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Bugged Out Chapter Five

Swing And a Miss

The sun was sinking behind the jagged skyline of Queens, smearing the horizon with streaks of amber and purple, as Tony Stark hovered mid-air in the Iron Man suit, staring down at a row of brownstones and chain-link fences. His HUD flickered with information—heat signatures, nearby police scanners, the faint glow of a pizza oven in a corner shop three blocks away. He sighed, resting his chin on his hand as he floated, bored out of his mind.

“So, let me get this straight,” he said aloud, the AI in his suit catching every word. “I’m flying around in a billion-dollar suit, burning jet fuel like it’s going out of style, and all for what? To find some scrappy vigilante who can’t even afford proper spandex?”

The suit’s AI, a polished and professional female voice—Tony had named her FRIDAY—responded in a tone that managed to sound both sympathetic and mildly sarcastic. “Shall I remind you that this mission was handed to you directly by Director Fury? He’s the one who—”

“Yeah, yeah, Fury’s whole ‘global security’ spiel,” Tony interrupted, throwing up his hands as if he were gesturing to an invisible audience. “It’s just—come on, FRIDAY. This Spider-Man guy is supposed to be running around everywhere, swinging from buildings like a wannabe Tarzan, and yet I’ve spent three nights looking for him and what do I have to show for it? A sore back and the privilege of inhaling Queens smog. Fantastic.”

“You’ve also identified three hotspots for mugging activity and assisted in resolving two break-ins,” FRIDAY noted, her tone just shy of reproachful. “Not a complete waste of time.”

Tony smirked. “Thanks, Mom. I’ll add ‘small-time crime consultant’ to my resume.”

He kicked on the thrusters and shot higher into the sky, surveying the city below. The rooftops were empty save for the occasional stray cat or a flicker of light from someone’s TV. The city felt… normal. It buzzed with the usual chaos—traffic jams, people yelling from stoops, someone playing terrible jazz on a saxophone from an open window—but there was no sign of Spider-Man.

Tony had read the reports. Spider-Man had been seen swinging through Queens, stopping muggers, carjackers, and other bottom-feeders, leaving them tied up with some kind of weird webbing that the NYPD was still trying to scrape off lampposts. Fury’s folder said Spider-Man was strong, fast, and agile, the kind of guy who could leap across rooftops and vanish into an alley before anyone got a good look at him.

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Bugged Out Chapter Eleven

Picture Perfect

Tony sat in the sleek, custom-made chair at his workshop console, his feet kicked up on the desk, his face set in a scowl so deep it could’ve shattered mirrors. The Iron Man suit stood silently in its charging bay a few feet away, the arc reactor glowing faintly, as if mocking him.

For once, Tony didn’t touch the holographic displays hovering in the air around him. He didn’t flip through blueprints or fiddle with schematics to distract himself. Instead, he just sat there, staring at nothing, stewing in his own frustration.

The kid—no, Spider-Man—was younger than he thought. Not the grizzled twenty-something vigilante Tony had been imagining. Not some gym rat with years of experience under his belt. Just… some guy. Some guy with a stupid fake gruff voice, a terrible attitude, and apparently a massive chip on his shoulder. The fact that Spider-Man had bested him multiple times was already humiliating, but to find out he was younger than they’d estimated? Probably in his early twenties at most? It made Tony’s blood boil.

“Unbelievable,” Tony muttered to himself, dragging a hand through his hair. The sharp tug of his fingers only added to his simmering annoyance. “I can’t believe I’ve been wasting my time chasing around some twenty-year-old parkour enthusiast in a hoodie.”

“Technically,” FRIDAY chimed in, her voice calm and deliberate as always, “you still haven’t caught him.”

Tony groaned, throwing his head back dramatically. “Thanks for the reminder, FRIDAY. I was trying to forget about that part.”

