#but it was only a light stab mister Stark!

[marvel-lous-guy]

Peter: Hey, Mr stark, where are your washing machines?

Tony: *not looking up* Right over there

Peter: okay, thanks! Where's the laundry detergent?

Tony: in the cabinet!

Peter: Thanks!

Tony: Wait, why do you need to do laundry?

Peter: Oh, some guy stabbed me today. Got blood all over my favourite shirt! Can you believe that!?

Tony: Oh yeah, that's a shame

Peter: mhm

Tony: WAIT WHAT!? YOU WERE STABBED!?

Peter: no, no, no, no, Mr Stark! It's really not a big deal!

Tony: Not a big deal!?

Peter: It was only a light stab!

Tony: PETER! WE HAVE TALKED ABOUT THIS! THERE IS NO SUCH THING. AS A LIGHT. STAB.

Peter: okay, I know we said that, but this really was a light stab!

Tony: NO! ALL STABS ARE BAD!

Peter: But it only hit one organ! I only lost 2 litres of blood!

Tony: YOU WHAT!?

[polaroid15]

Febuwhump Day 24 - Too weak to move

Read on Ao3

Summary: Peter is rescued after a long kidnapping.

----

On the first day, Peter has fight in him.

He doesn’t know who took him. At first, he doesn’t care. There’s a confidence burning inside him that overpowers his fear, a confidence that he’s going to escape, or, if it all goes wrong, that Mr. Stark is going to come in guns blazing and save him himself.

They throw him into a cell that he can’t punch his way out of for three days, and only then does some of his confidence flicker. After he’s positive he’s going to starve to death, they come for him, strap him to a table, and poke at him until he can’t tell where his pain begins and ends.

He’s thrown back in his cell, and the process continues.

On the eleventh day, he stops fighting back.

On the twentieth day, he’s too weak to even try.

On the thirty-ninth day, he’s convinced he’s going to die.

When they toss him back into his cell, he can’t even find it within himself to peel himself off the floor. He shuts his eyes, unable to stare at the grimy stone, and pictures the people that he loves. Sometimes, sleep finds him, and he dreams that he’s safe.

Other times, he’s not so lucky.

On the fiftieth day, he almost does die. On the fiftieth day, there’s something different.

He’s laying on his side on the floor where they had dropped him. He’s lightheaded and short of breath, each pull of air sending stabs of pain through his chest and abdomen. Even breathing is killing me now, he thinks grimly. He closes his eyes and pictures May’s face. She’s smiling at him, reaching to pat down his messy hair. “You, mister, are in great need of a shower.”

From somewhere in the compound, there’s a booming sound. Almost like an explosion. It’s nearly enough to rouse Peter out of his daydream, but he fears he lacks the energy or ability to investigate. He pictures MJ and Ned, next. “Your homework is really late, man.”

“Yeah, Mr. Harrington will have you in detention for ages.”

Sorry guys, he thinks, a darkness separate from the back of his eyelids beginning to stick to his consciousness. I’m sorry I’ve been gone.

More noises come from the compound. After a particularly loud blast, his cell shakes. Tiny rocks shift and fall from the ceiling, coating him in a layer of dust. His fingers twitch against the sensation, but it’s about all his body can muster.

He might dip into sleep. Or maybe the darkness just gets too heavy. Regardless, when light streams over him from the open door of his cell, he attributes it to a dream. Even when they come for him it’s dark. Cold. Silent.

But this time, there’s noise. Warmth. Light. Something familiar that he’s too afraid to name, not able to bear the disappointment.

The voice that follows feels too real to be a dream, so he must be dead.

“Peter. Oh my god.”

After more noise, more chaos, there’s a presence beside him. A hand on his arm. There’s callouses there. Strength. Life. He’s shaken gently, ever so gently, as if he’s a prized piece of china. “Peter? Buddy.”

The hands manipulate his body until he rolls onto his back. His head is caught before his neck carries it too far to the side by those same, gentle hands.

And above him… Above him…

Peter didn’t think he had the energy to cry, but he feels the wetness roll down the sides of his face. Don’t waste water, his mind immediately scolds, but he simply can’t help it. His body shakes with sobs, though everything else remains unresponsive.

Because it’s Tony.

The man looks absolutely wrecked, tears of his own dripping off his chin as he rushes to shakily brush away Peter’s own. “Oh, kiddo,” he says. “I’m so, so sorry.”

Peter doesn’t understand the apology. In fact, he doesn’t even understand if this is real. He tries to move his arms, to reach out and touch Tony to make sure he doesn’t dissolve, but his fingers hardly even twitch.

More tears leak out of him, and Tony gives up on wiping them away. Instead, he picks up Peter’s upper body and brings him up into Tony’s lap; cradling him like a child. Tony’s grip is strong, his presence sure as he runs his hand across Peter’s hair and frames his face. “Oh, Peter. Oh, Peter…”

Peter stares. And cries. And lets himself be held. He’s dreamt of Tony before, but never this clearly. It’s nice. He closes his eyes and wonders if the illusion will stick, but as soon as his eyes shut, Tony’s hand grips his face and jostles them back open. He’s still there. Looking at Peter with wide, fractured eyes.

He hasn’t spoken in weeks, but he tries, now. The words come up broken, scraping through his throat as if passing through thorns. “Are. You… Real?”

Tony’s bottom lip trembles. He sacrifices the hand cupping the side of Peter’s hair to run his sleeve across his face. When his tears are gone, he replaces his hand and rubs a wide, soothing circle around Peter’s temple. “Yeah, buddy. I’m real. I’m here.”

“You are?” Peter whispers. Safe, his mind sings, loud as a choir. Safe.

“I promise. I promise.”

“Oh,” Peter says, and his body becomes absolutely lax. Tony tries to support him, talking loud, but Peter can’t hear anymore. Everything is static. There’s nothing left for his body to protect him from. He’s safe.

His eyes close, and for once, he doesn’t beg to dream.

Because his dream is tangible. His dream is cradling him in his arms.

------

Recovery takes nearly as long as his captivity.

For the first two weeks, he can’t sleep in a room alone. For the first three, he isn’t allowed to leave bed. After four weeks, he’s allowed to eat solid food again.

After six weeks, he’s discharged from medbay.

May, Tony, Ned, MJ, and Happy are there when he is. They suffocate him in a group hug that he never wants to leave, and then help him to the table for dinner. He picks at his food, full after half his plate, and tries to avoid the worried looks everyone gives him when he sets down his fork for good.

They play seven games of UNO. Happy wins five of them, and MJ wins the other two. By the time Ned and MJ leave, he’s practically falling asleep in his chair.

Happy and May take them to the door, hand in hand, and Peter is left at the table with Tony. Peter can tell his mentor is staring at him, but he doesn’t complete the contact. He grips the table hard and closes his eyes, trying to battle his thoughts.

“Big day, huh? How’re you doing?” Tony asks. Gentle in a way that reminds him painfully of the day of his rescue.

“I’m okay,” Peter says, quiet but truthful. “Thanks for organizing all of this.”

“I know recovery has been hard.”

“We don’t need to talk about it. It’s okay, really.”

“I just- I feel like there are things you’re not telling us.”

Peter swallows deliberately, hoping it’ll drown his emotion. “I’m just tired, Mr. Stark. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, kiddo. You know I hate it when you do.”

“Sorry,” he repeats with a drawn smile. He peaks open an eye and relaxes when he sees the humor painted on Tony’s face.

“That’s not funny.”

“It kinda is.”

“Maybe for an alien on their first day on earth.”

“That doesn’t even make any sense.”

Tony chuckles, and it repairs another small part of Peter’s heart. But then he grows more serious, his smile dropping and his eyes pointed. “But- jokes aside, kiddo. I really do want you to be okay. When you’re ready to talk about it, I want you to know you can come to me, okay?”

“I know I can,” Peter says, raising his chin. For the first time in months, he doesn’t hide in on himself. “You’re safe, Mr. Stark.”

“I’m safe?”

Peter closes his eyes. “When you came, I couldn’t even move anymore. I couldn’t- There was nothing-” Peter breaks off and takes a deep breath. “When you came, I was safe. I know that’ll never change. Does… Does that make sense?”

Tony doesn’t respond for quite some time. When he does, his words are tight. “Yeah, kid. That makes sense. Thank you.”

Peter smiles. “Okay, then.”

“Okay then.”

“Do you want to play another round of UNO?”

“You bet. With Happy gone, I might even stand a chance. That man cheats, Peter. It’s a crime, really.”

Peter sits with a warm feeling in his chest as Tony deals their cards. His mentor rambles on about Happy’s secret methods of winning as Peter laughs and agrees. He lets Tony beat him to see the satisfaction on his face when he does.

He’s healing, he realizes after their third game.

And one day, everything is going to be okay.

[translytherins]

Unaccepted Permission Slip {Part 2}

[A/n: Pitcure refrence is on my Unaccepted Permission Slip part 1 so go check that out if you want refrence]

Peter's P.O.V

"Your enjoying the attention that your getting from (m/n) aren't you Peter" Ned said while wiggling his eyebrows at me. Mj was just smirking at me.

"Yup" i said while popping the p.

I looked at (m/n) who was standing right next to me. We were in front of the elevator waiting for it to open. He was wearing his headphones, listening to his music playlist so he most likely didn't hear what Ned said.

"I think this is the most clingy he's ever been in our one year of dating. So I'm enjoying it while it lasts" i said with a smile on my face. The elevator doors opened and we got on to it.

-

I opened the door to the training room and we saw Aunt Tasha sparring with Uncle Clint while Pietro was sparring with Pops. Wow...this is so...freaking...unimpressive. Well to me and (m/n) that is because the Avengers sparring is basically a daily occurrence. My classmates and the teacher were gawking at the scene infront of them. When they saw us they stopped sparring and gave us a welcoming smile.

"Hello children of Midtown High" Aunt Tasha greeted us but i don't think the others caught on, on the fact that she just called them children because their to star struck but (m/n), me and Mj did. We were snickering while Mj was glaring at us causing us to stop.

"Today we'll be picking five students to come and and demonstrate with the five of us.

" Five??? But there's only four of you??? "

" No there's five of us. Come here (N/n). Your joining us" Pietro said with a smug look his face.

I visibly gulped because I knew something very VERY bad is about to go down. I just love when my Parker luck strikes. Note the sarcasm.

(m/n)'s P.O.V

I groaned because of two things. One, I'm too lazy to spar and two Pietro called me (N/n).

"No. I'm not doing it and you can't make me" i said while giving Pietro a challenging look.

"Oh, i can" he replied while holding my wireless headphones. I checked my neck only to realise that they were missing.

I just groaned in annoyance and made my way over to them. Taking my headphones from Pietro and smacking his head really hard. Pietro whined and pouted while i just rolled my eyes at him. Cap made us stand to the side while he and Nat demonstrated. They started sparring and the classs stared in amazement (except Peter of course) but i didn't pay attention to the demonstration. Instead i put on my mask, hood and headphones, got out my sword and started practicing with it while doing some summer saults, back flips, cart wheels and much more. I was so into it that i didn't even realise that half of the classes attention was on me. I shape shifted my sword into a staff and transferred my water element into it. I stabbed the staff into the ground and a water dragon appeared from my staff. After a few minutes, it evaporated into water droplets before disappearing it completely.

Once it disappeared, i turned around while pulling down my headphones and saw that everyone was staring at me shocked and surprised even the five Avengers (including Peter) because i never showed them i could do with my full power. Pietro was the first one to snap out of it and Pietro super speed towards and wrapped an arm around my shoulder with his sh*t eating grin.

"Didn't know you could do that"

I just shrugged and pushed his arm off my shoulder.

"I forgot"

He just chuckled and yanked me by my hand towards the middle of the sparring mat. The others snapped out of it and started choosing their sparring partners. Some of them looked excited to spar with us, some of them looked like they were about to sh*t their pants. I put my headphones back on and waited until it was my turn. I was so into my music that i didn't even realise that it was my turn to pick until Clint nugged my shoulder, telling me it was my turn to pick. I had an evil smirk on my face but no one could see it under my (f/c) mask.

"Eugene Thompson"

When i said his name his face paled slightly but he had a cocky arse grin on his face. He probably thought he could beat me but his name is on my death list, so i won't be going easy. Peter looked like he was about to pass out and his friend, Mj, was drawing something on her book ( judging by the way she was holding her pencil) so fast that it looked like her pencil was about to break. He slowly made his way towards me, trying to look menacing as possible but it didn't work. All i did was yawn and say ;

"How long is it goong to take for you to get here because your wasting everyone's time with your presents"

Everyone either laughed or snickered at my comment making the retard named Flash mad but decided to not say anything and finally walk faster so he was standing next to me. We all moved to the side because Nat was going first with her partner which was a girl that looks slightly terrified but slightly confident that she might win. Let's just hope Nat doesn't break her bones.

-

After a few minutes of watching the other kick arse, finally it was my turn. Me and Flash walked to the center of the sparring mat. We got into our fighting stance and waited for Steve to blow the whistle. While waiting, i quickly shape shift my sword into a sludge hammer and transferred some natural element into it. When he blew the whistle, i slammed the hammer onto the ground creating a huge crack in the ground and the floor continued to crack until it reached Flash. The room was silent until the cracked area started to fall, creating a huge deep hole in the ground. Unfortunately, ( well fortunately actually. I don't want to kill him. Just scare him a little) he moved just in time so he won't get swallowed by the ground. He had an arrogant smirk on his face because he thought he had a chance but unknown to him there was vines that was starting to sprout from the crack that managed to make his way behind him. The vines started to tangle his legs. He raised his fist and was about to come running towards me but he fell face first onto the ground. Everyone bursted out laughing even the avengers were snickering because i may or may have not made F.R.I.D.A.Y send a video of the incident in the lab to Tony and knowing him he might have already showed the video to the others before these four came down here. I walked up to him, who was still on the ground struggling to get out of my vines, and whispered in his ear, my eyes glowing red.

"If you or that sorry excuse of a teacher ever and i mean EVER hurt my boyfriend or anyone else again not only me but the others will come after you two and slit your throats open. Got it you b*tch"

He nodded his head vigorously. I smirked and untangled him from my vines and he stood up shaking like a leaf and spoke in a teasing but serious tone.

"Not so tough are you mister tough guy. Now get out of this f*cking tower while we wrap this tour up, never show your face here again because I don't think Tony let's bullies like you into this tower EVER again and don't even think about trying to apply for the internships because the chances of you getting in is 1%"

And with that, he bolted out of the room. I just shook my head. People these days can be a bit b*tchy. I repaired the crack in the ground and we (Clint, Pietro, Nat and Steve) walked towards the awestruck class.

Peter's P.O.V

The five of them were walking towards us and i have a bad feeling about what's about to go down.

"Listen here everyone. If i hear that you bring harm to my son, Peter Stark-Rogers, just remember that me, my husband and the rest of the avengers will not hesitate to take action. Understood???"

They all nodded their heads with shock (with Mrs.Warren slightly terrified)

" Good. The tour is over but the teacher will have a meeting with me, Tony and the principal deciding whether your going to keep your job or not for not doing anything about kids bullying other kids"

The whope class exited the tower talking about how cool the trip was. Ned just gave me a smile and waved before walking through the door. Pops turned to me and i gulped.

"We'll talk about you being bullied later. Right now, go and change your clothes. The press conference going to start in an hour and you have to change into the suit Tony gave you because if you don't he's going to go beserk"

I nodded my head and towards my room to get ready for the press conference that i totally DIDN'T forget about. But tonights going to be a long night of explanation and scolding *sigh*. You know what it's okay because i know they're trying to protect me and i wouldn't trade them or my boyfriend for the world.

-Timeskip To The Press Conference-

Me, my family and my boyfriend were at the conference room (A/n :If there's not just go with it). We're not even inside yet but I could already see light flashing and loud talking inside the room. I felt a hand on my shoulder. I looked towards the owner of the hand and saw dad smiling at me.

"Don't worry kid. You'll be fine"

I smile and nodded.

"Ready?" Happy asked as he put his hand on the handle ready to open the door.

I nodded my head. I felt (m/n) take a hold of my left hand and squeeze it for reassurance. Happy opened the door and we walked inside and onto the podium. When we were all standing on the podium Dad and pops were immediately bomb with a thousand questions asking if it was true he was gay and married and if they adopted a kid. He confirmed it saying he was married to Steve Rogers *cue the crying woman's* and he introduced me to. I waved akwardly, not knowing what to act and questions were shot towards me. They're talking was hurting my ears and the lights were really bright all of a sudden. Realisation hits me like a bullet train. I was having a sensory overload. I tugged on pops hand and he looked over at me. He immediately realised what was happening just by looking at me and said the press conference was over and carried me inside to lay me down in my room.

-

He and dad placed me on my bed with an extremely worried (m/n) standing behind them. They kissed my forehead and left the room to bring the news to everyone in the living room. (m/n) was about to follow them but i tugged his hand unintentionally making him fall onto the bed because of my super strength and snuggled into his side. He gave me a soft smile and kissed my forehead making me smile.

"How did i get so lucky with you?" he asked.

I looked at him with a confused look.

"Why are you asking that??? It should be me asking you that"

He gave me a smile that I love so much and pecked my cheek, making me blush.

"I love you so much Pete that it hurts. You know that, right???"

"I know. You tell me that every day. I love you too (m/n). So, so much"

And with that we both fell asleep in each others embrace woth a smile on our faces.

~The End~

[whumphoarder]

Do you know any good fics where Peter is disoriented from either being hurt or sick?

Oof, you’re in luck. Delirious Peter is one of my faves so I’ve got a truly absurd amount:

Elevator Freeway by @awesomesockes & @whumphoarder

Delirious and bleeding out from a gunshot wound, Peter struggles to describe his location to a very worried Tony.

Fevers, Bananas, & Math Lessons by @whumphoarder

Peter has the flu at the lake house and, in his confused state, thinks it's time to head to school. Morgan and Tony play along.

Every spider has its day (but today is not that day) by @frostysunflowers

"Peter, it’s very important that you stay awake."

"Really? Oh, okay, Karen, whatever you say."

"I have informed Mister Stark of your condition and location. He is en route and will be with you soon."

"Mister Stark?"

"He is approximately two minutes away."

"Oh...Why?"

or

Peter finds himself facing off with an unlikely foe.

you heal me like the light of day by @searchingforstarss

Peter tries to hide a stab wound and an infection-fuelled fever is never any fun. Also, it turns out that Beck is still lurking in Peter's mind much more than anyone realised.

stitch and stitches by @searchingforstarss

Peter bleeds out in a guinea pig enclosure at Morgan’s sixth birthday party.

beam me up, mr. chewbacca by @iron--spider

(Peter’s lack of sleep and self-preservation gets him into major trouble on a mission)

don't go, my darling (don't leave me behind) by @madasthesea

After Peter gets accidently drugged, he confuses Tony for Ben while in a precarious situation.

Condiments can't play doctor by 14million_constellations

“Are you on the mayonnaise clinic?”

That gets Tony to look up instantly. Peter stares at him with genuine interest, the fever flushed high on his cheeks. “What?”

“The… the Mayo Clinic. Online. My friend told me about it.”

Tony shakes his head in amusement. “Nope. Not on the mayonnaise clinic… or even WebMD for that matter. I’m texting Bruce. Who is an actual doctor by the way.”

(Or, Peter with food poisoning)

Think too hard by @builder051

A migraine hits unexpectedly, and Peter doesn't want to worry his aunt. He settles on calling the next-best person to help...

too bad (but it’s the life you lead) by jessicagoddamnjones

“Are you even listening to what I’m saying?”

Peter nodded.

“Jesus, kid—“ he stopped and spun around, placing his hands on Peter’s shoulders. ”Would you please just talk to me? I—I know that what happened is scary. Believe me, I almost shit my pants, but you’re safe now. You’re with me. Do you really think I’d let anything happen to you?”

I think you don’t have a choice, Peter thought. “No,” he said.

(Or, Peter getting absolutely whammied and having no memory of what happened)

For Pete's Sake! by @kitcat992

Maybe he’d feel better if he closed his eyes, just for a second. It was too dark to see anything clearly anyway, and he’d be able to concentrate better without seeing how fast the ground was coming up to meet him.

A rush of wind sent goosebumps across his skin before two strong hands gripped his shoulders tightly, keeping him upright and from nose-diving straight into the alleyway cement.

Peter snapped his eyes open, blinking a couple times to clear his vision. Everything was blurry. Was that…?

“...ice cream man!?”

(Or, Peter gets a serious head injury)

flushed away by synebee

“I’m dying,” he decides, flushing the toilet and resting his forehead against the rim. He feels disgusting. “I’m dying, I’m gonna die. Spider-Man dies to ravioli.”

“Should I alert Boss?” Friday chirps, and Peter groans, waving a hand uselessly.

“No, m’fine,” he grumbles. “WebMD will save me.”

or: peter gets food poisoning & tony takes care of him.

Scaredy Cat by @sallyidss

Tony gets a call from Peter one night asking for help because he’s being followed in the street by someone or something dangerous. Tony hops into his suit and heads out to rescue Peter. When he arrives, he discovers that the “danger” isn’t exactly what he was expecting, and Peter learns that certain recreational pastimes don’t have quite the same effect on him that they do on most people.

Wrap Me Up And Hold Me Close by @spider-man-stan

In which Peter Parker comes up with some ~creative~ coping mechanisms (for a fever-induced nightmare), the likes of which Tony Stark hasn't seen before.

Focus by happybeans

"Stay with me," Mr. Stark says. "We've been taken—you're the only one who can get us out of here."

------------

Or, Tony Stark talks a drugged-up Spider-Man through a kidnapping escape.

Flying High by @blondsak & @seek-rest

“I think Coach Wilson is ready to get started.”

Peter glances over to the man who, contrary to what Ned said looked bored out of his mind. Peter wonders if Michelle was going to watch him during tryouts - only to wonder if that would be worse, considering his inability to focus when she was around.

