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pome-seed · 20 hours ago

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Too Late | Part 2 | ــﮩ٨ـ Bucky Barnes

Pairing: Yearning Protective!Bucky x Injured!Reader

Summary: Bucky refuses to leave your side. Grief, regret, and what-if's consume him. All he can think about- all he can want, is for you to wake up.

Word Count: 4.2k

Tags: Yearning, secret affection, physical touch, panic attacks, bucky being a sweetheart. Protective Bucky Barnes. Mention of violence. Serious injury.

18+ blog, Minors Do Not Interact.

Authors Note: Sad sad boy. If you want to be apart of the taglist, let me know :)

Masterlist

“Can I come in?” Steve's voice is quiet from the door frame.

Bucky’s stomach curls bitterly, his gaze stuck on your still form. “Not my choice.” He mutters, his lips pressed to his scarred knuckles.

There’s a sigh, then the sound of footsteps against tile. “I just wanted to check in…”

“You think she’s made a miraculous recovery?” Bucky tries to stifle the venom in his tone, but it bleeds through his clenched teeth. The resentment is too potent to staunch. Too painful.

“I just wanted to see how she’s doing, Buck.” Steve approaches your bed carefully, as if one step too close to you and Bucky might snap.

“Take a look, Steve.” He mutters, tracking the slow rise and fall of your chest. “I think it’s pretty clear.”

“I didn’t come here to fight,” Steve tries, the guilt basically seeping from his pores.

“Then leave.” He finally looks at the blond, his blue eyes dark, cast beneath the shadows of his knit brow. Neither of the men can remember the last time such a rift was torn between them. Since the moment recognition sparked, since the wounds of time and captivity healed over.

There had never been such a deep wound between them.

But Bucky doesn’t know how to fix something like this. An accident, a preventable accident. One with consequences far more painful than either could imagine.

“Please,” the blonde whispers, his frown curling deeper. “I just- I came to check on you. “

“You’ve seen me.” His voice is cold, detached- wounded. He shifts his gaze back to your bruised face.

“You haven’t eaten.” Steve shifts on his feet. “I just think-”

“I don’t care what you think.”

Steve flinches, the sting of those words burning deep. “She wouldn’t want you hurting yourself like this. Neglecting yourself won’t help her-”

“Don’t talk to me about what she’d want- about what’ll help her.” He hisses, sitting up straighter in his seat. “She doesn’t have wants anymore- not like this. If you want to help, then fix her!” He snaps, his throat bobbing with sudden emotion. “Huh? No, you can’t. No one can. So just get the fuck out.”

Bucky slumps back in his seat, his knuckles pressing tightly to his lips.

Steve’s jaw snaps shut, his lips pressed to a thin line. There's a moment of tense silence shared between the two, but it’s clear to them both that Bucky’s uninterested in talking. Nothing Steve could say would change that.

So he lowers his head and leaves the room.

The door clicks shut, submerging the room in silence.

Your unconscious form lays still, ignorant to the entire exchange. Ignorant to the rest of the world. Your battered body knows only the tube keeping your lungs expanding, and the needle stuck in your hand.

Nothing else matters to you now.

Bucky blinks back tears, his knee bouncing anxiously. The resentment he feels towards his best friend brings him no satisfaction. It doesn’t help the pain in his chest, but he just can’t help it. He looks at Steve, and all he sees is regret. All he feels is grief.

He hears Steve’s voice forming the words, telling him about your condition.

Saying the words “You were right.”

“Fuck,” he chokes, pressing the heel of his palm against his eyes. He shakes his head, trying to clear the voices- the dark thoughts. It doesn’t work, of course. The silence of your room only drags him further into the darkness.

And when he looks back at you, he can’t help but cry. Silent tears slip down his cheeks, cold against his heated skin.

You look so different from the woman he knows. From the woman he longs for.

Regret burns in his chest like an old friend, spreading like poison.

He never should have let you go out there.

He never should have waited so long to tell you how he feels.

