped bones with every movement he makes. “Sh’t. C’m’n.” 
It’s open. It’s open.
He pulls himself one-handed up a ladder, his legs shaking beneath him, and shoulders open a circular trapdoor.
Outside, there is light.
Peter can’t help but collapse to his knees. The sky is there, wrapping him in an embrace that spans the heavens, cornflower blue and picturesque. Grass and trees glow green. And just fifty feet in front of them both is a roaring, seething freeway.
The noise hits Peter like a brick wall, like a fist with brass knuckles, like a strike from a whip. It surrounds him and invades his ears until there’s nothing but noise, noise Peter can pick apart in overwhelming detail: the friction of tires against tarmac, the smallest particles of grit tossed back and forth by lines of cars and vans and lorries with grumbling engines spitting plumes of carbon dioxide, a mechanical spray of pungently soapy water across a windshield, a chorus of laughter from a family whizzing by in an old Volvo, the tap of a cigarette against the rim of a half-open window, and people, people, people, people, passing him in their clamorous multitudes.
Setting Mister Stark down in the grass with as much gentleness as he can manage with his battered body and thundering heartbeat, Peter flounders, groaning at the grass stalks pricking his bare knees, hearing his breaths speeding up, recalling the sizzling of his skin under the blowtorch, unable to distinguish between the myriad of sensations assaulting him. Sight becomes sound, touch becomes smell, and each crowds his vision with hazy grey and sends wild tremors along the length of his limbs.
Peter’s going to explode.
But he doesn’t.
He recognizes the sign on the freeway. Although the text is painfully bright and jumps back and forth in front of him, he makes out the location. Only about two minute’s drive from the Compound.
He had been certain all good fortune had deserted him the moment he’d been thrown into his box, but today he wonders if someone is looking out for him after all.
All he has to do is walk, but walking has never been so difficult.
“Y’ g’tta go, Pe’r. Y’ c’n d’ it.”
Peter lurches to his feet, yelping when it jolts his back and collarbone. His vision whirls in front of him, spotted with black patches, but he does his best to pay no heed to his brokenness, lifting Tony tremulously over his shoulder.
Every step pains him, wears him out; he wonders every time he puts one foot in front of the other whether it’ll be his last step, whether his body will give up on him, and he comes close, stumbling and falling, but hauls himself back up.
He has to reach the Compound. It’s branded across his mind, the most important thought he has in there, and it keeps him going.
He’s getting out. He’s going home.
Fire licks at his face and knees and arm and fingers and collarbone and back and torso. Everywhere.
Between gasping breaths, he croaks encouragement to himself. “N’ly th’re. Y’ go’ this, Pe’r. Pl’s, keep goin’.”
He walks until the black spots have almost taken over his field of vision. Just as his knees give out under him yet again, he blinks and recognizes the sleek glass-and-steel buildings that he’s now among.
The Compound.
Too exhausted to speak, he simply gets back up, keening at the agony of movement, and carries on. He’s only a few hundred feet away. Two hundred. One hundred and fifty. He prays FRIDAY will alert someone when they get there.
One hundred. He thinks he can make out the doors now, although he can’t hold his head up for longer than a moment and his vision is no good.
Exhaustion has taken on a new meaning for Peter.
He hardly notices that he’s crossed the threshold until the door hisses shut behind him and there’s a muffled, muted sound he thinks could be the frenzied clicking of high heels on a staircase. 
“How did this - Peter? Peter, honey?”
It’s Pepper.
The tone of her voice is blissfully familiar, dissolving the hold of adrenaline on his body and leaving it limp.
“I’m here,” he tries to say, but all that escapes his mouth is an incoherent whimper.
“Peter…” Pepper calls again, the heels drawing close, but he can’t hold on any longer. He doesn’t need to: he’s safe.
Darkness overtakes his vision and he collapses onto the carpet.
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arigatouiris · 5 years
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daughter of artemis // p.p — [03]
c h a p t e r  t h r e e 
Pairing: Peter Parker x Demigod! Reader [Female pronouns]
Warnings: swearing; angst [a lot of it]; greek mythology rewritten [completely my interpretation of it, oops]; slightly based off the games god of war and assassin’s creed odyssey; hurt/comfort; cliche; fluff [on later chapters sometimes]; mentions of sex and gore; slight alternate universe
Follows events after Endgame, but Tony, Natasha, Steve, Loki are alive in this universe. 