He sneaks a glance towards her, only to see her eyes widen - his senses screaming at him a second too late as he hears someone call out, “Watch out!”

Peter doesn’t even get a chance to see what he should watch out for when everything around him turns to black.

mind games. by @seek-rest

Peter can immediately tell something is wrong, his senses dialed up so wildly that he can’t focus on anything, barely feeling like he’s moving forward on the sidewalk as he tries to reach the Tower.

Laughing. Yelling. Crying. Screaming. Talking. It all mixes together in an awful cacophony of sounds, so loud that he’s convinced that his ears are bleeding as he walks forward.

5 Times Peter Fell, and Tony caught him. And the 1 Time Tony didn’t. by eva7673  [chap 2: Cloud Fall]

“I feel like I’m falling.” The words trickled out of Peter’s mouth before they’d really even formed, but Tony understood them. Peter was sure. Because the next moment those hands were pressing down a little harder, a solid weight on his shoulder and chest. Grounding him. “You’re not.”

Follow the Pipes by @midsommersolstice

Tony wakes up at the bottom of a bomb shelter with a concussed Peter next to him, their only means of escape being a hatch 40 feet directly above them.

Chemical Delirium by @midsommersolstice

“Fri, bring the lights up. Now,” he ordered. The lights rose and Tony’s anxiety rose with it. There were large damp patches over Peter's light blue t-shirt where he had sweat through it and his skin was flushed a dark pink.

------Or------

Peter arrives late to Tony's lab and begins to exhibit some alarming symptoms.

to infinity and beyond by Trickster88

“Ben.”

The word freezes Tony in place, and his gaze darts back to Peter’s face. His brow is scrunched, frown turning down the edges of his lips, but his eyes are open. His eyes are open and he’s staring straight at Tony.

But then he says it again. “Ben.”

[thompsborn]

fic where harley is a doctor that works w helen cho that sees peter often because of how much he gets hurt from being spider-man? and they fall in love bc they r already smitten for each other bc why wouldn't they be

i didn’t know how much i needed an au like this until you sent it omg

[read on ao3]

—

He’s in the middle of taking a sip of coffee when the alarm goes off.

“Mister Keener,” Friday says, as he’s cursing over the hot coffee that’s soaking into the front of his shirt. Thankfully, it’s not hot enough to actually burn him, but that doesn’t make it any less unpleasant. “Your assistance is needed in the Medical Wing.”

Harley frowns. “What time is it?”

“Four fifty eight in the morning, Mister Keener.”

“Jesus, really?” Harley sets his mug down and turns his arm over to look at his watch. His brows shoot up towards his hairline, surprised. “Wow. Okay. Didn’t realize it was... Jesus. Alright.”

Friday sounds almost amused when she tells him, “Doctor Cho is insisting you hurry.”

Harley sighs. “Yeah, okay. On my way.”

At this time of the night, the only medical staff on hand are the ones who live close by—like Helen, who has an apartment less than a two minute walk away—and those who live on site, like Harley, who’s had his own floor in the tower since he was fifteen and told Tony over a phone call that he was thinking about coming to New York once he was done with high school. Because of this, Harley isn’t all that surprised to find that it’s only him and Helen that show up in the MedBay—if anything, it’s what he expected.

And he should have expected who, exactly, they’re treating in the middle of the night, but he still finds himself mildly surprised when he comes face to face with Peter’s sheepish grin.

“Of course it’s you,” Harley says, standing at the foot of the hospital bed with his arms crossed over his chest. “Who else would be waking me up like this?”

“Don’t lie to me,” Peter says, sheepish grin turning a bit snarky. “You weren’t asleep.”

Harley purses his lips. “I could’ve been.”

Peter rolls his eyes, but doesn’t get the chance to respond before Helen is hovering by his side, snapping her gloves into place and instructing, “Friday, give me the run down.“

“Mister Parker has several second degree burns along his left leg and left arm,” Friday responds. “His right wrist is broken, and there appears to be a laceration along his abdomen.”

Harley winces in sympathy. “Rough night?”

Peter tries to shrug, but the movement makes his features twist up in a flash of pain. His voice comes out a bit strained when he says, “You could say that. There was—house fire. Not fun.”

“Get everyone out?” Harley asks, if only to provide a slight distraction as Helen assesses the broken wrist, likely checking to see if it needs to be reset or if it’ll be able to heal properly as it is. Peter tries for a grin.

“All of ‘em. Even the kids pet turtle.”

Harley pats Peter’s right knee, careful to remember that it’s his left leg with the burns. “Job well done, Spider-Man.”

“Harley,” Helen says, grabbing his attention. She’s apparently deemed Peter’s wrist not a main concern and is already peeling Peter’s suit off of him. Harley snaps into focus instantly, listening intently as Helen tells him, “I need you to take care of the laceration while I get started on the burns. When that’s done, we need to get that wrist in a cast until it heals.”

Peter pouts. “A cast? Really?”

Helen looks at him sharply. “Last time we didn’t put you in a cast, you managed to re-break your arm before it could heal. Twice.”

Peter’s pout vanishes with a meek chuckle. “It was an accident?” he offers.

“You, Peter Parker,” Helen says, averting her attention back to his burns as she speaks, “are somehow my best and my worst patient of all time. And I’m Tony Stark’s doctor, too, so that says a whole lot about you.”

“Hey—” Peter cuts off with a hiss as Harley starts to disinfect the large cut on his side. Harley offers an apologetic half smile that Peter waves away with another wince and a wobbly sort of grin. “I’m not worse than Mr. Stark.”

Helen hums, high pitched and teasing.

“I’m not,” Peter insists. “I’m not!”

“Believe what you want,” Helen tells him.

Peter huffs. “Why are you being mean to me? Aren’t doctors supposed to be nice to their patients? Isn’t that, like, a thing?”

Harley snorts when Helen says, “Next time, don’t wake me up at four in the morning with second degree burns and a broken wrist, and maybe then I’ll be nicer to you, hm?”

—

The thing is, Harley didn’t plan on this.

As in, growing up, he was sure that what he wanted was to be a mechanic. He loved to build, take apart, recreate, understand. It’s all he ever did. Hell, when Tony Frickin’ Stark broke into his garage, the guy ended up making Harley his own mechanic heaven to say thanks for helping him out.

And Harley still loves all of that, to be fair—he spends a lot of his free time tinkering in Tony’s lab now, helping him out with whatever the man’s working on and often working on his own fun little projects on the side—but it’s not his main drive. It’s not the center of his world.

He thinks it started when he saved Tony.

In a way, anyway—he had only been twelve at the time, and it’s not like twelve year olds are exactly apt on having life changing realizations that change the course of their future. Still, he was a twelve year old that saved Tony Stark’s life, and there was some kind of thrill, almost. It was hard to explain then, and Harley isn’t sure if he could put it into words now, but the feeling had made his fingers feel all tingly and his heart thud heavily in his chest. It was similar to when he built his first successful bot and it came whirring to life, only the feeling was intensified.

He felt like he was doing what he was supposed to be doing. He knew he wanted to save lives.

“You’re getting better,” Helen tells him, after Harley’s helped the medical team with bandaging up the members of the Avengers that just returned from a mission. None of the wounds had been major, mostly just scrapes and bruises, but it’s the most amount of people Harley has helped treat at once, which is a big step.

Harley shrugs, drying off his hands, having just finished washing them. “You’re a good teacher.”

Helen chuckles at that. “How are your classes?”

“Good,” Harley answers, nodding his head. “Kinda boring. I know most of it already, thanks to all the training you’ve given me, but that‘s not really new. I knew everything they taught me in high school, too.”

“You sound like Peter when you say that,” Helen muses, an amused quirk to her brow.

Harley rolls his eyes. “Y’know, people keep saying that, but I only see him when he’s bleeding out and that doesn’t make it feel like we’re all that similar.”

“Oh, you’re similar, alright,” Helen says, laughing a bit. “You’re both genius kids who bust your asses off to save people’s lives.”

Wrinkling his nose, Harley says, “But I don’t do it in spandex. Key difference there, doc.”

Helen holds her hands up in some kind of surrender. “Just saying, you two are alike.”

“I’ll make sure to tell him you said that next time he breaks his leg,” Harley quips.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Friday interjects, “but Spider-Man is reportedly injured and heading to the tower now. ETA of six and a half minutes.”

Harley rolls his eyes up to the ceiling with an exasperated sigh. Helen can only laugh.

—

“Ow. Ow, ow—oh, Jesus, that’s—ow—!”

“Sorry,” Harley says, only averting his eyes for a second to flash Peter an apologetic look before focusing back on the stitches he’s giving him.

Peter curses, slamming his left fist into his own thigh as Harley pushes the needle through. “This sucks,” he complains, clenching his jaw and grinding his teeth. “This is—why is this worse than getting stabbed? Why do I prefer getting stabbed over this? This blows.”

“You need to stop moving,” Harley tells him.

Making an indignant sort of noise, Peter asks, “How the hell am I—I can’t stop moving! This hurts, man, like—like, really fuckin’ hurts!”

“Moving makes it worse, dipshit,” Harley retorts, fighting the urge to roll his eyes.

“You know what else makes it worse?” Peter glares at the wall. “Not having pain killers.”

Harley does roll his eyes now. “Not my job. I just give you the drugs, I don’t make them.”

“I know, but Mr. Stark isn’t here for me to bitch at, so I’m complaining to you about it instead.”

Harley can’t help the way that he snorts at that, finishing off the last of the stitches as he does so. “I usually don’t like to listen to someone complain while I’m working.”

“Sucks to suck,” Peter replies. “Are you done?”

“Yep.” Harley leans back, taking off his gloves and tossing them into the trash. “Any other injuries? Stab wounds? Broken bones?”

Peter hums, tilting his head from side to side. “I don’t think so. Friday?”

“All clear, Mr. Parker.”

Harley frowns. “The fact that you had to ask worries me.”

Peter shrugs. “I get hurt a lot. Kinda used to it.”

“Still,” Harley says. “That’s concerning. Like, you still feel pain, right? You would know if you were hurt somewhere else, wouldn’t you?”

“Oh, trust me, I feel pain,” Peter snorts. “But some things just... don’t matter? Like... I dunno, but if it’s not serious, it’s like my brain filters it out on it’s own to focus on other things. Which, probably, y’know, not good, but, like, oh well.”

“Definitely not good,” Harley murmurs, frowning to himself as he squints around the room for a moment. “Well, if you have nothing else, then you’re good to go. And, honestly, thank god that’s all you have, ‘cause this is the first time I’ve done anything without Helen around and anything more than stitches would’ve had me flipping shit and fucking it all up.”

Peter lets out a light laugh, pulling his shirt down, over the gash that Harley just finished stitching. “You wouldn’t fuck it up,” he says, sounding light and humorous yet entirely serious, too. “You’re, like, really good at your job, Harley.”

Harley scrunches his nose up on his face. “Ew. Don’t be nice to me. It’s gross.”

Peter laughs again, a little bit louder, though the way it makes his stomach jump has him wincing when it pulls at his stitches. “I’m serious!” he insists. “Like, I know you’re still a med student and stuff, but Helen is probably the best person to be training you, so you’re, like, more qualified than most normal doctors. You have the experience that most people still in med school don’t have. I mean, you patch up the freakin’ Avengers, Harley! You gotta be good at this to do that!”

“I help patch up the Avengers,” Harley corrects. “The only person I’ve ever fixed up by myself is you, thanks to your insane ability to always get hurt.”

“It’s a talent,” Peter shrugs. “And hey, I bet it keeps you entertained.”

Harley snorts. “Entertained is not the right word for it, Spidey. Impressed, maybe, by just how much trouble you’re capable of getting yourself into.”

Peter grins. “Gotta impress people somehow, right?”

—

Harley wouldn’t call it bonding.

Because it’s not. It’s not bonding. It’s small talk, and pleasant conversations, while Harley sets a broken bone or treats another burn. It’s filling the silence because, apparently, Helen trusts Harley to handle Peter on his own, unless it’s a major injury that requires more than one person on hand, and Harley isn’t sure why he’s being trusted with this, but he’s pretty intent on not fucking it up.

But it isn’t bonding. They’re just... acquaintances. Who talk. Like, a lot, because Peter comes in at least four times a week needing treatment for something, and that gives them a lot of time to talk. Maybe Harley learns a lot about Peter during this time, like his favorite song, and what his comfort hoodie is, and why he became Spider-Man in the first place. Maybe Peter learns where Harley is from, how he met Tony, and what made him decide to be a doctor over a mechanic.

Maybe, after a few weeks, they start having inside jokes, built not only from the time they spend alone together, but also from the months upon months that Harley was helping Helen treat Peter, too. Sometimes, Peter snorts so hard that he reopens his stitches and Harley has to fix it. Sometimes, Harley can’t stop laughing when he needs to have steady hands and he ends up hunching over on himself and wheezing because of whatever it is that Peter said. One day, Peter comes in when he isn’t injured, dressed in casual clothes with a few textbooks from his ESU courses in one hand and a coffee cup in the other. “I’m headed up to see Mr. Stark,” he tells Harley, “but I thought I’d give you this,” and he holds out the cup of coffee with a big, cheesy sort of grin.

“Why?” Harley asks, though he accepts the cup gratefully.

Peter shrugs. “I’d probably have bled out ten times over if it weren’t for you, and you looked, like, really tired yesterday, so I thought you might need it.”

He is tired—exhausted, really, because his classes may not be hard but there are some big tests coming up that he needs to study for and it’s hard to find the time to study in between training with Helen and doing all the millions of other assignments that are being tossed his way. He takes a sip of the coffee, hums in satisfaction at the way it warms him up, and says, “Thanks.”

“Least I could do,” Peter tells him.

So, maybe they’re friends. Maybe—maybe—Harley is starting to look forward to seeing him and keeps trying to think of a casual way to offer they hang out sometime, outside of the med bay. Maybe Peter starts bringing Harley a cup of coffee every time he goes to visit Tony, and maybe Harley starts to feel a little thrill whenever he hands the coffee over and their fingers briefly brush.

Maybe it is bonding, but it’s not a crush. It’s not.

(”You’re adorable when you’re in denial,” Helen tells him.

Harley sinks in his seat and tries to disappear. “Shut up.”)

—

The letters of his textbook are blurring in front of his eyes when the alarm rings.

He jumps at the sound, looks up at the ceiling with slightly squinted eyes and furrowed brows, expecting Friday to calmly inform him that his assistance is needed in the med bay, like usual. Instead of that, though, the alarm continues to blare, and all Friday says is, “Urgent. Urgent. Urgent.”

Which is code for: someone’s about to die if he doesn’t hurry.

Instantly, he jumps to his feet, feeling wide awake despite being on the brink of dozing off just a few short moments ago. “Okay,” he tells himself, rushing out of his room and sprinting towards the elevator, which is already open and waiting for him. He only just barely thinks to swipe his tablet along the way, clutches it in his hands while he says, “Okay, okay, okay—who, uh—Friday? Who is it?”

“Iron Man and Spider-Man are both heavily injured and require immediate assistance,” Friday informs him gravely. “Doctor Cho is already treating Mr.Stark and has told me to inform you that you will be in charge of Mr. Parker.”

“Oh, god,” Harley breathes, pinching the bridge of his nose and giving himself a second to take a deep breath while the elevator takes him down to the proper floor. “Jesus. Okay. I need, uh—give me a list of Peter’s injuries, Fri.”

“Of course, Mr. Keener.”

The list is sent to his tablet immediately, and it’s—extensive. Third degree burns and multiple shattered ribs and various bullet wounds, only some of which are clean through, meaning that there’s various bullets that they need to remove before Peter starts to heal around them. The more he reads, the faster his heart thunders in his chest while his mind automatically sorts through it to think of what needs to be prioritized, what to treat first, and how to keep Peter alive.

By the time he reaches Peter’s room, he has a game plan figured out, and he only falters for a short moment when he sees Peter on the hospital bed, writhing around and sobbing in pain. The rest of the medical staff in the room freeze, likely already aware that Helen put him in charge, and wait with bated breath.

“Alright,” Harley says, mostly to himself. “Here’s what we’re going to do.”

—

Maybe it is a crush.

Harley is finding it hard to deny it now, as he sits beside Peter’s hospital bed, his hands feeling a little bit shaky where they’re clasped together and hanging between his knees. They had to undergo emergency surgery, and Peter’s heart had stopped four times throughout the procedure. Bringing him back had been the most panic inducing thing Harley has ever experienced in his life, and he couldn’t even show it because he was the one that was put in charge.

But they did, all four times —they got his heart going again and they got out all the bullets and treated all the burns and did everything they could to stabilized the broken bones. They gave him multiple IV’s, all of which he’s still attached to, and he hasn’t woken up since he passed out from the pain shortly after Harley’s arrival—and he passed out looking at Harley, too, with wide, pleading eyes that seemed to be begging for mercy, filled with agony and despair.

Harley would do anything to never have to see that look again.

“How’s he doing?” Helen asks, stepping into the room. She looks tired, undoubtedly exhausted from doing whatever she could to stabilize Tony just a few rooms down. Harley feels that exhaustion in his very bones.

“He’s gonna be fine,” Harley tells her. “Lost him a few times, though.”

Helen hums sympathetically. “But you got him back.”

Harley hesitates, then nods. “Yeah, we did.”

“Good,” Helen says, laying a gentle hand on his shoulder. “You did good.” She stays like that for a moment, doesn’t move, and Harley appreciates the gesture but kind of wants to be alone. Maybe she senses that, because a moment later, she’s pulling her hand back and asking, “Are you staying here?”

“‘Til he wakes up,” Harley tells her.

Helen smiles at him warmly. “Make sure you get some rest, too, okay?”

Harley doesn’t think he’ll be able to sleep until he sees Peter awake and talking again, but he still nods at her and says, “Yeah, alright.”

After Helen leaves the room, after it’s just Harley and Peter again, he finds himself reaching forward and taking Peter’s hand in his, and, other than the innocent brush of fingers when passing a coffee cup, this is the first time they’ve touched outside of Harley treating Peter’s wounds. It’s a bit of a startling realization, but Harley finds comfort in the contact, listens to the steady beeping of the heart monitor and starts to relax with the reassurance that he really did good, that Peter is going to be okay and Harley is the one that saved him.

He doesn’t mean to fall asleep, but with that relief flooding his veins and Peter’s hand in his, he finds himself dozing off and doesn’t bother forcing himself awake.

—

At first, he doesn’t realize he’s waking up, his senses still muddled with sleep. It feels almost as if he’s floating in unconsciousness, warm and comfortable and— 

“Harley?”

And he wakes with a jolt, eyes snapping open and instantly searching, only coming to a stop when they land on wide brown eyes looking right back at him. “Oh,” he breathes, blinking once and sitting up straight despite the way it makes his back complain. “Oh, my god. You’re awake.”

Peter tilts his head, just a little bit, and looks down at their intertwined fingers.

“Right. That.” Harley clears his throat and scrubs his free hand over his features, trying to wake himself up with a sheepish little smile. “It’s, um—not important, actually. How do you feel? Any pain, discomfort, anything like that?”

For a moment, Peter doesn’t respond, just keeps looking at their hands before rasping out a hoarse little, “’m kinda—kinda thirsty. M’throat hurts.”

Instantly, Harley gets to his feet and pulls open the mini fridge in the room to grab a bottle of water. He takes it back to Peter, hands it over, and feels somewhere stuck between doctor mode and something else, the worry and the uncertainty and the fear from hearing the flat line all mixing together until he feels nauseous with it. Peter accepts the water bottle gratefully, takes tentative sips from it and only winces slightly when he swallows it. “Better?” Harley asks.

Peter smiles, a bit small and tired, but just as genuine as always. “Yeah.”

“Good,” Harley murmurs, hovering by the chair he had been sitting in before. “Is there anything else? Just, like—anything at all? How do you feel?”

“Tired,” Peter tells him. “Like, um... groggy, y’know? And... out of it.”

Harley nods, a bit relieved that the dose of pain killers he chose was the right amount. “That’s to be expected. You were really roughed up, Pete.”

Peter frowns down at his water, brows knitting together. “What happened?”

“There was an ambush,” Harley tells him. “I guess Doc Ock was out and about, so you went to confront him and he got enough hits in to alert Tony, so he went to help you out, but Ock apparently teamed up with Rhino and they were able to catch you guys off guard and get the upper hand. Rhodey and a few others went to help out, but they didn’t get there in time to stop you guys from nearly getting killed, so, when you came in, it was... not pretty. But, you’re both gonna be fine.”

He wants to say that it’s not a crush. It can’t be a crush, isn’t supposed to be one, even if seeing the way Peter lets out a puff of air and relaxes back into his pillows is kind of a... not so bad sight. He looks tired and a bit beat up and a little too pale, but he’s good. He’s alive. Being alive looks good on him.

Maybe, Harley admits. Maybe it is a crush.

“Thank you,” Peter murmurs, head lulling back into the pillows. He holds out a hand and Harley isn’t sure what the action is for, but he doesn’t think before reaching forward and tangling their fingers together.

Harley clears his throat. “What for?”

“Not letting me die,” Peter says.

The mere idea of letting Peter die makes Harley’s heart stutter in his chest. “Of course,” he mumbles, a bit stricken. “I’ll always save you. It’s my job.”

Peter squeezes Harley’s hand, falls asleep with a sigh and a smile on his face.

Harley still doesn’t leave.

(It’s definitely, one hundred percent, a huge, gigantic crush, and maybe... maybe he’s okay with that. Maybe liking Peter Parker isn’t all that bad.)

[myarmsaretoolong]

They Look so Pretty When They Bleed

Prompt #10: They Look so Pretty When They Bleed - Blood Loss | Trail of Blood

Word Count: 1235

Warnings: Blood | Needles | Medical Procedures

Synopsis: Tony thought the never-ending meeting with Ross would be the word part of his day, week probably. Then again, he hadn’t expected to be greeted by a trail of blood in the otherwise empty Avengers Facility.