He never should have waited so long to ask you to dinner. To tell you how beautiful you are. To tell you how you make his heart stagger in his chest.

He never should have waited.

Life is made up of choices, regrets and joys. But mostly regrets. Regret is what makes a person human. It makes them think about the past, about the future. About their next step, their next choice.

Nobody wants to live a life of regret, whether it be because of a job, a child, a love, or a choice. Regret tears a person apart, makes a person bleed and drown.

Bucky has known nothing but regret and suffering. He’s had nothing except memories to keep him going. The memory of his family, of his childhood, of Steve.

Memories of what life could be.

Until he met you.

You were like a breath of fresh air. Like the smell of rain in a drought.

The moment he saw you, he knew it was different. He knew you’d become something sore in his chest, perfect to torture him. He knew that smile, that laugh, that awkward tap of your fingers against your desk, it would kill him.

It would bleed through him, like a drug.

It was such a foreign feeling that it terrified him, you terrified him. He didn’t know how to talk to you, how to draw you closer. It wasn’t for the lack of trying, because on his part, he was always finding ways to be near you.

He was always finding reasons to wander into your office, to draw out conversations in the briefing room, to help you with anything you needed.

And God, the soft smile you’d send his way whenever you caught his eye, it melted him.

The quiet “good luck out there, soldier,” you’d whisper to him on the way out of the briefing room.

The sound of your chuckle in his ear, when you spoke to him over comms.

Everything about you set him on fire.

And all he wanted was to see that smile one more time. Hear that laugh, one more time.

This fate was so preventable, and that just made it all the more painful. It would have been so easy for you to stay home- behind the desk, behind the scenes. But you didn’t know how to say no.

They needed a woman. They needed someone to blend into the background. Someone invisible. With every other female Avenger being a face even a blind man could recognize, you were all that’s left.

And you never said no to helping people. To helping the team. God, did Bucky wish you could have just been selfish this once. Been too afraid to go out there. Too cowardly.

But you said yes.

You had no idea what you were walking into, and you said yes.

Bucky drags your limp hand into his, careful to not touch your IV. His tongue swipes over his lip, soothing the anxiously bitten skin. It’s been days, he thinks. Days of silence. Days of bad news. Days spent in denial.

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart…” he whispers, his voice cracking. But no apology could make this better. “I don’t-” He sucks in a trembling breath. “I don’t know what to do,” he choked. “I don’t know how to make this better…”

Talking to you feels pointless. You can’t hear him. And even if you could, you shouldn’t have to listen to his pathetic ramblings.

He swallows hard and drops his head to the mattress, his thumb stroking over your knuckles. His eyes squeeze shut, his breath fanning over your scabbed hand. You don’t smell like you anymore. You smell like antiseptic and papery sheets.

Bucky tries to remember the last time he was close enough to smell you.

He thinks it was the last time the group of you and the team went out to the bar. You asked him to watch your drink so you could go dance, and when you came back you leaned into his space to sip from your straw.

He remembers the feeling of his cheeks staining pink as he shamelessly smelled your perfume. Your conditioner mixed in, drifting into his space as your hair brushed his jaw.

You hadn’t noticed, too tipsy and busy laughing. You were so happy that night.

You loved to dance. He liked to watch, fond and protective.

He wishes he would have joined you on the dancefloor that night, taken your hand and followed your lead. But he didn’t, too afraid and too embarrassed.

Regret. Regret might as well be his middle name, engraved on his tombstone.

Bucky doesn’t remember dozing off, but when he next opens his eyes, a nurse is checking your vitals.

His head snaps up, his eyes squinting through the dark room. A single light over your bed illuminates the space enough for the nurse to read your chart. “Is she okay?”

The woman jumps, her gaze snapping to Bucky. “Oh-” she blinks down at the man. “Yes, everything’s fine. I’m just monitoring her.”

“Oh,” He slowly sits up, glancing back down at where your hand is clutched in his. “Nothing new?”

The woman shakes her head. “Nothing as of now,” her voice is soft, practiced in the art of bad news. “But no change doesn’t have to be bad, it means she’s not getting worse.”