Author’s Note: Killing the links because, no notes means no motivation to update. Let’s hope~ Go to my bio for the masterlist, guys! 
Word count: 4025
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03 // θείος uncle
The day began for her when Natasha landed her first kick to her chest. Moving backwards, (y/n) stood her ground and didn’t allow herself to fall completely. Quickly shifting the weight on her left leg, (y/n) moved forward and used her hands to throw a punch, which Natasha caught effortlessly. Smirking, the red haired woman side-stepped and swept her leg below (y/n)’s stance, but (y/n) had already fallen for it way too many times to not see it coming. She jumped briefly, and landed a kick to Nat’s side, causing the redhead to stumble back in surprise.
Their training was intense, and (y/n) was a fast learner. With fire in her eyes, she tread along Natasha’s polished yet hard training; not backing down even a bit. Natasha was impressed, but if (y/n) really wanted to learn how to fight, then she still had a long way to go.
Yet, Natasha wouldn’t deny she was curious as to why (y/n) wanted to learn how to fight. If it was something that started after the snap, then (y/n) wouldn’t already be this good. This only meant that the girl had learned before, somewhere, in her previous life; a part that Natasha wasn’t aware of. One thing she couldn’t figure out was this: Was she really okay with training a random little girl after something as horrible as the decimation? (y/n) looked desperate and in the need for training, a story there that Natasha knew nothing about, which should have perhaps given her all the more reason as to not train the girl.
But, the look in her eyes reminded her of her own, from so long ago.
Stopping briefly, Natasha checked the time. They had been at it for over three hours, no break. Turning to the girl, she noticed sweat drop down her temples, a determined expression, bruised knuckles, and chest heaving for breath.
    “Let’s stop right now.”
(y/n) cocked her eyebrow at Natasha, almost understanding without words that there was more Nat wanted to say.
    “You need a break, kid.” She smiled softly, pressing her knuckles.
    “How am I doing so far?”
    “If you’re looking for compliments, don’t ask.” Nat chuckled.
(y/n) rolled her eyes. It had been three days since (y/n) had allowed the rain to fall on her skin, three days of anxiety and overthinking, yet, there was no sign from Olympus that they had found her. Did Zeus’ rains not reach America? Was something wrong? There was another thought in her head, something she didn’t think could be possible—was Zeus still around? Did Fate stop for him as well?
    “Penny for your thoughts?” Natasha asked, sitting herself down next to (y/n), on the terrace of the shelter.
It had become one of their primary hangouts. It was either this or a park Natasha would take her, only for a change in place. (y/n) sighed before shaking her head, biting her lip.
There were so many things that Natasha wanted to ask the girl, but couldn’t. (y/n) literally asked her nothing, she didn’t want to know more about the snap, she didn’t want to know where Natasha learned her fighting skills from; it was as if (y/n) was not curious at all about who or what Natasha was, and what had happened to the world. Perhaps, Natasha figured, this was her way of keeping herself out of the radar. Ask no questions, give no answers—(y/n) had a lot more at stake than Natasha could put her finger on.
Sometimes, Natasha watched her. Her movements were poised, but was also as if she dreaded everything she did. There was a liquidity to her grace, almost as if she were trying to reach something that was no longer there. (y/n) was by herself, Natasha had deduced this much, but it felt as if this was a fact (y/n) was not particularly used to, but was forcing herself to feel. Sometimes, when she was not fighting, (y/n) was slower, her movements would mimic the serenity Nat felt under the rays of the moon at night; not aware of what the moon symbolized to the girl.
Her eyes were glued to a speck of dust only she could see, a feature of hers was that she got easily lost in thought, but her eyes followed this speck of dust wherever it went, an elegant sort of nothingness that gathered every bit of the girl’s attention as if it were calling out for help.
    “I won’t lie to you,” Natasha began that afternoon, breaking (y/n) from her wordless reverie. “I’m curious about you.”