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Bugged Out Chapter Nine

Black Widow

The night was brisk, the chill of the city air seeping through Natasha’s leather jacket as she walked briskly down a quiet Queens street. Her heels clicked faintly against the cracked pavement, an intentionally uneven rhythm designed to draw attention to her figure. She pulled the collar of her jacket tighter, her expression carefully curated—just the right mix of vulnerability and distraction. It was the perfect bait.

In her ear, Tony’s voice cut through the silence with his usual snark. “Alright, Black Widow. Our sticky little friend should be coming up on you any second now. He’s been trailing a mugging three blocks over—perfect warm-up. You’re welcome.”

Natasha resisted the urge to roll her eyes, keeping her gaze forward and her steps deliberate. “Let’s hope your intel is good, Stark. I don’t like standing around waiting to be mugged.”

“You won’t be standing around for long,” Clint’s voice chimed in, dry and amused. “Don’t worry, I’ll make it look convincing. Try not to break character and punch me, okay?”

“I make no promises,” Natasha muttered. The corner of her mouth twitched in a faint smile as she turned into an alley, the streetlights fading behind her. The alley was narrow, the brick walls on either side looming high and casting deep shadows. She stopped near the middle, tucking her hands into her jacket pockets as if searching for something.

From her left, Clint appeared out of the shadows, hood pulled low over his face, his stance deliberately aggressive. He held a knife in one hand—blunted and fake, of course, but convincing in the dim light. His voice was loud, roughened for effect.

“Alright, lady,” Clint growled, stepping into her path. “Hand over the bag, and no one gets hurt.”

Natasha turned sharply, her body language screaming alarm. “No, please—don’t!” she said, injecting a shaky desperation into her voice. She stumbled back a step, her movements calculated and precise. She dropped her purse onto the ground, her hands trembling as they rose in a classic “don’t hurt me” gesture.

In her ear, Tony’s voice crackled to life again. “Beautiful performance, Nat. The Academy is really missing out on your talents.”

She ignored him, her eyes darting around the alley, pretending to search for an escape. The moment stretched, tense and quiet except for the faint hum of distant traffic. Then, just as Clint took a threatening step toward her, it happened.

A thwip cut through the air, sharp and unmistakable.

Natasha whipped her head to the right, just in time to see a figure descending from the shadows above. He landed with a light, almost feline grace, crouched low on one knee with a hand braced against the ground. The streetlights barely reached him, but the red and blue of his patched-together suit gleamed faintly in the dimness. His mask caught the light, the wide, white lenses of his eyes narrowing as he straightened.

“Alright, big guy,” Spider-Man said, his voice low and gruff, almost comically so. “I think that’s enough of the whole ‘scary mugger’ routine. Let’s wrap this up before you embarrass yourself.”

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Bugged Out Chapter Eight

Field Trip

The sleek glass doors of Stark Industries slid open with a soft hiss, revealing a massive, gleaming lobby that looked more like the entrance to a futuristic utopia than a tech company. Polished floors reflected the sunlight pouring in from floor-to-ceiling windows, and a colossal holographic display in the center of the room flickered with rotating 3D projections of Iron Man suits, miniature arc reactors, and the Stark Industries logo. Every inch of the place screamed wealth, innovation, and a level of self-importance that made Peter Parker’s stomach churn.

“Dude,” Ned whispered as they stepped inside, his voice full of awe. He practically vibrated with excitement, his eyes darting from one marvel of engineering to the next. “This is so cool. Like, insanely cool. We’re standing in Stark Industries! Look at that!” He pointed to a rotating hologram of the Mark IV suit, which was suspended mid-flight, every intricate piece of the armor rendered in shimmering blue light. “How are you not freaking out right now?”

Peter shoved his hands into the pockets of his hoodie and slouched further into himself, his shoulders hunched. He didn’t respond right away, his gaze drifting over the displays with a look that could only be described as bored indifference. While the rest of his classmates were oohing and ahhing, Peter’s face was set in a permanent scowl. His jaw clenched tighter every time someone gushed about how “amazing” or “cool” Tony Stark was.