Bucky nods solemnly, his hands absently playing with your fingers. “Right.”

“I’ll let you get some rest, someone will be back to check on her in about an hour.” She says on the way out.

Bucky says nothing, his disappointment too heavy. A part of him quietly wished that the next time he woke up, you’d be there blinking back at him. But that was too hopeful. Instead, you lay there motionless. Silent, hopeless.

Bucky has handled a lot of bad news in his lifetime. He has dealt with some of the worst shit humanity could throw at a person. But this is different. Waiting like this? It’s killing him.

It’s only been a few days and there's already no end in sight.

He doesn’t know what’ll happen to you. He doesn't know what tomorrow may bring. He just knows he’ll be with you when it comes.

Days pass without change.

Bucky stops hoping for good news. Instead, he hopes for the lack of bad news. Your condition fluctuates, every day something new worries your doctors, only for you to pull through. But nothing substantial changes.

You’re still unresponsive. Still sleeping.

Eventually Bucky eats. He doesn’t realize how hungry he is until he finally makes the trip to the cafeteria. The smell of food makes his cheeks sour in disgust- the kind that only comes when you’re starving.

A grief only partially underway comes in pieces. It makes everything you do feel bitter and poisoned.

It makes chewing and swallowing feel wrong, knowing you may never get the chance again. Bucky stares down at his sandwich blankly, his body heavier than it was that morning.

So he chokes down a few bites and makes the trip back to your room. He knows there will be no change when he gets there, but there's still that dying hope you’ll be awake when he returns.

Instead, what he finds makes his stomach drop. “What are you doing here?”

Tony glances back over his shoulder, his brow twitching up. “Morning sunshine, I was wondering where you were-”

“What are you doing here, Tony?” Bucky repeats himself, his body stiff in the doorway.

The other man sighs, his hands tossing up in defeat. “I wanted to see how she’s doing. Doc said there wasn’t much change, huh?”

Bucky’s jaw flutters, his teeth clenching shut. His stomach turns, and suddenly the rest of the wrapped sandwich in his hand sounds a lot less appetizing. He silently returns to his chair at your bedside, his knee bouncing anxiously.

“Not gonna say anything?” Tony’s voice is grating to his ears.

“Got nothing to say.” He mutters, his gaze falling heavily to your hand- which he scoops back into his.

“Right,” Tony mutters. “Look-” He sucks in a heavy breath. “I wanted to say you’re right.”

Bucky huffs, his lip twitching wryly.

“You warned us, and we should have listened to you. We-” Tony looks off to the side. “We should have had her back.”

The words feel like a kick to the gut. Nothing he didn’t already know, but god did it hurt to hear him say it. To acknowledge just how preventable this all was.

Bucky doesn’t respond, his silence toxic enough to send the message. Tony makes a quiet noise, then moves to the door. But then he’s speaking again- this time not to Bucky.

“Good luck with him, he’s not exactly in a chatty mood.”

Bucky doesn’t have to look back to know who it is. He can tell by the quiet hum and careful footsteps. Then he’s watching Sam approach your bed side, a solemn look on his face.

Neither men say anything at first. Sam just watches you, his hand hovering carefully above your shoulder. His frown curls deeper, and then he’s glancing at the other.

“People are worried, you know,” he mutters, glancing at where Bucky cradles your hand in his.

“They should be,” he whispers, his fingers slowly playing with yours.

“I mean about you,” Sam sighs heavily- in that knowing way he does.

Bucky frowns. “I’m fine.”

“And I’m Betty White,” Sam huffs. “You’re not fine, man. You haven't left this place since she got admitted.”

Why would he leave? What’s the point? And if he did- what if something happened? What would he do if you slipped away, and he wasn’t here?

“Got nowhere else to be.” He whispers, his thumb tracing your nail beds.

Sam doesn’t say anything for a while, instead just lets himself stare at the both of you. At your yellowing bruises, your spikey stitches, your intubation tube. Bucky’s dark eyebags. The wrinkle forming between his brows.