(y/n) knew this much on her own. Anyone would be. A girl appears out of nowhere, a foreigner, wanting to learn how to fight, and fending rather well for someone who wants to pass as a beginner. Eyes glued to Natasha’s features, (y/n) didn’t even contemplate on revealing anything. She could not, and so she would not.
    “I’m sorry.” An apology in place of an answer only revealed that there were more secrets.
Natasha chuckled, “That’s why you don’t ask questions.”
(y/n) was quiet.
    “I wouldn’t have had to ask you this at all if…” (y/n) paused to word it right. “If my uncle trained me.”
Natasha was quiet. She was not meant to ask questions. Just listen.
    “He’s my mother’s twin brother. He was never really happy when I came into the picture, especially without a father to be around and all.”
A second pause. This meant Natasha could intervene. “Where is he?”
A shrug followed silence. A breath followed the shrug. Natasha could sometimes not look away from (y/n)’s mannerisms. So many guards being up, yet, the pain in her eyes was as clear as day.
    “He’s never been around, and I don’t think he even knows about me. So, I don’t really blame him. I don’t know who he is, just that…” Pepper, “He’s here. In America.”
    “Your mother trained you?” Natasha asked without thinking, and got no answer. She nodded to herself, before waiting to see if (y/n) replied.
    “If my uncle had agreed to train me, I wouldn’t have to make you go through this at all. I’m sure you have to figure out things… Like, saving the world and all.”
Natasha chuckled, “Right now, I just want answers. A lot of my friends disappeared. Training you takes my mind off how fucking terrible my life is at the moment.”
    “It’d have saved me a lot of trouble if my uncle did help out. At least I wouldn’t feel this…” (y/n) didn’t complete the sentence, but Natasha knew the word. Lonely.
    “He’s a dick for not sticking by your side.” Natasha said, smirking.
(y/n) scoffed. “He sure is, I won’t deny that.” The two shared a soft laugh, but it ended as soon as it began.
(y/n) smiled at the ground. Natasha looked at her. It really was as if (y/n) was smiling at something instead of smiling to herself.
After their training session that evening, (y/n) went back into the shelter to rest. Natasha was unaware that in these two weeks, she had gotten used to being around the 13-year old, almost as if there was an unspoken kinship between the two. For the first time, Natasha’s records found nothing about the girl, knowing just her first name proved nothing. She’d be lying if she said she didn’t try to find out who (y/n) was or even if (y/n) was her real name.
At one point, Natasha stopped searching. She knew that the girl wanted things to be a secret, and there was no more reason to be suspicious of the girl. This then truly became something that took the red haired woman’s mind off things.
What she didn’t know was that night, not only does Carol Danvers bring Tony back, but it would be the last time she’d see (y/n) in a long while.  
When Natasha didn’t show, (y/n) wasn’t scared. Maybe she got tired of not knowing anything more, she thought to herself before standing on the terrace alone. Tying the tapes around her hands, (y/n) made a makeshift punching bag, and started with it. Natasha had taught her the technique to use a dagger, but she’d need more training. And it would only begin with one thing first: an undying determination.
On some nights, she felt a slight bit of warmth on the nape of her neck, similar to that of sunlight. She knew her uncle would often watch her, but had never approached her. He’d watch in the shadows, as much as a shadow that the sun could be when the moon was up in the sky. (y/n) learnt to ignore him to the best of her abilities, and continued training.
By the time Natasha was gone, (y/n) had skilfully learned how to move around the dagger in her hand, as if it were another finger. There were several cuts, which she had learned to heal over the days, but now she was close to moving it around without cutting herself. At nights when she couldn’t sleep, (y/n) would play with her mother’s dagger, think of her mother’s scent and hair and laugh; but most nights, (y/n) found comfort in thinking of the boy’s eyes, a boy she had never met, but had somehow gotten used to grappling on for strength.
People at the shelter expected her to do nothing, since she rarely ate from there, rarely spoke to anyone, but only needed a bed. Someone had come down, someone named Happy, to run the shelter when May was not around; it didn’t make sense to her that his name was Happy, and apparently he worked for a ‘Ms. Potts’ from Stark Industries. None of this mattered to her, but she remained and spent most of her time either on the terrace or the park, whichever suited her mood that day.