“I don’t know,” Peter muttered finally, his voice low enough that only Ned could hear. “It’s not that impressive.”

“Not that impressive?” Ned whipped around to face him, his jaw dropping like Peter had just said puppies were overrated. “What’s wrong with you? This is Iron Man! We’re literally standing in the middle of the most advanced tech company in the world. There’s probably more computing power in this building than in NASA! How is that not impressive?”

Peter shrugged, his eyes narrowing as he glared at the hologram of the Iron Man suit. “I just don’t see what the big deal is. Stark’s a jerk. He probably built half this stuff just to show off how much smarter he is than everyone else.”

Ned blinked at him, stunned into silence for a moment. “Uh, yeah, that’s because he is smarter than everyone else. Dude, he invented a mini arc reactor in a cave! A cave, Peter! With, like, scrap metal! And have you seen the Iron Man suits? They’re, like, the coolest things ever made. This guy is a genius!”

“Yeah, well, genius doesn’t mean good person,” Peter grumbled, his tone sharp. He kicked at an invisible scuff on the immaculate floor, his gaze fixed firmly on the ground now. The last thing he wanted was to look at another hologram of Tony Stark’s stupid face.

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Bugged Out Chapter Seven

 Humiliation

The Avengers Tower conference room felt stifling, which was saying something, considering it was equipped with state-of-the-art air conditioning that Tony had personally tweaked to maintain the perfect temperature at all times. But the air wasn’t the problem. It was Nick Fury, standing at the head of the table like a disappointed school principal, his one good eye glaring daggers directly at Tony. The other Avengers were scattered around the room, most of them doing a poor job of hiding their amusement.

“So let me get this straight,” Fury said, his tone sharp enough to cut through vibranium. “You’re telling me you—Tony Stark, Iron Man, billionaire, genius, inventor, owner of a flying suit that can chase fighter jets—you can’t catch one guy swinging around the city in sweatpants?”

The words hit Tony harder than he expected, which only annoyed him more. He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest as he forced a smirk onto his face. “Oh, I’m sorry, did you want me to break out the Stark-brand bug spray? Maybe hire an exterminator? This guy’s slippery, Fury. I’ll give him that much.”

“You fired at him,” Fury deadpanned, crossing his arms. “And still didn’t catch him.”

“Because he’s…” Tony paused, trying to find the right words. “He’s like a caffeinated monkey with a grappling hook! The guy doesn’t stop moving. He’s fast, agile, annoyingly flexible—it’s like trying to catch smoke. Really, really obnoxious smoke.”

From across the room, Natasha Romanoff raised an eyebrow, one corner of her mouth twitching into a faint smirk. “You mean to tell me that Spider-Man—a guy who wears a hoodie and gloves from a dollar store—is too much for you, Stark?”

There it was. The quiet laughter he could hear rumbling from Steve Rogers’ side of the table. The small shake of Thor’s head, the faint amusement in Bruce’s calm gaze. The humiliation was setting in, and Tony could feel it like a weight on his chest.

“I’m sorry,” Tony said, pointing a finger at Natasha. “Were you the one chasing him? No? I didn’t think so. And for the record, I don’t see any of you chasing down your metas. At least I’m out there.”

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Bugged Out Chapter Six

Catch Me If You Can

The crisp evening air clung to Peter’s skin as he crouched on the edge of a rooftop, the distant hum of New York traffic rising like a restless tide beneath him. His mask clung to his face, damp with sweat from a long night of swinging through Queens, his muscles aching with that familiar, exhausting buzz. He flicked his wrist experimentally, sending a thin strand of webbing out toward the rusted fire escape on the next building. It landed perfectly, clinging with that satisfying thwip. Good. The last thing he needed was another clogged gland.

He exhaled slowly, letting the tension ease from his shoulders as he scanned the streets below. A guy was locking up a corner bodega, dragging the security gate down with a metallic groan. A couple walked hand-in-hand, their laughter trailing softly in the air. Quiet. Peaceful. For once, no muggers, no car thieves, no one trying to start a dumpster fire for the hell of it. Peter felt the faintest flicker of relief, though it came laced with suspicion. The city rarely stayed this calm for long.