He notices the blanket in the corner, where Bucky tossed it aside nights before, frustrated and pacing.

He notices the imprint in the blanket by your hip, where Bucky’s been laying his head- dozing off at your side.

“She could pull through, you know. Crazier things have happened.” Sam mutters.

“People have died from smaller things.” Bucky responds bitterly. “People die every day.”

“And people survive every day too,” The younger responds, his voice strong. “You need to get it together, man. You’re not helping her if you can’t even believe in her.”

Bucky’s head snaps up, horror and injury flashing in his gaze. “I haven’t given up on her.”

“Sounds like you have. Sounds like you’re just waiting for her to die,” Sam responds, his frown battling the others.

“Fuck you-” Bucky spits, his fingers mindlessly tightening around yours.

Sam doesn’t take offense to his venomous words. He knows he’s just angry at himself, at the situation. “I just mean, don’t give up on her yet. I’ve survived a lot of insane shit, and I’m still standing. Don’t count her out just yet.”

“She’s not-”

“An Avenger?” Sam lifts a brow. “I haven't taken any serum either, Buck. Neither has about eight billion people. And everyday people survive the impossible. Just give her time.”

Bucky’s lips press together, words dying on his tongue. He hasn’t given up on you.

He’s just never been good with hope.

With positive outlooks.

He’s not used to things turning out well for him. For anyone.

Sam rounds your bed, his hand dropping to Bucky’s shoulder. “I know how much you care about her, Buck. So just hold on for her, okay?”

Bucky wakes to the sound of panic.

His body shoots up right, his neck pinched from the awkward angle. A garbled noise drags his attention up your body.

His pulse spikes, his eyes snapping wide.

You make a choked noise, your throat constricting around your intubation tube. Your lashes flutter, your body twitches. Your hands are moving, your fingers twitching around your neck.

Bucky is shouting, his hands trembling around the emergency control remote. He barely hears the words spilling from his lips, all he knows is he’s calling for help.

A nurse comes rushing in, shoves past Bucky and heads straight for you. “What’s-what’s happening?” He stammers, stumbling to the foot of your bed. Another nurse jogs into the room, her hand dropping to Bucky’s forearm.

“Sir, just give us a minute-”

But he can’t hear her. All he can see is you, tears streaming down your bruised cheeks. Eyes rolled back. Saliva dripping down your chin. The other Nurse is quick with her hands, steadily pulling the tube from your throat.

You choke on a gasp, your busted lips falling open.

Bucky’s swaying, he realizes. He has to grab the root of your bed for stability, a shaky breath of air stinging in his chest. Everything blurs together as your eyes roll open. It’s like tunnel vision sets in, and all he can see is you. Your chest rising on its own, your lashes fluttering, your brows pinching together.

He’s too scared to blink- afraid you might slip away. Afraid it might be a dream.

But then the nurses brush past him, whispers of encouragement and reassurance on their tongues. Then the door clicks shut.

You’re alone.

A gasp slips from his lips the moment your eyes meet. He’s stumbling to your side, his hands hovering hesitantly over your body. Your lips shift, but only a wince climbs up your throat.

“Hey… hey…” he whispers, his voice hitched up a careful octave. His heart is thrumming in his chest, blood rushing through his ears- almost too loud for him to focus. “It’s okay- it’s okay, don’t speak…”

You whine softly, your expression melting into a grimace.

Calloused fingers brush your cheek, a graze, too scared to touch you fully. A cold tear slips down your cheek. You blink up at him, your head rolling towards his hand. He has to swallow the choked noise that begs so climb out of his chest.

“I don’t-” he carefully cups your cheek, your spikey stitches scratching his palm. “I don’t know what to do…” He whispers, almost to himself. Your fingers brush over the back of his hand, your movements sluggish and weak. You whimper softly, making his pulse spike. “It’s okay…”

Your eyes roll shut, and then your hand is falling away. For a moment, Bucky’s heart sinks to his feet. But he can feel your steady breath against his fingers. He can hear the slow beat of your heart monitor. You swipe your tongue over your lips again, wincing quietly.