Two months passed rather quickly; for some strange reason, (y/n) didn’t miss Natasha, but merely wondered what had happened, where she had gone, if she was okay—but once or twice in an entire week, and this worry barely lasted. (y/n) had mastered using the dagger by then, slowly, and the scars on her hands healed. She had started to lose some weight in her hips, and her legs were toned with all the kicking she had been doing. It’s relatively easier to fight an unmoving sack of rubbish, she knew this couldn’t count as actual improvement, but (y/n) felt faster, stronger.
    “It’s funny you didn’t call me this time.” Natasha’s voice alerted her that afternoon, two months after she had initially gone missing.
Her hair wasn’t red anymore. It was a soft blonde, with some streaks of her previous hair color showing at the ends. Strangely, Nat looked a lot more older and stressed in those two months than she ever did before. (y/n) blinked before smiling at her, wanting to welcome her the only way Natasha would probably want to be welcomed by someone she was tutoring.
(y/n) displayed her dagger skill, twisting and turning it around in an almost inhuman speed, startling Natasha. Running to the older woman, (y/n) kicked her, which Natasha blocked, but fell backwards either way. Her kick’s much stronger now, she thought before quickly moving out of the way, saving herself from (y/n) attacking her with her elbow. Natasha grabbed her by the back of her neck and held her in a block, but (y/n) bent down and easily got out, as if she were water. Natasha’s surprise lasted only as long as (y/n)’s next blow met with her face, causing the blond woman to spit out some blood.
    “Welcome back.” (y/n) said, smirking.
Natasha turned to the girl and grinned, “I take it you were busy.”
    “I wasn’t just sitting around waiting.”
Nat stood up, and smiled at the girl, not even intending on masking the look of adoration in her eyes. She could clearly see the same unspeaking grace again, but something was different. (y/n) was more polished now, her smile held all of her secrets, but it was locked, not intending on slipping out. Her movements were poised, but spoke to nothing invisible as they had before. Her gaze met Nat sharply, not getting lost in a speck of dust like before.
    “I hope you haven’t told anyone about this arrangement, Natasha.” (y/n)’s voice was lower.
Natasha shook her head. “We’d agreed on that initially. I made a promise. But, I had to go. And I need all the distraction I can get.”
(y/n) nodded. “I’m grateful.”
    “But I’ll be honest, I really need to know who I’m training here, (y/n). Right now, I don’t know anything about you, and all I can gather from the bits you’ve told me is that you have something against your uncle, for not being there, but that’s it. Your mother’s gone, and you’re here. I need to know, (y/n).”
Natasha had a point. (y/n) was getting stronger, and if she got any stronger than Natasha, she’d be formidable; but, what if she was a foe? What if she was someone to look out for? And Natasha had created a monster? She didn’t want to go through that.
(y/n)’s gaze was glassy; for a moment, Natasha saw the previous poise again. The broken poise of a lonely girl, a runaway.
    “I can’t keep giving you the benefit of the doubt, kid…” Her voice was a mere whisper.
(y/n) nodded. Looking down, she felt everything around her come to a still. Patience is an inner pause, a brief stillness, a moment we give ourselves to breathe through our initial reaction so we can move to the place where a calm, thoughtful response is born. Patience is a gift of time we give ourselves so we can give the gift of peace to others. Patience, was something she couldn’t give herself right then.
She thought of her mother and cried.
    “I can’t. I can’t tell you anything,”
She thought of the prophecy and shuddered. Natasha came forward and grabbed the girl before she fell.
    “I wish I could, oh God, I wish I could tell someone, but I can’t!”
She thought of her uncle, watching her right then, but doing nothing about it, and felt terrible.
    “I really wish I hadn’t lost her. She was everything to me. She was the only family I had in that rotten place. And… And here… I don’t even know who I’m looking for.” Pepper. Someone named Pepper. Someone who was in Greece 13 years ago. Pepper.