Then he heard it: the faint, unmistakable whine of repulsors cutting through the sky like a knife.

“Oh, come on!” Peter groaned, tilting his head toward the sound.

And there he was. Iron Man. Glowing like a neon billboard against the purples and blues of the night sky, the golden faceplate catching the last rays of daylight. Peter rolled his eyes so hard it felt like they might fall out of his head. This was the third time this week that Iron Tin Can had tried to track him down, and Peter was starting to think the guy didn’t have anything better to do. Seriously, wasn’t there a rogue AI or a galaxy-ending threat for him to deal with? Peter adjusted his position on the rooftop, ducking further into the shadows as Iron Man’s suit hovered closer, the soft hiss of stabilizers growing louder.

“Spider-Man!” The mechanical voice boomed, echoing off the bricks like a call to battle. “We need to talk. Right now.”

Peter’s fists clenched instinctively. The guy’s voice was obnoxious enough in interviews—condescending, smug, like he was permanently perched on a throne of snark—but amplified by the suit’s external speakers? It made Peter’s teeth grind.

“Talk about what?” Peter muttered under his breath, though he didn’t dare say it out loud. Not yet. He shifted his weight, staying low, his hands brushing the gritty edge of the rooftop as he prepared to bolt. But before he could move, a spotlight snapped on from Iron Man’s helmet, the beam cutting through the darkness like a searchlight. It landed squarely on Peter.

“Gotcha,” Iron Man said, his voice smug enough to make Peter’s skin crawl.

Peter straightened slowly, his body tense and ready to move at a moment’s notice. He made sure to deepen his voice before he spoke—he couldn’t have this guy knowing he was just some fifteen-year-old kid with bad skin and a backpack full of unfinished homework. Read more if you dare...

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Bugged Out Chapter Four

Chemistry

The bell rang with its usual shrill, tinny tone, echoing through the crowded hallways of Midtown High. Lockers clanged open and shut like a symphony of metal, and students poured out of classrooms in messy streams, some shouting, others laughing, the dull roar of voices blending into an indistinct hum. Peter threaded through the chaos, his shoulders hunched, his backpack slung low on one arm. He kept his head down, hair falling in front of his eyes, a flimsy shield against the rest of the world.

Chemistry had been the highlight of his morning, as it always was. He’d snagged a corner lab station, away from prying eyes, and spent the entire class not on the assigned experiment—something boring about titration—but instead working on his own project.

His notebook was crammed with observations and calculations, the pages covered in his scrawled handwriting, diagrams crammed into the margins. The challenge was simple: figuring out how to break down his webbing. It was absurdly strong—he’d tested it against scissors, knives, even a Bunsen burner—and nothing seemed to work. The stuff clung to everything, a sticky, elastic mess, and once it hardened, it was practically indestructible. It made fighting crime easier, sure, but it was a nightmare when it came to cleaning up after himself.

If Peter could just figure out how to dissolve the webbing after it had served its purpose, he wouldn’t have to worry about leaving his sticky calling card all over Queens. But he was still stumped. Heat didn’t work. Solvents didn’t work. Even acid barely made a dent. His latest theory was enzymatic breakdown—something biological, like the way bacteria decomposed organic matter—but he hadn’t been able to test it yet.

Peter reached his locker and spun the dial absently, his mind still tangled in chemical formulas and half-formed hypotheses. The door creaked open, and he shoved his books inside, grabbing his lunch—a squashed PB&J—and a crumpled bag of pretzels.

“Hey, Parker!”

The voice cut through the din like nails on a chalkboard. Peter tensed, his grip tightening on the locker door. He didn’t have to turn around to know who it was.