“You’re here…” You whisper, your voice raw and chapped. Bucky nearly flinches from the sound.

“Yeah…” He swallows, stroking his palm down your cheek. “I’m here, sweetheart.”

Your eyes roll open, staring up at him. You lean into his calloused hand, your face numb. “What…happened?” The words sound more like a whimper, your lip wobbling with emotion.

Bucky almost flinches at the sound. He’s never heard you sound so weak, so small. A pain blooms in his chest as he recalls the details of your accident. “You were spotted on your mission…” He starts, barely whispering as his gaze flickers over you. “You were attacked, you- you went through a wall on the second floor.” He blinks back tears, not wanting to scare you with his emotions.

“You fell, landed on a car.” He has to clear his throat, his body coiling tense. As the words leave him, he can’t help but marvel at you. At how impossible it seems for you to be here, to be alive. But you are; you stare up at him, tears slipping down your temples, your eyes clear.

You press your lips together and turn your face away from him, trying not to sob. Humiliation floods your system, and suddenly all you want to do is hide.

You failed, so so painfully. You couldn’t do the one thing asked of you. And now? You don’t dare look down at your body, don’t dare wonder what you look like. You can only imagine. And the shame those images bring you is all consuming.

You choke down a dry sob, your cheek pressing into the pillow. Bucky’s hands hover above you now, helpless of what to do. “Hey, hey,” he whispers, his fingers shaking. “It’s okay- You're-” He stops himself; he won’t lie to you. He has no idea if you’re okay, or if you ever will be again.

You drag a bruised hand over your face, wiping salty tears. You gasp when your nails catch on spiky stitches and swollen bones. Your panicked gaze snaps to Bucky’s. The look in his eye is harrowing; something you’ve never seen from him before.

The dread building inside you spikes, swelling in your chest, stopping your lungs from expanding. You suck in a sharp breath through your teeth, your heart pounding against your ribs. Your fingers press a little firmer to the sealed gash in your cheek, making you wince.

Bucky snatches your wrist away quickly, panic building in him. “Don’t-” he blurts, his hands circling yours, encasing it. Sharp blue eyes snap between yours, eyebrows pinched and shot to his hairline. “Please don’t do that…”

You whine, wanting to turn away from him again. You don’t want him to see you like this. You don’t want his image of you to be stained with weakness and failure.

You can barely grasp the thoughts floating through your head, barely keep yourself from hyperventilating. You don’t want anyone to see you like this.

Your teeth sink into your lip, smothering the sob building in your throat. But you can’t keep it down this time. Bucky’s careful voice, his strong hand trembling against yours, his unwavering gaze fixed on you- it hurts. All of it.

You can’t breathe, you realize, as your mouth falls open around a cry. Bucky winces above you. He leans over you, one hand falling to your shoulder, the other cradling your head. “Hey, look at me,” he whispers, his gentleness potent.

You blink up at him through tears, your eyes burning. Your chest rattles with each sharp gasp, your ribs aching.

“Shh, it’s okay,” he pets your hair out of your face. “Just breathe, in through your nose, out through your mouth,” he guides you, taking a dramatically slow breath to guide you.

He’s recycling actions used on him in his darkest moments, trying to follow the steps offered to him long ago. Because he has no idea what he’s doing. He doesn’t know how to help someone, especially not you.

You, who was like a rock, every time he saw you. You, who always made him feel safe and calm. You, who always knew what to say.

He’s never seen you like this. He doesn’t want to. But he refuses to leave you like this.

You try to listen, try to calm down, but the pain in your chest only spurs your panic on. You squeeze your eyes shut, forcing yourself to focus on the sound of his voice.

“Just like that, there you go,” he quietly encourages, stroking your tangled hair back. You focus on the feeling of his warm hand, the feeling of his fingers tracing your hairline. “Doin’ so good,” he whispers, his thumb rubbing circles into your shoulder.