Natasha held her. She watched her. Said nothing, but waited. But, a second later, she smelled it. Both of them paused, the crying stopped, indicating that the air around them was now different. Natasha looked at the girl for answers, knowing that whatever it was was there for her, and the girl offered no answers in return.
A moment later, a knife came flying toward Natasha, which she jumped away to avoid. From behind the entrance to the terrace revealed a boy, almost (y/n)’s age, blonde hair and blue eyes—a Nazi wet dream—but almost too perfect looking to be a real boy. The symmetry on his face was impeccable, and not a single misplaced hair on his head or anywhere else. While Natasha struggled to understand where this breed of fighting children came from, (y/n) had her answer. From the smell, she knew what this creature was.
This was no boy. This was no human. This was one of the henchmen, Zeus was alive and well, and was sending her his regards.
Holding her dagger sharply, (y/n) swiftly moved forward to attack the boy, who merely dodged everything (y/n) had to offer. But, with a quick sidestep, and a faint, she had him pinned underneath him. And a second before (y/n) dug her dagger into his neck, Natasha pulled her away, letting the boy free.
    “I did not train you to kill a boy!” Natasha yelled, glaring at her.
(y/n)’s eyes widened, before turning to see the boy trying to throw another knife at Natasha, this time, impaling her left hand. Cursing out loud, Nat was pushed aside as (y/n) pushed forward again, dagger in hand. Natasha quickly moved, grabbing the girl, not eyeing the boy while he came forward with an intent to kill. What the fuck is going on? She thought, not letting (y/n) go, and the boy coming closer to stab her.
A moment later, an arrow shot through the side of his neck and came out through the other side, halting their movements. Natasha’s eyes widened as the blond boy turned to a pile or steaming hot mud; red and watery, like blood of a creature. Her breath quivered, and she let the girl go, trying to grasp what she had seen. Natasha followed her gaze to where the arrow had come from and spotted a man—light brown hair, eyes that shone like the sun. He looked like he had a pained expression on his face, his bow extended. He was wearing casual clothes, not dressed for the weather, however. It was cold out, and he wore a sleeveless white tank with light grey trousers that reached his knees.
    “Uncle…” The girl breathed, and Natasha turned to the girl, shocked.
    “What the hell was that thing?” Natasha snapped, witnessing the girl’s uncle come toward her, touching her wound.
Natasha winced, the knife wound hurt more than it normally would, and the man noticed that Natasha understood it was not normal.
    “It’s a poisoned knife,” his voice was low. “He was not human, clearly. Not to worry, this is the sort of poison that increases the feeling of pain. A regular clean up would do.”
Natasha gulped. He then moved to the girl, who had her hands rested on her knees, panting. She wasn’t tired, but afraid, she was shaking.
    “I need to talk to you, (y/n).” The 13-year old didn’t reply.
    “Are we just going to ignore that I’m standing here with a wound given to me by some mud kid?” Natasha asked, cocking an eyebrow.
The man turned to the woman and blinked. His expression was glum, as if he didn’t even want the red haired woman to be there.
    “This really isn’t any of your concern, Natasha Romanoff. I’d worry about your wound more than this matter, if I were you.”
Natasha sighed, “Listen, I’m training her. I need to know what’s going on so that it doesn’t cause a problem to—”
    “Some saving the world you did there, eh?” Apollo’s words were malicious.
Natasha frowned, but froze. He knew who she was, and he knew what had happened.
    “She’s 13 years old and you’re training her.”
Natasha shrugged, “I started younger than that.”
Apollo frowned.
    “Leave this to us.”
(y/n) pushed her uncle aside and walked toward the red haired woman. Holding the woman’s hands, (y/n) literally begged with her eyes. I promise I will give you an explanation. Just, not now.
Natasha sighed before breathing out, nodding once, and making her way downstairs. If the girl had promised her answers, then she might as well wait.
(y/n) turned to her uncle and licked her lips.
    “You could have died if I wasn’t there—”
In a swift movement, (y/n) grabbed her uncle’s hand and pushed him to the ground, twisting his hand behind his back. Flabbergasted, her uncle broke out of her hold and pushed her down, only to have her flip up back quickly, and kick his chin.