Read Under the Cut | Read on AO3

It had been a long day in the office, and by office, Tony meant the seemingly neverending meeting with Ross he’d been trapped in since seven that morning. He’d been pretty pissed that Rogers snuck into the Raft and broke the Rouge Avengers out and decided to take it out on Tony, interrogating him all day long for any information he had. Not that Tony would give him anything even if he knew.

Twelve hours later, Ross finally gave up and let Tony leave - god how he regretted leaving that man on hold. Tony headed back to the Avengers Facility, back to the place that used to be filled with the now Rouges and now, instead stood a hollow shell haunted by days long past. Vision left earlier in the week, going to Edinburgh to spend some time with Wanda - ‘cause apparently they were a thing now. Even Rhodey was out spending time recovering. It was just Tony, alone, in a building where ghosts hovered at every corner.

He pulled up the driveway and stopped right outside the front door - it’s not like anyone was going to complain about lack of access. With a heavy sigh, Tony stepped out of the car, a feeling of unease brewing deep in his stomach. He didn’t have spidey-sense like the kid, but after eight years of being a superhero you learn to trust your gut. Tony looked around, searching for the source of his tension, but saw nothing except the open door to the Facility.

Oh, hang on. Tony wouldn’t have left it open all day, even if he had Friday would have closed it behind him. So why was it open, swinging gently in the almost non-existent breeze? Now that was the real question. Maybe Rhodey stopped by for a visit, he mused, but if so, why were the lights all off?

Tony crept forward, keeping his footsteps as quiet as possible on the tile floor in the foyer. To his horror, it also lit up a drop of blood, bright red against the white tiles. Then another. And another.

“What a way to add to the mystery,” he muttered. “Now,” slowly, he followed the trail, walking just to the side so as not to disturb it, “Tell me your secrets. In or out?” It soon became clear the answer was in. By the door, the trail consisted only of the odd drop here or there, by now the stream was far heavier.

Tony picked up the pace, whoever this blood came from couldn’t be in good shape. Friend or foe, Tony couldn’t take another lost soul on his conscience. Except if it were Ross, he could probably handle that after everything he’d put him through. Shit, what if it was Ross? Someone could’ve got to him after their meeting and he’d come here in search of help, not knowing Tony took the scenic route home to clear his head.

And if he died here, well that would reflect poorly on Tony. He could imagine the headlines; ‘Secretary of State found dead in home of public rival.’ It wouldn’t be hard for a lawyer to argue that Tony had both the means and the motive, all they’d have to do was bring up his less than heroic past. Yeah, he’d be walking straight into a murder charge.

“Ross, if you’re not dead yet I swear I’m going to finish you off,” he whispered. He kept following the ever-growing trail of blood through the darkened hallways he knew like the back of his hand. Straight through the lounge and kitchen area, a crimson handprint staining the orange sofa.

The sharp trill of Tony’s phone echoed through the room, making him jump at the suddenness of the noise. “That was smooth,” he muttered, pulling out his phone and answering without checking the caller ID. “Ross?”

“Uh, no… It’s May.”

Tony pulled the phone from his ear and check, sure enough, May Parker lit up the screen. “So it is, sorry May. It’s just...well, it’s a long story.”

“What was that? I can barely hear you, why are you whispering? Anyway, I just wanted to know if you’d heard from Peter. He didn’t come back from patrol at his normal time.”

The realisation hit Tony like Rogers and Barnes had in that godforsaken Siberian bunker.

“I know, I know. I’m probably overreacting. I just worry, y’know?”

Tony ran at full pelt. All attempt at keeping quiet dropped in favour of sheer speed. “May, I’ve got to go. I call as soon as I can.” He hung up without waiting for an answer. “Peter?” He yelled, praying or a reply. “Kid, c’mon. Where are you?”

His legs burned, fear growing with his every step. Every second passed was another Peter bled out. He skidded around a corner, the blood trail now little less than an elongated puddle. Sprinting on through the darkness, Tony almost didn’t see the body slumped in the corner of the corridor. “Kid?” Tony fell to his knees and tapped Peter’s cheek, trying to wake him up. “Come on, wake up for me. “Fri, get Cho here, now!”

Tony scooped Peter into his arms and ran to the medical bay, his hands and clothes stained red with the kid’s blood. He laid him on one of the beds, yelling for Friday to turn on the lights before searching for the source of the bleeding. “Fuck, kid.” Peter had a stab wound deep in his abdomen. “Fri, how long until Cho gets here?”

“Fifteen minutes, Boss.”

Not to sound cliché, but Peter didn’t have fifteen minutes. In fact, he barely had two judging by the colour of his skin and feeble beat of his pulse under Tony’s fingertips. His eyes flicked over to the storage cabinet stocked full of blood. Given the number of transfusions Tony had had himself, surely he knew how they worked. Right?

It’s not like he had a choice.

He darted across to the cabinet and grabbed a bag of Peter’s blood, double, and then triple, checking the name because for the love of God he was not giving the kid any of Bruce’s radioactive shit. He set up an IV for the blood bag and inserted a needle into the back of Peter’s hand before connecting the two with a plastic tube that looked close enough to the ones used on him.

For a couple of seconds, he watched the blood flow through the tube and into Peter’s body, then raced to find a bandage to make sure that blood stayed inside rather than ending up on the medbay floor. 

After a minute, some of the colour returned to Peter’s cheeks, though he was still shades too pale. Peter gasped a great breath and air and Tony raced to his side, running a hand through his hair and whispering gently. “Hey, kid. Nice to have you back with us.”

“Huh,” Peter slurred. “Wha- Where?”

“It’s okay, I’ve got you. You’re safe now. Doctor Cho’s on her way, she’ll be here any minute.”

Peter seemed to be gaining a little more comprehension with every second. “Urgh,” he sighed, relaxing back into the bed. “Mister Stark?”

“Yeah?”

“I think someone stabbed me.”

“I think so too, kid. You left the evidence all over the compound.”

Peter screwed his eyes shut. “Sorry.”

“No,” Tony cooed. “I don’t care about that. I just care that you’re safe.”

[sweetsickcherry]

Do you think you could write more sugar daddy Tony and sugar baby Peter? Pretty please

Darling anon, I hope you like this.

Peter is the ultimate Sugar Baby, but very reluctantly at the start.

cw: daddy kink; sugar baby kink; power imbalance kink; manipulative tony; wealth kink; d/s; naive but fiery peter.

Peter is ecstatic when Tony finally gets home from a long day of meetings. He’s only been gone for 12 hours, but Peter missed him so much he ached. Peter meets him at the doorway to kiss him before Tony’s even kicked his shoes off. Has his arms looped around Tony’s neck, whispering, “Missed you,” against his cheek as Tony laughs and carries him into the kitchen.

It’s moments like this that are the best. The little homely moments. When Tony’s heating leftover pasta up and shovelling it into his mouth straight from the pan because he always forgets to eat during the day, while Peter sits cross-legged at the table frowning at the equations in his copy book. Knowing soon they’ll kiss on the couch and go to bed early to cuddle.

The domestic bliss is shattered later when Tony says, “We’ve been invited to the opera next week. Jansen’s coming over on Friday afternoon for a fitting.”

Peter freezes, mid-way through digging a spoon into a new tub of Ben & Jerry’s.

“Since when have we been invited to the opera?”

“Since about three hours ago.”

“Tony, do I have to? The fitting I mean?”

Tony doesn’t look at him, just continues scrolling through emails on his phone.

“Yeah baby, you do.”

“But…”

Peter kicks his legs out petulantly where he’s sitting on the kitchen counter, the open pint of Ben & Jerry’s momentarily forgotten.

“But what? You want to go in your NASA t-shirt and jeans, is that it?” Tony says a little sharply, as he types out an email one-handed.

Peter frowns, bottom lip sticking out.

Tony could be cruel sometimes, especially when he was tired. Usually Peter would curl around him and say something like, “Why so prickly, Daddy?”, peppering kisses along his jaw until Tony would melt in his arms.

But the thought of seeing all those people, the ones who cut through Peter and his clothes, like he’s just Mr Stark’s new boy toy, makes his blood boil.

“I have plenty of clothes! I don’t need any more. What about that polka dot thing you got me two weeks ago? That looks like a swimsuit from the 1920s.”

“That’s summer wear, baby, you know that. We need something season appropriate.”

“Tony, it’s the first week of September. It’s not even cold yet.”

Tony finally looks up from his phone, snapping the case against it. Peter flinches slightly at his dark look.

“We talked about this, Peter. You wanted us to go public with our relationship. And that means coming with me to these events and looking the part.”

“You wanted to go public, too!”

Tony’s gaze softens. He sits back in his chair, surveying Peter’s pinched brow. How small Peter looks in his tiny shorts and oversized Stark Industries tee.

“Yeah, baby, I did. I do. But there are expectations I need to meet. Pepper might be CEO, but I’m still the face of the company and I need to do these things. And I want you to be at my side.”

“But only if you dress me up like I’m a Barbie,” Peter snaps.

“What is this? Lay into Tony hour? If you can’t be mature enough to have this conversation, then maybe you should take a time out and we’ll come back to it later when you’ve stopped being such a brat.”

Peter seethes. It’s moments like this that he feels like a stupid 15-year-old all over again. Not Tony’s partner. When everything they’ve made together suddenly means nothing, and he’s just a boy being berated by his idol.

“If you want maturity, maybe you shouldn’t date a college student,” he says quietly, grabbing the ice cream and jumping down to head to their room.

He thinks Tony might stop him, that he’s about to feel a hand close over his thin wrist, or a sharp “where the fuck do you think you’re going?” but Tony lets him go. And Peter knows it’s dumb but he feels himself start to cry.

Tony gives him 45 minutes to sulk before coming to find him. Peter stares at his book resolutely as Tony leans in the doorway to their room, watching him.

“You like the ice cream then?” He nods towards the half-eaten tub on the bed next to Peter.

Peter nods stiffly. Tony knows Peter has a sweet tooth and keeps the apartment stocked with ice cream, cookies, frozen waffles and pancake mix all for him.

“What flavour this time?”

“Red velvet with cream cheese swirls.”

“Iron Man colours. I approve.”

Peter can’t help the smile that tugs at the corner of his mouth. Tony always had a real talent to make everything about him.

“I wonder what Spider-Man’s flavour would be,” Tony murmurs as he comes closer, sliding his tie off his neck. “I’m thinking strawberry cheesecake to complement his suit.” He plants one knee on the bed. “Or maybe it could be a Peter Parker flavour. The fluffiest angel food cake you’ve ever had.”

Before Peter can respond, Tony has jumped onto the bed and pulled Peter into his lap. Peter squeaks, tries to elbow him in the ribs and knock him off, but Tony cages him in with his arms. He huffs a quiet laugh into Peter’s neck when he refuses to look at him, then scratches his stubble along his throat. Peter bites back a moan, but can’t stop the tilt of his head.

“Tell me what’s bothering you, angel,” Tony nuzzles against his throat. “I’m sorry for being mean.”

“It’s nothing, forget about it.”

“I said tell me, baby. Tell your mean old Daddy everything.”

“Just didn’t know I embarrassed you so much,” Peter mutters, picking at a loose thread on the pillowcase.

“Darling, you don’t.”

“If you wanted someone beautiful you should have stayed with Ms Potts. Or dated that actress everyone was obsessed with.”

“Peter, you have it all wrong,” Tony says softly, nosing the edge of Peter’s jaw, pressing a kiss to the sensitive spot behind his ear. “The clothes don’t make you beautiful, sweetheart. But they’re expected in the circles I’m in. You know how much I love you just like this.” He presses a hand against the worm cotton covering Peter’s stomach. “My soft, sweet honey boy.”

Peter flushes at the pet names; always does.

Tony’s thumbs his chin around to make Peter look at him, their noses touching.

“Is this pink little pout for me?”

He kisses it then, and Peter sinks against him, sighing softly when Tony’s arms tighten around him, the wet tip of his tongue teasing Peter’s mouth.

They part when Peter lets out a moan.

“It’s not all bad, is it?” Tony whispers, a small smirk on his face. “There are things you like being dressed in.” His eyes trail over to the box at the foot of their bed. The one where they keep Peter’s jewelled collar, plus his harness and toys.

Peter flushes darker, feels the heat in his cheeks bloom red.

“I do like that stuff. When it’s just us. But those people, Tony, they all look at me and it’s so hurtful.”

“Fuck them. You’re radiant.”

“I don’t know…”

Tony cuddles him closer, squeezing his arms around Peter.

“Come on, do this for me. Make Daddy happy. You want that don’t you, sweet thing? Don’t I give you everything you’ve ever wanted? All you need to do is give me this one little thing in return.”

That’s how Peter ends up in the fitting that Friday, being pulled and prodded as Jansen drapes swatches of fabric over him. Talking animatedly about his fashion house’s new Fall collection as Peter tries to keep up, moving his arms and legs dutifully when Jansen tells him.

Tony watches from his place on the couch, legs spread, a glass of scotch resting on his thigh. Lazily trailing his eyes over Peter’s half-naked form.

“I want something sleek, Jansen. Dark. But still romantic. I want him to look like a fucking woodland fawn.”

Jansen ignores Tony’s language, and nods enthusiastically.

“Of course, Mr Stark. It won’t be hard, with your boy’s stature and dreamy good looks.”

Peter blushes. Your boy. Something about the way Jansen talks about Peter like he’s not there, with the way Tony’s watching them, makes him feel light-headed. He meets Tony’s dark look, how he never breaks his eyes from Peter even as he lifts the scotch to his mouth, and he feels hot all over.

“He’s a beauty, isn’t he? He asks Jansen, still not taking his eyes from Peter.

“Oh yes. Your taste in all things is impeccable as always, Mister Stark.”

Peter wants to bite back that he’s not a thing, and Mr Stark doesn’t own him. Instead he blushes even harder, trying to ignore the way his dick is getting hard, how Tony’s words and heavy gaze make his entire body prickle.

“Just be careful, Jansen. Peter’s skin is very sensitive,” Tony smiles, knowing exactly how affected Peter is by all of this.

Peter throws him a mean look and Tony chuckles against the rim of his glass.

Afterwards, Peter sees the note that Jansen left and his eyes almost pop out. It’s an order not just for one outfit, but for coats, pants, shirts, jumpers, scarves and gloves. Entire matching sets and one pieces, just for Peter. He thinks it might be more clothes than Peter has ever owned.

“Tony, you’ve pre-ordered their entire Fall catalogue,” he breathes.

“Hmm?” Tony hums, half listening. “Oh, that? If you’re going to have one piece you might as well have them all.”

“Tony, it’s too much.”

“No,” Tony says slowly, like he’s breaking down a particularly hard equation. “It isn’t.” He pulls Peter against him, the ferocity almost making him stumble.

“When will you learn that I’ll do anything for you,” he says, and the raw honesty in Tony’s voice makes his skin thrum. “Anything for my pretty boy, pretty baby, my little prince.”

Peter melts at that, eyelashes fluttering. Feels himself go again; head floaty, dick stupidly hard. He’s still mostly naked, and he wonders what he looks like pressed up against a fully-dressed Tony. The feeling only intensifies when Tony grabs his chin and kisses him roughly, his beard and mouth rubbing him raw where he stabs his tongue inside him. Peter slumps against him, almost falling, but Tony grabs him tightly. Your boy echoes in his head.

Tony breaks away, making Peter gasp. He tries to follow his mouth but Tony stops him with a quick, firm tsk.

“Now, tell me what you are.”

“Your… sugar baby,” he whispers, face hot, legs trembling.

Tony smiles, shark-like.

“That’s right.”

[itsy-bitsy-spider-fan]

Hold On to Me (I’m A Little Unsteady)

By @itsy-bitsy-spider-fan for @imgoingtocrash​

Rating: General Audiences

Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark

Characters: Peter Parker, Tony Stark, Pepper Potts, Morgan Stark, Happy Hogan, May Parker. 

AO3 Link

Summary: 

“Can we just not do this right now?” Peter asked tiredly, glancing at Tony.

There was a beat of silence, and unexpected anger was rising in both of them. Tony because he was tired of seeing Peter deteriorate, and Peter because… well Peter didn’t really know. But he didn’t want to breach this right now. He didn’t want Tony to push him into saying something he shouldn’t. He felt like he was standing at a precipice high above an abyss, and he could either step back and give in to Tony by telling him everything that was going on --- everything Peter was feeling --- or he could stay in place and let the ledge crumble beneath him.

After the reversal of the Snap, Peter isn't doing as okay as he pretends he is. Luckily, he has a certain mentor in his corner to help him through it.

Peter knew what was happening to him, but he couldn’t stop it.

***

Hold On To Me (I’m a Little Unsteady)

The Blip had drudged up everything: every fragment of trauma he’d experienced, every bad thing that had ever happened to him (and it was a whole laundry list at that point), every loss he’d faced. He saw it every night.

Peter could count on one hand the amount of sleep (hours) that he’d gotten in the past two weeks. Getting through the day was agonizing, but at night, when he was alone and suffocated by thoughts he’d tricked himself into thinking were behind him, it was worse.

It wasn’t like Peter wanted to stay awake. Needing sleep was the only comprehensible thought that Peter managed nowadays. But the tradeoff wasn’t worth it. Seeing his uncle fall back, a gunshot piercing his brain and jolting him awake and upright wasn’t worth it. A building crumbling, collapsing, crushing him while he screamed for help wasn’t worth it.

Reliving the experience of fading to dust wasn’t worth it.

So he stopped. Stopped trying to sleep and started trying to crash. Peter waited until the exhaustion was too much for his body to physically handle and he crashed, too worn out for his mind to conjure up anything that might jerk him awake with a scream lodged in his throat and knives lodged in his lungs.

His mistake wasn’t staying awake.

It was thinking that pushing himself to the brink wouldn’t catch up with him.

Peter leaned his head against the window of Happy’s black SUV --- a new one, a different one than he’d ridden in five years ago --- lightheaded from the energy drink he’d chugged five minutes before getting in the car. His overnight bag was carelessly tossed onto the seat beside him.

Though his body seemed to buzz with energy, Peter could tell that it wasn’t real. He had maybe a half hour before that buzzing feeling was replaced with tiredness, and he’d be back to dragging himself through the day and pasting on smiles so that nobody would notice that he wasn’t as okay as he tried to be.

Or maybe he’d get lucky, and the energy drink would mimic the natural flurry of excitement that, according to Tony, Peter used to light up rooms with. It was just another he hadn’t quite managed to get back from before the Snap.

Sometimes, Peter thought that some parts of him were still on Titan. That not all of him had been put back together after Tony had reversed Thanos’ actions. As for Tony… seeing him helped as much as it hurt.

It was hard to see past the red and gold prosthetic arm. It was as much as a symbol that Tony was okay as it was a symbol that Peter hadn’t been good enough during the fight. His train of thoughts tended to be pretty depressing whenever he visited the lakehouse. “What ifs” were his weakness. What if he had been faster? What if he had stopped Quill? What if he’d been better, like Tony wanted?

And when he thought of the final battle: What if I had gotten there first?

The Iron Spider was similar to the suit Tony had worn. It could have formed the gauntlet. Peter could have snapped. Could have taken the hit of the ancient magic. Peter could’ve walked away from it. Right?

In the month that Tony had spent recovering and in a coma, Peter had stayed at the man’s bedside --- well. He'd stayed in a chair in the corner of the same room. He couldn’t bear to infringe on the space that belonged to Pepper, and Rhodey, and Happy, and --- and Morgan.

He never voiced his internal anguish, never talked about the dreams he had where he had taken the stones, and he had ended it all. Instead, he distracted himself by borrowing a tablet from a certain genius Wakandan princess and started fleshing out a design for a prosthetic arm. At first, it was nothing more than a means for peace, a cathartic activity. Then Tony, not long after waking, had seen it, and Shuri had built it, and Peter decided that he needed to do more. “Fixing” Tony’s arm was not enough.

He had to go back. Back to the Peter that May wanted, that she used to know, that Peter had been before. Peter thought that if May didn’t spend so much time deluding herself that Peter had come back in one piece, it wouldn’t be so easy to pretend she had.

That’s why Peter was on his way to the lakehouse. He liked it there, liked it more. And it wasn’t just because being at the lake was less stifling that being in the city. It was because Tony understood better than anyone the way that Peter felt, even if Peter never outright said anything. Tony pressed offhandedly, but when Peter shrugged him off, Tony gave him space. Enough to let him breathe without completely detaching himself from Peter.

“Kid?”

Happy’s voice was edged with concern and when Peter blinked, they weren’t moving anymore. The lakehouse stood in front of him, and trees made up the horizon around them. On the front porch, Peter spotted Tony immediately, and Pepper beside him. Little Morgan peeked out from behind them, dark eyes narrowed. She was still in the process of warming up to Peter (though Tony had assured him that it was a given.)

“Sorry, Hap,” Peter mumbled, popping open the door and swinging his bag over his shoulder. “See you Sunday.”

“Two o'clock on the dot,” Happy agreed.

Peter walked up to the house, and a small burst of warmth managed to loosen the tightness in his chest. Tony and Pepper both greeted Peter with a smile. Morgan was still watching him with curiosity. He probably needed to spend more time with her if he could manage.

“I’m making carbonara for dinner,” Tony told him, slinging an arm over Peter’s shoulder as they walked inside.

Peter shot a startled look at Pepper without thinking. The last time Tony had cooked for Peter --- BT (Before Thanos) --- they’d become distracted and the lasagna that Tony swore he could make in his sleep turned out worse than the store bought ones May liked to (try to) cook on Thursdays.

Pepper caught his look and laughed, “Don’t worry. He’s gotten much better.”

Tony made an offended noise, but Peter was already slipping back into his thoughts while they bickered, tripped up on how easily the joke had come. He headed upstairs to deposit his bag in the guest room and wondered if maybe this weekend would end up going fine. That he ’d be fine.