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Bugged Chapter Three

Meta

The conference room felt like a prison cell, and Tony Stark was halfway through mentally redesigning it to include a minibar, a pool table, and maybe a skylight, when Nick Fury cleared his throat for what had to be the fourth time in the last hour. Tony didn’t even bother hiding his sigh as he leaned back in his chair, tapping one finger against the polished table in a slow, deliberate rhythm that echoed in the otherwise sterile room. He wasn’t even trying to be subtle about how little he cared. If Fury noticed, he didn’t say anything—just kept pacing at the head of the table, his long black trench coat swishing dramatically with every step like he was auditioning for the lead role in a noir film.

“Metahumans are popping up left and right,” Fury said, his voice low and steady, with just the right amount of gravel to make it sound important. “We’ve got vigilantes, enhanced individuals, and God knows what else running around, unchecked, untrained, and unaccounted for. They’re a danger to themselves and everyone else. We need to get ahead of this before it turns into a full-blown disaster.”

Tony stifled a yawn, one hand drifting to the touchscreen built into the armrest of his chair. He pressed a few buttons, pulling up a holographic projection of a circuit schematic, and began fiddling with it idly. A new suit design had been kicking around in the back of his head for days, and it was finally starting to come together. Something sleeker. Lighter. Maybe with a built-in coffee maker. He could almost feel the whirr of tiny servos and the hum of repulsors as the suit sprang to life in his mind.

“Stark,” Fury barked, snapping Tony out of his thoughts.

“Hm? Sorry, I was just reviewing important data,” Tony replied smoothly, gesturing vaguely to the hologram floating above his armrest. “You were saying something about a disaster?”

Fury stopped pacing long enough to glare at him. Tony offered a disarming smile, the one that usually got him out of trouble—unless, of course, the person glaring was Pepper, in which case he was screwed. Fury, unfortunately, seemed to have developed an immunity to it.

“This isn’t a joke, Stark,” Fury said, his voice dropping another octave. “We’re talking about national security. Global security. We need to identify these individuals and make sure they’re operating under some kind of oversight before someone gets hurt.”

“Yeah, because oversight has such a great track record,” Tony shot back, spinning his chair in a slow circle. “Wasn’t oversight what gave us Hydra? Or Sokovia? Or—oh, wait, my favorite—oversight was the reason no one noticed Loki stealing my tech to blow a hole in the sky.”

Steve Rogers, sitting ramrod straight a few seats away, frowned at him. “That’s not fair, Tony.”

“What’s not fair is dragging me into a meeting where you want to make me the babysitter of every spandex-wearing wannabe hero in the tri-state area,” Tony said, gesturing broadly. “I’ve got better things to do, Steve. Like inventing the future. Or figuring out why my coffee machine keeps jamming. Big, world-changing stuff.”

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Bugged Chapter Two

Six Months Later

The alley reeked of piss and old garbage, the sour, pungent smell wrapping around Peter like a suffocating scarf as he crouched on the fire escape above. A neon sign buzzed faintly to his right, its pink glow flickering like it was on its last legs, and a dumpster lid sat askew below him, the black bags inside torn open to reveal limp banana peels and something that might have once been a rotisserie chicken. He wrinkled his nose beneath his mask, pulling his hoodie tighter around him to ward off the February chill biting through his sweatpants. His gloves, cheap dollar-store knockoffs, barely did anything to keep his fingers warm, and the wind sliced through the holes in his sneakers like little icy knives.

But none of that mattered. Not the cold, not the smell, not even the fact that he hadn’t eaten since that morning. Peter’s heart pounded with adrenaline, his limbs thrumming with that electric buzz that never really left him anymore. His eyes locked on the figures below, three guys huddled around a fourth, the low, gravelly sound of their threats drifting upward to his perch.

The guy on the ground had a thin face, all hollowed-out cheeks and a beanie pulled too low over his ears. He was trembling, his hands held up defensively as the tallest of the three thugs jabbed a finger at his chest. Peter couldn’t make out what they were saying, but he caught the glint of a knife, its blade reflecting a sliver of neon light as it moved. A mugging. Classic.