    “What the—”
Apollo grabbed the girl’s hands and shoved her aside, but this didn’t stop her. She moved once more, throwing quick punches at him, kicks in between, all of it, he evaded. For a second, he could picture Artemis throwing punches at him, moving as swiftly as (y/n) was moving at that second. Apollo’s heart raced, the girl was exactly like her mother, but she was not giving him time to breath.
Moving to her left foot in a second, (y/n) raised her right leg so high and came to kick Apollo’s head—a move only Artemis had done against him—and made him halt. Kicking her to the ground roughly, he barely noticed the tears in his eyes.
    “What is wrong with you?” He screamed, breaking down to his knees.
(y/n)’s eyes widened, and just stared at him.
    “Why were you born!? Why?” Apollo’s yells were loud, and (y/n) knew Natasha was right there, listening.
(y/n) didn’t know if the woman had gone down to get the wound treated, but she was right in staying back. She’d get more answers than otherwise.
    “My sister’s life turned to shambles because of you. Why couldn’t you just—”
    “I won’t apologize.” (y/n)’s voice was low, but definite.
    “Of course. You won’t. You’re too much like her. Artemis. You’re too much like your mother. Fuck! It kills me to see you. It kills me to know my own father wants you dead! Just,” Apollo looks up at his niece, his eyes filled with tears, rage, and guilt. “Run away. Run away, (y/n)! Please! I’ll do anything, just give me this. I’m begging you as an uncle, please. Just live. Forget about this prophecy, forget about Greece altogether, just live a human life, please!”
(y/n) is quiet the whole time. She feels Natasha’s presence waver, which meant that the woman was no longer there. Sighing, she placed a feeble hand on her uncle’s shoulder and crawled closer.
    “I only want the truth.” Her voice was a whisper.
She even looks like her, Apollo thought before wiping the tears away.
Several minutes passed after that. The two sat beside one another, against the wall on the terrace. Apollo and (y/n) watched an early sunset that day, the whole time wondering why.
    “This is way too early for a sunset.” (y/n) commented.
    “This will do.” Apollo whispered.
Silence was often what they shared between them. Initially, it was unwelcome, but turned out (y/n) was warming up to it these days.
    “You chose a mortal to train you.”
    “She agreed, and she’s very good.”
Apollo chose not to comment.
    “Olympus…” (y/n) looked at him. “It’s in shambles. The whole place. Ever since the Fates went to sleep, half of Olympus turned to dust.”
(y/n)’s jaw clenched at the news. “Zeus too.”
She froze. “What?”
Apollo nodded. “It wasn’t Zeus who sent the henchman. It was Hera. She’s there. Alive and well. Jealous as always.”
(y/n) couldn’t believe it. “Is Zeus dead?”
    “No.” Apollo said, frowning into the horizon. “He’s not dead, he’s not here. It’s strange. Hades has said nothing of the sudden loss in numbers. Souls have not increased, no one has actually died. It’s as if they were taken somewhere else. Some other power in the universe has these souls locked up somewhere else. Not where they go once they die,”
(y/n) was quiet.
    “Hera doesn’t trust me. She never has. I saved you today, but if she finds out…”
    “Nothing will happen to you, uncle.” (y/n) said, looking up at him.
    “I know. Nothing will happen to me, but something might happen to you. She knows where you are.”
    “But, if Zeus is… gone, his rain couldn’t have found me.” (y/n) said, putting the dots together. “How did Hera find me?”
Apollo shrugged, a bit similar to how her mother would. “She has her ways.”
    “So, are you on my side now?” (y/n) asked, smirking.
Apollo shook his head. “I shouldn’t have involved myself, but you are the only living memory of my sister. I can’t let you die.”
    “That means you’re on my side.” She pushed.
Apollo frowned. “Stop talking.”
series taglist:
Those I could not tag, I’ve added your urls here!