He should have known better. He didn’t even make it through the day.

Things went fine until dinner. The buzz of the energy drink predictably disappeared after an hour, though Peter was still clinging onto the hope that nothing would go wrong. But then Tony had pressed him after dinner, questioned how he’d been doing, how things with May and Happy were going, if he’d talked to May, if he was okay.

“Tony,” Pepper said quietly, when she noticed the way that Peter had gone tense, stifled anger warming his face.

Tony shot her a glance in acknowledgement, but his face was set and determined. “I just want to know how he’s doing, Pep.”

Peter wondered why just that much was leading him to irritation. “And I told you I’m doing fine, Mister St-- uh, Tony.”

“Mr. Tony?” Tony repeated, and Peter rolled his eyes, stabbing at his carbonara with his fork. “That’s new.”

“Can we just not do this right now?” Peter asked tiredly, glancing at Tony.

There was a beat of silence, and unexpected anger was rising in both of them. Tony because he was tired of seeing Peter deteriorate, and Peter because… well Peter didn’t really know. But he didn’t want to breach this right now. He didn’t want Tony to push him into saying something he shouldn’t. He felt like he was standing at a precipice high above an abyss, and he could either step back and give in to what Tony wanted by telling him everything that was going on --- everything that Peter was feeling --- or he could stay in place and let the ledge crumble beneath him.

“No,” Tony decided after a beat, stubbornness etched onto his face. Clearly, he’d been planning this ambush for a while. “Peter, just talk to me, kid.” He hesitated. “Or even if not me, then talk to May---”

“What do you want me to say, Tony?” Peter cut in, setting his fork down forcefully. He was breathing hard. Part of him wanted to know the answer to his rhetorical question.

“At this point? Anything. Tell me what’s wrong---”

“Just lay off me,” Peter half-yelled instead.

They both snapped their mouths shut when Morgan jumped, eyes wide and looking at both of them.

Peter grew angrier, but he was unwilling to admit that most of that anger was at himself. For not putting up as good of an act as he thought he was, for scaring Morgan, for yelling at Tony.

“Kid, calm down---”

“Or what?” Peter spat. “You’re going to take my suit? Ground me?” Tony’s face twisted with indignation and Peter stood, knocking his chair down in the process.

He stood up too fast though. The floor lurched under his feet, swinging back and forth like a pendulum, and black spots danced across his vision. Tony’s anger melted to concern and he reached forward but Peter batted his hand away and gripped the table instead. Unwilling to prove Tony’s point that Peter was very much not okay, he kept going.

“Well, newsflash, Tony. You don’t get to do that anymore. You never did.”

“Is that what you think?” Tony challenged, sufficiently distracted again.

“Yeah,” Peter answered, breathing heavily.

He hadn’t noticed Pepper take Morgan out of the room, but at some point, she had. It was just Tony and Peter, staring each other down.

“Sit down, Peter,” Tony said harshly. “I just want to talk.”

“ Why ?” Peter breathed, angry and disbelieving, both at once. “Why can’t you just let it go?”

“Because---” Tony stopped, pursing his lips. “It doesn’t matter. I know you’re hurting---”

Peter scoffed bitterly. “Of course that’s what you say. You think you know everything, but you don’t. And I’m not some math equation that you can just solve because you’re bored. So quit pretending to be a father and leave. Me. Alone. ”

It was a low blow, and Peter knew it. But he couldn’t find it in himself to care, or even stop to see the shock and hurt play across Tony’s face. Instead, he turned and stomped upstairs, heart beating rapidly. Blood rushed in his ears, almost drowning out the sound of Pepper and Tony talking downstairs --- apparently she hadn’t gone far.

Peter swept over to his bag and furiously began unzipping it. At the bottom, exactly where he’d left them, were his webshooters and his suit. Peter was clipping his webshooters onto his wrists when he heard footsteps and a small voice behind him. He turned, freezing at the suit of Morgan hovering in the doorway, looking unsure.

“Peter?” she asked quietly. “What are you doin’?”

Peter unfroze, shaking his head. “I’m leaving. I’ll--- I’ll see you later.”

He headed over to the window, opening it. Without looking away from the ground fifteen feet below, he heard Morgan take a few cautious steps into the room. Peter sighed. Anger still raged through his veins, but he knew better than to take it out on a kid, especially Morgan.

“But why?” she questioned. “We didn’t even have dessert yet.”

“I know,” Peter said quickly, deciding to only put his mask on, leaving his suit in a twisted heap on the bed. “It’s fine.”

He was halfway out the window, one leg hooked over the sill, when Morgan whispered, “Bye.”

Peter felt regret clench in his chest. He knew he shouldn’t be leaving. It was just a dumb fight, and really, it was Peter’s fault. Most of the anger that he’d taken out on Tony was derived from anger he had for himself.

But he wanted to act out. Wanted to be angry instead of face the exhaustion that never left him, or the fear that made it hard to breathe all the time. Or even the nightmares that, no matter what he did, never went away. His hands were shaking, he realized.

Peter leapt from the sill and landed on the damp earth without error. He glanced back when he paused for a deep breath. Morgan was standing at the window, leaning out and looking at him. Wind whipped her hair around her face.

Peter broke his gaze away and took off through the trees.

The knowledge that May and Happy were on a date night was what compelled him to stop by the apartment and put on his suit. He’d received too many shouted, “Who are you?”s from New Yorkers who recognized Spider-Man’s brand but were probably shocked to see him after a five and a half year break.

It only took an hour of patrolling for the regret to really set in. Tony had only tried to call him once, and Peter had ignored him.

Before the Blip, Tony would have called again and pushed it through. But that's not what he did. He just left Peter to his own devices, even though Peter was starting to realize that's not what he wanted.

Normality. That's what he wanted. He wanted it back. Bad. That seemed to be the root of his problems. He wanted things to go back to normal. Where having a conversation with May wasn't painful. When Peter could tell Tony anything. When waking up from breath-stealing nightmares wasn't an everyday occurrence.

Peter perched on the top of a building and let out a deep breath. He'd have to apologize. At least for the last part, because Tony had confessed to him more than once how much his own father had made him wary of his ability to be one. And Peter had thrown that in his face.

Peter stood, stretched, and started thinking about what he'd say.

I'm sorry.

The obvious starter but not enough.

I'm drowning. He could tell Tony everything. And Tony would help him tell May but May… would be so disappointed. Wouldn't she?

I didn't mean it.

Back to Tony, because Tony was the one that Peter had thrown cruel words at like knives.

A shrill scream and a grunt pierced through Peter's thoughts, and he snapped back into reality.

Looking down on the street revealed a woman being pulled into an alleyway by a hooded man.

One more save, Peter decided. Then to the lake house.

Looking back on the moment that he leapt from the building, he wondered: was he stupid for thinking that anything could go right? That it would? Or was he just too tired to realize that something was off about the alleyway attack he was about to interrupt?

The woman was nowhere to be found when he swung to the ground, but the hooded man was standing with his back to Peter.

"I knew you'd come," came the low, gravelly voice of the man. "Spider-Man always does."

Peter swallowed uncomfortably, feeling the familiar spider sense of his crawl up his neck. "Where did she go?"

Finally the man turned, a cruel, taunting smile pulling at his thin lips. "Pity. They told me you were smarter than this."

"Smarter than---"

Crack!

A baseball bat slamming into the back of his head. Pain shooting through his skull, white hot and breathtaking. Vision shuddering and warping.

Peter stumbled onto his knees, blindly firing a web behind him, but the newcomers had the upper hand, would have had it even if he hadn't have spectacularly missed like he did.

Panic streaked through him when he felt arms grabbing him, pulling him, dragging him backwards over cracked and dirty asphalt.

One clear thought filtered through his mind. Tony.

"Karen," he croaked, only for his hopes to be shot when hands fisted the back of his mask, pulled it off. "N-no---"

Another brain-rattling blow to the back of his head and Peter's thrashing and twisting lessened. His fights were almost completely dulled when two needles slid into his neck: either darts or syringes but both containing some kind of concoction that made his stomach flip and his limbs feel heavy.

The people who had him stopped dragging him and hefted him in the air, carrying him to the mouth of the alleyway, where the shadow met the street.

They were approaching a running vehicle, Peter realized, and his thoughts melted together. They were taking him oh God and he'd been so stupid, hadn't told anywhere where he was and he needed to tell Tony sorry, to tell May sorry that he didn't fight hard enough to get away ---

A loud bang reverberated through the alley, so intense that it drew a strangled gasp from Peter's mouth. A blast of heat washed over his body, too confusing for his muddled thoughts to comprehend. Then the arms digging into him were pulling away and he was falling.

He slammed into the concrete on his back, mere feet away from the awaiting van. Peter groaned and rolled onto his side, gripping his head as another wave of pain slashed through it, coupled with more bang s that made him grip his ears in agony.

He squeezed his eyes shut, clenching his jaw and swallowing back the bile that rose in his throat, and just when he was at the brink, when his vision was starting to dim --- pain and overstimulation to his senses dragging him into an abyss --- all became quiet.

"Peter," someone breathed, voice shaking and scared but familiar. "Pete. Kid. Open your eyes for me."

Peter didn't want to. Didn't want to open his eyes and realize he was dreaming this up because Tony was mad at him, Tony wouldn't be here, but---

There he was, when Peter hazily cracked open his eyes. Crouching in front of Peter in the suit, though the faceplate was retracted. Concern was etched in every line of his face.

"Tony," Peter croaked, overwhelmed with regret and fear but also relief.

The pain was still there, too. Pulsing through his skull like a thick, hot fire poker being stabbed into his head over and over again.

"I'm right here, kid," Tony said. "I'm going to get…"

Tony didn't trail off. Rather, Peter found safety in his voice, his presence, and the tension seeped out of his body --- as did every ounce of consciousness that he'd been hanging on to.

When he woke up in the hospital room, he'd thought he'd be alone. He remembered pretty quickly what had happened, and the guilt still clung to him like wet clothes. He'd be disappointed, but not surprised, if the chairs surrounding his bed were empty.

Somehow, they weren't.

May was the first one he saw, and his chest tightened. She didn't see him stir, and neither did Happy. Tony, asleep in a chair on Peter's other side, didn't stir yet either.

It wasn't until Peter sat up --- and regretted the motion instantly since it made his head hurt like no other, drawing a shaky gasp from his lips --- did May look up. Her eyes filled with tears when she saw Peter struggling to move his pillows to support an upright position.

"May," Peter said, voice gravelly from disuse.

It was then, at the hoarse sound of Peter's voice, that Tony jerked awake, eyes flickering around the room before landing on Peter. Almost comically, Happy remained asleep.

"Kid," Tony said, moving forward like he wanted to reach Peter's hand.

May moved at the same time, and Tony jerked back, glancing at May like she might yell at him.

May paused, glancing from Tony to Peter before staying on Tony. "Don't fool yourself, Tony. He's your kid, too."

Tony looked at her, then nodded. When May looked away, Peter saw relief cross Tony's face, and he tentatively reached forward to grab Peter's other hand, waiting for Peter's nod of approval before actually grabbing it.

"I'm so sorry," Peter whispered. "To both of you. For fighting with you, Tony, and for not calling you May and---"

"We can talk about that later," Tony said, and May nodded in agreement, chewing her lip nervously.

Peter wanted to protest, wanted to apologize until it was drilled in their head how sorry he was, but a man in scrubs stepped into the room, and his attention was torn away. He glanced at Tony panickedly. This wasn't the same, confidential doctor that Peter had grown used to before the Blip.

"He knows you're enhanced," Tony said, squeezing Peter's hand. "And he's trustworthy. He specializes in enhanced people."

Peter glanced back at the man, who stepped forward with a kind smile. "That's right. I'm Doctor Weber. Do you know your name?"

Peter nodded slowly. "Peter Parker, sir."

Weber smiled again. Peter figured if the man was dangerous, his Spider Sense would have let him know already.

He didn't think about how unreliable it had been when he was sustaining the very injury he was in the Medbay for.

"The sedative your assailants used has already been metabolized," Weber began as he fiddled around with the nearby machines and screens. "There should be no lasting effects, but I am more worried about the fractured skull."

Peter winced, resisting the urge to prod the back of his head.

"I have a few precautionary questions…"

Peter answered Weber's questions correctly and was given another dosage of souped-up pain meds. He tried not to let his heavy eyes fall closed, but before he knew it, they were slipping shut… and his body was heavy and he was tired…

But he had to know who had done this to him in the first place. He managed to force his eyes open and glanced at Tony, who would probably start with the truth instead of trying to censor it to protect him like May would.

"Who did this?" he managed.

Tony's eyes went dark with a familiar anger, the one he saved for whenever someone targeted Peter and landed Peter in the Medbay. "Natasha's working on it as we speak, but so far, we think they may have been a splinter group from Hydra."

Peter nodded drowsily. "I am… safe?"

His tongue felt like it was made of rubber.

"You're safe, kid," Tony affirmed as May squeezed Peter's hand.

"Sleep, Peter," May instructed softly. "We'll be here when you wake up."

That turned out to be a lie, because the next time Peter opened his eyes, it was just him and Tony. Tony had a tablet in his lap and was video-calling someone.

Peter stayed quiet, not wanting to intrude, but Tony noticed him anyways. The soft grin on his face dropped and was replaced with stone.

"I'll be up later, Pep," Tony said, not looking away from Peter, who instantly felt worse for pulling Tony away from his conversation with his family. "Bye."

"Where's May?" Peter asked quietly.

Tony set his tablet down on the empty chair next to him. "She went upstairs with Happy. Said it was to shower but I think she knew that your meds were wearing off and wanted to give us a chance to talk." Tony paused. "A great woman, your aunt is."

Peter nodded, but there was a lump in his throat that kept him from speaking. Peter didn’t know if it was a big fat ball of regret or just plain emotion. Tony looked at him and sighed.

"I'm not mad, Peter."

Peter looked down at his lap. “You should be.”

“Oh, don’t get me wrong, I was,” Tony said, and even though his voice was light, it sounded strained. “But then Weber showed me your charts, and Friday ran some scans. They estimate that when I brought you in, you hadn’t slept for thirty-two hours, Peter.”

When Peter said nothing, Tony said, “Did you know that skipping on sleep for so long causes moodiness and irritability?” It was a question with an answer that Tony didn’t want an answer for. “Now, there’s a lot of fun side effects to sleep deprivation --- hell, I’ve been there more times than I can count --- but I think those two matter the most in this situation.” He eyed Peter scrutinizingly. “What do you think?”

Peter swallowed. “That I’m an idiot.” Peter paused. “And I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to be---”

“ Not just for our--- our fight,” Peter said urgently, needing to get the weight off of his chest that it had been crushing his lungs and ribs for weeks. “I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you sooner.”

Tony was clearly unwilling to push on that, probably after what happened last time, but Tony didn’t need to. The truth was already spilling out: a dam that should have come down a long time ago.

“I’ve been having nightmares,” Peter confessed, unable to meet Tony’s eyes. “Bad ones. And I’m… I’ve been too scared to sleep because every time I close my eyes I see you, dying. Or Thanos snapping, or my uncle, or--- just. Everything, Tony.”

Tony’s face was masked off, but his words were soft. “You should have told me, kid. You should’ve came to me sooner---”

“I know, ” Peter breathed, and when he looked back at Tony, his eyes were shiny with tears. “But I didn’t want to bother you when you were still..” He waved his hand vaguely towards Tony’s prosthetic arm, which was mostly covered by the gray hoodie that the man wore. “And I was scared that you would think, I don’t know, less of me? That I couldn’t be part of the team and I couldn’t lose Spider-Man even if I haven't been him for a while because that’s all I had left from the old me---”

Tony’s mind was spinning like lottery slots, probably because he was processing Peter’s ramblings at light speed. He clearly didn’t know where to start, but his voice was firm and insistent when he reached out, gripped Peter’s shaking hand and said, “Kid, there is no old you, okay? You’re still Peter Parker, you’re still my kid, and having nightmares or trauma doesn’t make you weak or take that away from you.”

Peter sniffed, ready to say something, but Tony wasn’t done. “Trauma isn’t something you can just push away and get over. Not when you’re dealing with things like Thanos or any villain you’ve faced as Spider-Man for that matter. Fighting people, putting them away, seeing death: it follows you home. It sucks. And I say that as the posterboy of PTSD.”

Peter wiped his eyes, disbelief shining in them. Tony had never opened up about that kind of stuff before, though Peter had pressed after Homecoming whenever he spent the night at the Compound.

“We’ve both gone through some shit,” Tony said. “It’s not ideal, but it’s part of the job. An occupational hazard, if you will. We might as well make that a prerequisite for joining the Avengers.”

“That doesn’t make me feel much better,” Peter joked with a watery laugh.

“I’m trying to say,” Tony continued, “that we’re here to help. All of us, but especially me. Right now. I’m going to do whatever it takes to put a smile back on your face, okay?”

Peter studied his face, and after a beat, nodded. “Okay.” He looked down, toying with the blanket in his lap. “Will you help me talk to May?”

Tony stood, and for a brief, terrifying moment, Peter thought that he was leaving. But instead, he gently nudged Peter’s leg out of the way, and Peter scooted over to the side of the bed to make room for Tony to lay down. Peter couldn’t help but smile when Tony crossed his arms behind his head and stared up at the ceiling, like they were sunning on a towel on the beach and not squished together in a hospital bed in the Medbay.

“Like I said,” Tony answered, “Whatever it takes.”

Peter nodded, which quickly turned to him yawning. The conversation --- plus the fractured skull --- had worn him out. Exhaustion, but a different kind, was already dragging him into sleep.

But even with his eyelids drooping and bodily tension disappearing, he still heard Tony murmur, “I invented time travel for you, kid. I’m not giving up on you now.”

[i-am-a-bad-influence-writes]

The villain in your story - Intro

Series Masterlist - Bucky Masterlist - Full Masterlist

Summary: Sure, I could be your loyal lapdog, your sweet little slut, you biggest fan. But I don’t want to be. Why should I be loyal, sweet, or supportive when I receive none of those things from you?

Pairing: Bucky x OC (Roxanne Amy)

Word count: 1186

The doors to the glass tower open and in comes the tick, tick, ticking of red bottom stilettos. Eyes go wide as everyone straightens up and tries to look unbothered. A ruthless predator just entered the building. Meet Roxanne Amy, a business woman through and through. She carries herself with confidence that borders on cockiness. She was stabbed in the back, kicked to the curb, and ignored. All because some men thought they knew better than her when they really didn’t. Yet she still dresses for the male gaze to manipulate them to her will. It is a men’s world after all. She wears her light brown waves up, but loosely, has her lips painted red, wears navy suits with ivory blouses underneath, and always looks put together. So much so that she’s heard people had to do a double take when they saw her in casual clothes on the weekend. ‘Good morning miss Amy,‘ the receptionist greets with a terrified smile. The ticking stops as the woman looks at the girl up and down, judging her without even trying to hide it. ‘Your scarf,‘ she says in a low voice, ‘it’s crooked. Next time I come down here it better be fixed or you can start looking for a new job.‘ You can see the girl’s spirit drop as the tick, tick, ticking comes back to life. Miss Amy doesn’t press the elevator button herself, her assistant does. For some reason that girl is still keeping up with the attitude. Her name is Madeline Queens. She’s a bit of a brown mouse. Sleek hair with bangs, always in a grey suit, never on high heels. Miss Amy likes her for her diligence on the job. She is never late, never behind, and never has to endure miss Amy’s anger. ‘Miss Amy, mister Stark is in your office.‘ The woman braces for the venomous look of miss Amy, but it doesn’t come. ‘Fair enough,‘ she hums, ‘he’s here about some technology, correct?‘ ‘Indeed. He said he needs your expertise on some of his products,‘ she clarifies. ‘Fine,‘ miss Amy sighs, ‘I’ll entertain him for a bit. Could you do a coffee run while I talk to him?‘ ‘Of course ma’am.‘ ‘Make sure to get the receptionists order too. I think I scared her,‘ miss Amy says with a voice that sounds near soft. ‘Yes ma’am.‘

The tick, tick, ticking continues on the floor of her office. She sees Tony Start through the opened door and watches as he warns the person he took with him. She doesn’t want to admit it, but she’s intrigued by the metal hand that sticks out from under his jacket. ‘What a pleasant surprise,‘ she says sternly and closes the door to her office behind her. ‘I thought so too,‘ Tony says quickly, knowing the bickering that is about to ensue could make him look weak in front of his... client? Friend? ‘Tell me, have you forgotten what phones are?‘ ‘I have not.‘ ‘Then why didn’t you call? I could’ve had something more important to do than talk to you.‘ ‘But you don’t.‘ ‘Believe me, every second I spend paying attention to something else than charity work for you and your superheroes is a second more important than this one.‘ ‘Wonderful,‘ Tony sighs and walks over to the chairs in front of her desk, ‘shall we?‘ She nods and walks over to her desk, sitting down on the chair behind it. Stark’s client seems confused at the hostile treatment the two give each other, but follows Tony’s example and sits down too. ‘What kind of charity work are we doing today,‘ she asks while booting up her computer, not really paying attention to the men in front of her. ‘I’m willing to pay you,‘ Tony insists. ‘Stark, if I wanted you to pay, I would’ve made you pay many years ago,‘ she tells him as she looks him straight in the eye, ‘continue.‘ ‘This is James Barnes,‘ Tony introduces the man, ‘he is the same as Steve Rogers.‘ ‘Another super soldier, wonderful,‘ she has a sarcastic smile playing on her lips and can see that it bothers James. ‘Wait, weren’t you the one who threw a car onto my car?‘ She looks from James to Tony. ‘You’re not seriously telling me you want me to help a man who totaled my car.‘ Tony nods. ‘Show her your arm please,‘ Tony tells James, but he seems hesitant. He eventually takes his jacket off and shows it. ‘Oh that looks nasty. What wannabe doctor operated on you,‘ she looks away from the thing. ‘I’m guessing you want me to do something about it?‘ ‘Yes,‘ Tony says, ‘it’s a very sensitive piece of equipment. The arm is connected to his nerves in such a way that the arm behaves like a normal arm.‘ ‘When was this done?‘ ‘The 1940′s,‘ Tony says. She raises her eyebrow. ‘Hydra?‘ ‘Hydra.‘ ‘They’re such dicks,‘ she hums and starts typing something on her computer, ‘what do you need me to do about it?‘ Tony motions to James to tell what he needs done. ‘The scars haven’t healed properly,‘ he says, ‘so it hurts to use my arm.‘ She nods and continues to type with a cold look on her face. ‘Take him to the third floor, room 24, I’ll come over in a minute,‘ she tells them. ‘Thank you Roxanne,‘ Tony looks like he’s relieved. ‘It’s still miss Amy to you.‘

‘Can you take the arm off,‘ Roxanne asks James while she shrugs off her jacket and throws it on a chair in the corner. James nods and gets to work it with it while Roxanne rolls up her sleeves, disinfects her hands, and puts on latex gloves. ‘Are you allergic to latex?‘ James shakes his head. ‘Use your words honey. This is a medical situation, I need you to speak.‘ ‘No ma’am.‘ ‘Thank you. Tony, can you lay the arm on the bench?‘ He scurries over and grabs the arm from James, surprised by the weight even though he’s done this more than once by now. Roxanne walks over to the side of the missing arm and looks around. ‘I’m going to touch it in a few place, let me know if it hurts,‘ she hums to him. James nods. The first touch he flinches. ‘That’s bad,‘ she says, looking focused on the wounds. She walks over to the arm and looks at the inside. ‘How does it work?‘ ‘There is a cybernetic implant attached to my body on my shoulder. The extensions of the arm are implanted in my shoulder to give it support and give me full range of motion,‘ James explains. ‘From what I can see, the scars have healed fine,‘ she tells James, ‘the problem is that the weight of the prosthetic is put completely on top of the shoulder which causes pain and tension. You need a new one for combat, as well as another one for domestic use.‘ Tony nods, pretending to understand what she’s saying. ‘So what now?‘ ‘We craft a new prosthetic for him,‘ she snaps at Tony’s stupidity, ‘seriously, I just said that. Please don’t speak if you’re only pretending to listen.‘ James seems surprised by her outburst, but she doesn’t really care. And to his surprise, Tony actually looks ashamed. He has never seen that from him. There must be history here, James thinks to himself. ‘I’m booked for the week, but I can come over Saturday to take some measurements,‘ she tells the both of them, ‘will that be a problem?‘ ‘No, that’s fine,‘ James answers. ‘Great, now get out, I have more important matters to attend to.‘

[twinxyjinx]

Stop Talking

Plot/Prompt: “Run!”