You breathe out a slow puff, your lips falling open. Bucky’s nails scratch gently at your scalp, then resume petting your hair back. Your eyes roll open, your body relaxing when your gaze meets his.

His frown tugs deeper. The calloused pad of his thumb strokes the tears from your cheeks. You don’t flinch, don’t move. You just watch him, and the way he carefully frets over you.

You take another slow breath, your chest aching a little less. Bucky continued thumbing at your tear tracks, his touch feather-light. Your brows twitch together in confusion, your fuzzy brain slowing down enough to make sense of your situation.

There’s no one else here, no one but him.

He looks exhausted. He looks distraught. He hasn’t stopped touching you since the moment your eyes rolled open.

“How long since…?” You whisper, your throat dry as your swallow.

Bucky snaps out of his daze as he blinks down at you. “A little over a week,” he mutters, frowning at his own words.

“How long…How long have you been here?” Your lashes flutter in a slow blink.

His thumb twitches against your cheek, his palm resting against your jaw. His throat bobs awkwardly, but he doesn’t turn away. “Since the accident.”

The words leave him easily, but the weight they carry is unimaginable. You stare up at him, unblinking, as you swallow everything unsaid. Your silence eats at him, spreading shame beneath his skin like a poison.

He never once thought of leaving your side. Never once wanted to. He couldn’t- not you.

But maybe this wasn’t his place. Maybe this was too much, maybe he was overwhelming you.

Just as his hand begins to pull away, your fingers slide around his wrist. “Don’t,” you blurt. Bucky pauses, his brows twitching up. “Don’t leave.”

He swallows, his hand sliding back around your jaw. Your cold skin heats beneath his touch. Beneath his affection.

“‘M not goin’ anywhere…” he whispers.

You squeeze his wrist a little tighter. “Promise?”

For the first time since you woke up, his lips twitch in a soft smile. “I promise.”

A/N: Let me know if yall want more of them. Had some fun with this.

If anyone in the requested tag list wants to be tagged in all my upcoming Bucky fics, let me know in the comments and I'll add you to the regular taglist.

Requested to be tagged in this work:

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Regular Taglist:

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lumosflairr · 3 days ago

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THE STARK PROTOCOL-PETER PARKER X STARK!READER

summary: when peter tries to admit his feelings for you and ask you on a date while your father is away, things suddenly dont go as planned and your father’s hologram catches you.

warnings: none!

word count: 2.3k

Peter knew it was a bad idea, But he couldn’t help it.

Liking you — falling for you — was probably the dumbest thing he’d ever done. And he had done a lot of dumb things. Accidentally webbed himself to a moving train. Tried to fight an alien invasion with a half-charged suit. Tripped over Captain America’s shield during training.

But this? You?

This was a whole new kind of disaster.

Because you weren’t just anyone. You were you — Tony Stark’s daughter. The only person on the planet who somehow managed to be more terrifying, brilliant, and beautiful than your father all in one. You were magnetic in a way Peter didn’t stand a chance against. Funny without trying. Wicked smart. Eyes that saw right through him. Lips that curved into a smirk every time he got flustered — which was a lot.

And God, you were the prettiest girl he had ever seen.

That kind of pretty that made him forget to blink. That made him short-circuit mid-sentence when you leaned over his shoulder in the lab or ruffled his hair when he was sulking. That kind of pretty that wasn’t just surface — it was woven into your voice, your laugh, the way you looked at him like he mattered.

And for a long time, he’d convinced himself it was fine. That he could just ignore it. That it was safer that way. Because Mr. Stark — Tony — had made it very clear how he felt about the idea of Peter getting anywhere near his daughter.

“I don’t want someone like you dragging her into this life,” he’d said once. Not cruel. Just firm. “She deserves normal. Stability. And you? You wear grief and danger like a second skin.”

And Peter… got it.

He did. He knew what it meant to live this life. He knew what it cost. He knew about responsibility. Sacrifice. Late nights, near-death experiences, and the weight of saving people who never knew your name.