@maddie-laufeyson​, @mscoloneldanvers​, @https://dancing-flame.tumblr.com, @daughter-of-stark​, @spider-mendes​, @nerdyandproudofitsstuff​, @someonekeepstakingmyusernames​, @alina-margaret​, @yourwonderbelle​, @viarogers​​, @https://huangsushii.tumblr.com, @eridanuswave​ @oliviaisnotlistening​ @mizpotatobiscuits​ @editsbyjenny​ @abbieroseb​ @justtrynagetthroughlife​ @secretlittlewonders​​ @missmulti​ @shallowshawnshallowshawn.tumblr.com  @eunoiametonia​ @adistiany​ @justletmesleeptillidie​ @ppunderoos​ @myheartonthemove​ @heir2chaos​ 
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polaroid15 · 3 years
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Febuwhump day 27 - “I wish I had never given you a chance”
My first fic with Morgan!!! I LOVE HER ahhh. Hope you enjoy this one- the second last :'( <3 And thank you- sincerely, for everything. 
Summary:  During a relaxing weekend at the cabin, Peter offers to help Tony with some chores. When things go awry (as they often do), they learn that under no circumstance should Peter ever pursue a career in carpentry.
Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29138196/chapters/73158711
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Peter enters the room with a yawn, throwing his arms back in a wide stretch. As if knowing it’ll catch him off guard Morgan launches herself at him, wrapping her tiny arms around his middle. His breath gusts out of his lungs in surprise but he recovers quickly, smiling and reaching down to ruffle her hair. “Well good morning to you too.”
“Peter!” Morgan lets go of the hug and proceeds to dance around him. “Let’s play!”
Tony smirks from his position on the couch, a tablet balanced on his knee. Him and Peter share a knowing look before Peter nods enthusiastically and is dragged off.
Later, they race back into the room, Morgan curled around Peter in a piggy back ride. He deposits her on the couch and she giggles, rolling onto her side and latching onto Tony.
“Looks like you two are having fun,” he observes.
“Yes!” Morgan says, breathless from their game. “Lots of fun.”
“Lots and lots of fun,” Peter repeats, giving Morgan a wink while she laughs. He turns to Tony. “What’re you working on?”
“Trying to find someone to fix our roof, actually.”
Peter draws his eyebrows together. “What’s wrong with your roof?”
“The wind storm last week took off a bunch of the shingles. It’s not really a big deal but Pepper keeps pushing for me to call someone. Something about not wanting a leak when it rains, yadda yadda.”
“Mom knows best,” Morgan cuts in.
Peter laughs in agreement. “Well I can fix it for you,” he says.
Tony raises his eyebrows behind his glasses before taking them off all together. “You’re telling me that you know how to put shingles back on a roof?”
The boy shrugs, his sheepish grin widening. “How hard can it be? Do you still have the shingles that blew off?”
“Yes.”
“Great! So all I need is a- a,” Peter grapples for the word, pulling his finger on an imaginary trigger in the air, “you know.”
“A nail gun?”
“Yeah! One of those.”
Tony considers it. It would be a hassle to have someone drive all the way out to the cabin to fix it, and he’s not getting any younger himself. “Are you sure? It’s almost a hundred degrees outside.”
“So?” Peter challenges, shrugging. “I’ve done worse in spandex.”
“That’s...true.”
“So do we have a deal?” Peter asks, thrusting out his hand as if it’s a formal agreement.
Rolling his eyes, Tony humours him. “Fine. I’ll go get the nail gun.”
----
The sun is blazing down on them when they make it outside and Tony uses his hand as a shield to watch Peter scale the side of the house with the last load of shingles. Advantages of super sticky powers: no ladders necessary. “Remember what I told you about nail gun safety!” he calls up after him.
“Stop being a worry wart!” Peter yells back.
Fair enough.
Tony steps back inside the house, relishing in the air conditioning and wiping his forehead on his sleeve. He doesn’t make it two steps before Morgan latches onto him, her small fingers covering his. “Play with me?” she asks.
Truthfully he has a mountain of work to do. But he’s never been one to be able to resist either of his kids requests, especially when they used their puppy dog eyes. It’s his greatest weakness and they know it. “Alright,” he concedes, “but only for a few minutes okay?”
“Deal!”
----
A few minutes turns into a few hours. Tony doesn’t realize until his watch beeps at him, pulling him out of a memorizing episode of Paw Patrol while they scribble with crayons in a princess coloring book.