TW: mentions of dead body

Reblogs are appreciated!

You can also read it here on AO3!

_____________________________________________________

It wasn’t obvious to Peter when he crept into that abandoned building that he was going to find himself in a bad position moments later. All he knew was that he heard someone yelling for help and that now he was investigating the source of the sound. That being said, some outside surveillance might’ve been a lot more helpful. He had no idea about the layout of this building or what he was getting into. For all he knew, his super-hearing might’ve just picked up on some television show.

He pursed his lips, narrowing his eyes as he quietly slipped in through a window. The house was rather small. From where he had entered, he was in the living room and could see the kitchen, front door, and a hallway leading away to what he presumed to be the bathroom and maybe a bedroom. The paint on the walls was cracked and peeling off. Corners of the house were litters with cobwebs that stretched between the walls.

From what it looked like, the house must’ve just been abandoned out of nowhere. The furniture was still there. He could see the remote for the television resting on the arm of the couch. In the kitchen, there were three plates set on top of a table with three chairs surrounding the table. One of the chairs was partially pulled out while the other two were pushed towards the table. A few cabinets were hanging open just barely, showing more dishes and cups left untouched.

“Karen… Can you call Mister Stark?” he whispered, sliding his feet across the wood floor as he crept along. “Contacting Mister Stark now. Would you like me to put him on a call?” Karen hummed as Peter warily stepped past the couch towards the hallway. “Yeah, yeah… if he’s busy with something important, it can wait. Just… get him on the line whenever you can.” He responded, peering into the hallway.

He frowned, slowly stepping into the hallway. He had come into the building to investigate what he had assumed to be a cry for help… but now there was no voice at all. Was his mind playing a trick on him? “Uh… hello? Anyone there?” He called out hesitantly, taking slow and careful steps down the hall. “I’m not here to hurt you… I heard you call for help and I came to check on you. Can you make a noise again?” He cleared his throat, falling silent.

Then there was a crack.

His senses suddenly stabbed at his feet icily. Before he could move, the floorboards beneath him gave a groan and broke. The wood crunched as he plummeted down, shards and splinters flying everywhere. A yelp rose in his throat as he fell, only to be abruptly cut off when he hit the hard ground. He groaned, closing his eyes and exhaling shakily. “That’s gonna leave a mark…” He whispered to no one in general.

He let himself lay there for a moment before shakily pulling himself into a sitting position. Looking around, he couldn’t see anything right away. On the floor above, he had street lights to partially illuminate the insides of the house. In the basement, however, there was no source of light to show him his surroundings. “Karen? Night vision?” He asked, slowly climbing to his feet.

“My sensors were damaged during your fall. It may take a moment for me to assist you.”

“That’s fine. I can wait a minute or two.” Peter muttered, brushing himself off. He began to pat his arms and sides down, feeling around for any shards of wood. He hissed in pain when his hand brushed over his thigh, though he didn’t feel any shard. It must’ve just been sore from the fall or maybe he pulled a muscle. He mumbled a few incoherent words under his breath, looking around. “Any luck?”

“I’m afraid not. However, Tony Stark is calling.”

“Put him through for me.” Peter rubbed the back of his neck, glancing up. The hole in the floorboards must’ve been a good eight feet up. It wouldn’t be hard to get out of here seeing as how he had his webs and that there were probably stairs. “Kid! How’re you doing this fine evening?” Tony’s voice made him jump, a startled noise leaving him. “A- woah.. Uh… yeah, no. I’m good.” Peter cleared his throat. “Uh… you got my location. Right?”

“...what’d you do now?”

“I didn’t do anything!” Peter leapt to defend himself. “I heard someone yell out for help and I went into this creepy abandoned house, right? And everything was just left how it was as if the people living here up and vanished out of thin air. And then I was looking around and I fell through the floor into a basement and Karen is working on getting me some night vision- but that’s not the point.” He paused to take a breath. “Can you do some background information on where I’m at?”

“Yeah… I’ll get you some intel.” Tony sighed, and Peter could practically see him pinching the bridge of his nose. “One day you’re gonna stumble across something you don’t like, kid. I don’t mean to sound like a mom, but you gotta be careful before you just go prancing into some abandoned house.” He chastised. “Besides… maybe you just heard something from a neighbor’s show.”

“That’s what I thought! But-” Peter was cut off by his vision flickering. He fell silent, squinting his eyes as everything slowly swam into view in a green hue. “I just got night vision.” He announced. There was some clapping from Tony’s end followed by sarcastic praise. “Once again, spiderling prevails.” Tony sang half-heartedly before breaking off. “On the note of the house you’re in, there’s actually some shield documents on it. I’m still reading on it but-”

“Stop talking.”

“Excuse me?” Tony sputtered, voice sharp. “I said stop talking.” Peter repeated, tensing up as he slowly shuffled forwards towards a room. There was a strange… clicking noise coming from in. It almost sounded like a voice that got cut up into different clips of sound mixed with radio static. He narrowed his eyes, biting his bottom lip as he slowly approached the frame of the room.

“Kid.”

“Oh my god.” Peter whispered, reeling backwards. With his night vision, he was barely able to make out a hunched over shape with jagged, curved plates lining its spine. It resembled a wolf that was much bigger and skinner. It’s ribs jutted out sickeningly while its stomach curved into its body. It’s neck was long and led to the head. The head itself was hidden for a moment, as it’s back was turned towards Peter. It’s tail was thin and snaked out behind it, twitching across the ground every now and then.

“Peter-”

“Tony what is-” Peter broke off as the creature stilled. Slowly, it raised its head and turned towards him. His stomach did a flip and an icy wave of terror surged over him. Staring back at him was what appeared to be a human’s head with a wolf skull on top of it. Large antlers jutted out from the top, spiraling and twisting. But what made Peter take a trembling step backwards was the sight of the crumpled body it held in its forepaws. “Tony-”

“Run kid!”

Just as Tony said that, a horrible shriek split the air. Peter scrambled backwards. His movements were uncoordinated, terror sending his body into overdrive. He backpedaled back to underneath the hole and raised a hand, aiming it at the ceiling on the first floor. A snarl melted into a voice screaming for help met his ears, but he didn’t dare look down at what was coming. He squinted his eyes shut and shot a web. A moment later, he was being pulled up hastily.

He jerked to the left as a rush of air brushed past him, and he could only assume that thing was reaching for him. The moment he was back on the floor, however, he made a quick dash right for the window he crept in through. He had almost made it too when there was a scrabbling sound beneath him. His senses screamed at him once more and then there was a deafening crash as the wood beneath him burst upwards. A startled cry rose in his throat as the creature burst upwards, swiping nasty claws at him.

“Hold on, kid- hold on!”

Peter reeled backwards as the thing lunged at him, human jaw snapping as teeth clacked against each other. He veered back once again as it swiped at his head, a startled yelp leaving him as he tumbled over the back of the couch. A mournful moan resognated in the creature’s chest as it slowly crept around the couch, head twitching. A twisted cry for help crackled in its throat as it slowly approached him in a drawling manner. Desperately, he scrambled backwards across the floor until he bumped into a wall.

His breathing quickened as it drew closer, movements frantic as he kicked his legs out helplessly. He shook his head as it took a step closer, chest rattling with what almost sounded like laughter. And it was then that it hit Peter. It was teasing him. This thing was taunting him and terrorizing him before it killed him. “Oh my god oh my god oh my god.” He frantically cried, shaking his head in a distraught manner. Nonononono-

And suddenly, the creature shrieked and fell to its side twitching.

Peter stared, shoulders trembling as his chest heaved up and down. There was a humming followed by a crack as the front door burst open, revealing a red and gold suit. There was a pause before he heard Tony’s voice; this time it wasn’t over the phone. “Jesus Christ, kid! What is wrong with you?” He practically snarled, hurrying over to get to Peter’s side. Still trembling, Peter didn’t respond.

“You could’ve shot some webs at it or at least-”

Tony broke off when Peter suddenly reached for his mask and ripped it off, gasping for air. He choked on nothing, coughing and heaving and curling in on himself. His eyes were wide and every part of his body was trembling when the boy actually responded. “Oh my god I- it was taunting me and- and it was going to kill me. Oh my god oh my fucking god I-”

“Woah, woah, woah… calm down bud… Take deep breaths for me.” Tony waved his hands in front of Peter’s face, bringing his attention to him. He inhaled and nodded, beckoning Peter to do the same. After a moment, Peter inhaled shakily. Following this, Tony exhaled slowly and so did Peter. “Just keep breathin’ for me… okay? Nice, deep breaths.” Tony nodded, patting Peter’s shoulder gently. “Sit tight for a minute.” He murmured before standing up and slowly turning around to look at the creature… only to find it had vanished.

He frowned, staring at where the body had been just moments ago when Peter laughed shakily.

He looked back at Peter who was smiling nervously. “Oh my god I told you to stop talking.” He whispered in a tone that was either awestruck or horrified. Snorting, Tony rolled his eyes and folded his arms. “Yeah… you did, kid. You did.”

[lyssismagical]

it’s been a long cold lonely winter

Febuwhump Day 11 & 12 – Graceless & Stabbed

Read on AO3

Despite what everybody thinks, Peter doesn’t get hurt on patrol that often. Sure, he gets a few cuts and bruises most nights, but real injuries, serious injuries rarely occur.

There were The Incidents. Like the mess with Toomes including the ferry, the warehouse, and the plane crash. And then there was the whole mess with Thanos where Peter, you know, died. And after that, there was Mysterio which left Peter a little worse for wear.

But generally?

Regular patrol, he’s fighting against people. Just regular human beings with stupid ski masks and easy to take guns that they wave around in carelessly.

And Peter’s a superhuman. He’s got his spidey-sense and his incredible speed, reflexes, agility, strength. He’s got Karen, his suit with all it’s crazy capabilities, and he’s got Iron Man on speed dial.

He doesn’t get hurt.

Especially after he got back from Europe, where he honed his skills even more and started to really trust his senses, nobody can really get the upper hand with him.

So he doesn’t get it.

Why in the world is he bleeding out in a grim alleyway, criminal long gone?

“Karen?” he chokes out, hands uselessly hovering above the wound in his chest.

He dizzily sinks to the ground, knees giving out at the last second, and his head collides with the brick wall behind him gracelessly.

“It appears you’ve been injured,” Karen says and Peter nearly laughs at her uselessness. He loves Karen, he does, but he doesn’t really need to hear that he’s been injured when he’s the one coughing up blood in an alleyway after being stabbed.

“Yeah, K, I get that. What the fuck do I-” He cuts himself off as he coughs, pain throbbing through his chest and head at the movement.

His vision whites out momentarily and when he can see again, he’s looking up to the grey sky.

“-best idea,” Karen’s saying. “Your vitals are fluctuating dangerously, Peter.”

“Call-” he stops, world spinning dizzily around him. The lights are too bright, the sounds of the neighborhood too loud, the pain in his chest exploding through his head.

“Peter?”

“Call Mister Stark,” Peter chokes out, pulling his mask up with clumsy hands to spit blood onto the dark ground below him. “Call- Call Tony, please, K, please-”

He doesn’t get hurt.

This sort of thing just doesn’t happen to him.

He’s always so careful with what happens to him out on patrol. For May’s sake, she’s seen too much, been through too much, and after all she’s done for Peter, he doesn’t want to cause her any extra stress. And for Tony because his hair’s greying after everything Peter’s put him through and Tony always murmurs in that sad, pained tone I can’t lose you again, and Peter can’t do that to him.

Peter’s always careful.

He doesn’t get hurt.

Until now, he supposes, hands coated in his own blood, dripping onto the pavement around him.

“Pete? Isn’t it almost curfew?” Tony asks. He sounds so fucking happy, so at ease, so peaceful. Peter can hear Frozen Three, because yeah Disney made another Frozen during the snap along with dozens of other movies, and he can even hear Morgan’s laughter echoing through the phone.

And Peter’s gone and ruined it like he’s ruined everything else.

“I, uh, I-”

He doesn’t want to ruin Tony’s peace. He doesn’t want to hurt him. He doesn’t want to be the damsel in distress, asking to be saved again and again and again.

“Pete?” Tony asks, voice dropping to a soothing tone. “You okay, bud?”

Peter whines under his breath, hands useless and clumsy against the wound in his chest, knife glittering in his weird hazy vision, mouth dry and uncooperative.

“Peter has sustained a knife wound to his chest and has the symptoms of a mild concussion,” Karen informs. “He requires immediate medical attention.”

It’s almost instant, the change of pace flipping from nonchalant and easy straight to panic and worry.

Tony’s voice is loud and scared against his ear, and Peter wants to hear him, wants to know what’s so important. But he’s just so fucking tired. He doesn’t know how to get himself to cooperate.

So he lists clumsily onto his side, too weak to hold himself up as blood continues to slosh onto his suit and his hands and the pavement.

He coughs, lungs unable to draw in the breath he needs and he feels so fucking cold, so tired, so uselessly incapable of helping himself.

Without thinking, brain scrambled and all attention on the pain that radiates from his chest, he tugs off his mask, fingers numb and weak, tugging it onto the ground.

But it doesn’t make his breathing easier. It doesn’t make the shallow gasps any easier, all it does is remove Tony’s constant ramblings against his ear, his only touch of reality.

He’s here, lying on the cold pavement, body numb and red spilling everywhere he can see. He’s here, alone in an alleyway, unable to think past the blinding streetlight overhead and the vague notion that he should be doing something, anything.

He doesn’t get hurt.

At least not in a way that he thinks matters. Not in a way that he cares about. Not in a way that Peter deems necessary for medical attention besides his own. Not in a way that he’d ever tell May or Tony about.

As far as they know, he’s safe out as Spider-Man. Between the protocols he’s disabled, the curfews he ignores, the help he has but doesn’t use, the rules he forgoes. May and Tony don’t think he get hurt.

And Peter’s convinced himself that it’s better this way.

That if they don’t know, they can live in peace.

He’s okay to bear the loneliness on his shoulders as long as it means they’ll be okay.

He’s careful for their sake not his own.

But a stab to the chest? That’s not the same as the nicks and scratches he normally gets. That’s different than the occasional dislocated shoulder or cracked ribs. This is different. This is life or death.

The only reason he wants to hang onto consciousness is for Tony’s sake. When Tony finds Peter, he doesn’t want the older man to find a body that looks a little too close to death. He doesn’t want Tony to find him, eyes closed, face pale, unresponsive.

But the reason isn’t enough to keep him tethered to reality.

* He jerks awake, a cry on his mouth that his hands instinctually raise to muffle, tears already steadily falling down his face.

Nightmares are a common occurrence. They have been since Ben died, but after the Snap, after dying, after watching Tony nearly die, after fighting Thanos, after Mysterio, they’ve gotten worse and worse to the point of sleep becoming few and far between.

“Pete? Buddy?”

Peter flinches back, eyes wide as he tries to get his breathing under control, waves of pain rushing over him.

Tony’s standing in the doorway, palms lifted in surrender. His eyes are wide with a sort of parental worry like he can’t decide whether he wants to fight whoever’s hurt his kid or wanting to comfort Peter.

“I’m sorry. I- I- I’m sorry, please, I-” Peter chokes out, hands shaking as they touch his chest, trying to find a wound he can’t feel.

“Kiddo, you need to breathe, okay? You’re safe, you’re healing, you’re okay. The fucker who stabbed you is already in prison,” Tony soothes as best as he can. He takes a few cautious steps forward, offering a soft smile. “Everything’s alright.”

But Peter can’t seem to get himself to stop crying, face crumpling as his nightmares continue to play out inside his head, a montage of all the most traumatic experiences spinning through reality.

He squeezes his hands into fists, reveling in the way his knuckles burn just a little at the movement, cutting through some of the horror.

“Peter, bud, I need you to listen to me, alright?” Tony says, taking a careful seat at the end of Peter’s bed. His face is drawn in worry, forcibly taking a soothing, gentle tone. “You’re alright, okay? You’re safe. You’re in your room at the hospital and May’s gone to get you some comfier blankets while you heal. You’re okay, we’re all okay.”

“I was stabbed,” Peter says like it’s the most important thing to focus on. His eyes are burning with the tears that don’t want to stop, hands shaking even as he tries to steady them. “I was stabbed, Tony.”

Somehow, Tony’s face doesn’t fall. He doesn’t falter.

“You were. Your reflexes were a little late or the guy was just a bit too fast, something happened. But that’s okay because you were smart and you called me for help.”

It’s said like it’s simple. Like Peter getting stabbed, like his incapability to stop crying, like the monsters in his head that have sunk their claws into his brain, like anything about this is okay.

Peter flinches away from Tony, legs drawing up to his chest, even as it makes his head spin and chest ache when he gasps uselessly for breath.

“You wanna talk to me?” Tony asks. “What can I do for you, bud?”

Peter wishes it were that simple. Like it’s possible for Tony to wipe away all the hurt, all the pain, all the horrors that have embedded themselves into the root of who Peter is, just by talking.

“I’m scared of the dark,” Peter says anyways.

He trusts Tony. That’s the truth. That’s the root of everything. He trusts Tony to make it all go away. So he talks, he lets the words flow from his mouth, clumsy and uncertain, like somebody turned on the tap of his trauma.

Tony hums gently, a soft noise, eyes focused and radiating tender care.

“I- I sleep with the lights on.” His head hurts and his chest aches, metaphorically and physically, and somehow it feels like if he gets the words out of his head, he’ll be able to sleep peacefully for the first time in years. “I’m scared all the time. I feel like I can’t relax without thinking something’s going to jump out of the shadows.”

Tony’s hands are slow and cautious, shifting Peter to rest against his side, head cushioned on Tony’s chest. His hands run through Peter’s hair, tug at his fists with warm fingers until he relaxes, gently runs a thumb under his eyes to clear some of the never-ending tears.

“I just- I don’t know what I’m doing anymore,” Peter admits quietly, keeping his eyes carefully fixated on the ground. Exhaustion is already sweeping over him. “I don’t want to worry you or May, so I just- I just keep pretending everything’s fine. Like I’m fine, but I- I’m such a mess. I’m a fucking mess.”

Warm tiredness flickers to life in his chest, loosening something within him.

He shakes his head, curling up against Tony’s side, seeking as much comfort as he can. “I’m so tired. I keep having all these nightmares about Titan and Thanos and Europe, and I just- I’m so tired.”

Tony hums again, chest rumbling under Peter’s head.

“I’m so careful about not getting hurt, ‘cause I- I don’t wanna bother you or May. I don’t want you to worry ‘bout me. I know I’m hard to handle. I know I’m not everythin’ you wanted,” he says.

He’s so tired, head murky, eyes drifting shut. With Tony’s arms around him, a constant in the world of spinning unsteadies, he finally feels grounded. Safe. Loved.

“Jus’ feel alone. And scared. And I- I don’t wanna die. ‘m not ready to die. Not after- Not after Ti’an.”

“I know, buddy,” Tony murmurs, pressing a long kiss to his temple, when Peter’s voice wavers dangerously. He’s warm and steady at Peter’s side, and the tears slow before Peter realizes.

“Haven’t been s’eeping,” Peter admits. “Tha’s why I got stabbed. Wasn’t feelin’ well. Haven’t been for… for a long time. Been tired.”