But it didn’t stop how he felt. Not when you were around.

Especially not when you teased him the way you did.

When you sat beside him during team briefings and quietly passed him gum like he was going to combust under pressure. When you called him out in front of the team just to make him squirm, then winked at him after like it was your own private joke. When you stayed up late helping him fix his web shooters, fingers brushing over his every now and then, warm and steady and undeniably distracting.

It drove him insane — in the best, most excruciating way.

And tonight was no different.

The living room was quiet now — most of the team had scattered after dinner. Bucky and Sam were still bickering down the hall, and Wanda had disappeared with Vision, promising tea and calm. But here, on the couch, it was just Peter and you.

You sprawled across the cushions like you owned the place — which, okay, technically you did. Your legs were kicked up over the armrest, your top hitched up just enough to send Peter’s brain spiraling.

He sat beside you, tense and awkward, palms damp against his jeans. You flipped through the channels like none of it mattered, completely at ease.

“Wanda’s a goddess,” you sighed, settling on a rerun of something animated and ridiculous. “If I had her cooking powers, I’d be unstoppable.”

“You’re already kinda unstoppable,” Peter said, voice a little too high. “I mean — not like witch unstoppable — but you don’t really need paprika to be, uh, impressive. Or— yeah.”

You looked over at him, smirking. “Did you just compare me to paprika?”

Panic. “No! I mean, maybe? Not— not like a spice! I meant like, you’re— you know— great! Without the spice! Not that you’re bland, just—”

“Peter,” you said with a quiet laugh, “breathe.”

His mouth shut instantly, face flushing pink.

You tilted your head toward him, your teasing smile fading into something softer. The glow from the TV flickered across your face, casting shadows Peter was sure even the stars were jealous of. It was a moment — one of those this is it, do it now kind of moments.

So he swallowed his nerves and sat up a little straighter.

“I’ve, uh… I’ve been meaning to ask you something,” he started, scratching the back of his neck.

You quirked a brow, still watching him. “Finally confessing you stole my charger two months ago?”

“What? No! I mean, yes — but I was gonna return it! I just— I meant—”

You laughed, and it nearly broke him. He’d never get used to how beautiful you looked when you smiled.

“I was gonna say,” Peter said quickly, voice cracking just slightly, “I was wondering if you’d want to go out with me sometime?”

There. He said it. He actually said it.

His heart was racing. His whole body felt like it was vibrating from the inside out. He stared at you, half-expecting you to laugh or call him cute in that “oh sweetie” way you sometimes did when he was being awkward.

But you didn’t. You smiled — not teasing, not sarcastic, just… warm.

“Peter—” you started.

And then—

The TV blinked.

Static crackled.

The lights dimmed just slightly.

And suddenly — there he was.

Tony Stark.

In full holographic glory, projected in front of the screen like a ghost conjured by sarcasm and spite.

Peter’s blood ran cold.

“Peter Benjamin Parker,” the hologram said, voice sharp and clipped. “Step away from my daughter.”

Peter nearly died.

“Oh my God,” you groaned, dragging a hand down your face. “Dad. Seriously?”

“I anticipated this,” Holo-Tony continued, ignoring you completely. “Exactly this. The minute you started ‘accidentally’ dropping by the tower three times a week, I initiated Protocol Stark #4.”

Peter’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. “I— this isn’t— I wasn’t— I mean, I was, but not like that—!”

“Do you have any idea,” Tony’s voice cut in like a guillotine, “how many high-level defense protocols I created to prevent this exact scenario? Hormone-fueled superheroes flirting with my daughter? Twelve. I built twelve.”

The hologram turned to look directly at Peter, as if it could somehow smell his panic.

“This is Protocol Stark #4: Don’t Even Think About It, Kid.”

Peter actually whimpered.

You were trying not to laugh, but failing miserably now. You shoved a pillow in your face to muffle the sound, shoulders shaking.