“Holy- it’s almost two!”
Morgan doesn’t seem to care and continues drawing. “So?”
His mind is working too frantically to explain so he just stands, setting his coloring supplies off to the side. “Stay here, okay? Dad’s just gonna check on Peter.”
“Okay,” Morgan replies happily, picking up a blue crayon.
Heart in his throat, Tony practically runs to the back door. He skips the three steps to the grass and glares up at the roof. If possible, it feels even hotter out, and the nagging worry in his stomach triples. “Peter!” he calls up. “Peter? Are you still up there?”
There’s a long, sinking silence. Tony is two seconds away from grabbing his suit to blast up there himself before Peter’s head pokes out over the edge.
“Oh no Pete-”
“Mr. Stark!” the boy slurs, giving a sluggish wave from his perch. His face is beet red, his eyes unfocused. “Almost- almost done.”
Tony does everything within his power to stay calm. “No! Nope. You’re done, kiddo. You hear me? Time to go inside.”
“Wha- what? There’s only a- a couple more.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Tony argues, “you can barely string together sentences. Come down!”
Peter considers it as his eyes grow foggier. “Down?” he asks.
“Yes! Come down! You’re overheating up there!”
“Down,” Peter confirms.
Then he does something really stupid.
By the time Tony realizes where Peter’s boiling mind is taking him the kid has already rolled himself over the lip of the roof. He’s much too far to do anything but watch in horror as Peter plummets through the air and hits the grass with a loud oof.
“Peter Benjamin Parker!” Tony sprints towards the fallen boy, expecting blood and broken bones but instead hears laughing. He falls to the ground, the grass staining his knees and grabs Peter’s head with both hands. His skin is hot and sweaty to the touch. Too hot. Peter blinks up at him lazily, continuing to laugh.
“What’s so funny?” Tony demands breathlessly.
Peter raises his finger, pointing up towards the sun. “I just- I just fell off the roof.”
“Oh lordy. You’re out of your mind.”
“I fell,” Peter repeats, then wheezes like it’s the funniest thing in the world.
“We gotta get you cooled down pronto.”
“I’m- I’m already cool.”
“You’re killing me here, kid. Not that kind of cool.”
Peter allows himself to be hoisted to his feet and sways dramatically once he’s there. His laughing tapers off as his face turns green and he clutches tightly onto Tony’s sleeve.
“Kid?” he prompts hesitantly. “You okay?”
The answer must be no, because Peter lunges away from him and spews out his last meal. Tony moans, rubs the kid’s back, and helps steady him when he finishes. “You done?”
Slowly, Peter nods.
“Alright kiddie. Let’s go run you a bath. How does that sound? Bring down that temperature of yours.”
“Mmm. Nice.”
Tony hoists Peter into his side and by some miracle manages to maneuver him into the house. Morgan doesn’t look up when they enter and Tony sends a silent prayer of thanks to the universe. They stumble to the bathroom and Tony sets Peter down on the toilet, only moving on to turn on the tub when he’s sure Peter won’t topple over.
“Feel weird,” Peter says.
“That’s because you baked in the sun like a goddamn potato. Why’d you stay out there that long?”
Peter swallows, his red face still tinged with green. Then, he shrugs, looking guilty. “Thought I could do it. Harder than it looks.”
“Kid-”
“I should’ve been able to- to do it.”
“I wish I had never given you a chance in the first place,” Tony counters, but it just makes Peter look more miserable so he sets a comforting hand on the kid’s shoulder. “I mean don’t get me wrong kiddo. You did great. Your self preservation skills just suck.”
Peter perks up a little. “Get that from you.”
“That’s not exactly a compliment.”
“Oh. It’s not?”
“Yeah not so much.”
“Oh. Sorry.” Peter’s mouth splits into a smile and Tony feels his heart do a backflip. God, he loves this idiot child.
“The rational thoughts will come back when we get you cooled down,” Tony promises, a smile of his own tugging at his lips.
“Okay. Then I can finish the- the roof?”
“Nope. Not in a million years. Sorry to break it to you kid, but carpentry isn’t really your calling.”
And for once, Peter agrees with him.
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