Unlike the last time Peter fell asleep, scared and bleeding out and alone, Peter’s now drifting off feeling warm and safe and loved.

“Didn’t mean t’ get sta’ed.” Peter lets his body relax properly, lets the ideas of sleep wash over him despite knowing what nightmares lurk in the darkness. “Sorry for… for worryin’ you.”

“That’s okay, bud. I know you didn’t mean to, and I’m here for whatever you need, you know that. Stab wounds, relationship troubles, homework. Whatever you need, I’m there. That’s what… That’s what dad’s do, right?”

Peter smiles sleepily, curling his fingers into Tony’s shirt. “Love you.”

“Love you too, kiddo. Get some sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

Peter does get hurt.

He gets hurt, he feels pain, he hits rock bottom.

But that doesn’t mean he can’t get back up. That doesn’t mean he has to face it on his own. That doesn’t mean he can’t find a balance between asking for help and taking as much stress off Tony and May as he can.

He does get hurt, but he also gets back up again, stronger than before.

[itsybitsyspiderling]

the reality of a nightmare

find it here on ao3 ! 

Summary: Peter has a bad dream about Tony. And then it starts to come true. Kind of.

Word Count: 5.7k

“Hey. Kid. Yoo-hoo. Earth to Web-Head. Web-Slingin’ Slasher. You awake?”

Peter had fallen asleep in Tony’s workshop again. By this point, the kid had lost count exactly how many times he’d done so. He was up to his waist in midterms and projects, and May had taken extra shifts at work, so when he wasn’t out Spider-Man-ing, he was covering the list of chores she left for him in the meantime. He even fixed up a few dinners for her so she had something in the fridge when she got home at an ungodly hour. Peter’s brain was running eight miles a minute, and he wasn’t sleeping.

He stirred, humming and rubbing at his eyes as he straightened his posture. “Mhm. Yeah. Totally.” As Peter adjusted his vision, his eyes fell to the slick surface of the workbench below where a small puddle of drool sat. Yuck. Gross. He wiped at his chin.

Tony stood behind his desk with a few dozen holograms surrounding him. He raised an eyebrow at Peter. “This is gonna sound gratuitous coming from me, but have you considered sleep? It’s this newfangled thing everyone’s ravin’ about. They’re awake all day and then go to bed at night. You should try it. Works wonders.”

Peter sniffed and nodded. He didn’t even feel tired, but sleeping was so much easier than staying awake. “Not for me,” he said. “Don’t like it anyway. The dreams are never good. There’s better stuff I could be doing.”

“Now that’s a red flag,” Tony muttered, and the holograms disappeared before him. He slowly meandered over toward Peter. “You good, then? School going okay? Grades fine? You can tell me if there’s something bothering you, Pete. Pretty sure we’ve established that the walls-down-protocol has been in effect since last November.”

“Yeah, no, I’m fine,” Peter said, and truly, he meant it. He felt fine, his grades were fine… all he wanted was for life to slow down a little. “Just got no time to breathe, s’all. Ready for summer.”

Tony nodded. “Sure. Yeah, actually, that reminds me––start thinkin’ about places to go for your sixteenth birthday. Any place. And don’t say Disney World.”

“Mister Stark, it’s just that I haven’t been there before, and––”

“A nightmare is what it is. It’s my worst nightmare,” Tony said. “Crowds and crying babies and water rides.” He shivered. “I couldn’t imagine any place else closer to Hell. Speaking of things that are hell, I dry-cleaned your suit. And repaired it. How many times have you gotten stabbed exactly?”

Peter chuckled dryly. He didn’t have the energy to work on whatever the hell he had been working on. If he squinted, it looked like some ugly prototype for a new web-shooter. “Just a few times. Maybe six. Dunno. Thanks though. It was getting smelly.”

“Yeah, welcome to the wonderful world of sweat and smelling bad,” said Tony as he returned back to his spot behind the desk. “You’re gonna love it. I’ll buy you a twelve-pack of deodorant next time I’m out.”

“I use deodorant, Mister Stark.”

“Extra strength. Clinical. Ten dollar entrance fee from now on if you don’t come in smelling like fresh daisies.”

Peter rolled his eyes and smiled. “Sure,” he mumbled, setting his head down onto his arms before shutting his eyes, “start paying me then.”

“Okay, now you've crossed a line.”

Peter laughed, and for a few moments, he felt calm and at ease. He let the machines and Tony’s occasional swears lull him into a light sleep. After that, Peter soon became conscious of his sub-conscience. He was dreaming.

And it was a good dream for a while.

It was sharp and clear. Tony was there doing what Tony did best. He worked on his suits and hummed along to the music blasting through the speakers, and Peter was there tinkering away at his own suit. It resembled a comfortable pattern that they had fallen into over the past few months. It was nice.

When dream-Peter looked at Tony, however, the older man wasn’t as at peace. His expression twisted as he read over a message on his computer screens. From a distance, Peter couldn’t read it, but he knew the message wasn’t good. There was a subtle shift in the atmosphere, and Tony was uncomfortable.

“What’s that?” dream-Peter asked.

Almost as if he had clicked a switch, Tony’s face broke out into a smile. “Nothing,” he answered. “Just junk. Happy’s gotten on the chain mail trend. Dancing cats and ‘you-will-die-in-ten-days’ kind of stuff.”

Peter nodded, accepting the straightforward answer. But somewhere, the truth floated in his mind, weaving in between prefrontal decisions and hippocampus memories. Something was wrong, but in his dreams, he wasn’t aware enough to take notice.

The workshop faded into the kitchen, and now, Tony was in the midst of preparing some pasta dish that Peter couldn’t identify. Meanwhile, he sat at the counter with a few sheets of illegible homework problems below. They didn’t share moments like this often––usually, Peter was too busy with school and evenings on patrol, and Tony spent more days out of town than in. It was special when he invited the kid over for a nice home-cooked dinner. It felt surreal. Not everyone had the opportunity to eat Tony Stark’s subpar cooking.

In the dream, none of that mattered.

“––well, when the guy tried to stab me,” Peter began on a tangent, “I was kinda expecting it, so I dodged and said something like ‘whoa buddy, that’s not nice. You gotta work on your aim.’ And then wham! He stabbed me. And then you showed up, punched the guy, and yelled at me for… ”

From his spot behind the stove, Tony had stopped stirring the pot of pasta to glance at his phone. He looked troubled. It was the same expression from the workshop.

Peter totally forgot what he had been talking about. “You okay, Mister Stark?”

He shook his head, still a bit mentally distanced from having read something odd. “Yeah. Fine. I keep getting these weird messages.”

“From Happy?”

Tony shook his head again. “No. I think someone’s just trying to scare me.”

“It doesn’t bother you that you’re getting them?” Peter asked, to which Tony simply shrugged. “Are they death threats? Are you receiving death threats?”

Tony chuckled. “No, no, God––I’ve received a shit ton of death threats in my life, but this––no. They’re just weird. I’m not bothered. Look who you’re talking to. I’m Iron Man. They don’t scare me.”

Again, Peter accepted the answer, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that it just wasn’t right. He didn’t like that Tony found humor in something that would terrify Peter. He didn’t like that he was stuck in a dream where he could do nothing about it.

After that, when things became hazy and Peter wasn’t sure where he was next, the pieces of the puzzle slowly came into place. The news broke that Tony had gone missing. Televisions in windows and big, gaudy screens in Times Square dedicated their minutes to the billionaire’s disappearance. Peter couldn’t go home and he couldn’t go to school. He couldn’t walk down the street without seeing the reports plastering his mentor’s face everywhere. And worst of all, Peter saw this coming, but it was a dream. He had to let it all unfold. He was stuck.

He didn’t know how or why, but the next thing he knew, he was staring at a reel of security footage dated from hours before. Tony was there, locked in some dark room with blood dripping from his forehead while three other men surrounded him. All Peter could do was watch from the monitors in the workshop as they tortured and beat Tony senseless. And Peter couldn’t react. He couldn’t hear anything, but he knew that the men––the evil, diabolic men––were using Tony’s relationship with Peter to their advantage. He just knew.

Tony didn’t have a lot of weak spots, but his Achilles’ heel was his friends and family.

When Peter finally made it to Tony, the dream felt more real than it had before. The hallway was empty and eerily silent, and Peter could paint every detail with his eyes closed. He wasn’t sure how he got there. The room that Tony was in was cold. It was lifeless. Dried blood was splattered across the floor, and as hard as Peter searched, he couldn’t hear a heartbeat. No breaths, not even a blink of an eye.

For those few moments, he believed that they had taken Tony elsewhere. But then Peter turned a corner, and the wreckage of an Iron Man suit stared back at him.

Peter felt to his knees, anger seeping down to his fists while his chest filled with a heavy sadness. He couldn’t tell if he was crying. The image of Tony, beaten skull and blood-soaked skin, was enough to make Peter heave. The men had been merciless. Tony was dead. Murdered. Gone.

And while Peter’s stomach sank further and further, heart lurching with each breath, he crawled over and tossed himself around Tony’s waist. It seemed as though the limp body held him back.

The dream became hazy again, solid shapes fading into nothing while Peter’s terror only grew. He swore, as the colors turned to gray, that a voice cut through the waning REM and said to Peter, “I’m sorry for giving up on you.”

____

Someone was nudging Peter’s shoulder.

His body jolted awake, and he gathered himself quickly, eyes adjusting to the low light in the workshop. The sun had set a long time ago, but he hadn’t been awake to see it. His heart hurt in his chest, and the more conscious he became, the more he felt the erratic beating against his rib cage. To his right, Tony stood, gaze confused and lingering while he pressed his hand on Peter’s shoulder blade.

“You okay?” he asked, slowly retracting his hand. “You’ve been mumbling in your sleep for about an hour, kiddo. You’re as white as a sheet. Maybe you weren’t kidding when you said you have bad dreams, yeah?”

Peter stared straight ahead. He felt numb and in shock, not to mention slightly dehydrated as he evened out his breathing. He remembered everything. The entire dream. God, it felt so real. And he felt warm. Like a fever had struck him without warning. He blinked over at his mentor. “Tony?”

“Tony?” The man raised an eyebrow. “Since when was that a thing? What happened to ‘Mister Stark’?”

Peter blinked again. “S-sorry,” he whispered, shifting in his chair while he pushed back the vertigo that crept up.

Tony walked over toward his desk, but he didn’t hesitate to occasionally look back over at Peter in concern. The confusion never quite left. “Jesus, Pete. Did you physically go somewhere else for three hours? You’re lookin’ at me all weird. Relax your eyes. You’re freaking me out.”

“Oh, sorry.” Peter did his best to loosen whatever muscles were tense. But that was the problem––his entire body was tense. It felt like that one time he volunteered to receive acupuncture when a lady came into his health class freshman year. It didn’t hurt, but he was an idiot to think his fear of needles would be cured over a few pricks in his forehead and thumbs.

He didn’t want to tell Tony about his bad dream. Peter hardly wanted to call it a nightmare. He just couldn’t shake the images out of his head. Tony laying there, a corpse, with broken parts and ghostly apologies. It didn’t make sense––Tony was Iron Man. Iron Man could fight. He never lost. He never died.

But why did Peter sit back and let him die?

He had known it the entire dream: something was wrong. And he didn’t do anything. He saw his mentor beaten and bruised and bleeding until there was nothing left to give. Peter could almost feel his body still curled up against Tony’s side, desperate to hear a heartbeat muffled by the thick metal suit. Nothing. There was nothing. And it was because Peter had been too late.

His hand shook as he raised it to wipe a tear. He tried to keep the action subtle, but he couldn’t hold back the sniff and the small whimper that refused to be contained. The weight of the dream finally set in. Peter had broken his own heart.

“Whoa, kiddo,” Tony mumbled. He dropped what he had in his hands and made his way over, quickly plopping himself down in a stool so he could wrap an arm around Peter’s shoulders.

Peter let himself break. He fell against Tony, sobs wracking through him all wet and strained while a burning ache grew in his chest. “I-I let you die,” he cried out. “I let you die. I’m––I’m sorry, M-Mister Stark.”

“Pete,” whispered Tony, voice low and comforting. He kissed the top of Peter’s head. “What’re you talking about? I’m right here. I’m alive. Okay? It’s okay.”

Peter shook his head against Tony’s chest. “N-no,” he said. His tears were hot on his cheeks. “Dream. In my dream.” He could hardly breathe between words. “Y-you were gone. They––these people––they took you and––”

“But they didn’t, Peter, I’m right here.”

“I just let them kill you!” Peter shouted, pulling away from Tony just to collapse against the desk. He wrapped his arms around his head and breathed in deep.

The workshop was quiet for a moment. Distant technology whirred and buzzed, but the unsettling atmosphere was louder. Peter had never yelled like that, not in front of Tony. After a few seconds, Tony placed a hand back on Peter’s shoulder.

“I can’t erase your bad dreams, kiddo,” the man said. “I would if I could. Hell, I could figure out a way if you wanted me to. But for now, the dream is in the past. It was scary––it made you upset. And I’m sorry. You don’t deserve that. Dreams tend to find the worst things to dwell on. Believe me, I know. Good thing is, Pete, I’m still here. I’m right here. Not dead. See?”

Peter peered over at Tony from over his arm.

“You’re gonna forget about it in a few hours anyway,” said Tony. “Dreams are like my entire life pre-2005. They’re there but then poof––gone from memory like that. Tell you what, though, we’ll get some ice cream and Twizzlers and eat until Happy comes to find us drowning in food comas. How’s that sound?”

Peter cracked a smile. “Yeah. Okay.”

“Okay, good.” Tony grinned, standing up. “No dreams about death from here on out. All right? You got that?”

“Yes, sir.”

____

Tony was wrong.

Peter couldn’t say that to his face, of course, but it didn’t make it any less true. Tony was wrong. Peter remembered every vivid detail of the dream, all the way down from the clothes the man was wearing and up to the words he said. Even Peter’s worst nightmares never stuck like that. He couldn’t unsee any of it. Tony lying there. Tony, dead.

Tony not even giving a shit that people wanted to kill him.

The thing that upset Peter the most was just that. The dream wasn’t some fantasy where he rode dragons and summoned an army of spiders. The dream was something that, if he were honest, had the possibility of happening. He knew that Tony would ignore messages like that. Peter knew that Tony would scoff and shove them off because he was Iron Man. And Iron Man never lost.

Every time Peter tried to talk about his dream, the older man was always half-preoccupied with another obscure project. He cut in between with hums and “yeah”’s, absent-minded responses while Peter was haunted by the dream.

After a week, Peter realized that Tony’s lack of attention most likely meant a lack of interest. The kid kept his mouth shut from then on out.

But for some reason, that wasn’t what Tony wanted either.

“Incoming call from Tony Stark,” Karen said one evening.

Peter was out in the suit, but there wasn’t much activity for the night. For over an hour, he had been up on a roof and using his webbing as a jump rope up when Karen cut in.

“What?” Peter asked breathlessly. “Why’s he––?”

Tony’s face popped up in the heads-up display, a small smile decorating his features while a knot formed in Peter’s stomach. He still saw the Tony from his dream, even nearly a week later. Dreams never stayed around that long. They never stuck like that.

“Word to the wise, kiddo, don’t leave your homework sittin’ around if you don’t want me to correct it,” the man said, holding up a handful of papers. “What’s with all the stuff you left behind, huh? Since when did you journal?”

“I just––I dunno,” Peter said and shrugged. “I’ve got feelings and… yeah. It’s just easier to write it all down instead of––wait, Mister Stark, did you––you didn’t read my journal, did you?”

Tony appeared briefly offended. “What? No. That’s a serious invasion of privacy. I’d never do that. Besides, if you wrote anything about that dream you’ve been chatterin’ on about for the past week––”

“You were listening?” Peter sat down on the ledge of the roof and looked over at the street below.

“Pete, you didn’t give me the chance to not listen,” Tony said. “Granted, I usually don’t listen, so, you’ve got a point.”

“It just didn’t seem like you wanted t’hear about it,” Peter mumbled, shrugging once again, “that’s all. I just—I can’t stop thinking about it. The dream. It scared me.”

Tony frowned. His eyebrows furrowed and wrinkles deepened on his forehead, meanwhile, Peter was dreading the fact that, now, Tony was listening.

Peter sighed. “I just can’t stop seeing you a-and––”

“Pete,” Tony said. “I know. I’m sorry. I can’t get it out of your head. I wish I could.” He was quiet for a moment, and Peter could see the thoughts running through his head. “Why don’t you go home and tell May you’ll be spending the night up here? ‘Kay? I’ll get in a car. Me instead of Happy this time. I hear he’s been babbling on about his old boxing days again; you wouldn’t last a minute. Swing on home and get some stuff together.”

“Yeah, okay,” Peter mumbled, sniffing as he blinked away a few tears. “Sure. Thanks, Mister Stark.”

“Of course, kiddo,” Tony replied. “And, don’t worry about me, all right? I’m alive. I’m breathing––to many, many people’s dismay.”

Peter chuckled. “Okay.”

Tony smiled, too. “See you in an hour. Stark out.”

Once the phone call was over, Peter shook his head and tried to wipe the grin off his face. Tony was right. He was there. He was alive. All the dream had been was just a dream.

____

A month later.

____

“That’s––huh. Well, you don’t see that every day.”

Peter sat up and took out an earbud. “See what?” he asked. Music continued to play lowly into one ear.

Tony stood at his desk, rubbing his chin while he stared at his array of computer screens and holograms. Peter could only see a reversed image of a few things, but he had never been good at reading things backward. It wasn’t a trait he picked up in elementary school when the rest of his classmates did.

“Uh, nothing,” Tony muttered, waving his hands to make whatever it was disappear. “No big deal. Just observing. Doesn’t matter. What’re you working on?”

“Just some homew—”

“Can I help?” he asked fervently as he made his way over.

Peter took out the other earbud. “Sure. It’s on oscillations and gravitation. Physics stuff.”

Tony sat down and slid the paper in front of him. He looked over the homework, eyes rapidly reading over every word, equation, graph, etc., before he reached over for the pencil in Peter’s grip. “Easy. Just use the values as Jacobi elliptic integrals.”

Peter watched, eyebrows raised, as Tony scribbled messily on the sheet. “I’m not sure that’s––”

“Shh, working,” the man said and held up a finger. As he did so, however, the gesture trembled. He kept his jaw clenched while he wrote a variety of illegible functions.

So, Peter kept watching. He didn’t care about homework though. He watched Tony’s actions, thoroughly observing every nervous tick or coping habit. Every nail bite, deep breath, forehead rub, and so on.

“You okay, Mister Stark?” Peter asked after a moment.

Tony blinked, barely glancing over as if he hadn’t heard a word. “Hm. Yeah––what?”

Peter almost laughed, but something felt off. Tony was off. “Are you okay? You seem… I don’t know. Weird.”

“Yeah,” Tony said. He set down the pencil. “Oh, yeah. Totally. I’m great. You okay?”

“Yeah…” Peter cracked a small smile. “I’m good. What you were talking about earlier––you sure it was just nothin’? You look all pale. And sweaty.”

“Sweaty?” Tony laughed, but even that sounded nervous. “I’m fine, Pete. Don’t worry about me. Worry about how physics is a joke and how no high school student should ever have to endure his crap. Jesus Christ.” He looked back over the sheet, flipped it over, and rolled his eyes. “Your little brain must hurt having to look at that. How the hell do you do this and be Spider-Man? I couldn’t even run a company and––”

“Mister Stark.”

“Yeah?”

Peter didn’t want to forget about what was bothering his mentor, but there wasn’t a conversation at hand. Tony wasn’t going to crack; he was going to keep avoiding it until he grew frustrated at Peter. And then, there would be uncomfortable silence for an hour or two before Tony decided to apologize and finally assure Peter that he was, in fact, okay. But Peter knew better. He knew there was something, but he needed to face the facts. He wouldn’t get the truth.

“Nothing,” he muttered. “Thanks for––uh, doing my homework.”

Tony smiled and slapped a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “Anytime. Don’t hesitate to ask.”

“Yeah, well, next time I’ll be sure to,” Peter said with a laugh. He picked up his pencil and looked over the homework as Tony walked away. Nothing was legible. Nothing was right. But, with Tony, something was clearly wrong.

Peter kept noticing the shift in behavior over the course of the next week. Little changes like occasional tics and habits––all summoned by a quick glance at a phone or a watch. Peter wondered if it had something to do with Pepper or Rhodey, or maybe the company’s stock had taken a tumble and Tony was nervous he’d go bankrupt. He was high strung at all hours, and it seemed to be triggered by something he read or received.

The nervous mannerisms made Peter nervous. His senses nagged at him, prickling at the back of his neck whenever Tony acted weird. It was getting worse and worse, and Peter couldn’t handle it anymore.

He had Happy drive him up to the compound after school without telling Tony. The weather was getting warmer and spring had started to show itself, but Peter couldn’t enjoy it if there was something wrong with someone he cared about. Tony was Tony. Tony was Iron Man. He hid his emotions fairly well, yet he wasn’t doing a great job around Peter.

The sun was setting outside as Peter walked through the compound. It was empty and cold, but most of the life was tucked away in Tony’s workshop. Yet, as Peter strolled, an unsettling feeling crept up, one that felt vaguely familiar.

“FRIDAY?” Peter asked into the air.

“Hello, Peter.”

“Hey––uh, is Tony––Mister Stark––is he here?”

“He isn’t,” replied the AI. “Would you like me to alert the Boss that you’ve arrived?”

“Sure,” Peter said, rubbing at his sleeve as he stepped down the corridor to the workshop. “Where is he?”

“I haven’t received any activity regarding his location.”

“Oh, okay.”

“The last check-in was four hours ago in Queens,” she said.

Peter furrowed his brows and he opened the door to the workshop. The room lit up around him. “He’s in Queens? Where?”

“JFK International Airport.”