“I—I swear, sir, I wasn’t trying anything—well, I was, but—” Peter stopped himself. “Not like that! I respect her! And you! I mean—I respect her more obviously, not that I don’t respect you—”

“Kid,” the hologram cut in flatly. “Take a breath before you pass out and I have to activate Protocol #6: CPR from Hulk.”

Peter blinked. “That’s… not real, right?”

The hologram flickered slightly.

“…Maybe.”

Holographic Tony stood in front of the TV, glitching slightly at the edges, arms crossed, sunglasses on despite it being nighttime in New York. Somewhere behind him in the projection, palm trees and a luxury resort were just barely visible.

Peter froze. You dragged a hand over your face and let out the deepest sigh he’d ever heard from a human being.

Tony Stark tilted his head, calm and smug as ever. “Sweetheart, you know I run surprise protocol checks when I’m on vacation. You’re lucky I didn’t send the Mark 49.”

You gestured wildly at the screen. “You’re supposed to be on a getaway with Mom!”

“I am. She’s in the spa. I’m doing security sweeps. You know — relaxing.”

Peter looked like he was physically trying to sink into the couch cushions.

“I swear,” you muttered, “this is why we can’t have nice things.”

You groaned and turned to Peter. “Do not move. You’re not running away.”

“I wasn’t gonna run—” he whispered. “I was maybe gonna, like… web-launch out the window. Casually.”

You rolled your eyes and looked back at the screen. “Dad, seriously?”

Tony sighed dramatically. “Look. It’s not that I don’t like Peter.”

Peter blinked. “Wait, really?”

“I said it’s not that I don’t like you. I didn’t say I do like you.”

“Oh. That… yeah, that checks out.”

“It’s that I’ve spent years keeping my daughter out of the line of fire. And you, my kid, are a walking magnet for building collapses, supervillains, and emotionally repressed wizards. I don’t want her caught in that.”

You cut in, arms crossed. “I help you build suits. I literally write code for the Tower’s defense systems. I helped reprogram F.R.I.D.A.Y. last month to keep Peter from faceplanting off the 46th floor.”

“Still fell, though,” Tony said, looking off-screen.

“Because you turned off my webbing mid-air to test a reflex protocol!” Peter blurted.

Tony shrugged. “I had faith.”

You threw your arms up. “So what is this? The jealous dad on a tropical beach pulling security holograms every time a boy gets within five feet of me?”

“Yes,” Tony said immediately. “That’s exactly what this is.”

You looked down at your StarkPad, already typing. “Initiating manual override of Hologram Protocol #4…”

“Don’t you dare—”

“Voice authorization: I’m an adult, and Peter hasn’t even kissed me yet.”

Peter choked.

Tony’s sunglasses slipped slightly down his nose. “What did she just say?”

You pressed one final key. The hologram flickered.

“Love you, Dad. Go drink something with a tiny umbrella in it.”

And just like that, the hologram vanished with a high-pitched glitch and a long beep.

Peter stared at you, shell-shocked. “…He’s going to murder me when he gets back.”

“He’s not,” you said, leaning into his side with a sly smile. “Not if I get to you first.”

Peter blinked. “Wait— is that a threat or a date?”

You tilted your head. “Why not both?”

He flushed scarlet.

“So…” he said, cautiously hopeful. “That yes from earlier? Still valid?”

You reached over, slid your fingers into his. “Absolutely.”

Peter exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for five months.

“You’re sure? No retracting? No drones? No flaming swords?”

You grinned. “Just dinner, dork.”

He smiled back, slow and bright. “Cool. That’s— that’s really cool.”

A pause.

“…Should I be worried about Protocol #5?”

You nodded. “Oh, 100%. That one’s face-scanning and armed.”

Peter looked vaguely ill.

“Worth it though,” you said softly, resting your head on his shoulder.

He smiled like he couldn’t believe this was real.

“Yeah,” he said. “Definitely worth it.”

#lumosflair #x reader #peter parker x reader #tom holland #tom!peter x reader #peter parker fluff #peter parker x stark!reader #tony stark #spiderman #tom holland spiderman

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