Peter grinned under his mask. His second mugging. The second one this week.

Six months ago, the idea of leaping into this kind of situation would’ve made him sick with fear. But now? Now his hands itched to move, the tension coiling in his shoulders begging for release. He adjusted his stance, his sneakers creaking faintly against the metal grating of the fire escape, and shot a small glob of webbing onto the edge to steady himself. The sound it made—a soft thwip—was like music to his ears. He’d gotten pretty good at controlling the stuff, though it still smelled faintly like ammonia, and he could never quite get the residue off his clothes. He’d had to stitch patches onto the elbows of this hoodie to cover up where the webbing had eaten through.

Below, one of the thugs—short, stocky, with a face like a bulldog—snatched the guy’s wallet, his laugh echoing off the brick walls. Peter could hear the fear in the victim’s voice as he stammered something, probably begging them to just take the cash and leave him alone. The tallest thug shoved him hard against the wall, and the guy cried out, his voice cracking like glass. Peter’s grin widened. Time to make an entrance. .... Click here to read more... if you dare Bugged Out - Chapter 2 - Lemontasia - Spider-Man - All Media Types [Archive of Our Own]

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Chapter Ten

Bruised

The night was colder than usual, the sharp bite of winter cutting through Peter’s patched-up suit as he swung low over Queens. His ribs ached from where a car thief had gotten a lucky hit with a crowbar earlier, and the sting of the gash on his forearm—courtesy of an overturned dumpster—itched with every swing. He’d promised himself he was done for the night. He needed sleep, maybe a quick snack to replace the energy he’d burned through, and a chance to go over the chemistry homework he hadn’t even touched yet.

But then, as always, something happened.

He’d been heading home, planning to sneak through his window without waking May, when the faint sound of a struggle caught his attention. It was muffled but distinct—quick shouts, the scrape of feet on pavement, the unmistakable metallic clatter of a trash can being overturned. His body moved before his mind had a chance to argue, his arm snapping out to shoot a webline that redirected his trajectory.

The alley below was shrouded in shadows, the dim light from a flickering streetlamp barely reaching the corners. A man in a hoodie was pinned against the wall by two others—big, broad, and clearly not the average mugger. They moved with precision, their grips on the man’s arms too deliberate, their movements too efficient. Something about the way they carried themselves set Peter’s nerves on edge.

He perched on the fire escape above, scanning the scene as his spider-sense prickled faintly. The man in the hoodie was panicked, struggling to break free, his voice hoarse as he begged them to let him go. But the two assailants ignored him, their faces shadowed by the brims of their hats. One of them pulled a syringe from his pocket, its gleaming needle catching the faint light, and Peter’s stomach turned.

No time to think. No time to plan.

Peter dropped down, landing with a sharp thud that echoed off the brick walls. The two men froze, their heads snapping toward him, and the guy in the hoodie sagged against the wall, his wide eyes darting between Peter and his attackers.

“Alright, fellas,” Peter said, his voice deep and gravelly as he tried to channel the confidence he didn’t feel. “Why don’t we call it a night? Let him go, and I won’t stick you to this alley like flypaper.”

The men didn’t respond. Instead, the one holding the syringe stepped forward, his movements eerily calm. Peter’s spider-sense flared to life, sharp and insistent, and he barely had time to dodge as the guy lunged at him. The syringe passed inches from his side, the needle glinting as it sliced through the air.

“Okay, not cool,�� Peter muttered, twisting mid-dodge to fire a webline at the syringe. The webbing hit its mark, yanking the needle out of the man’s hand and sticking it to the wall behind him.

The guy didn’t flinch. He just looked at Peter with cold, calculating eyes, his jaw tightening as he reached into his jacket and pulled out a baton. Peter’s stomach sank as the other man followed suit, drawing a similar weapon from his belt. These weren’t ordinary thugs. Bugged Out - Chapter 10 - Lemontasia - Spider-Man - All Media Types [Archive of Our Own]