“Fri, you could’ve just told me he was on a plane,” said Peter, stepping around a few strewn tools before sitting at his usual workbench. It felt weird to be there alone––it felt like he wasn’t supposed to be there at all.

“Boss doesn’t have any upcoming scheduled flights.”

“Huh, okay. Weird.” Peter slumped down against the table, arms surrounding his head while he rested his chin on them. He faced Tony’s desk, blinking up at Post-It Note doodles taped up to the backs of monitors. Most of them were done by Peter when he was bored, but DUM-E and U had contributed to a few.

“Hey, Fri?” Peter mumbled, bring his hand up to his cheek. “Does Mister Stark ever design things for me and not tell me about them?”

“It’s possible,” the AI said. “He has a few files that have not been opened in a while. Would you like to view them?”

Peter instantly sat up. His hands slammed against the table, and the sound echoed throughout the workshop. “I can do that? They’re not––he doesn’t have them locked up or encrypted, or anything?”

“Of all people to keep secrets from, Peter, Boss wouldn’t keep them from you.”

Peter smiled. He rapped his knuckles against the table before letting the stool slide out from under him. Excitement filled his chest as he rushed over to Tony’s desk, fingers quick to access the server and tap into whatever files the man had on Peter.

And for hours, he sat there scrolling through design after design, idea after idea until FRIDAY announced that Peter had eaten out all of the popcorn left in the compound. He couldn’t believe that Tony had done all of this for him––he couldn’t believe that he was even sitting there at Tony’s desk and eating up all of his food. It all felt surreal.

“Hey––uh, Fri?” Peter asked, sipping at some soda he found in the kitchen. “What’s this?”

Peter’s finger was pointed at an odd amalgamation of numbers and letters slotting through the screen.

“The system is rebooting,” she said.

“Oh.” He nodded and sat back against the chair. “Why?”

“I’m not sure,” the AI replied. “It’s possible its last reboot triggered an automatic update.”

He leaned forward, watching the numbers slowly fade away until the monitor turned back. And then it came back to life. On the middle screen, a small message sat lonely in the center. Peter squinted so he could read it.

Subject Acquired. Mission Accomplished. Good luck.

“F-FRIDAY?” stuttered Peter. The message disappeared. The monitor returned back to the way it had been before. “What was that?” Peter’s voice cracked as he spoke.

“I don’t know, Peter,” she said, and even she sounded scared. “I can’t track its origin.”

“Where’s Tony?” he asked. “Fri, where is he?”

“His last location is still JFK International Airport.”

Peter stood, hands shaking as flashes of his old dream filled his head. His skin pricked, and optimistically, he believed he knew exactly where to go. But he was just hopeful. Hopeful that Tony hadn’t moved since he was last tracked. Hopeful to find him in one piece. Hopeful to find him alive.

Peter clicked his web-shooters into place and sighed. “Well, then, got any suits for me ‘round here, Fri?”

____

Tony was going to kill him. If he wasn’t already dead, he was going to kill Peter.

Peter wasn’t sure how to get to JFK any other way than using one of the Iron Man suits. He needed something quick, something that would get him there in a matter of minutes. As air traffic control cut into the suit’s communications, Peter searched for anything that would prove out of the ordinary. He landed on a bit of unused tarmac and winced as planes roared by in the distance.

“Search the hangars, Fri, search anywhere,” Peter gasped out, tired from pushing down the panic threatening to rise in his chest. Plus, he had on his suit underneath Tony’s; it was getting hot in there. “How am I––how am I supposed to find him with an airport full of people?”

“There is a supposedly unoccupied hangar across from terminal seven,” the AI said. “You are within a distance for me to pick up on an odd heat signature emitting from the building. I would say that is your best bet.”

Peter nodded, breathing hard while the repulsors ignited beneath his hands and feet. He soared into the air as FRIDAY directed him to the hangar, and finally, he could see what she was talking about. Through the suit’s thermal imaging, he could see that the building was empty except for an odd––almost blob-like––anomaly in a corner. Peter dove down and landed onto the adjacent road as quietly as possible.

“Please don’t be dead, please don’t be dead,” he whispered to himself. “Dammit, Tony, I have school tomorrow. Please don’t be dead.”

Peter tried to hide it from FRIDAY, but truly, he was terrified. His stupid dream was coming true. And he hadn’t recognized the signs. Tony’s behavior, the messages, and now, he was missing. This wasn’t fair. He couldn’t be dead.

“Is he in a suit, Fri?” Peter asked lowly.

“If he is, all functions have been powered down or removed,” she said. “I’m not receiving anything.”

Peter nearly broke, expression crumbling for a moment as he snuck in through a door. “Please don’t be fucking dead,” he muttered and stepped into the hangar.

It was large, empty, and cold. It reminded him of the compound.

Peter stepped out of the Iron Man suit. As comforting as it was to have FRIDAY with him, the suit’s technology was hindering his ability to hear for a heartbeat. He stood, unmoving and quiet as he listened for a sound. Any sound. A single breath would suffice.

And somewhere, faint as could be, was a slow heartbeat.

“Mister Stark?” Peter found himself shouting into the dark, and he didn’t care if he was yelling it to no one or someone unfamiliar. He didn’t care if the entire airport knew he was there.

He heard a small gasp along with winces of pain. Peter was quick on his feet, dodging boxes and other obstacles. The hangar had been abandoned and used for storage––a great place to hide a famous superhero that no one would know how to find.

“I’m––I’m coming! Shit.” Peter stubbed his toe.

The heartbeat was drowned out by his pants and the rush of wind as he ran. God, why were hangars so big?

Oh, right. Airplanes. Duh.

Peter wanted to believe he was dreaming, but instead, he kept running and following his instincts.

“Mister Stark?” he called out again as he slowed. He glanced around, looking beyond the boxes and the mounds of crap the airport had stored in there. There was even a giant dumpster full of odd things like busted microwaves and broken chairs.

“Yeah, Pete, I’m here,” the man breathed out from behind.

Peter turned and rushed over to where Tony was propped against a stack of wooden pallets. His helmet had been removed, and portions of the suit had been damaged. There were large gashes on any inch of exposed skin, including a rigid cut along the man’s cheek. But he was alive. He was bleeding and bruised, but he was alive.

“Nanotech’s gonna need a bit more work,” he said, grunting while he lifted himself higher into a sitting position. “Jesus. Fuck.”

Peter crouched beside Tony, eyes examining over every wound and bloodstain on his mentor’s skin. He set a hand on his back and another on his arm, and Tony looked up at him with a smile.

“It was an ambush,” Tony mumbled through a busted lip. “Fucking embarrassing.”

Peter shook his head.

“Some guys who’d gotten their hands on old Chitauri stuff from 2012.” Tony shifted his shoulder and groaned. “Shit. That stings. They––they reminded me of the dude you fought. The one with the wings. That Vulture guy.”

Peter bit his lip to keep from tearing up. Tony was alive. The dream hadn’t come true after all.

“They got away,” Tony whispered, turning his head so Peter couldn’t see the emotion in his features. “I-I let them get away.”

“We’ll get them,” Peter said, “one day. We’ll get them. Together. Okay? You’re just covered in blood. So, we should probably get you help or somethin’.”

Tony nodded, chuckling. “Yeah. Help. I’d like that. Know how to cauterize?”

Peter’s eyes widened. “Uh, Karen?” he said to his AI, voice cracking. “Let’s get some medics down here. Now.”

Tony continued to laugh. “Relax. I did some myself.” After a moment, his laughter settled, and he set a hand over Peter’s. “You did good, kid. Thank you. I’m sorry.”

“Why’re you sorry, Mister Stark? You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“Nah, I’ve got lots to be sorry for,” said Tony. “You’re just being modest. Sorry for letting this happen. Sorry for not letting you in on what was happening. They warned me, and I didn’t listen.”

“You’re good at that,” Peter muttered and smiled. “The not-listening thing.”

“I told you, I totally listen to everything you say.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Start having good dreams from now on,” said Tony. “Dreams where I retire and you go to college, and we all live happily ever after. That’s your job. Stop dreaming about me dying. Now I know this shit can come true.”

Peter laughed. “I’ll try.”

“Good kid.” Tony patted Peter’s cheek. “How’d you know to come here? How’d you even get here?”

“FRIDAY had a location, so I just followed instincts and stuff after that,” Peter answered. “Plus, I totally didn’t take one of your suits. Not at all.”

“You totally didn’t what?”

“Uh. Nothing. I told you. You totally won’t find that I took one of your suits.”

“You’re dead, Parker.”

[marvelmando]

history {p. parker x reader}

suggested by @justbetomholland!

notes: hello, it’s currently 3 o’clock in the morning; i’m operating on a total of 8 hours out of the last 48, but everything’s fine! i’m fine! i’m bored! and i was graciously given the suggestion of numbers 28 and 6 from my dialogue prompt list just as i was contemplating forcing myself into a deep sleep under (at least) 10 mg of melatonin, but i decided hey! id rather write! and if anyone else is a writer, you know what i mean when i say when inspiration hits, you go along with it. so here i am, and here is this (probable) mess. i hope you enjoy x.

**also, why do you guys always ask for angsty prompts??? not that im complaining, but sometimes a girl just wants to write a fluff piece!

based on:

6. “You just got stabbed and you wanna know if I’m okay?!”

28. “I’m only good at three things: making ridiculous science puns, laughing at inappropriate times, and making some bomb-ass snickerdoodles. None of them will help me with this.”

from this prompt.

warning: if you couldn’t determine from one of the prompts, this will obviously contain some blood and a little gore.

Sometime around the seventh grade, you were introduced to Peter Parker. You didn’t remember much from the encounter, but you do remember the eruption of bubbles in your stomach like you’d just inhaled a can of soda. That feeling persisted for the solid part of the next three and a half years when you finally admitted to yourself you had a crush on him.

Of course, not long after that, you asked Peter on a date. (You never were really good at suppressing your emotions; once you realized your feelings for him, it was only a matter of time before you confronted him with them.)

Nearly three months later, and you and Peter were still going strong, and it hadn’t been an easy journey of friendship that led to the sticky-sweet romance of adolescence. Between Peter losing Ben and acquiring his powers, you were well-versed in the practice of supporting your best-friend through some of the most challenging parts of his young life.

Incidentally, you were the first to discover his secret second-life, after catching him experimenting with the creation of his web fluid, only weeks after he was bitten by the radioactive spider. You hadn’t seen him in three weeks, after taking a vacation with your family and being swamped by make-up work. You’d barged into his bedroom, troubling homework in hand, only to find a freshly-muscular Peter hunched over the complete disarray of chemistry equipment strewn about his desk.

He didn’t have many excuses for what he was doing, or why he’d gained thirty pounds of muscle in twenty-three days.

He didn’t talk to you for weeks after it happened, only finally opening up about it the night Ben died, when he was feeling angry and hurt and misguided. After that, you became his go-to about everything Spider-Man, even helping him create his first suit made of a sleeveless sweatshirt he found at Goodwill, and a baggy pair of your old blue sweatpants and matching sweater (that were, decidedly, not at all baggy on him).

You distinctly remember the first time he came to you after a particularly rough mugging, in which his chest was marred with deep gouges from a switchblade and he refused to go to the hospital to treat them.

“I can’t, Y/N, what the hell would I say?” Peter had wheezed as you ushered him to your bed, where you’d hastily thrown some towels down before assessing the wounds. “‘Sorry, I was trying to web up this criminal but he caught me by surprise when I realized I’d run out of web fluid’?” He’d hissed when you’d peeled back his bloody sweatshirt (thank God it was red, you remembered thinking). “‘Oh, and don’t worry if the bruise on my eye heals within ten minutes, I also happen to have enhanced regenerative’ - fuck!”

You’d pressed into his wound to stop the blood flow, but also to get him to stop talking. “Peter,” you had snapped, feeling overwhelmed and marginally light-headed by the sheer amount of blood pouring from the gashes. “I can’t do this! I’m - you - I can’t -”

He must’ve seen how white you’d gone, noticed how frightened you were when the words sounded strangled in your throat. “Y/N, there’s no one else.” Despite the obvious pain shining in his eyes, his voice was calm and steady, soothing your frazzled nerves. “You can do this; I trust you.”

You had narrowed your eyes at him, nerves turning into disbelief. “Pete, you don’t understand - I can’t. I would, but I - I can’t just... sew you up!” You said incredulously. “I’m only good at three things: making ridiculous science puns, laughing at inappropriate times, and making some bomb-ass snickerdoodles. None of them will help me with this.”

Peter’d just let out a strangled laugh. “You do make some wicked snickerdoodles.”

You smiled, forgetting yourself in the memory.

“Y/N?” Peter wheezed from where he lied down on your bed, clutching his abdomen. Your eyes snapped down to him, startling into frantic movement again as the anxiety seeped in again. “Y/N, are you okay?”

“You just got stabbed and you wanna know if I’m okay?!” You breathed out a nervous laugh, pressing the towel into the wound.

“It’s not that bad - shit.” The curse slipped as you poured an obscene amount of hydrogen peroxide where the blood had started to dry. Your eyes flicked up to his, amused and haughty. Examining the wound once more, you turned to retrieve the fully-stocked emergency kit you kept in your dresser at all times.

You wiped away the blood, pleased that the stab wound was shallow and had ceased bleeding. “I don’t know why you don’t just go to Mr. Stark, surely he has medics on his team that could fix you up ten times better than I could - and you wouldn’t have to say a word about how you got it.”

When you looked into his eyes, they were warm and smiling, despite the pain he was in. He pushed back the baby hairs framing your forehead with a gloved hand, the strands persistent in the way they always seemed to stick out straight from your head. He did that a lot, and it was one of your favorite things he did, the movement automatically soothing you as you instinctively leaned into his palm, warm even through his suit. You distantly worried if his hand was covered in blood, but you tended to get pretty messy whenever you had to patch him up, and it was nothing a shower couldn’t fix. You focused instead on the adoration shining in his chestnut eyes, dimmed by the darkened room but shining bright with love nonetheless.

“Why would I, when I’ve got you?” Peter said, his voice soft and mellow. You could he was beginning to lose awareness, and you pressed gently on the wound to rouse him.

“Uh, uh, I need you awake for the stitches, mister.” You admonished, grabbing the needle and medical thread you’d... borrowed from the hospital you volunteered at. (After nearly two years of Peter coming to you to get his battle wounds mended, you became increasingly invested in the medical field, and were planning on pursuing a medical degree.)

You replaced your soiled disposable gloves, sanitizing and threading the needle with a practiced hand. Your eyes traveled to the scar from that first time, noting with a critical eye how uneven the scar looked, as your hands shook terribly as you followed along to a YouTube video detailing how to stitch a wound.

“Yes, ma’am.” Peter’s voice was pained.

“You ready?” You asked, lowering the needle to the wound.

When he didn’t answer, you looked up at him. He had paled slightly, eyes wide and frantic, and you could tell his breathing had quickened. He’d never really gotten used to stitches, and you knew he was worse with deeper wounds.

Leaning forward, you pressed a solid kiss to Peter’s lips. He froze, still distracted by the pain and nerves, but almost immediately melted into the kiss, softening the press of his lips against yours. You pulled back slightly, and gently kissed his lower lip, moving to his cheek, pressing slow, soft kisses as you moved across his face.

Finally, you stopped with a peck to the tip of his slightly-crooked nose. Leaning back just enough to look at his entire face, you smiled fondly when you saw how relaxed he looked. He returned the smile, and you pressed one last lingering kiss to the center of his forehead, lips dampened and tasting slightly of salt from the sweat beading there. You wanted to cradle his cheek, but you knew better than to contaminate your gloves any further that they most likely were.

“I love you.” You told him, and even though it wasn’t the first time, Peter’s eyes simultaneously softened and brightened, just as strongly as they had when you did.

“I know,” he replied cheekily, his voice roughened. A grin broke out on your face, head shaking at the reference.

“Ready?” You poised the needle at the wound, waiting for him to nod.

He didn’t hesitate this time. “I trust you.”

With the familiar phrase, you set to work.

[jonsastan]

Jonsa prompt idea (if you want to use any part of this, although no pressure if you don’t): Could you do a Pride & Prejudice-style AU where Jon and Sansa meet at a dance and each instantly think the other is gorgeous and want to get to know each other better but there is a miscommunication where each one thinks the other is making fun of them? Thank you!

This ended up being longer than I anticipated and took longer than I would have liked, but I hope it’s okay! Feel free to send me prompts!

Jon Snow stood as far away from the gaggle of giggling ladies without partners as he could without actually leaving the ballroom. He was desperately trying not to make eye contact with any of the young ladies. 

“Come on Snow, you have to dance with at least one lady tonight” Theon Greyjoy said, sidling up to him. “Your father will hear if you don’t.”

“Leave me be, Theon.” Jon hissed trying to press himself further into the wall. 

“There are plenty of pretty fine young ladies who would give their left ear to dance with the heir Summerhall.” 

The bastard heir of Summerhall.

“I don’t want to dance.” 

“How are you not tempted by the fine forms-” Jon stopped paying  attention as Theon waxed poetical about the various ladies around the room. “Look at her!” Theon elbowed Jon. “She’s almost an angel.” Jon followed Theon’s gaze, fully prepared to dismiss the lady in question when his breath caught in his throat. 

She was angelic. 

Her hair a delightful auburn piled up on her head with a few curls temptingly brushing her collarbone. Her eyes a dancing blue that she had matched with the ribbon around her slender waist. Her lips a gentle pink, with an enchanting smile. 

“She’s - She’s” Jon stammered, watching as she let out a delicate laugh and grasped the hands of one of her friends. 

“Sansa Stark, eldest daughter of Lord Eddard of Winterfell.” Theon informed him, that frustrating smile on his face. “She’s rather angelic in both temperament and beauty, but I was referring to her friend Jeyn-”

“She’s lovely.” Jon whispered.

~~~~~~~

Sansa laughed delicately as Jeyne explained the drama surrounding her dress.

“And my mother says to simply wear my- my- my-” Jeyne trailed off, looking just over Sansa’s shoulder. 

“Wear your?” Sansa prompted. 

“That is Jon Snow, Lord of Summerhall and son of Rhaegar Targaryen.” Jeyne stated, her eyes wide, her voice just audible above the music. Sansa frowned at the bastard surname of the north. 

“He’s said to be worth twenty thousand pounds a year.” Jeyne continued. “He’s standing with Theon Greyjoy and he’s staring at you.” 

Sansa glanced over her shoulder at the young man standing next to her brother’s friend.

Sansa took a sharp breathe. He looked Northern. His hair dark and curling, his eyes a deep grey but kind eyes, he had a chiselled jaw covered in a light bread that was common among men in the North. 

Their eyes met across the ballroom and Sansa quickly looked away, a blush warming her cheeks. 

Oh goodness.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jon began to move around the ballroom, slowly, to not attract attention. Usually, when with his brother and sister, he was almost invisible to people. Without them he felt exposed as if all eyes were turned to him, whispering about his father. 

He had to talk to her though. He had to hear her voice, see if Theon was right.

Angelic in both temperament and beauty.

He felt her gaze flicker to him as he made his way around the room. Soon he was out of her line of sight. He could see her slender form facing away from him, the curve of her hip hinted at by the palest of blue muslin of her dress. 

“Maybe you should ask another lady to dance first?” Theon said, his hand coming down on Jon’s shoulder. “She’s the first lady you’ll dance with outside of your father’s estate, some might see that as an intention.” 

Jon shrugged off Theon’s grasp and moved toward Sansa Stark. 

“I want to dance with Miss Stark.” He hissed. 

“You’ll be declaring something.” Theon said, moving closer to Jon. “Miss Stark is like family to me and you can’t just -”

“I don’t want to dance with some silly, frivolous girl. I want to dance with Miss Stark.” Jon turned and faced Theon. “Will you make the introductions?” 

Theon sighed before nodding his head and moving toward Miss Stark. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sansa had watched as Jon Snow began to make his way around the ballroom toward her and Jeyne. He was slow in his movement toward her but purposeful. She lost sight of him as he neared her and felt a tingle of anticipation race down her spine. 

Gods, please let him ask me to dance. She pleaded silently. 

“Miss Stark is like family to me.” She caught the phrase spoken in the familiar tones of Theon Greyjoy, her brother’s closest friend. 

Then the deep tones of an unfamiliar voice spoke, the voice that must belong to Mr Snow, spoke but Sansa could only catch a few words.

“Some silly, frivolous girl. I want to dance with Miss Stark.”

Sansa’s jaw tighten at the words of this stranger. Words she’d heard utter about her by her sister, her father, her old beau Joffrey Baratheon. 

Before she had time to order her thoughts, her emotions, Theon was standing in front of her, the handsome, rude, stranger beside him. 

“Miss Stark, you look truly lovely this evening.” Theon greeted. 

“Thank you Mr Greyjoy.” Sansa curtsied as the gentlemen bowed. 

“Please, allow me to introduce my good friend, Mister Jon Snow of Summerhall.”  Sansa extended her hand.

“Miss Stark.” Jon Snow said, gently grasping her hand and bowing over it, the same voice as the one that has called her silly and frivolous. “I was hoping to secure your hand for the next set?” 

“Oh.” Sansa said, her mind racing, trying to think of an excuse. “ I- I- well,” She glanced down and realised her hand was still grasped in his. She pulled it back to her. “I would be honoured.” 

Mr Snow, smiled a soft, charming smile. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Miss Stark had excused herself and Jon stood, watching the dancing, anticipating a set like he never had before. 

She had been polite and seemed a little flustered that he had asked her to dance. Maybe she was unused to public dances. 

She smelled of lavender and lemons. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sansa sipped a glass of punch and looked around at the crowd. She saw her brother dancing with Wynafryd Manderly, and Theon chatting with Jeyne, but she could not see Jon Snow from her current position.

Gods why could I not think of an excuse? 

She did not want to spend an entire set with another condescending Lordling who only cared about her pretty face and her dowry. 

Her blood cooled in her veins when she saw the pale blue eyes of Ramsay Bolton. She slowly moved away from him, trying not to catch the eye of the brutish man who fancied himself her suitor, when she bumped into Jeyne. 

“Can you believe the kind of people they allow into these public balls?” She said to Jeyne nodding her head toward Mr Bolton. 

“Oh my goodness!” Jeyne brought her hand to her mouth. “I can’t believe he even had the gall to come.” 

“After the rumours about his father, I can hardly believe he’d show himself in public.”

The sudden demise of Lord Bolton had been grist for the gossip mill of the North for the past few months. 

The music of the next set, the set she had promised to Mr Snow, began to play. 

“Excuse me Jeyne, I have promised this set to-” She turned and almost ran into the young man. “Oh.” 

The charming smile had disappeared off of Mr Snow’s face, but he held his hand out for her. 

“Miss Stark.” Her hand slipped into his and he led her to the dance.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“The kind of people they allow into public balls.”

Jon gritted his teeth as he followed the turns and moves of the dance, trying not to make eye contact with the beautiful and cruel young woman he was now forced to spend an entire set with. 

Her feet moved swiftly and with grace as she danced. Her face was set in a porcelain mask of neutral emotions.  

If she was so disgusted by me why accept my offer to dance?

“Do you often come to public balls, Mr Snow?” She asked as the dance brought them together.

“No.” He replied. 

“That might explain why I haven’t met you before.”

“This is my first time in the North.” 

“Oh.” 

The dance pulled them from each other and Jon could not help but admire her elegant form, even if her conversation was trite and her words sharp. 

“How are you finding the cold of the North?” She asked as they came together. 

“Tolerable.” 

They moved in silence for a few moments before Miss Stark spoke again.

“Do you enjoy dancing?” 

“When one’s partner is agreeable, dancing can be enjoyable.” Miss Stark almost flinched at his words and he felt a stab of guilt. 

“After the rumours about his father.”

The guilt dissipated. 

“Do you talk to your dance partners by rule?” He asked.

“What is dancing if not a means to get to know ones partner?”

Jon was silent at that retort. 

“What kind of pursuits interest you?” She asked. Jon looked down and saw her blue eyes were hard and cold. Why does she insist on talking when it can bring her no pleasure?

“Fencing, hunting, riding.” 

“Oh.” She looked taken aback for a moment. “There is wonderful hunting on my father’s estate. I’m sure Theon and yourself shall be invited to join my father and brother for a hunt soon.”  Jon merely nodded his acknowledgement. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“What kind of pursuits interest you?” Sansa asked, expecting him to reel off a list of intellectual and cerebral activities. 

“Fencing, hunting, riding.”

“Oh.” So he may be frivolous but women must of course develop their minds. She made a comment about the hunting at Winterfell and the invitation that would inevitably be offered. 

After what seemed an age the set was finally over. Sansa curtsied as Mr Snow bowed. She had expected him to merely leave her on the dance floor, but he offered her his arm and she gently placed her hand on his coat sleeve. She hated the small shiver that travelled up her spine at this touch. 

He guided her across to where Jeyne and Theon stood, conversing. Bowing again he spoke.

“Thank you for your company Miss Stark.” 

She curtsied.

“And yours, Mr Snow.” Theon smiled at her before escorting Mr Snow away.

“So how was dancing with the heir to Summerhall?” 

“Tolerable.” Sansa replied, her voice deepening into a mocking tone of the young man. Jeyne giggled. 

“Oh come now Sansa. He maybe a little brooding, but even you must admit he had handsome and well situated. I doubt even you, Miss Sansa Stark, would refuse to dance with him again.”

“I believe I can safely promise you, Miss Jeyne Poole, to never dance with Mr Snow again.”

[dollop-o-dalsy]

Irondad Bingo #1

irondad bingo #1: trope: poisoning

after hoarding onto this bingo card for months,  I’ve finally decided to debut this fic! it’s taken me a while, and I wanna thank my friend maddie (who’s not on the site, but her wattpad is @mercuryindustries ) for being my bomb dot com beta ! 

also go follow my ao3, @friendlyneighborhoodash , as I’ll be posting it over there as well and I need to signal boost my account! (:

tagging people who might be interested:

@keep-a-bucket-full-of-stars

@dazzlingtony

@irondadbingo

@i-want-noodles

@rai-of-sunshine

( also slight tw if you don’t like mentions of blood or gunshot wounds/ stab wounds )

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

trope:  poisoning

A Poison That Never Ached

Stumbling into an alleyway just outside of where the Queensboro bridge hit the Hudson, Peter could tell that nothing was, in fact, fine. His stomach burned with the familiar feeling of a stab wound, although he would argue that it wasn’t that bad.

After all, he had only been lightly stabbed.

Okay, so maybe taking on a whole gang that was involved with Kingpin’s massive underground criminal black market wasn’t the best idea in the world while trying to swing home late on a school night, but what was Peter supposed to do? Just ignore it and keep going home?

Funny.

Focusing back on what was happening now, Peter lowered himself into the alleyway, hopping down from a fire escape to slump up against a wall. This sucked. If this was rated on a scale of one to a building collapsing on top of him, he’d definitely have to rank it as a high nine.

A wince involuntarily left his mouth as he removed the pressure from the wound, seeing the blood come back on his fingertips with a color that was a deep kind of red. Okay, so maybe removing pressure was not a good idea. Placing his bloody hand back on the wound, Peter’s body almost slumped in relief (if that was what it could be called), the wound’s ever so painful throbbing easing slightly with the pressure reapplied onto it.

Karen’s warnings on his HUD flashed before his eyes, some glaring red screaming back at him that it was, in fact, bad. Her voice sounding more and more concerned with every warning (and every dismissal that Peter said to combat them), it got to a point where Peter couldn’t take it anymore. His breaths became unsteady, escalating faster and faster as the lights flashed brighter and brighter.

His eyes squeezed shut in an attempt to steady his breathing, the darkness underneath his eyes offering no salvation, the bright flashing lights from Karen’s HUD still making his head spin. The loud noises she kept repeating at him most definitely didn’t help either, the throbbing escalating as he opened his eyes again. He would have ripped off the mask- that was, if he didn’t have all of his attention focused on trying to keep the pain from his stomach from overwhelming him.

“Peter, if you do not take further medical action on the wound and the other injuries you have sustained during your patrol tonight, I will be obliged to contact Mister Stark in accordance with Baby Monitor Protocol 16,” the AI softly reminded Peter, her systems already preparing to make the distress call.

“I promise I’m getting the medical attention,” Peter lied, biting back the pain as he pushed himself out of the slouched position he held against the alleyway hall. The loud throbs of his head only increased as he tried to stand, forcing himself back down again from the amount of pain that it caused him. “I just- I just gotta get back to the apartment and-”

“Yeah, no, kid.” The familiar voice of Mister Stark echoed through his HUD, Karen contacting the man whether Peter wanted her to or not. The bright flashing red lights that Karen had once displayed calmed to a soft blue light, Peter giving a small exhale of relief as his eyes were. “You’re staying there; I’ll be there in ten. And if you move a damn muscle, I will not hesitate to tell May about your little injury and that fact that you took on six fucking gang members at once.”

Ah, so he was pissed. No surprise there.

Seeing the HUD glow fade away from the soft blue to a less aggressive red, Peter gave out a groan, mentally scolding himself for letting Karen go so far. Then, upon the realization that Mister Stark was coming to his grand locale in less than ten minutes, fear set in. Trying to stand up (yet again) from the alleyway that he had not-so-discreetly hidden out in, Peter’s body screamed in protest, his mind blurry as he stumbled back to slump up against the alley’s wall.

Waiting here… waiting here was good, he figured. Probably the better way to get killed would to be to leave, but Mister Stark would probably drag him out from his grave and murder him a second time if he did that. So he’d face Mister Stark and the inevitable amounts of scolding that would ensue when he would arrive in whichever Queens alleyway that Peter had dropped into.

The minutes felt like hours. Peter attempted to keep the pressure steady on his wound as he tried to stay conscious, dipping in and out of the dizzy feeling that made him want to throw up. The only thing that kept him awake was the fact that Karen was blasting warnings throughout his HUD every single time he would begin to dip into unconsciousness.

When Mister Stark finally showed up, he began to regret every single decision that he had ever made, now wanting to go back to the time when maybe he didn’t wait for the billionaire.

“Mister Parker,” Mister Stark’s voice venomously spat out, although through Peter’s blurry vision, he wasn’t sure if the man was walking towards him or away from him. The suit that he had taken to arrive at his destination retracted around him as he stepped out. The Iron Man suit a shell just outside of the alleyway and classic Tony Stark sunglasses still adorned on his face, there was a deep sigh as he assessed the situation in front of him. “What kind of shitshow have you gotten yourself into this time?”

Taking his hand away from the wound, trying to focus his blurry vision on the copious amounts of slick blood on his hand, Peter pulled off his mask and gave the dopiest grin that he could give, half delirious by now. “W’ld you b’lve me ‘f I told ya’ this isn’t the w’rst it’s been?” His words slurred together, trying to ignore the pain that he was feeling. It had gotten worse in the time that he had waited, his veins filling up with something his brain was telling him was most likely not his blood.

Sighing as he walked over to the kid, Peter just a few steps away from him, Tony tried to wrap his arm around the kid’s shoulders, hoping to ease him up slowly against the alleyway wall. When he tried to do so, however, he was met with a cry of pain from Peter, and saw the boy’s eyes start to droop from the pain.

Okay, so getting him up was a no go. So how in the goddamn world was he- out of everyone in the universe- going to get the little spiderling into his MedBay back at the Facility without letting him bleed out or pass out in pain in front of him?

“Kid.” Tony gently tapped the side of Peter’s face, trying anything in an attempt to keep the kid awake. “C’mon, eyes up. You can’t give out on me yet, Pete.” Upon hearing his nickname, Peter’s eyes cracked open just a bit, gazing at Tony like he was something else, confusion lighting up his much too enlarged pupils.

Peter, looking up at whoever had just tried to get him to stay awake, realized that this person he was seeing was supposed to be dead. He had been the cause of his death and- “Ben?”  He barely croaked out, seeing his dead Uncle crouched above him, a rather familiar worried look finding its way into the creases of his Uncle’s his face.

Tony’s face dropped when Peter spoke, his worry more than multiplying when he heard Peter’s confused grumble. What the hell had happened to the kid? “No, Underoos, it’s Tony,” he tried to remind the kid, turning Peter’s head so that his eyes directly faced him.

Peter’s eyes were glazed and almost glossy, half open as if the boy was trying to get a better sense of what he was seeing in front of him, the world all blurry. His heart was beating- much too fast, for that matter, everything around him suddenly heightened as if everything was swallowing him whole as he tried to comprehend everything going on around him. Tony’s words didn’t register in his brain, the boy too occupied with the overwhelming amount of pain he was feeling in his stomach,  “No-” Peter shook his head, trying to focus his mind on what was in front of him, only seeing Uncle Ben, a man that he couldn’t save. “You-you should be dead Ben. I couldn’t-”

Peter stopped, feeling the familiar feeling of his stomach drop, his face falling along with it as he thought of what happened to Ben. How he had been there, watching the man who watched over him and loved him so fiercely die in his arms while he did nothing. Choking out his next words in a strained tone, he looked hurt as he spoke. “I couldn’t save you. You died.”

The moment of when Ben died much too prevalent in Peter’s brain now, the boy could swear they were on that same street side again, the alleyway background fading out around him to the place where Ben had died. The drug store with dim whote neon lighting, a deli shop at the edge of the bodega, the sidewalk almost empty, save for the few bystanders watching in horror. Ben on the floor, and gunshot wound through his chest. The blood on Peter’s hands-

“Pete, I’m right here.” Tony tried to soothe the teenager, unknowingly interrupting Peter’s hallucination back to the night of Ben’s death. Taking Peter’s free hand and placing it over his heart,  Tony was unsure of what else to do to prove that he was alive. “And I’m not your Uncle Ben either. It’s me, buddy. It’s Tony. Mister Stark? The one and only Iron Man?” he tried to remind Peter, getting desperate.

Forcing himself to see clearly again, Peter could faintly make out the familiar face of Mister Stark, concern in every crease of his mentor’s face. “M’ster S’ark?” He whispered, seeing the man directly in front of him, crouched down on his knees to be at Peter’s slouched sitting level.

“Yeah, kid.” Tony cracked a pained smile, dropping Peter’s hand and giving him a soft look. “It’s me. Now, c’mon, I need to get you back to the Facility so that you don’t go into shock from all of this cliche bleeding out that you’re doing in an alleyway. You couldn’t have picked anywhere else to decidedly drop into when you get injured?”

Seeing a small smile form at the edge of Peter’s lips and a chuckle from the boy, Tony assumed that everything was alright. He’d just call Cho or Rhodey and they’d be on their way to whatever Medical team was stationed in the MedBay at the Facility. But as soon as everything was thought to be okay, things got worse… much worse.

“M’ster S’ark?” Peter tapped his mentor, his eyes widening as he saw Tony before him, still trapped in that same street where Ben died, the familiar hellish landscape reforming around him. “M’ster S’ark, you’re- you’re bleeding.”

There was a wound leaking through Tony’s stomach, the man looking up at him like nothing was wrong. How could he not see? He was dying, the same was that Ben had gone and Peter was doing nothing, just sitting there and watching as the blood poured out of the fatal wound that had struck his mentor.  

Peter was stuck, just like he was with Uncle Ben, left to watch another person he cared about leave him behind, more blood on his hands after everything he had done to try and make it right. Another round of that cursed Parker Luck had hit again, striking Peter when he was just about happy again.  “You’re bleeding, Mister Stark,” the boy repeated, trying to get himself to do something, anything, to help Tony.

Tony looked at the kid in utter confusion, nothing wrong with him. So why in hell was the kid freaking out about him bleeding? Turning away from Peter to not cause him any distress, Tony double-tapped his sunglasses, FRIDAY activating herself, coming to life within the small sunglasses. “FRI, what am I looking at here? Why’d the kid think I was his Uncle Ben, and why the hell does he now think I’m dying?”

“It appears that Mister Parker was given some sort of hallucination-causing drug or poison when he was stabbed by one of Kingpin’s gang members,” FRIDAY informed Tony, her screen showing what the possible poisons and drugs could be in the top right corner of Tony’s right lense.

“Shit,” Tony whispered, realizing that the situation was much worse than he had thought. “Can you let the Medical team back at the Facility know what’s  going on? Loop them into what you learn as you learn it. I want them as prepared as possible for when we come in. And call MedVac if you haven’t already please, FRI. I don’t know how much longer the kid can take.”

“Will do, Boss. MedVac is three minutes out,” the AI replied, Tony turning back to Peter when he heard FRIDAY’s confirmation. The kid was bewildered, to put it lightly, his eyes filled with fear as he stared at his mentor.

“Mister Stark- please, stop moving!” Peter gasped, trying to lunge towards the man, giving a wince of pain as Tony placed his hands on the teenager’s shoulders, pushing him back against the wall. “You’re going to-” Peter stopped, squeezing his eyes shut, the memories of Ben’s death too overwhelming, causing his stomach to turn inside out, churning what felt like every organ in his body. Everything was overlapping, the events of the past and present merging, and he couldn’t take it anymore.

“Kid.” Tony took Peter’s chin into his hand, forcing the boy’s face to stare directly at him. Peter’s eyes were still squeezed shut. “Peter,” the man whispered softly, his tone filled with nothing but kindness. Seeing Peter’s eyes open just a crack, Tony almost wanted to collapse in relief. The boy’s pupils were still dilated, too much so, but at least his eyes were locked with Tony’s. “You’re going to be fine. I’m going to be fine. Everything is going to be fine.”

“But-” Peter gasped, the images of Tony bleeding out alongside Ben still fresh in his mind as Tony’s words echoed through his brain. Everything was so raw, and his heart wouldn’t stop racing at a mile a minute, his mind following the pace of his heartbeat. “But you’re-”

“We’re going to be fine,” Tony interrupted the teenager, trying nothing but to reassure him and quell all of the fears inside of his brain. “I’m fine. No bleeding to be seen here, and we’ll get you stitched up as soon as we can get Medical here.” Pulling the kid into a hug, trying not to let Peter hallucinate anything else, Tony held him there, running a hand through the teen’s messy curls until the jarring glow of the MedVac pulled into the alley.

Turning around to see Rhodey and Cho running towards Tony with a medical team, Tony gave a sigh of relief as the MedVac team approached the two heroes. Gingerly handing off Peter to Cho, he whispered one last thing to Peter before he was too far away. “See? We’re going to be okay.”

Rhodey running to where Tony was still kneeling, the man looked at his best friend, covered in blood, sunglasses still on his face even though the sun was long past gone. “This kid’s going to be the death of you, huh?”

All Tony could do was stare up at Rhodes, unsure of what to say.  The situation that he had just been a part of… it had been haunting, a chilling reminder that even with Peter’s positivity, the pure amount of trauma he had been a part of could rival his own. “Probably,” he muttered, looking off at where Peter was now being loaded onto the MedVac vehicle, where inside Peter was bound to be hooked up to machines that would flush whatever the hell was in his system out, and the medical team could treat the wounds that he had. Turning back to Rhodey, there was an almost soft smile on his face as he looked up at his friend.

“But that’s why I love him so damn much.”

word count- 2,755

[myarmsaretoolong]

Where Did Everyone Go?

@whumptober2020​ Prompt #8: Where Did Everyone Go? - Abandoned | Isolation

Word Count: 844

Warnings: Dehydration | Starvation | Captivity

Synposis: Peter’s been trapped in this room for how long? He doesn’t know. Everything’s the same. All he knows is white.

Read Under the Cut | Read on AO3

He didn’t know how long he’d been trapped in this infernal room. A few hours was his best guess, though Peter couldn’t be sure how many exactly. Long enough for him to scream his throat raw and scour every inch of the blindingly white walls, floor, and ceiling for an escape. Even just a crack or blemish would be good enough at this point. Nothing. Just white. Pure, blinding white.

He was going to go insane. Everywhere he looked hurt his eyes, all six surfaces of his prison looked identical, he could only tell which way was up by the direction his hair fell. It was perfectly maddening. No sounds from outside penetrated the walls, leaving Peter utterly alone with his erratic heartbeat, ragged breaths, and racing thoughts.

He punched the walls until his knuckles bled and left a smear of crimson cutting through the white. Somehow, it only made it worse.

* * * 

It had to have been a day, surely a day must have passed in this cage. Peter couldn’t sleep, one, because everything was so damn bright. And two, in case something changed and he missed it. In case a door opened, the lights dimmed, something made a noise. Anything. Because something would happen. It had to. It couldn’t stay the same forever. It couldn’t.

He huddled in a corner, legs hugged to his chest and resting his head against the wall to the side. Waiting. Hoping. Closing his eyes proved to be dangerous; each time he did, opening them only became more challenging. Only used more of his dwindling strength to continue his futile lookout.

Nothing was going to happen.

In addition, Peter hadn’t had anything to eat or drink the entire time. He’d heard the whole ‘you can live three days without water’ thing, didn’t know if it was true or not. But it lost all meaning when time ceased to exist. Dehydration didn’t seem to care, though.

He couldn’t stand without getting dizzy, even curled up in his corner he felt incredibly lightheaded. Already, his mouth dried out and lips crack from lack of moisture. God how he regretted all the tears he’d shed since waking up in this hell.

Vaguely, he realised that to be this bad, he must have been more than a day without nutrition. He didn’t know anymore, time meant nothing.

His stomach gave a loud growl, and Peter doubled over as a stabbing pain in his abdomen accompanied the sound. He curled tighter into a ball, fighting through the pain as he waited for it to pass. “Come on, Spider-Man,” he muttered. His voice dry and gravelly, emotionless.

“Come on, Spider-Man,” a familiar voice whispered back.

Peter forced his head up and opened his eyes. Before him, stood Tony Stark. Blurred around the edges and oddly shiny, see-through, even. “...Mister Stark?”

“It’s me.” Tony’s voice held an airy, light quality that absolutely hadn’t been there before the room. Peter knew it wasn’t Tony, not his Tony, but wanted so desperately for it to be that he allowed himself to pretend.

“How?” Peter pushed himself to his feet, leaning heavily against the wall as his head span. “There’s- There’s no door…?”

“You’re so strong. Hold on. Just stay strong a little longer.” Tony pressed a hand over his heart. “For May, for Ned and MJ, for me. Stay strong.”

“I-I can’t,” Peter stuttered. He cursed the tears threatening to fall from his eyes, a water of precious water. “Mister Stark, I can’t do it!”

“Yes,” Tony’s voice sounded distant, and the blinding white seemed to be taking over his body. “You can, I believe in you.”

“No! Please, don’t leave me!” Peter lunged forward to grab hold of Tony, to force him to stay no matter how selfish that would be. He couldn’t be alone anymore. But Tony vanished, and Peter landed face down in the door, too tired even to feel the pain of falling down.

* * *

Peter hadn’t moved; he didn’t have the energy even if he’d wanted to. Every muscle in his body screamed out for food and water, his thoughts a mixed mess and nothing and everything at the same time. Logically, he knew Tony had never been there, that his dehydrated, sleep-deprived brain was only playing a cruel trick, but his absence only made him feel more alone.

He could have been there for hours, could have only been a couple of minutes. Peter didn’t have the strength to care anymore.

He closed his eyes, feeling himself being pulled under. Felt life slipping away from beneath him. His ears decided to join in the tricks, filling his head with phantom sounds and ghostly voices. He ignored them all; they weren’t real anyway. He knew that.

Numbly, he heard an explosion and felt small chunks of rubble falling on his back. Then a face appeared in front of his, crouched down on the floor beside him. This one didn’t have the same blurriness as before. It reached out and squeezed Peter’s shoulder, gently maneuvering him into its arms and holding him close.

“Kid?”